Monday, December 6, 2010


I guess I'll jump on the ol' bandwagon and alert everyone to my official last post of the semester.

Depsite my vast legion of fans (all quivering with anticipation as to what I'll write next, I'm sure), I will not be continuing this blog.  I think I made a valiant effort (or at least I made one at all) but alas, I am not a blogger.

I don't feel the need to make updates about the mundane activities in my life.  I don't think anyone needs to know my opinion about the latest movie or TV show when they can visit professional websites dedicated to these topics.  I refuse to post stories or even excerpts of stories online.  I'm much better at complaining in person.  And lastly, I just don't fucking feel like it.

If other people want to blog, well, that's just dandy.  But it ain't for me. 

I don't feel like my blog (or 75% of the blogs that exist) fills any kind of void.  Almost everyone has access to the internet now, and half of those people probably have a blog or online journal or fledgling website.  Which means all those people feel important and are most likely hoping for some sort of fame or recognition.  And since we live in the Age of the Celebrity, I'd guess that quite of few of them will get their wishes and garner book deals or at least some cold hard cash from advertisers.

But I don't want to be a part of that.  Like I said many moons ago, there is a difference between a blogger and writer, and I would prefer to be known as the latter.

If I can't find any success with my writing, then maybe as a last resort I'll give in to the self-promotion and self-publishing bullshit.  And am I looking down my nose at this stuff?  Hell yes.  I don't care if it makes me sound like a jackass. 

So...anyway.  The end.  Goodbye.  It's been real. 

Sunday, December 5, 2010


This is what happens whenever I have any sort of assignment due:

I make a plan far in advance of the assignment's due date.  I decide on what I want to do and how I want to do it, and I tell myself that it'll all get done ahead of schedule because I'm prepared.

Inevitably and usually a day or two before the assignment is due, I decide I hate everything I've done.  I decide this even if I have weeks invested in something and it's 99.9% finished.  I decide that there's nothing to do but completely start over.

I delete all prior work and begin anew, only to realize that I'm an asshole for doing this because now it's all being done last-minute and that will definitely be reflected in what I end up with.

Despite this feeling of being a dumbass, I will do this every single goddamn time.  I am very predictable this way.

So, yes.  It's happened again.  I made significant headway with my project for this class and was nearly finished when I decided I loathed the story.  I mean, I still loathe the story I started with.  There's no way I would turn that in.  But now it's getting close to my bed time (I'm old) and about two hours ago I decided that I wanted to go with a new story and a completely new way of telling it (project is being done via facebook.  And it's not good.  Shut up).  So...whatever.  I like the new story better, at least.  But don't expect to be wowed during our presentations.

Thursday, December 2, 2010


I'm not sure how I feel about the remake of True Grit.  I love the original.  John Wayne is perfect as Rooster Cogburn, and I'm pretty sure I had a huge crush on Glen Campbell's La Boeuf after seeing the film when I was about 10.  Because, you know...I like assholes.  Always have, always will.

As for Version 2.0...well, I like Jeff Bridges.  Though I'm not fond of Matt Damon with a mustache (no mustache is tolerable).  And I like Josh Brolin, especially when he's being scary.

I know I'm going to see it.  Even Pandora is endorsing this decision: it keeps playing artists with sandpaper-y voices who sing about whiskey and horses and being away from home.

But of all the movies that could be remade, True Grit is one that absolutely did not need a reboot.  That movie is flawless as far as I'm concerned. 

I'm sure Jeff Bridges will be great.  I liked him a lot in Crazy Heart.  Don't get me wrong- the screenplay for that movie was nothing special.  It was the mother of all cliches, predictable down to the dialogue.  But it was the best version of that cliche I've ever seen, and Bridges was very, very good.  I could do without Maggie Gyllenhaal, though...I can always do without Maggie Gyllenhaal.  And her brother.  Blech.


Tuesday, November 30, 2010



There is someone in my other class...let's call them Person.  Person is really annoying.  I want to punch them in the throat.  Seriously.

