Tuesday, December 23, 2008

Put a Coffee Can and a Candle in Your Car!

Klosterman puts on his novelist hat for the first time and doesn't nearly knock it out of the park as much as he hit one into the deepest part of left field and hustles around the diamond and slides into home, dirty and safe. "Downtown Owl," is a novel about nothing and something simultaneously.

Being a rural boy myself, I have always dug Klosterman's style, voice and penchant for the Heavy Metal gods of the 80's. There is a light dusting of music here and there, but Klosterman does a great job of focusing on the characters' quiet desperation. It reminded me of the Bret Ellis novel, "The Rules of Attraction," only the characters aren't as hallow--they're real Americans--simple on the outside, yet complex on the inside. The brilliant thing that Klosterman does is that he exposes the characters complexities at the exact moment that they discover them.

I won't give away the ending as much as I'll comment on it. It's a stab at local media and how they often get the story wrong--you'll see what I mean.

Way to bring the ink, Young Master Klosterman!

(x-posted in Amazon Review)

Monday, December 8, 2008

Point of Origin

To quote Staind, "It's been awhile." (Can you believe that the band still records and tours to this day, a band that Fred Durst discovered over 10 years ago. Sometimes you have to scratch your head at the longevity of some bands--I'm looking at you Bon Jovi).

So, okay--I moved back to the valley in August to teach at the Community College I attended 10 years ago (Porterville College). More to the point, I moved to Exeter, the rival town to Woodlake, the town which I grew up in. Exeter is a much cleaner, utopian town than my beloved Woody. Exeter is also the town that my dad and my brother partially grew up in. In fact, a lot of Stutsmans inhabit its city limits.

The picture in the house above is the one my parents and my brother lived in before I was born. The story goes, my parents moved into the ranch house in Woodlake a solid month before my fetus hatched. The significance of the house above (100 Albert St. Exeter, CA 93221) is one of origin, or conception for that matter--for I was verifiablly conceived in the house sometime in the early autumn of our country's bicentennial.

Have you ever pondered what album you were possibly conceived to? For those of us who didn't grow up under the tear of liberal new-agers for parents, we are positively frightened to ever ask our parents this question. So for the sake of making this blog post more interesting and poignant, I'll make it up.

Mine would be Boston's eponymous album, the one with the Space Invaders space ships on the cover that looked like an early generation model of the large cylindrical object that tries to communicate with Earth's extinct humpback whales in Star Trek 4: The Voyage Home.

I think Boston wax was spinning on the long play for two reasons:

1) The album came out roughly 9 months before my self-titled debut and 2) my parents had this album in their collection.

ANYHOW, I am not surprised that I have never pondered the when and the where the deed was done and isn't that funny? The single most significant event in our personal history will always play second fiddle to the most repugnant thought that we could muster. I think that says something about out society at large but I have to go and find the nearest trashcan to throw up in.

Wednesday, October 22, 2008

Friday, August 29, 2008

Politics Explained!

FEUDALISM: You have two cows. Your lord takes some of the milk.

PURE SOCIALISM: You have two cows. The government takes them and puts them in a barn with everyone else's cows. You have to take care of all of the cows. The government gives you as much milk as you need.

BUREAUCRATIC SOCIALISM: You have two cows. The government takes them and put them in a barn with everyone else's cows. They are cared for by ex-chicken farmers. You have to take care of the chickens the government took from the chicken farmers. The government gives you as much milk and eggs as the regulations say you need.

FASCISM: You have two cows. The government takes both, hires you to take care of them and sells you the milk.

PURE COMMUNISM: You have two cows. Your neighbors help you take care of them, and you all share the milk.

RUSSIAN COMMUNISM: You have two cows. You have to take care of them, but the government takes all the milk.

CAMBODIAN COMMUNISM: You have two cows. The government takes both of them and shoots you.

DICTATORSHIP: You have two cows. The government takes both and drafts you.

PURE DEMOCRACY: You have two cows. Your neighbors decide who gets the milk.

REPRESENTATIVE DEMOCRACY: You have two cows. Your neighbors pick someone to tell you who gets the milk.

BUREAUCRACY: You have two cows. At first the government regulates what you can feed them and when you can milk them. Then it pays you not to milk them. Then it takes both, shoots one, milks the other and pours the milk down the drain. Then it requires you to fill out forms accounting for the missing cows.

PURE ANARCHY: You have two cows. Either you sell the milk at a fair price or your neighbors try to take the cows and kill you.

LIBERTARIAN/ANARCHO-CAPITALISM: You have two cows. You sell one and buy a bull.

SURREALISM: You have two giraffes. The government requires you to take harmonica lessons.

(Original source unknown . . . this version expanded and Illuminated by SJ.)

10 Important News Stories as Depicted by 5-Year-Olds

With all of the wars, gas shortages, a looming depression and no more Olympics to pretend aren't boring, things are pretty bleak. We wondered if our world would look any less depressing if viewed through the eyes of a five-year-old.

read more | digg story

Thursday, August 28, 2008

Seven Blunders of the World

1. Wealth without work

2. Pleasure without conscience

3. Knowledge without character

4. Commerce without morality

5. Science without humanity

6. Worship without sacrifice

7. Politics without principle

Sunday, August 10, 2008

Thursday, August 7, 2008

Admiral Akbar sez:

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Friday, July 25, 2008

I dunno?

