Brain Poops

Most people have multiple systems of measuring time. They have a watch on their wrist, a clock on the wall, and a calendar next to the clock covered in sharpie notes with a different fucking kitten for each month of the year.

I measure time in a different, but no less accurate manner. It’s a three-month cycle, common of nearly all drug abusers, that is marked by the amount of time it takes for Amy Winehouse to have a new drug-addled video crop up on the net.

Now since I first saw the heavy-eye-makeup beehiveio’d songstress I’ve been fascinated by her. She’s like the Icarus of drug addiction and pure rock n roll lifestyle. The phrase “rocking and rolling”, as secular black slang for dancing or sex¹ makes no apparent mention of methamphetamines however.

It seems apparent that the news media would have the collective planetary panties in a twist every time Amy so much as smokes a cigarette or imports in bulk from shady Colombians. Nowadays she can’t even buy an regular case of extra strong stake-awake pills without getting hassled, scorned, and paparazzi bukkaked.

The people have forgotten, or the news media would like the people to forget, exactly what our “stars” truly represent. Be it music, acting, art, social change or literature, these beacons of skill and personality are the guiding lights for some people. (continue reading…)

16:00 - 9/12/08 (day 544)

A high tech alarm/PC beeps an automatically selected song this morning from data it non-intrusively monitored in Ze’s sleep cycle over the night. Today’s song is “Danger Zone” by Kenny Loggins.

The alarm is networked to digital micropanels in his floor-to-ceiling bay windows. The miniature shutter clusters receive a “open” command pattern from the alarm and gently break a 2 PM dawn on the groggy sleeper, who is determined not to “be hangin’ on like a yo-yo” [at right].

Endorphins flood the brain of Ze “Danger” Frank as his required umbilicus is attached and grafted to his torso over the scars of previous grafting. He stretches and yawns just before his module delivers the first infusion of protein, caffeine, vitamins and nutrients to his body. His custom molded slippers feel plush and supple as they shrink and adjust to his feet.

(continue reading…)

Hey kids!

Bit of a good news/bad news situation with the site I’m afraid…

This theme will likely be the new permanent from now on through to oblivion.

As much as I loved Aspire¹, it was not completely functional and as such it was sacked. You can find my old copy of Aspire at Santa Monica and Western selling little crucifixes it makes from old twigs. (continue reading…)

From a Person Who has Survived Two “Doomsdays”

Dear world,

Is something wrong?

I mean, it seems like every benchmark of civilization and relative development can’t pass without some group calling it the end of the world.

The year 2000? Certain doom by God’s wrath or gas station pumps launching nuclear missiles in Wisconsin or something. All I got out of the new years’ party was to hear the ONLY year (ONLY) Prince’s “1999″ is a good idea, and an awkward kiss that broke up a middle-school friendship with a cute blonde. (continue reading…)

Just started reading? Begin at ACT 1 by clicking here.

In our last episode…

We get about 10% less tangled than those bloody Righties and you say we have to stop. We remove sweaty palms from awkward stranger palms and sit down, pondering if we brought any hand sanitizer and vowing not to eat anything or touch our faces until we wash our hands again.

I remember that you whinged on about how the exercise told you everything you needed to know about us. You said if we grouped up into departments he would interview us one on one for about 30 seconds. You also mentioned that anyone who is hired will get a call by Sunday, and those who weren’t would have a quiet weekend.

Well it’s been a quiet weekend for me, I don’t mind telling you. And since it’s evident I’m not hired by you, I’d like to take a chance to tell you exactly how I feel.

(continue reading…)

In our last episode…

Right up front, you told us all that this process would take an hour, and that anyone who could not stay one hour needed to leave right then. Bug eyed applicants took turns glancing at each other.

We apparently were the Nobodies who really had to spend at least an hour with this guy to get hired. We somehow thought that instead of spending that hour improving ourselves or appreciating fine art we should sit here and endure him in hopes of at least a 1:11 chance of getting hired.

My soul bawled like a newborn hurled into a cactus patch.

(continue reading…)

Dear Cheesy Manager Who I Remember Too Much About,

My "Dream" Job

Hi! My name’s Ben. You may not remember me, but I was one of your applicants this week. I came into your Books N Shit, Inc branch early and prepared to take on your interview. Instead, I ended up in what I consider to be the biggest 2 hour waste of time since Disaster Movie.

Your minions directed me to the upper patio where our interview was to be held with a burning trail of anguished souls screaming to be hired. I saw it crawl up the Broken Escalator of Hardship, slither through the Twisting Wastes of  “Calendars of Intelligent Thought”, and fizzle to an end in the Field of the Always Occupied Four Chairs.