The irritating thing about Person is that they are so blatantly desperate to be included in a circle of friends who, frankly, don't want anything to do with Person.  But Person doesn't get it.  And don't get me wrong- I'm not saying that I don't like Person because they want to be included and liked.  Everyone has those feelings, of course.  We all want to belong somewhere and have friends, etc.  My problem with Person is that they have no goddamn dignity.  I mean, come on.  Person is older than me and yet doesn't seem to have developed any sense of self-respect throughout their life.  Call me a bitch, but I think this is abso-fucking-lutely pathetic.

This is what I deal with in that class:  Person hard-core staring at me and my friends during class.  Person eavesdropping on our hushed conversations and inviting themselves to come along with us if we make plans.  Person laughing at jokes they cannot possibly understand, which then brings on awkward silences.

And I's gotten to the point where myself and a friend are actively trying not to talk to Person or make eye-contact or include them in our lives at all.  And I know that's mean, but what pisses me off is that Person persists for fuck's sake!  If people are having a conversation and they clearly don't want me to hear it, I would never just start talking with them or laughing at their inside jokes. If people are being assholes to me, I fucking ignore them and pretend I don't give a shit about them, even if my wittle ol' feewings are hurt.  If someone doesn't want to be your friend, make other friends.

La la la la, I am a jerk.

Honestly, though, it's not that I don't like Person necessarily.  They have redeeming qualities.  I just wish they wouldn't act like this, because it's such a big turn-off.  If Person could just interact with people like an adult, we'd get along like Jack and Coke.

Saturday, November 27, 2010

I find the concept behind The Human Centipede very disturbing.  I refuse to see this movie.  The preview alone revolts me.  I'm not sure what it is about the film that creeps me out so much, but never has a movie (or the idea of a movie, I guess) gotten under my skin like this.  Why?  Why was this movie even made?  Just...what the fuck, man?  I would include a picture of the poster, but even that freaks me out.

No.  No, thank you.


I boarded my cat at the vet while I was away.  I just retrieved her, and she has already clawed me half to death.  Ah, there's nothing like a pet's unconditional love...

She is much larger and more terrifying than she looks in this picture.


Being home for a while was nice.  I haven't really spent a significant amount of time in my hometown since March.  And of course everything was different and everything was the same. 

During Thanksgiving dinner, my uncle politely reminded me that my biological clock is ticking.  Everyone talked about Jesus a lot.  The older people started talking about all their ailments and the medications they're on. 

My dad used double-sided tape to stick a fake piece of shit to the side of the toilet bowl, then laughed as people tried to flush it out of disgust and panic.

My nephew and I watched Toy Story 3, then I listened to him sing "You've Got a Poot in Me," which I'm sure Disney wishes they had used instead of Randy Newman's version. 

Overall, not bad. 

Wednesday, November 17, 2010


Football Season Is Over.

No More Games. No More Bombs. No More Walking. No More Fun. No More Swimming. 67. That is 17 years past 50. 17 more than I needed or wanted. Boring. I am always bitchy. No Fun — for anybody. 67. You are getting Greedy. Act your old age. Relax — This won't hurt.

Tuesday, November 16, 2010


"But there are certain people you love who do something else; they define how you classify what love is supposed to feel like. These are the most important people in your life, and you'll meet maybe four or five of these people over the span of 80 years. But there's still one more tier to all this; there is always one person you love who becomes that definition. It usually happens retrospectively, but it always happens eventually. This is the person who unknowingly sets the template for what you will always love about other people, even if some of those lovable qualities are self-destructive and unreasonable... The person who defines your understanding of love is not inherently different from anyone else, and they're often just the person you happen to meet the first time you really, really want to love someone. But that person still wins. They win, and you lose. Because for the rest of your life, they will control how you feel about everyone else."

- Chuck Klosterman, Killing Yourself to Live


The death of my childhood pet has me feeling old and weary.

Did something break? 

She was a good dog.