┫  |  | ┣┓   ┏┓ 
┗┫━━ ┃ ━━┣┛   ┣┫Copy and past this
  ┃ ━━━━━ ┃ ┏┳┫┣┳┓  if your a
  ┗━━┳━┳━━┛ ┃    ┃ true maggot for
━━━━┃ ┃    ┗━┳┳━┛ life!
━━━━┃ ┗━━━━━━┛┃

Thursday, July 24, 2008

Bush or Batman?

Jib Jab Returns.

Send a JibJab Sendables® eCard Today!

You may recognize the average voter in the vid.

Sunday, July 20, 2008

"I am the engine of chaos."

"The Dark Knight" might be the best movie ever!!!

Wednesday, July 9, 2008

"Those Who Sacrifice Liberty For Security Deserve Neither." Ben Franklin

What Every American Needs to Know (and Do) About FISA Before Wed., July 9th from Tim Ferriss on Vimeo.

Do yourself a favor--contact the senators that represent us in Washington and let your voice be heard. go to eff.org and click on "Take Action Now" where you see the script that looks like the bill of rights. Put in your address and it will supply you with the numbers to get ahold of the senators. Read the script or simply say that you oppose the telecom immunity and the FISA Amendments Act.

This country is slipping through our fingers--maybe we can stop it, maybe not. Take a few moments and let your voice be heard because I still believe there is power in numbers.

Friday, June 27, 2008

Christian the Lion

Christian the Lion - More bloopers are a click away

Good Times!

Diamond Dogs

Fresno State Bulldogs are 2008 NCAA Champs!

...the apocalypse can happen now.

Tuesday, June 24, 2008

RIP George Carlin

The man was a genius, a philosopher, and the best comedian of his era. He will be dearly missed. "Seven Words" was his 9th Symphony.

Thursday, June 19, 2008


Hedviga Golik made herself a cup of tea and sat down to watch some television in her hometown of Zagreb, Croatia. Sadly, she died in her chair. This was in 1966. She was just found, 42 years later, in her time capsule mausoleum where she's been sitting ever since. She never finished her tea.

What's absurd is that she was in fact reported missing, but somehow no one ever checked her apartment, which leads me to believe no one checked anywhere. I mean, where else do you look for someone when they're missing? I don't understand it. Her neighbors apparently just assumed she moved out of her apartment, and she was finally found when the police broke in to figure out who owned the place.

A police spokesman said: "When officers went there, they said it was like stepping into a place frozen in time. The cup she had been drinking tea from was still on a table next to the chair she had been sitting in and the house was full of things no one had seen for decades. Nothing had been disturbed for decades, even though there were more than a few cobwebs in there."

Monday, June 16, 2008

Witch's Web

Told a lie about yourself
It felt so good to decieve
You pulled the wool over everyone
Told them whatever they'd believe

You missed the train and now you're gone
To join the faceless everyone
You're a name on a phone list I've crossed off
I've pushed you back to square one

And if I fall then I'll stand back up
Because learning how to run is half the fun
Somehow I know that there must be something better
No one's gonna have power over me

If there's a sign above the door (over you)
That says you have to hang your coat
But you're wanting me to pay the doorman with my soul
I think that I'll be moving on

Your witch's web is hanging over my sleep
My one half lies awake, the other in a dream
Somehow I know that there must be something better
No one's gonna have power over me.

Lesbian Prunes

Okay--I'd like to believe I am progressive enough to accept the gay marriage thing-but when CNN.com decides to use this picture on it's headline today for licenses being handed out in SF--it's not quite okay with me.

I'd almost prefer a picture of two dudes duking it out with their tongues.


Saturday, June 14, 2008

We are Made of Star Stuff.

London (UK) - Scientists from the Imperial College of London claim to have found evidence that life on our planet did not originate from Earth itself. For the first time, the scientists say, it is confirmed that an important component of early genetic material found in meteorite fragments is of extraterrestrial origin.

We had a lot of space and alien stories lately, with one particular interesting making even the Larry King show. But any of that material could be considered insignificant, if Zita Martins’ claims, a research associate at the Department of Earth Science and Engineering of the Imperial College, are in fact correct. According to the researcher, at least parts of the raw material that are believed to have been required to create the first molecules of DNA and RNA may be of extraterrestrial origin.

Martins and her colleagues said they discovered uracil and xanthine, which are precursors to the molecules that make up DNA and RNA and are known as nucleobases in rock fragments of the Murchison meteorite, which crashed in Australia in 1969. She explained that “early life may have adopted nucleobases from meteoritic fragments for use in genetic coding which enabled them to pass on their successful features to subsequent generations."

Apparently, the researchers were successful in proving that the molecules came from space and were not a result of contamination when the meteorite landed on Earth. What supports Martins claims is the fact that meteor showers are believed to have been common several billions of years ago on Earth: “Between 3.8 to 4.5 billion years ago large numbers of rocks similar to the Murchison meteorite rained down on Earth at the time when primitive life was forming,” the press release from the Imperial College reads. “The heavy bombardment would have dropped large amounts of meteorite material to the surface on planets like Earth and Mars.”

Mark Sephton, also of Imperial's Department of Earth Science and Engineering, believes this research is an important step in understanding how early life might have evolved. "Because meteorites represent left over materials from the formation of the solar system, the key components for life - including nucleobases - could be widespread in the cosmos,” he said. “As more and more of life's raw materials are discovered in objects from space, the possibility of life springing forth wherever the right chemistry is present becomes more likely."

The findings are published in the journal Earth and Planetary Science Letters.

Tuesday, June 10, 2008

Go Dennis! Go!