I sat in my (surprisingly) empty chair, with a printed resume, my pen and a hardcover copy of The HitchHikers Guide to the Galaxy to write on at the ready. As I dutifully filled out your company’s formal application, the other applicants started their invasion.

(continue reading…)

Sometimes I daydream that I’ll go in for an interview at some random place and Bob Barker would jump out with his twizzlerdick microphone and exclaim “That’s right! You WON! How does it feel to be my dicksweater, bitch?”

And I usually imagine looking rather confused as he approaches me, weilding his microphone like a battleax of the ages.

It isn’t untill the first swatting hit from Bob’s microphone that I realise shit just got real. With a poorly executed sweep kick, I twist my ankle and go down on one knee. Bob lands on his adamantium hip and suffers only a “really quite nasty bruise I got there, right? Blurple, I think.”

But Bob can’t get up. He is old and riddled with miniscule microphone grip arthritis (MMGA - a condition characterized by extreme pain within the grip area. Incurable, untreatable, excruciatingly painful). With his eyes welling up with old-man tears, he comes to grip with the cycle of life and it’s inevitable process, finally finding peace with the world and his part in it…

Just as I land a crushing, well-placed kick to the groin with the enthusiasm and speed of a Brazillian soccer player and the burning desire to see if I can split a man in two via that damned sensitive region. And, in a run-on sentence, I might add.

Yeah… Sometimes I daydream.

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This is the first time I’m using a writing program that is fundamentally different from Word (or even notepad, for that matter). The program is called “WriteMonkey” and as far as I’m concerned it’s likely the last program I’ll ever use for basic writing.

The gist of the program is this: Zen writing space. I use that term not to imply it chimes Buddhist temple bells every so often, or that it aims to help you reach a level of enlightenment by celibacy and devout servitude. Although now that I think about it, one of those orange and red robes might go well with the vibrations I’m getting in my chakras… CHAKRA KAHN!

Through the most elegant means, WriteMonkey brings simplicity and focus to the writing experience without the hefty Macintosh Cult indoctrination price tag. As a matter of fact there isn’t a price tag at all, although donations are being accepted.

It seems funny to me that something so simple can cause a stir in how I feel about writing. Up to this point, I couldn’t identify what it was that repelled me from writing on my computer. Somehow the basic needs taken care of by this program have thrown it into sharp relief.

Needless complexity.

I look at MSWord and see a window chock full of buttons, options, menus and random doodads. Things that most of the time go unused in my writing process, yet still remain to nag me with their presence. Try as I might to ignore them, they still gnash their teeth in the twilight of my writing focus… little bastard animals in the night.

For the longest time I found myself inexplicably jotting down my thoughts in Notepad. I assume it was the same desire for simplicity that caught and held my attention at gunpoint.

Of course this program won’t replace Final Draft for my script work, but I think that it’s allure will bring about more daily writing from me. I figure at minimum I will be able to post more blogs through regular use, at maximum I’ll be able to make more satire articles like the roommate piece and an upcoming “Day in the Life of…” that I have been itching to get to work on.

Oh and it makes really nifty old-school typewriter noises while you type (w00t!)

So if you’re in the mood to dabble in some free software that just might change your view on the otherwise intimidating and sometimes nasty business of writing on a  computer, the link will be posted below. Be forewarned: the website colors are horrendous, but luckily the program itself allows for user-defined colors and font choices.

Enjoy!

WriteMonkey (for Windows)

WriteRoom (Same concept, Mac only)

Question of the moment!

What is your morning ritual?

Today’s post is very close to my heart, having been a room-mate for the past 5 years to various family and friends. In that span of time I have heard tons of horror stories, dealt with various crises, and earned the title of “Room-mate Extraordinare”¹. The intent of this post is to inform the general public of the dangers and proper customs of being a room-mate in America.

Part 1: Welcome to the Fold!

Sharing a home is a tradition stemming back to the Bronze age, when warriors who returned home from battle were forced into stucco duplexes with each other because they still needed to pay off their student loans. The first roommates, Ezekiel the Beneficent and Rick, lived together for 7 months before Rick found Ezekiel smoking his weed and decided to throw him out (see engraving at left).

Living with your fellow man/woman is as much a part of life for 20-somethings today as it was back then. The need for shelter combined with a lack of money forces millions of ill-matched people into small spaces together every day in the US and abroad. (continue reading…)