Friday, November 12, 2010


Ranked by actual performance, how much I like the band, and how good of a time I had overall:

1.) Robert Plant & the Strange Sensation (just because it's Robert fucking Plant.  He could have done anything up there and I'd still put him at the top of the list)

2.) Damien Rice (dear Jesus, I can't even describe the awesomeness)

3.) Tom Petty & the Heartbreakers, opening band Crosby, Stills, & Nash (a rare moment when the opening act nearly stole the headliner's thunder)

3.) Aerosmith, opening band ZZ Top (Steven Tyler looked a little weary, but this was another instance of an opener that I would have paid to see alone)

4.) Rufus Wainwright, opening performer Martha Wainwright (two Wainwrights, holy shit.  But Rufus was being way too much of a diva)

5.) Aerosmith, opening performer Lenny Kravitz (ranked below the other concert because, although Aerosmith's performance was much more energetic, the opening act wasn't great. Also, tall people were in front of me and no stadium seating)

6.) Bob Dylan (I couldn't understand him at all, but he wore a purple sequined suit so he still gets a thumbs-up)

7.) Wolf Parade (only at the bottom because I wasn't as familiar with their music as I am now, but I'm a huge fan of these guys)

8.) Of Montreal (excellent shows, too many hipsters)

9.) Stereophonics, opening band Augustana (who knew Augustana would be more famous? Just don't remember much of this one.  Met Kelly Jones, but he seemed irritated.  Still, he was pretty...)

10.) Brooks & Dunn (I didn't know who they were.  Also, they threw drumsticks into the audience.  Nice gesture, but not the best things to hurl in the direction of people's faces)

Still determined to see:

Elton John
The Rolling Stones
and of course I'm holding out for that Zeppelin reunion...

Can anyone guess who I saw at my very first concert?  Hint: I was 14.  I have only told about 3 people of this concert, and am now deeply ashamed that I attended.  Guess right and you get a prize...

Wednesday, November 10, 2010


Well, the holidays are nearly upon us.  That's right- it is, once again, that magical time of year when I lock my door and turn out the lights and pray more than ever to be left alone, goddamnit. 

Least favorite holiday: Christmas.  It's a pointless holiday unless you're under the age of ten.

Next on the list: Thanksgiving.  I cannot be persuaded to find anything appealing about this holiday.  I don't really like any of the traditional food, don't care about football, and I'd much rather complain than give thanks (just like everybody else, it seems).  If anyone asks me what I'm thankful for, I'm going to say abortions and see how many gasps I can get out of the room. 

I enjoy other people enjoying the holidays.  I don't want to take joy away from others- I just want them to keep the joy to themselves and not try to infect me with it.  I honestly even like giving; it just seems ridiculous, however, when you take into account how much people are given throughout the year, especially from themselves.  There's no joy in shoving past people in a crowded mall, looking for one of fifty or so gifts that someone has put on a list and handed out to every friend and relative they have.  You know what's on my Christmas list?  Every single year I ask for AA batteries.  AA batteries are good to have around, you know?  Remotes, flashlights, etc.  Batteries!

I'll be in Georgia for Thanksgiving.  It kind of sucks, but it was the only way I could get the maximum time off from work in order to make the rounds with all my family scattered across the state.  Unfortunately, now that I live in Maryland, I will receive a guilt trip about the fact that I live so far away and should spend more time with family because I never get to see them, blah blah blah, and it will make it very hard to escape these people.

I won't be home for Christmas- I'll just be sitting in my apartment with my cat, eating Chinese food and drinking cheap champagne, hopefully.  I am perfectly okay with this, although my family will probably weep about it for weeks. 

Here's the thing: I appreciate my family because I live so far away.  I appreciate living far away because of my family.

Anyway.  The moral of the story is...batteries.  Stock up, people.


On the way to Georgia, my friend Tykia began reading aloud from an article in Glamour.  An absolutely infuriating article, I must say.

This article featured a woman who sued her ex-boyfriend for giving her HPV.  And she fucking won.  It's idiotic.  First of all, I equate this with people who sue cigarette companies because they got cancer.  Everyone is aware by now of the risks involved when having unprotected sex, and I doubt you can watch more than an hour of television without seeing a PSA about HPV.  Second, the woman actually stated that she saw lesions on the guy's penis.  And she didn't say anything.  What the fucking fuck? 

So, anyway...I just think this is one of those things that makes all women look like moronic twats.  It's a step backwards for the gender.  This dumbass kept referring to herself as a "strong woman", etc., but I think she's a lunatic.  The fact that the editors at Glamour thought that this woman's story was a.) worth printing at all and b.) something that other women would find inspiring or whatever is beyond frustrating.


