Your Tattoo Is Ridiculously Stupid

I can think of no fad dumber then the waves of unnecessary tattoos that have spread over my generation. I do not think that the act of mutilating flesh for decorative or memorial purposes is wrong, per se, but I do hold reservations about placing the Creed symbol across the width of your back. It's your body, but I would still place the choice under the 'Gay Decision' category. Call me old fashioned, but I think there are only three reasons to have a tattoo; cross, country, core.

A dragon exploding out of your flesh or Pooh Bear chasing a bumble bee are not iconic enough to survive the test of time. I am willing to bet they'll even be considered archaic within your lifetime. Ever see an old woman with a Betty Boop drawing on her ass? And God, don't even get me started on people who get Chinese characters.

Our whole entertainment obsessed culture is going to open this void that will one day swallow us whole, and we'll be missing it to catch that one episode of Lost we Tivo'ed. That's not a negative outlook, just honest. I enjoy the ride. But when this civilization crumbles, we'll be judged for stupid things like tattoos.

Scientist #1: 'Their women had butterflies tattooed above their shoulder.'
Scientist #2: 'Yes, clearly that was a mark of their barren wombs.'
Scientist #1: 'Yes. It is clear in reason why their society fell.'
Scientist #2: 'Come, let us go have male on male sex.'

Speaking of girl tattoos, I might as well address them. Men just make stupid decisions on theirs, but women make unsightly one. Those wicked looking criss crossing barbwires that most girls place above their ass cracks are almost evil looking. When you lean forward and expose ass crack, am I supposed to get the impression you worship Satan? Are you conjuring demons? I get the feeling I should be making incantations in Latin and letting virgin blood spill over a pentagram.

All that needs to be said about a tattoo in that place that can be summed up by Vince Vaughn: "Might as well be a bullseye".

Hey, you might even think that stuff is stupid too, but find other stuff more excusable. Like, I don't know... a rose? Yeah, how quaint. God forbid you just start a garden or put some effort into it. Just go ahead and tattoo it on your thigh so if you ever get too busy, you have this crappy rendering of it to stop and adore. God forbid you stop to smell the roses, because those won't be flowers you smell...

Finally, there are those that desecrate their body to maintain a memory. I've lost people in my life, as I'm sure you have, but I'm not being insensitive when I say that putting a mark on yourself won't help retain the memory. If it takes a spot on your body to keep a candle burning, you've failed. If you absolutely need to ruin a spot on your body, you're probably way too overwhelmed with guilt. Try therapy. Try booze. Because if you're doing it just to hold on, one day you'll look at it with shame because you no longer harness that same spirit. Memory is something that is supposed to fade, as are feelings, like feelings. They're supposed to burn until the best parts shine and even the bad things make you smile. If you want a constant reminder, get a goddamned post-it.

My advice is to follow my example, get my temporary tattoos at Taco Bell. Brother's got a dragon tattoo. That stuff fades in a week.

Reminders for class: Core, Country, Cross. Seriously. Only reasons you should ever.

Garden State

A movie came on last night I had no intention of watching all the way through. I had been folding laundry while it was on, then shifted over to cleaning my room. Then the credits were rolling and I was in bed. I'm not sure how it happened, but I can tell you its indictment of two larger things. One, that movies are absorbing enough to distract you from whatever else you've got going on. Two, that we usually don't end up doing what we originally intended doing.

The power of film is a given. I doubt I talk about it much here because it's so ingrained into my own life. I would just be preaching. Its the only medium I know of that absolves us, teaches us, throws away our troubles, and knows how to play emotions. Do that 13th century Italian fresco paintings! Giotta can't touch this.

My other point, that we never do what we intend, is a message I will hammer you with. I can't think of many people who were able to set out and do what they intended. Then, the people I do know who accomplished what they desired are driven so much that they don't bother living life. You got the job, but what do you do now?

I won't say stop and smell the roses. I never leave my goddamned apartment except to drink on Thursdays. But I try to absorb most things with a little pinache. I could probably tell you more about that bar from the one day a week I go then all the time you've ever spent in it. Am I living life? No. But I'm trying. I know a guy who's got a lust for life that's unparalleled. The kid dancing playing video games. That's goes beyond something admirable.

Reminders for class: When you walk out of your house today, take a look to the left and right on your doorstep. You might be surprised what you'll find.

AWK-Ward

I see my world with extreme clarity, I just have trouble functioning in it. I also have trouble with operating my basic motor skills. I'm not talking about embarrassing myself in front of strangers, I mean doing things by myself and not getting it right. Sometimes dribble comes out when I talk on the phone, other times I feel like I don't know what to do with my hands. I'll stare at my bathroom sink for toothpaste and never figure out where it is - in my hand. I'll be driving my car and start patting my pockets. 'Oh, God. Did I forget my keys?' No. They're in the goddamned ignition.