Kucinich has balls of iron and he's on our side. It takes guts to stand up against Machine: Bush. He's a saint and a true American. It's about time we started talking about what is wrong with this regime on the very floor we should be. Five years too late, yes--but I appreciate the gesture and so should you.

Sunday, June 8, 2008

You've got to Pray just to make it today!!!

I was thinking about the power of prayer today--or it's supposed power. Now, I'd like to strip the act away from the ideology that it is associated with, mainly religion. Desperation makes people pray--even devout Atheists have been know to take part in the act when painted into a corner.

But what is that?

That desperate need to connect with the power in control when life becomes overwhelming, dire, or in the worst case, life-threatening? Maybe it's that understanding that we're not in control all the time--which I think is true. Anyone that knows me, knows that I'm not a religious guy--but I consider myself spiritual--whatever that means. I find myself praying at times when my soul yearns for an exit strategy. Does this make me religious? Hardly. Spiritual? Not Likely.

Instead, prayer makes me human. And humans, at times, want to hand the reigns over to someone else and take a coffee break from life. It's not so much an acknowledgment of a higher power as much as it is an acknowledgment that life is complicated and sometimes we need to face off with ourselves in order to save ourselves. An ego reflection in the mind's eye, for all you stoners reading this.

So don't feel bad if you have to drop to a knee every once in awhile, clasp your hands together and shed a few drops from the ducts. It's natural. It's poignant. And sometimes, it's necessary. Nobody will think ill of you and most times, this purge of emotions can be cathartic and you'll find you can sleep better.

Just a thought...

Tuesday, June 3, 2008

A Pock on Your Lips

I’m a believer in the modern theory of the Apocalypse. Now, you may ask what this modern theory is? Well, I think it’s a state of mind that is perpetuated throughout the annals of modern media. Apocalypse isn’t the end of days per se—but the promise that the downward waterslide we’re all on will pay off…someday. Apocalypse today is slow as molasses, doom at a snail’s crawl. Where death by a blinding light isn’t an instant realization before the meteorite hits the ground and vaporizes us all— instead it’s an inevitable turn of events—a time when we say, collectively, “so this is it, seems too late.”

Will it get better? Will the masses usurp the media and bring the balance back to those who truly have it? I think so. More the point, I hope so. Darkness leads to light…

…and vice versa.

Thursday, May 29, 2008

John from Cincinnati

This is a great show. Weird, yet great.I recommend it for your netflix queue. Best described as a "sci-surfamedy," with a light dusting of "Darko Mythos" sprinkled in for good measure.

It sucks when someone is doing something you are simultaneously. It makes me feel unoriginal.

Oh Well!!!

Tuesday, May 27, 2008

Chapter 1 of Dead Bears

Chapter 1 – The Universals is Free.
In the days of ludes and lilacs, Utopia was bat-smashed, falling into the unforgiving chasm of the same dream. New Age healers called these episodic affairs, “his mind’s true life.” His doctor fucked this pain away with post-pubescent pills that reeked of teen spirit.
In these celluloid affairs, God Himself was enjoying a light snack, before the black clouds of the heavens rolled into snakes for the evening. His, being God’s, fatherly face knitted ouch when he bit into a cracker caked with peanut butter. An army of ants had invaded his plate, stealing protein for their queen.
Utopia saw himself as an ant on the outskirts of the last bite, heading for cover that wasn’t there. God’s fingers began to flick. With magical sleight-of-hand, ants ejected off George Washington Carver’s meal ticket like cannon fire. Utopia looked up and saw he was close to His almighty masticating mouth, so close that he could smell the halitosis of the heavens. But before Utopia was inserted into God’s apparent stench of a piehole, he too was flicked away, falling through the kingdom of such pillowy heaven, where the light torched like a lake of fire, in a hybrid of cloud and flame. He fell through the cold parts of the billows - a hopeless Icarus - then through the vapor that cooked the land. The land he thought himself finished with and vice versa.
Utopia fell down like a cooked feather.
Down into to the consciousness of a new model bone-shell in the process of exiting his mother’s womb like a slow-motion horizon, jettisoned by shots of bloody pink into the warm water of the porcelain bath. The mother screamed the days out of her. Screaming the nights out too. Until the babe fleshed out of the biological cavern, a novice to new life. The Israelian doula scooped him out of the water, cut the umbilical, and raised him above her head as if to show the peanut butter eating Almighty the angel he flicked away. “Oy vey, es mir, Sveet Utopia, Icks a voy,” she announced, passing the bloody newborn over to the father.
Crimson Guillory (yes, that Crimson Guillory), held out his arms and crapped out a smile when she passed his baby boy over like a fleshy-pink football. “Sveet Utopia,” he repeated, the word resonating for a reason. Crimmy held his son with awkward inexperience, examining the child’s newness. New fingers. New toes. New penis. New breath. New noises. Newness that overwhelmed Crimmy’s Amyl high. Chasing dragons was one thing. Fatherhood was the opposite.
The pink football hushed that day, strangely. His breath became more fluid and routine, through nose, out mouth. Utopia watched his father cry not realizing his punk rock mother was no more. Empty, naked limbs dead in the pink water.
The doctors called it trading—one life born, the other at a simultaneous end. Utopia became Crimmy’s solo project from that day forward.
The memory was lost on the syntax of the dream, and the point of view shifted to the young Guillory, as the memory of his birth evaporated into the storage unit of the supposed dreams of his mind. Then light of the scene encapsulated, drawing backwards through the cerebral tunnel on the mind’s eye. The tunnel was caked with pewter mud and smelled of the white rabbit’s locker room. The sound of water dripping echoed through the walls of his mind, and then Utopia opened his eyes. This too was familiar.
Consciousness vibrated and buzzed, his head full of familiar confusion. Waking up from this lucid recurring dream was a reboot, every atom rematerialized in new places, back in the porcelain white of that first birthday.
Presently, Utopia was covered in his own emerald green vomit, a subtle shift from the glistening amniotic fluid that lubed him upon exiting the crown of his dying mother’s pelvis. Memory began to crash into his brain like rip currents, pounding against the rocks, as if to sculpt the earth to the devil’s choosing. That crushing tide of abandonment, pulling against its own will creating bubbly white water that crashed on the fat sands of the shore, pulling the sand crabs to hell. The puzzle pieces of the past fell in line, showing their relevancy to one another. Fragments of vast universal nothingness were filled in with bottles of bootleg absinthe, silvery warriors clashing upon gridiron terra firma and idyllic summer days in the ‘Reef, the coastal hinterland that ate his youth like God ate crackers with chunky peanut butter frosted on top.
His reflection in the golden mirror told a sinful story: the lime-splattered Beach Boys shirt, the absence of pants, sandy-beach locks covering his eyes, patchy whiskers, golden brown skin the sun kissed daily. He slipped around in his bile ooze, his slimy feet finding the Kashmir rug. He staggered out into the endless hall of mirrors, past the suit of armor named Ghentry, past the paintings of medieval death, past the stuffed Peregrine falcon that floated in mid-flight; eye in the sky, looking at you. I can read your mind.
His steps weighed drunkenly up the stairs, gripping the oak banister tightly. Music poured from the floor above. Blur’s “The Universal” suddenly familiarizing itself in his musical wheelhouse of a brain, slow on the uptake in an addled state.
This is the next century
Where the Universal is free
You can find it anywhere
Yes the future’s been sold