Thursday, November 4, 2010


Leaving bright and early tomorrow for Georgia.  I can't honestly say I'm looking forward to this wedding.  I don't believe in marriage and I don't believe in acting like I'm the best of friends with people I haven't spoken to in over a year.  If I could, I'd get down there and then come up with some excuse about why I couldn't make it to the ceremony.  Then I'd just hang out with my dad and my nephew and my best friend who's coming along with me.  And I would do lame Macon things like...nothing.  There's nothing to do in Macon.  But it would be great. 

But I'll go to the wedding, because I said I would. 

Buford Trimble and Montgomery Honeysickle shall have a marvelous journey.

Wednesday, November 3, 2010



It was a bad goodbye.

Ran out of excuses to send you an email.

Erased your phone number.

You weren't very perceptive.

I'm not very open.

Everywhere I go, I look for red cars.

Where was the paint on your shoes from?


My memory's not as bad as I thought.

Sunday, October 31, 2010



I like getting to do exactly what I want to do and I like being around people who aren't just trying to force their own ideas of fun on me, regardless of whether or not I'm having a good time.  I don't think turning 25 is at all significant, really, but I feel like (mentally, at least) I'm too goddamn old to be doing things that I don't want to do or sacrificing my time for anything that I'm not getting some sort of enjoyment from.  And I'm too old to give a shit about what other people think of me.  It's not as if I've ever been that accommodating or compromising, but I'll be damned if I'm going to start now.  Anyway.

I miss you being in this world.

Tuesday, October 26, 2010


Watching It Might Get Loud...up until now (halfway through the film) Jack White and the Edge have been playing it cool.  Then Jimmy Page starts playing "Whole Lotta Love" and damn, those guys looked like they could barely contain themselves.  Their faces just lit the fuck up.

Most beautiful thing I've seen in a long time.

Sunday, October 24, 2010


La la la...

I am going to shoot video of...I don't know.  Random shit.  Things here, things there.  Things everywhere.  Nonsense.  I can title the movie, "Boring Life in Small Apartment with Cat, accompanied by Disgruntled Mutterings about Bullshit."  Maybe I'll shoot video as I drive down the interstate.  The film will end when I rear-end somebody, jump out of my car, drop to my knees and scream to the heavens, "POURQUOI?!"  Shaking my fists the whole time, of course.  Dramatic effect and all that.

I was going to dress up as Carrie for Halloween, but now I'm going to dress up as Drunk, Pissed-Off Person.  But for anyone out there who is going to go as Carrie, I just want you to know: you may have spent the time and money to pour blood all over yourself and shove a tiara on your head, but you'll never be able to match my desire to kill people with my mind.

Die, you assholes!


I haven't actually thought much about my video project.  I know that I don't really want to use video for my final project in the class, so it can't exactly go towards that...

It isn't that I'm not interested in video.  iMovie was fun and pretty user-friendly compared to everything else we've learned so far.  But I don't really want to develop my skills with editing videos.  I just don't.  I'm far better, I think, at appreciating film than I am at making it.

What can I say?  I'm pretty disinterested in everything at this point, for reasons I can't go into without an angry mob forming at my door.  And at this point...whatever.  Being pitchforked to death wouldn't be such a terrible way to go...


"Technology is a big destroyer of emotion and truth.  Opportunity doesn't do anything for creativity.  Yeah, it makes it easier and you can get home sooner, but it doesn't make you a more creative person.  That's the disease you have to fight in any creative field: ease of use." - Jack White

Friday, October 15, 2010


In the dream, I was ______ ________.  I had come to a man's house to steal money from him, and he came home as I was standing in his kitchen.  I went out on the window ledge to hide, but I was very drunk, so I almost fell.  He saw me and laughed-- one would expect this sort of thing from ______ ________.  A woman pulled me in and carried me down a hallway.  Suddenly, I was carrying her.  I laid her on a bed, and decided that the time was right to tell her I was ill.  And then I wasn't ______ anymore.  I became ______'s son, standing in the corner, watching.  And ______ told the woman about his illness, and told her that he would be okay.  And in the corner, as ______'s son, I began to cry, because I knew he was wrong-- he would not be okay, he was dying.  And then I was ______ ________ again, looking at the corner where I thought I had seen someone and where there was now no one, and I turned and looked back at the woman on the bed.  She was a blackened, burned corpse.