So needless to say, alcohol does not help much with me being me. In fact, you might say it impairs my motor functions (Where have I heard that before?). When my friends get me ripped beyond comprehension, I believe I make the worst decisions that I'm capable of. It's usually at that point I should back off and have a Mountain Dew. Ah, but no. I will swashbuckle like a pirate to make my way through and tackle whatever odds to make my idiotic delusions a possibility. The day after is like airing out a laundry list of errors. Each memory evokes one special phrase: "What the shit?"

So now I have to pay and walk around with my tail rolled up between my vag. I lost. So if you're reading this and you know what I'm talking about, sorry. I'm just me. Awkward.

Reminders to class: Teacher isn't supposed to have his computer running or cell phone on when drinking. Remind teacher if he gets lit during recess next time.

Why I Hate Tron

There are films that people embrace for reasons I don't understand. Whenever I'm told by people their favorite movie is something like 'Blue Crush' or 'Princess Diaries', I find myself wanting to leave not only the conversation, but the planet. But I continue the talk, find the few good things I know about the movie, then silently assure myself God, nor this person's parents, created them with any particular plan in mind.

But then there is the small margin of films I despise. That's a step beyond disgusted. People who know me can you those are two things I'm not often doing. I will fake those feelings, but those in the know can tell you I'm indifferent to just about everything on the planet. Few things motivate me enough to produce genuine feeling; most annoy me enough to force out a cheap joke out and smile until it's over. Women, for the most, have the latter effect on me. The only other thing that can tick me off that much is a bad film - and people who like them.

Which brings me to Tron. I will now judge it for you under the five point system I devised in third grade. I will also speak like a third grader to further degrade this film.

Name - Tron is a stupid name. Even once you've seen the movie, it makes no sense. Before I saw Tron, I didn't know what a Tron was. Now that I have, I don't remember. Tron is dumb.
(0 out of 1)

Actors - I couldn't tell. Everybody was bright colors. Nobody had a face. I think Jeff Bridges or Jeff Daniels was in it.
(0 out of 1)

Action - There was a chase with light bikes. I think I have this game at home. This game was not as exciting as the ones I play with my dad.
(0 out of 1)

Funny - I didn't laugh at anything they said that was funny. Jeffy screamed at one point, but I think that was in pain. I still laughed then.
(0 out of 1)

Awesome - Clearly not.
(0 out of 1)

There is no reason to like this film. I hope somebody hits you with a punch to the side of your butt if you do like it.

Reminders for class: Stupid people overpopulated this planet long ago. Though they are a majority, shoot them on sight.

My Beef With Jesus

I've got this thing with religion. I can't find myself believing in it anymore. I used to, a while back, but that's not me anymore. Faith is cool because it means so many things, but whenever I tread beyond that I just get annoyed. The basic concept of worshipping a deity a convoluted mess. Seriously think about it. If your God was any other God, say a half cow-half elephant creation, wouldn't you think it was a little odd? A tad bit silly? You are worshipping something bigger then you with a cow-elephant body. Do you think my cat worships me just because I'm taller? Yes. Yes he does. He brings me dead things, and that's how I know he loves me.

But is he wrong? No. Fuck no. Everybody on this planet should worship me, as long as they know I am not a deity. And I'm not talking about worshipping in the religious sense, I'm talking about it in terms of loving unconditionally. That's kind of worship I seek.

Back to deities. Let's take the basic view of God. A white, sandal wearing, bearded God. Same one that made the world in seven days and made it rain back in '92 ruining my outdoor birthday party. That's the fucker we're talking about.

This guy is 'fair and just' and omnipotent, right? All seeing, all knowing. So tell me where bad things come into play. If he sees everything but can't stop the pain or suffering, that knocks him out of the running for omnipotent. If the opposite was true, that would mean he sees it but let's it happen anyway; that hardly makes him just or fair.

What's that leave? A third option where that sandal wearing hippy sees everything but does nothing about it? Yup, I think so. Hey, hey! Don't give me any test of character crap. You don't see parents having children then tossing their two year old in with a pack of feral dogs just to see if they have the cajones to last it out. That kid has nothing to prove to his parents. What would they want to see anyway, that he can ninja kick his way out of a pack of dogs? So I would ask what do I have to prove to a God? I'm acting just the way he made me.

All right. Bring it in now. Life isn't some giant moral clusterfuck and nobody cares about the moral quagmires of ants. Those of you who would argue that out of the billions of us inhabiting the planet right now, someone has meticulously laid down a fully realized plan for each of us are crazy. One being in charge of it all? Buddy, I have a hard enough time keeping my urine flow in the bowl.