Barely able to walk without the world losing its balance around him, Utopia dropped to all fours and crawled the rest of the way. His spine fluttered with a series of icy trembles, crawling past the door to his diseased father’s old writing quarters. A plaque on the door read, “This is the darkest ride.” The locals swore Crimmy’s ghost haunted the haunt, but Utopia had never seen it. If the ghost of the elder Guillory wraithly inhabited Guillory Manor, then Utopia's oft drunken skull denied its existence all the way. Ghosts inherit their human counterpart’s penchant for playing hard to get.
Utopia pushed open the door to his room, hitting his best friend, Guillermo “Memo” Jimenez, in the numb skull. He moaned and rolled over onto Randi Nelso, half naked and all drunk on the floor beside him. The room smelled of chimney smoke incense and sinister sex, a fog of Hawaiian truth arranged itself in the empty spaces. Beer bottles lined the many surfaces of furniture, gathered with CD and cases—relics of the party that broke up today? Yesterday? The day prior?
The beautiful intro of Bowie’s “Heroes” filled the audio landscape of the palatial estate. He fell back on his California King and took a couple hits off his hash pipe that was shaped like a musician’s quarter note. He puffed truth billows out his soup-cooler like factory clouds. The rich textures of electric guitar made him float out the window and onto the Ipé deck of the adjacent gazebo. When he looked in his right hand, he saw that he was carrying the olivewood guit-box Sol made him for his 19th birthday.
The autumn breeze was blowing in, the sun boiling in the oceanic west. The shore thundered into rock and sea lions screamed into near night. Utopia perched up like the Peregrine, surveying the scene below.
Locals gathered on to the beaches below, for the annual Noche De Diablo celebration, his mind became nostalgic for youthful experimentations with nitrous and stilettos. The Noche was a time for locals to relax and unwind with their favorite chemical, get dressed up for the season and at the end of the rave-up, light up a myriad of bonfires and proceed with the autumnal harvest orgy.
Boys kissing boys kissing girls who hate the boys kissing the boys but kissed them anyways, best summed up the Ecstasy-fueled fetes on the beach below. Utopia strummed his guitar with angular timing. His mind patch-worked scenes from past celebrations together: the orgy of pyre reflected in the shore, the drugged out debauchery that progressed during the Halloween eve ritual when smoke kisses the blue night like two star-crossed lovers with unfathomable lusts in loins, across the seven mile stretch of shared shore between Mansion World/Exeter Academy and the industrial, hard-working town of Woodreef, simply called the ‘Reef by local yokels.
Youthly shadows flickered up those rocks to that sprawling Mediterranean Gothic monstrosity that was Manor Guillory, the strange hedonists dressed like nuclear fallout victims and Nazi officers in gasmasks, out of their skulls on chemicals purchased in the street or stolen from parental medicine cabinets.
Utopia hit the quarter note again, sharing time with swigs of jesus juice in between, not really motivated to join in the debauchery. He felt too old, too advanced in his pre-adulthood programming to join the party. Part of himself was angry that he felt this way, wanting to stay young and rebellious, part of him wanted to grow up. The easy solution, albeit temporary, was over-indulgence in isolation.
He floated back into his room, returning to the Cali King. Memo and Nelso disappeared. Wire was on the radio, dispensing “40 Versions.”
Utopia picked up a can of orange spray paint that was lying in the super-stereophonic egg chair, then sauntered towards a bald mannequin torso wearing an eye patch, resting on a dresser. The pirate mannequin donned his old Exeter Preparatory jacket, an avocado-green velour blazer with the Exeter crest sewn into the chest yoke. The crest pictured two billy goats gruff with strawberries polka-dotting their white fur, in prelude to barnyard fisticuffs. A medieval shield with the slanted picture of a demonic lion separated the two brutish goats. Championing out the top of the shield were two muscular arms holding a bright halo atop the coat-of-arms, with the Academy's chief axiom written in Latin below, demanding "Servo Quod Pareo.” Serve and obey was the English translation, and a maxim for life in general on Urantia, after one sorted through all the bullshit. Utopia shook the can in proper time with every riff of “40 Versions.”
I never know which version I'm going to be
I get the feeling my mind is deceiving me