It would be nice if you could choose to have dreams.

No, not choose what you dream about...I just want to decide if I want the dreams or not.  I'm a very all-or-nothing kind of person. 

All I ask for is an on/off switch...

Wednesday, October 13, 2010


I don't even care if this offends someone.

There is no hope for a shitty writer.  None.  It doesn't matter if you memorize books on grammar and punctuation, read a million how-to guides on creative writing, and participate in workshops for the rest of your life.  If you have no natural talent, the best you can ever hope for is to rise from being a shitty writer to a mediocre writer.  Oh, so I was wrong...rejoice, asshats!  There is hope for the shitty writer!

Creativity can't be learned.  Talent can't be created from nothing.  Just because you know, it doesn't mean you can execute worth a fuck. 

I am not musically inclined.  I have tried to play many an instrument, but in the end, it never sounds as good as it should.  This is not to say that I didn't practice or that I didn't have people trying to help me or that I couldn't pick up on the technical nuances of playing these instruments.  I just did not have a fucking talent for it.  And yes, there are those who can force themselves to painfully learn a craft and produce a passable end-result.  They might even do well at reproducing a masterpiece.  But these people are not the geniuses.  They are not the gods.

I do think that passion, in some cases, can make up for a lack of talent.  However, it will only get you so far.

I think it is true, though, that a good writer can become a great writer.  Nobody starts out on top.  There is always something to learn.  But in my opinion, good writers are those who have a natural aptitude for the craft, and thus, those talentless, shitty writers can never be great.

Am I saying I am a great writer?  No.  But am I a shitty writer?  No.  I am good, and one day I hope to be great.  I have things to learn, failures to get past, and a lot of experimentation ahead of me before I can ever be close to great. 

But at least I'm not shitty.

Even Jesus thinks I'm a bitch.

Saturday, October 9, 2010


Once upon a time, there was time. It crept around corners and lurked in drains and drifted inside the house whenever a window was left open. It found its way to everyone and soon all the people in the world had a terrible, incurable case of time. Not knowing what to do and tired of doctors with needles and traveling salesmen peddling tonics from wagons, everyone simply acted as if they were perfectly well and went about with daily tasks such as icing red velvet cakes and tripping over shoelaces. Whenever children asked about time, parents shushed them or took them to church (where they shushed them religiously). A man from Missouri decided to write a letter to the newspaper editor about the absurdity of ignoring the disease and he was promptly arrested and taken to prison where he was infected with a cruel dosage of time, more deadly than any other case since his time was slowed for torturous effect. For years and years the world spun and people died from time. Babies cried for all the time they had yet to endure. Schoolchildren sang warning rhymes about the dangerous levels of time suspended all around them like smog. Teenagers were rebellious, reveling in their time and boldly sassing that they wanted more of it, that there was never enough time. Adults remained quiet. And elderly couples held knotted hands and wept over all the time they had suffered through, praying over tepid tomato soup in the evenings for the time to finally go away. Eventually, the world became so thick and heavy with time that it slowed down tremendously, the moon tilting to look with ancient eyes and puzzle over why its schedule had been interrupted, the sun burning with annoyance over the boredom it felt faced with the same view for so long. Finally, the world stopped completely. Time crowded up against people then, bore down on them like a great zeppelin slowly sinking back to earth. And yet, nobody wished to say anything, to cry out against the awful time; it was their burden, their sickness, their accepted doom. Only the man from Missouri looked up through the bars to his permanent view of the moon, crossed his arms on the windowsill, and felt a smile, for he had grown to love time-- it was, after all, the only thing he had left.

Friday, October 8, 2010


The horrible conversations that happen between me and my friends:

"How would you feel if he died?"
"I'm not even sure I would notice for a while, actually."

"Don't die of cancer- that's fucking lame.  If you have terminal cancer, have some self-respect and pull a Hemingway, man.  I refuse to ever die of cancer.  I would rather the actual cause of death be 'stuck head in oven' or 'provoked and was subsequently eaten by a bear.'"