Like a militant fur protestor, Utopia painted an orange X over the crest of conformity. He outlined a W on the opposing yoke pocket, a testament to his devotion to Woodreef High, his current institute of mediocre education.
He stood back to admire his defiant piece of art, a mocking statement of masterpiece against the school that supposed him as just another two comma kid with a prestigious surname. Utopia had graced their ivory halls of the adolescent upper crust and it sucked. He saw through the silky veil of fascist hammering of the youthful minds of old money. Keeping the ranks of Free Masonry consistent was the lord's work.
Utopia felt contempt for the bastards at Planet Exeter. He felt as if he needed to bury the skool in the apathy of its own creation. Football was the perfect vehicle for this, even though he could care less. Hell, the Woodreef team beat the Souls last year in the biggest upset in their 37 year rivalry. The blazer defilement was the exclamation on such a stance.
It was also part of his Halloween costume, by coincidence. Senioritis infected his actions, it was the last bad year, as far as Utopia was concerned. His true life would begin in Berkeley next year.
"Sexeter Predatory. Home of V.D. and those bloodsucking Voths" he mentally masturbated. He sprayed paint into the hardware store bag from which it was purchased. Inhaling quickly is the trick, before one passes out mid-huff. He fell to the hardwood like any mock Icarus. His eyes smiled and dilated.
The pain is never fully fucked away.

Wednesday, May 21, 2008


In the annals of time, we will be judged harshly. Rightly so. We’re all but mealy maggots to the slaughter. Corporations. Global Warming. Reality Television. Tramp Stamps. Sports Utility Vehicles. Pete Wentz. Possessions. Christianity. Fast Food Hamburger Obesity. Internet Pedophiles. Shat Emo Bands on the Radio. Brittany Spears. Kevin Costner. Norbit. Wal-Mart Guitars. New England Patriots. Hood Rats. Methamphetamine. Pizza Hut Cheesy Bites Pizza. Credit Cards. Myspace. Oprah’s Book Club. Mini-Malls. Welfare Mothers. Eastern European Immigrants. Astronaut Diapers. Jerry Bruckheimer. W. Metallica in Therapy. School Children with Guns. DMV, Homelessness. Microsoft Vista. Huge sections of Anime in Book and DVD Stores. Lindsay Lohan. Bill O’Reilly. American Idol.

Sorry to be the bearer of bad news, but the end is near, my friends. As we hopscotch through this dark valley through the shadow of death, I, found a light at the end of the tunnel. The light is something beautiful and like me. I went to that light with my truest heart and I came back with a smile on my face. No words can describe hitting bottom like I did. No words ever should.

Instead, I’d like to say that the bottom had its benefit. Life needs to kick your ass and train you to be smarter next time. Life is the oil that Mobile raped. Life is the expiration date that the Mayans predict. Life is the expectancy that we’ll find our true potential. God’s cruel joke is that that potential won’t be experienced in this life.

The heart is a terrible thing to waste. But the taste of a heart is even better if bitten at the right time. The idea of true love evolves with we monkeys.

Maybe Nietzsche was right when he said that the real Supe was a human who has battled modern values and overcome the flaws of humanity. Maybe we’re all “supermen” possessing that great potential. Maybe god is within us all and “He” helps us find that potential.

And Maybe I’m just full of shit.

Off to Shade’s apartment.

Thursday, April 24, 2008

Ashcroft pwned!

Check out how this 20-year old coed completely corners, traps, and ultimately pwns the former attorney general of the United States. In a public forum, no less.

ME: After WWII, the Tokyo Tribunal was basically the Nuremberg Trials for Japan. Many Japanese leaders were put on trial for war crimes and crimes against humanity, including torture. And among the tortures listed was the "water treatment," which we nowadays call waterboarding...
ASHCROFT: (interrupting) This is a speech, not a question. I don't mind, but it's not a question.
ME: It will be, sir, just give me a moment. The judgment describes this water treatment, and I quote, "the victim was bound or otherwise secured in a prone position; and water was forced through his mouth and nostrils into his lungs and stomach." One man, Yukio Asano, was sentenced to fifteen years hard labor by the allies for waterboarding American troops to obtain information. Since Yukio Asano was trying to get information to help defend his country--exactly what you, Mr. Ashcroft, say is acceptible for Americans to do--do you believe that his sentence was unjust? (boisterous applause and shouts of "Good question!")
ASHCROFT: (angrily) Now, listen here. You're comparing apples and oranges, apples and oranges. We don't do anything like what you described.
ME: I'm sorry, I was under the impression that we still use the method of putting a cloth over someone's face and pouring water down their throat...
ASHCROFT: (interrupting, red-faced, shouting) Pouring! Pouring! Did you hear what she said? "Putting a cloth over someone's face and pouring water on them." That's not what you said before! Read that again, what you said before!
ME: Sir, other reports of the time say...
ASHCROFT: (shouting) Read what you said before! (cries of "Answer her fucking question!" from the audience) Read it!
ME: (firmly) Mr. Ashcroft, please answer the question.
ASHCROFT: (shouting) Read it back!
ME: "The victim was bound or otherwise secured in a prone position; and water was forced through his mouth and nostrils into his lungs and stomach."
ASHCROFT: (shouting) You hear that? You hear it? "Forced!" If you can't tell the difference between forcing and pouring...does this college have an anatomy class? If you can't tell the difference between forcing and pouring...
ME: (firmly and loudly) Mr. Ashcroft, do you believe that Yukio Asano's sentence was unjust? Answer the question. (pause)
ASHCROFT: (more restrained) It's not a fair question; there's no comparison. Next question! (loud chorus of boos from the audience)