Also, stupidity happens:

"What's the capital of California?"
"No, that's a person."
"No, you're thinking of the Sasquatch."

"Cool jacket.  Did you make that?"
"No.  She stole it from a hobo and hung it there as a war trophy."


Sometimes I just don't feel like writing a damn blog entry.  I don't want to prattle on about something nobody cares about, I don't want to explore personal topics and tell everyone my history/feelings/opinions, and I don't want to write something just for the sake of writing something (i.e. just so I don't make a bad grade in the class).  Most of my entries are just...well, I had to write something

And so obviously this is just completely useless, but hey, it takes up space, right?  Look: words! Punctuation! 


No sense in hiding the fact that sometimes I'm not into this or in pretending that I'm always enthusiastic about blogging.  Some people are meant to blog, some people aren't.

On a related note, why do we spend so much time pretending that we like something just because other people make us feel obligated to like that thing?  If you say, "Wow, I really hate argyle," and a friend of yours says, "Hey, I'm wearing argyle socks right now," then why is there this pressure to backtrack and mumble something along the lines of, "Oh, well, I like that argyle.  I was talking about something else.  Actually, my entire wardrobe is argyle."


Sunday, October 3, 2010


Oh my God, just fucking shut up already.


My great-grandfather in the middle.

I think I should have been born a man.  I honestly feel that I'm an old man trapped in a young girl's body.  One of my male friends actually told me that I'm more misogynistic than he is.  Terrible, I know.  Oh, well...


I collect journals.  But I don't write in them. 

Right now I can spot about eight journals in my apartment (all blank) without leaving my bed or even turning my head.  It's fairly ridiculous.  I'm not sure why I don't ever write in them.  Well...actually, it's probably similar to the reason why I'm not a fan of blogs.  I don't feel like I should record all the boring aspects of my life that even I'm not interested in reading about.  So I suppose I'm waiting for something interesting to say.  Which may not happen, because life is never as interesting as you think it is.  I guess I could use the journals for my fiction...but that doesn't appeal to me, either.  So...I guess I'll just let them sit pretty in my room and every now and then I'll pick them up and leaf through the empty pages.

Everything feels pretty blank these days.

Is death more interesting than life?

Friday, October 1, 2010


Apparently, when a whale dies in the ocean, most of its body sinks to the ocean floor.  Its blubber, however, rises to the surface of the ocean and sits there, rotting in the sun, while birds peck at it.  In a Shark Week documentary, I watched as a crew drove their boat up to this pile of floating fat.  Great White sharks were chomping on the meat and one of the crew members climbed out of the boat and onto the rotting whale blubber and sat there and watched as the sharks ate around him.

I want to do that.  Seriously.  I want to sit on a piece of stinking whale-corpse and watch as Great Whites rip apart the tissue from around me.  Or I'll settle for going down in a shark cage.  Either way, I want to see a Great White.  It's #1 on my bucket list.

Just putting that out there, for anyone who was wondering what to get me for my birthday...


Sunday, September 26, 2010


Why can't I find anyone who loves Zeppelin as much as I do?

Sing it, Robert.

Oh, wait...I did meet such a person.  However, said person, for all intents and purposes, may as well not exist anymore.  Back to square one...


...or agoraphobic?  Or both?

It seems that many people I know can't tell the difference between being alone and being lonely.  I love being alone.  I enjoy my company.  My thoughts entertain me. I don't feel lonely at all.   But it's as if people cannot believe such a thing possible and they think that someone like me is a.) hiding their feelings or putting on a brave face or whatever so nobody feels sorry for them, or 2.) claiming an anti-social stance in order to seem cool or interesting or mysterious or some other stupid something.

I think that people who can't understand the simple pleasure of being alone are people who don't enjoy being by themselves.  I often have friends or family who try to bond with me by saying, "Oh, I know how you feel.  I really like my alone-time.  It's great to get away from people!"  The friends and family members who say this more than likely are either in a relationship, living with a roommate or other relative, or they have children.  So, no.  I don't think they get it.  Wanting to be alone only because you are constantly surrounded by people is not the same.  These folks just want a break; I want the lifestyle.