Friday, April 18, 2008


Hey Guppies!

Getting the finishing touches spit and polished on my thesis. I'm to that point where I've gone crazy and found myself, waiting for myself on the other side, the whole time saying, "Dude, where the hell have you been?"

It's been two years since I started grad skool and I must say--it has been quite the experience. Not only the work involved, but the relationships I have made with different people who share a common interest. I'll miss skool, but I look forward to what dreams may come afterwards.

Everyone has been asking me--what next? Truth is, I dunno. I like that feeling. It's the way I approach most things in life, especially skool. My old man talked me into junior college when I was unsure of what to do after High Skool. Six years later, my brother was hoisting my leg at Arco Arena (don't ask!). The opportunity to go to grad skool fell in my lap in a swift shot of serendipity when I was bored out of my skull in Omaha--now, I'm here.

Approach life like this. Take a chance--that's what life is for. Don't go through life saying money is the issue. Screw money. These pointless williams of useless federal barter paper is no reason to go about your life by falling back on the excuse of not making yourself better by exploring your deepest interests. Look beyond the constraints of society and find your own personal horizon.

Monday, April 14, 2008

Blast from the Past: 6.27.2002

It could be worse, you could be locked away in some third-world prison, competing with the rats for water. But what about life makes it so frustrating sometimes? I have an answer, the human mind. The mind is the most interesting muscle in our biology, it does things, sometimes, without our permission. A good example of that is ending relationship and wanting to move on, when you make up your mind to move on you do and you feel good. Good, until two days later you're deperssed and you miss that person and you go and do something stupid like call them, after you made up your "MIND" to move on. What was my point? Oh yeah, the mind endlessly needs challenges it seems, we don't have to compete with those rats so we venture into arguing about politics, sports, the best beer, the best pick-up trucks (*Chevy*), the best American band, the best way to grout your shower...but I digress. We as Americans need these kinds of challenges to move beyond what isn't challenging us, like finding food, shelter, and a decent night's sleep (although I've been battling that bear of late.) We take our liberties for granted sometimes. So be happy, you're free to do what you want, that is if you're not too scared, but I'll save that for later....

2012 Prognosis

A Simple Kind of Life

Urka turns 30 today, Happy Birthday Urka!

Ok, so Urka's family came out to Sac-Town this weekend, along with a flock of birds, alums from the Fresno chapter of Phi Mu--founded at Wesleyan College in 1852. It was quite the assortment of peeps. Anyhow, Saturday was the big dinner and dance affair. We ate at the Riverside Clubhouse in Old Land Park. It was very shi-shi. It had a nice bar and a gorgeous patio with a clay wall that had water cascading, the backdrop for the acoustic affair that took place later in the evening. We drank wine, shared many tales of the Urk (many that centered around her penchant for napping, earning her the nicker, "the sleeper.") Then after a collective rendition of "Hotel California," we took the show on the road.

To the tune of olde skool MJ jams, we pulled up to the posh night club, "The Park." I knew what to expect. What awaited us inside was overpriced drink, flocks of desperate birds and throngs of metro-sexual cattle that I knew in my heart--if it came down to fisticuffs, I could take down any metro-man if the night swung that way.

After a few dance numbers, I wandered solo, to observe all about me losing their heads. A thousand leagues of emptiness. I sat down on a big pillow that was resting on a bench. Flames kissed the night in a ambiance that would anywhere else seem ghoulishly arousing to the Young Master, but my soul wept and my mind wanted to relocate. To another time. To another dimension. In another life, it would have seemed like the ideal night to find love again. The feeling I had was quite the opposite. I rejoined the group and the night ended in a blur.

Sometimes, I get all Holden Caulfield about life. I can't help it. I observe and critique simultaneously. My brain is wired that way. It is my blessing. It is my curse.

What a life, eh?

Friday, April 11, 2008

Big Empty

My Sacramento News&Review horoscope:

Gemini (May 21-June 20)
What I hope you'll achieve in the coming days is a state of mind like that described by Dan Linton, one of my readers. This is his report. "Last night I went to Wal-Mart with a friend who was returning some tools. I walked around the store while he was at the service desk. In the shampoo isle, an unusual man who looked like an Aborigine made extended eye contact with me. He walked past, he announces in a happy tone, 'You mind is empty.' I was super excited and found my friend to tell him. 'Isn't that an insult? he asked. 'No,' I said. 'The guy meant that my mind was clear, which is true. The is the first time in two years I've found that my mind is free of shrunken expectations, limiting concepts and emotional distortions.'"

Tuesday, April 8, 2008

STP are back!!!

...and touring this summer!!

Further Proof

This old couple in Modesto has wild opium growing in their backyard, unbeknownst to them. This is simply amazing (said in my best Huell Houser). Imagine if he covered that in "California Gold." Someone would have to explain to him what heroine was. How would that convo go?


Isn't it funny how the police swoop in and confiscate this stuff and do lord know what with it. Yet, we "illegally" import the same stuff from Afganistan--a country we are at "war" with. One word sums up my life these daze...


Blog Note: Sorry folks--having a little trouble linking that one up. You'll just have to copy/paste old skool.

In Bloom

The majesty of poppies and wildflowers comes in a cycle that makes me think that nature is more in tune with us than we are in tune with it. Let's face it, times have come back around to the tough--and if you know me, that's all you hear me talk about. But I'm not alone in my harsh assessment of reality and what it all means. Others have joined my crusade.

Friends, do yourself a favor and read Anthony Burgess' brilliant "The Wanting Seed." In one of the scenes the main character Tristram tells his history class of how history works in cycles. He names all the cycles and gives it logical zest. I even covered this to larger effect in my master's thesis and it has helped me make more sense of the world. Kinda.

Nature has helped me too. In 1978, the wild flowers bloomed in my hometown Woodlake (Reef?). I don't remember it so much--seeing as I wasn't even a year old. But I saw the many pictures my mom took and it was awesome. In 2008, the wildflowers are back--thirty years later. My mind asks, "A rebirth?"

Perhaps. Perhaps Walt Whitman was right. Perhaps if our generation embraces the future and believes that "this too shall pass," then we can move forward. I know I sound like a neo-hippy--and perhaps I am. The difference being that the neos shower.

Silent Porn Star!

Saturday, April 5, 2008

Terrence McKenna Video I Promised!

On 2012.

A friend at work asked me if I have heard of the date December 21, 2012 and its numerous implications. I told I did and what it meant in layman's terms--the end of the Mayan calendar. She poked and prodded, knowing that I had more ideas than I was sharing. She seemed genuinely intrigued in my unknown hypothesis. I told her about the spectrum of the end of days to a new enlightenment. I told I didn't believe in the prophecy, yet, believed it all the same. She asked me to lunch and we talked more about 2012 and religion.

At lunch, I told her about the "Great Singularity," the idea that out ever expanding technology will become so advanced that it will be able to correct the bugs in the system without the creator's intervention. This might be an analogy for our God. Maybe we were "His" technology. Maybe we correct ourselves and we have no "need" for him. And yet we do all the same.

Terrence McKenna theorized that 2012 would be a new period of the unknown. He even used data to back this up on a graph that showed humanity on a downward spin as we head towards that date. I will find the video and post it later. But McKenna said that we might find out a way to time travel and we'll all go our separate ways--since we are alone in the universe. This is what the television show "Lost" is about, in my opinion.

My mind swims in and out of the realm of 2012. I fear what will happen, if anything--but with fear comes relief--that is a rule of nature I have found. The idea of the apocalypse has roots in religion and is used as a god-fearing tool. I find it hard to believe that it is the end of days, the new enlightenment idea works better with me--an enlightenment that sends us to the stars--beyond the heavens--where we all destined to go--if we be so brave. The rest will remain, on this planet, to pass--as they have all envisioned.

Everything is connected: religion, war, love, death, sex, children, happiness, denial, respect, space/time travel, psychedelic drugs, the police state, hope, fear...

My job in the next four years goes beyond a 401K or planning for the future. The future is now and what lies beyond that is clouded. Personal responsibility--towards our planet and those whom we love and share our lives with should be on our agendas--and with that comes hope. If we ride the wave of hope--it will take care of all of our problems.

Just think of the possibilities and your mind will set you free.

Stephen Hawking is an Alien!

Monday, March 31, 2008

The Missing Link

The Jedi Creed

I Believe in The Living Force Of Creation;

I am a Jedi, an instrument of peace;
Where there is hatred I shall bring love;
Where there is injury, pardon;
Where there is doubt, faith;
Where there is despair, hope;
Where there is darkness, light;
And where there is sadness, joy.

I am a Jedi.
I shall never seek so much to be consoled as to console;
To be understood as to understand;
To be loved as to love;
For it is in giving that we receive;
In pardoning that we are pardoned;
And in dying that we are born to eternal life.

The Living Force Of Creation is always with me; I am a Jedi.

Drewus Cartoon


My good friend Chris did a sketch of me--kinda kooky.

The Circle of Life

Great Vid on the Brain

Thursday, March 27, 2008

BMX needs a motive!!!

Kind of a strange feeling, downloading the new Panic at the Disco. If you heard, "Nine in the Afternoon," you might understand.

I lived today.

I work with these guys!!!

Tuesday, March 25, 2008

Steppenwolf - Monster


Wings Chinese Fortune

"Contentment is just around the corner for you. Look forward!"

Thank Christ!

Mosaic of the Lost

Today is Science Fiction

InUteroni and Drewsus went up the hill yesters to see Queen Carla and Rat Fink. We talked about gun rights, the war, 2012, Steppenwolf, how shatty and soul-sucking it is (was) to work for the state of California, sex, more guns and a rough outline of what we alpha males should do if Bush declares marshal law. Now, I'm no militia man--but I think it's important to be mentally prepared for the worst case scenario. If the shat hit the fan, the city is worst place to be. If the police state took control--they would be more successful in the cities, initially. I think it's a good thing to have a neo-hippy in the hills who would take us in so we alpha males could plot our survival. And it helps that the Queen has a family of Floridian crazies who are more paranoid than him with connects to the Top Haters.