My dad described me once as a social loner.  I love my friends and love spending time with them.  But at the end of the day, I have to be by myself.  I have to give the old Irish goodbye and shuffle off somewhere to pick my own brain.  The only way I can keep from hating everyone I know is to drastically limit the amount of face-time I have with them.

It's weird.  The weirdest thing is when I meet someone who I want to see all the time.  Talk about confusion...

I saw you today.


In just over a month, I will be in Juliette, GA.  Alas, I will be there to attend a wedding, so I will not be having fried green tomatoes at the Whistle Stop Cafe.

Most of the guests at the wedding will be people I knew in college.  I can't decide if I'm looking forward to seeing these people or not...

It's not because I don't like them.  I love my college friends.  Good times, great oldies.  But it seems that whenever you get together with old friends, people insist on reminiscing and droning on endlessly about the nostalgia of the good old days.  And yes, I indulge from time to time.  Who doesn't like to remember the good old days?  But then I start to wonder if maybe we're all just romanticizing things.  Or maybe the reason for such nostalgia is that people are unhappy with their lives in the present.  Or maybe people just don't know how to talk to each other anymore.  It doesn't take much conversational skill to say, "Hey, do you remember that time when...?"

This entry is going nowhere.  I don't have much to say.

Sunday, September 19, 2010


I would expect my site to be pretty dark.  I know everyone expects rainbows and unicorns from me, but I've got to keep people on their toes...

5tttttttttttttttttttt  (my cat's contribution to this post)

Ahem.  Moving on.

I wouldn't mind having some images that relate to my stories.  And I wouldn't be particularly bothered if people didn't "get" the presence of some images, because I doubt I would actually have whole pieces of fiction on my site. Thus, folks might not easily associate the graphics with my writing.  But in Dream Land, where many people have read my short stories and all the people visiting my site would be familiar with my work, it would be cool to use images and graphics that would make sense for those who actually knew something about my fiction. 

Example?  Well, in a recent story, a character washes his hands (for significant reasons that you cannot know about unless you have read said story.  Click here for an excerpt) and so maybe I would feature a dripping sink on my site...

I dunno.


To be all repetitive and shit, I'm not fond of this whole idea that I have to put myself out there in order to put my writing out there.  Whatever happened to the reclusive, hermit-y writers of yore?  


I would much prefer my site be more about my writing than about me.  I'm not interested in providing folks with a bio; save that for when I'm dead (if anything interesting ever happens in my life, that is).  If anyone wanted to know anything about me, I'd rather make the bastards work for it.

Anyway.  Even though the site would focus on my writing, I don't know that I'd necessarily want to put examples of my work up... 

Clearly, I have no idea what I want to do. 

Maybe I could just have a site where I post nothing but rants and bitchings (about writing, of course).  For example, I could moan endlessly about how much I hate dream sequences in writing.  I really don't give a good shit about characters' dreams.  If the characters and their actions are not interesting when they're awake and you have to rely on a dream to get your point across or make something happen...well, why don't you just put that story in a fucking shredder already?

See, I'm good at bitching...



Honestly, I'm not sure what I want my site to look like.  I'll just be happy it's somewhat functional, I s'pose...

As far as navigation...well, I'd like it to be easy.  Straightforward.  I think the essentials are a button to take one back to the homepage and a button for contact information.  When I'm browsing sites, those are the two that I look for more often than not. 

Maybe I just want my site to be random and nearly-pointless.  I don't think I would necessarily want to use it to promote myself or my writing.  I guess I'm behind the times or just plain stupid, but I hate the idea of marketing one's self.  A writer's work should speak for itself.  You shouldn't needs gimmicks or flashy stuff unless your writing is terrible.  And in that case, pull out all the stops, man. 

But that's not what you do these days.  Now it's ALL about the self-promotion and celebrity and persona.  It's like the writing is on the back burner and it's more important to be interesting or eccentric or even plain fucking crazy. 

I blame you for some of this bullshit, man.

Whatever.  This is what you do, right?  Play along.  Ugh.

Anyway.  Easy navigation. 

Maybe a little row of houses at the top of the page, and as you click each one a mushroom cloud appears and just takes you to god-knows-where...

Sunday, September 12, 2010


I vote for Timothy McSweeney's Internet Tendency.