My brain was full at the end of the night after I dropped Chris off at his apartment. I got home in time to see Carolla dance and chat up with Urka about the opposite sex and and how bullfrogs can predict the temperature in the springtime.

Went to bed before Kimmel for once, exhausted. The police chopper lulled me to sleep. Maybe the meeting yesterday was kismet. Time will tell.

Sunday, March 23, 2008

Happy Resurection, Jesus!

Gotta Love California

Kinda funny when you hear the two doors down prostitute's heels clicking outside my window amidst the symphony of quail calls.

Saturday, March 22, 2008

Kill Your Children

I feel older today. Wiser? Maybe.

Friday, March 21, 2008

The Hammer

My roommate is the best around. She gave me a movie pass to see "The Hammer" this weekend.

I owe Urka a lot. If there are any readers out there that are heavy-set, muscular, stalky, has a goatee and likes hiking, romantic comedies and Starbucks--hit me up. Because I have the girl for you.

Thursday, March 20, 2008

I Guess You'll Do

Public Personas

I think we all do it. Lie to ourselves. Our ego demands that we maintain a facade that is uncharacteristic and unreal. We hide behind these public personas to maintain what exactly? A demention that can shatter with just the soft stroke a ball ping. Then the glass shatters and we are exposed, naked. Then what good are we?

I think Frued was a genius--but he should have kept his mouth shut. A lot of what we know works against us. If we could undo the damage of knowledge, couldn't we live better lives? I dunno, it sounds like a nice place to return, when ignorance was bliss and living like the part mammal we are.

There are few times in my life when I shed this persona in question--and to tell the truth, I was happy and fearless--two things I am affraid of being again. Why? I guess I feel like to be truly fearless and happy is unAmerican. I know that sounds cynical, but to me--it's the truth. Think about your life--think about the things you do (or don't do to a larger degree) because you fear the result your mind's eye plays out for you. And say you took that fearless step--is the result ever as bad as the worst case your retarded brain projected. Hardly ever, in my experience.

This is why I blame He-Man. He-Man was like a god in my kid eyes. I remember getting He-Man toys when I turned 5 and I remember watching the show like it was a religion. And growing up in a agnostic household, it kinda was. So you have this pseudo-omnipotence who hides his true self away behind the false shroud of a prince. The Prince is what Adam truly is, but he projects that he is the Man of He--yet that part of his life hidden (although people of Eternia are kinda dumb not to figure out the similarities between Adam and He-Man--how many dudes in the kingdom are rocking the blond Anton Chigurh haircut.) I guess it's the Superman complex told in another way--which is derived from the dilemma of Jesus.

I have know idea what I'm trying to say.

Wednesday, March 19, 2008

Tuesday, March 18, 2008

R.I.P. Arthur C. Clarke

16 December 191719 March 2008

Adam Carolla on Dancing with the Stars

At about 3:35 into the video you can hear him call Carrie Ann Anaba (sp?) a bitch!

Adam Carolla is my hero!

Disappear Here

Why is it that we never say the thing we truly want to?

Fear of rejection? Fear of losing the ones we love with out biting words with razor sharp vampire teeth. I run into this wall a lot. I usually talk myself into keeping the words to myself, then maybe I can evaluate the feelings behind them and get at my core being. Not saying it's the best way to go through life, but I've been this way since I can remember...so why change now.

To the risk of sounding like Adrianne Curry, I'll stop with the unspecific banality of words throw together into a confusing scope of trivializations. My blog is better than that.

Anyhow, I went to 3R today with the 'rents and watched mallard ducks tussle in one of those three rivers. Three Rivers is where my roommate hales from and and she claims to want to go back some day. I am starting to see what she has always seen growing up there. It is a truly unique and beautiful place--one of the central valley's best kept secrets. I'm thinking of buying a house there after I make my first million. Not to live, but to escape the bs. I need that some days and it would be awesome to have a place of familiarity to return to to be one with nature and revisit the core of my being my soul yearns for. I know that sounds like hippy shat, but who cares. I always told my friends Shannon that I am a neo-hippy (ie one that baths and has a job).

All I know is that I miss things in my life...certain tangibles that have made me happy that have been absent the last few years. And now that the curtain of grad skool is lifting (my last month)--I am finally at a point in my life where I can make those tangible things happen. And if I do it alone, so be it.

Note: Parents are bickering about plans to Omaha this summer. Things are about to get weird.

Funny Games

So, Funny Games came out this weekend. Didn't hear how it did--nobody cares. I saw the German ver. last week and was physically ill watching it. I'm sure the U.S. version will be good too. It seems more flamboyant than the Euro version. The German version is like an emotional snuff film that cross-hibernates Clockwork and In Cold Blood. It fs with your sense of reality.

In other news, the Rockets have won 22 straight. Obama's pastor is a sheep in Stevie Wonder's clothing and Caroll called that Carrie Ann chick on DWTS a bitch.

New Blog

I WAS HAPPIER THEN!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Here it is. My new blog. I hope this is the bestest blog ever and when mf's look back at what started it all, you'll read this and say, "that mf knew it all along."

I want to keep clean, so I'll abbreviate certain cuss words because girls that I end up kissing say I cuss too much. Why is it that girls you kiss end up telling you your faults? Sooner or later, they do.

But what I wanted to say--or what Jimmy Kimmel said better, is that the new contestants on American Idol look like a bunch of flaccid tapioca people.

That picture of me is from 1986.

Who do you think God calls when the shat hits the fan?