I like this online journal because it amuses me.  And usually that's enough, as far as I'm concerned.  The Open Letters are particularly enjoyable.

Really, though, the fact that this journal doesn't take itself too seriously is very inviting.  I mean, I would definitely submit something to this journal.  It's not just about being published; I want to like the journals that (hopefully) publish me, too.  This site is interesting and provides one with entertainment, nifty links to other sites, and the hope that there is room in the world for ridiculous people.

Oh, it makes me smile.


I would like to learn to build a website.  Specifically, I would like to build a site for my dad's business, as I think it would be a nice present for him.  This is my dad:

As you can see, he wants to be taken very seriously.

And other than that...

Honestly, I would really like to develop some kind of desire or at least appreciation for blogs and blogging.  Because really, I don't get it.  First of all, I don't think very many people honestly have anything interesting to say.  I don't really care about reading your blog if all you write about is your newest pair of shoes and your favorite jello flavor.  It's pointless.  Also, I think that there are way too many people out there who are looking to blogs to get their careers off the ground.  Which is apparently a perfectly reasonable thing to do these days, and those of us who aren't blogging are probably fools for missing out on the chance to self-promote and get our brilliance out there to the clamoring masses.  But I don't know that it's for me. 

There is a big difference between a blogger and a writer.  I would prefer to be considered the latter.

And so...right now I'm not sure I see the appeal of blogging.  Other than narcissism.  But I am open to argument and who knows?  Maybe I'll be persuaded to see the usefulness of the blog.

Yes, that is something I would like to discover:



It was a bit of a challenge finding an example of hypertext narrative.  That I didn't have to pay for, I mean.

I stumbled upon this site, which was...okay.  The music started to get on my nerves.  And apparently I only found three of the "clues" before I lost the game.  Although I'm not even entirely sure what the clues were...and I wasn't overly fond of the poetry. 


Oh, well.

What I enjoyed most about the site was the very beginning of the poem/game.  All those doors...intriguing.  But I never really became invested beyond that.  I just started clicking on random things...much like all of my activity on the internet.


How fitting, as apparently tomorrow is Roald Dahl Day. 

I'm not sure Dahl's site counts, since it isn't really his site.  He's dead, after all.  Also, for the most part, the site is just a bunch of silliness. 


I always was a sucker for a good sound effect...

Anyhow.  I think Dahl's site is excellent, primarily because it is so ridiculous.  Since he's known for his very imaginative children's literature, it's fitting that his site is fun and a little insane.  Also, there's a bouncing, farting chicken. 

I must admit, I wish there a more "serious" section of his site for those of us who want to read about him and his work without distraction.  There is a section dedicated to his biography, which briefly touches on the stories he wrote for an adult audience (please read some of those).  However, the farting chicken interrupts occasionally.


I have never read Eat, Pray, Love and, honestly, I have no desire to do so.  I suppose, then, that one could say I am looking at Elizabeth Gilbert's site objectively, having no real opinions about her or her writing. 

Or not.  I have no real talent for being objective or fair or even mildly tactful.  In fact, expressing my desire to look no further than the cover of Gilbert's best-known work has just obliterated the notion that I have no opinion about her or her writing.  Anyway.

I don't care for Gilbert's site.  First of all, the colors are just...oh God, the colors.  My eyes.  I guess I might not mind the offensive brightness of it were I a bright person.  But honestly, how chipper would a person have to be to enjoy reading text set against a background the color of highly saturated urine?  Ha, I bet I was supposed to compare that shade of yellow to sunshine or flowers or some other happy shit...whatever.  Not only that, but the majority of the page is taken up by a a picture of Gilbert herself, who appears to be a giantess.  And who looks like she wants to eat me.  The horror!  I'm sorry, 

I wish I could have copied a picture of Gilbert's massive head...

As an easily confused person, I got extremely agitated when I clicked on one of Gilbert's images and, seemingly, not a damn thing happened.  Eventually I realized that the "new page" I was directed to simply looked exactly the same as the home page, but the text at the bottom had changed.  Ridiculous.  And speaking of text, the font annoyed me immensely. to improve this site? comment.  I have no constructive criticism for the gargantuan Elizabeth Gilbert.

Oh, and when you click on her huge head...broken link!  Enchanting.