Reminders for the class: 5% of this country is at war. The rest of us are living our lives like normal. Want to fix that? Institute the draft - all genders, all ages, no exceptions. Shit'll be fixed inside of the first 48.

Thanksgiving

I am now in the confines of my room, celebrating Thanksgiving with warm crystal light and a toilet that won't stop running. My holiday is tantamount to any other day in my life, so there is no reason I shouldn't be as I am any other day. I should be just about to go and rant about the inconsequential pieces of existence that craft the lines for common grounds in our lives, like how strangers who fart in public and don't say anything can be really annoying or that unmatched socks aren't really a problem until someone else sees them. I could crap out a whole speech on how love is actually the act of one person settling and the other being appreciative, or that we all stumble through life with no clue until we find that which was familiar before we started stumbling.

But it's Thanksgiving, and for some reason - despite routine - it does not feel like any other day. I am alone, though many generous offers were made to remedy such. This is a Holiday built around family, and since mine didn't want me home there is no reason for me to tag along and crash someone else's.

There we go. That ought to make you uncomfortable.

Anywho, I've got a bottle of Sake and a video game involving a guitar, so I'm happy. I wouldn't worry about any of what I just wrote. Just ignore it for the most part. I'm just babbling. I owe four other posts today, so this gloomy gus should be surrounded in happier things by tomorrow.

Reminders for class: Sake is bad, chilled or warm. Just a heads up.

Bust My Balls Here

When friends rag on you, I would take it as a good sign. Yes, you may think they're picking on you, but they're actually leveling you out. Sometimes there are time when even Kenji has inflated his ego too big, and needs to be knocked down a peg. That's the perfect time for when your friends should come in and remind you of all the dumb things you've done with your life. Like if you've ever walked home from a bar several miles away, thrown up on kid's jungle gym, and maybe crawled back home to fall asleep in the shower with the water blasting you on scolding hot. That is a good story to remind you that you possess a few floaws. Or maybe that could make it a daily reminder because you can't ever remember to remove the lint trap from the dryer. Regardless of the stories, it takes a good group of friends who will bust your chops relentlessly.

I would suggest that cracking the whip is almost cornerstone a to any functional relationship. Even couples find a way to snipe back and forth at each other. Think I'm wrong? Well, I'll just ask you here if you've ever heard of a little thing called spousal abuse? Talk about reminders!

Anyway, a functional niche should always find ways to balance each other out. If you have to do it by reminding them of how bad a person they are, then do it. I promise - it will not critically damage their sense of self worth or how they might perceive you and their place in the world.

I would also suggest that if you're not busted on consistently, then you might want to check yourself. Are you gay? No? Well, then what else could be the problem? Oh, I know! They could be scared of you crying or not taking it well. Yeah, you big baby. They're probably scared you'll get angry. Well that's probably your fault and not theirs. What happens is that this leads to your friends busting you behind your back, which you'll never know about. Paranoid? Oh, you should be. Like on a level that the Truman Show is actually happening to you.

Ahem. So I routinely accept my balls being busted wide open in front of God and man. In fact, I encourage it. I will often bring a story just to shame myself. Why? I'm egotistical. Despite being lampooned, I've now become the center of attention. And that's like giving the microphone to the band's drummer. It'll only end it tears.

So take your whooping, boy. God knows we beat Deakins like a pack mule, but that's only because we love him.

Oh, and I'm not sure how much of this post applies to women. You guys cry alot anyway, so I'm not sure pointing out your flaws with extreme clarity would help you out. Plus... your periods. Something. Something.

Reminders for class: Call your best friend now and remind them of the dumbest thing they've ever done. They'll thank you.

Why I've Given Up On Elon Women

I had titled this 'Why Kate ##### almost turned me gay', but I figured the effect would be about the same with the one I have listed.

There's a popular myth among girls at my school that there are three types of men at Elon: Taken, Gay, and Assholes. For them, I'm sure the simplification works. I won't try to say that they may have their sights too high in a school that thrives on superficiality, but goddamnit nobody came her for quality. Maybe they ought to try something beyond the loudest or drunkest.

In retaliation, the men [read: I] have categorized the female populous into two types of women at Elon: Crazy and Whore. I feel if I get lumped in with asshole just for being, I should get the same luxury when assigning placement with the women.

Academically, this is a place where you get recognized for being yourself all the time. Socially, I'd say you have better luck losing a foot and hobbling around Cantina, begging for sympathy.

This isn't the kind of place to find anyone. You shouldn't walk out of here without anything but a better understanding of yourself. If you walk out these halls with someone in toe, congrats. You've done something I could never.

And it's not like I haven't half-way kind of tried. I'm so easy that I fall in love with every woman who makes eye contact with me. Serious, even a glance that's going over my shoulder I interpret as unrequited love. But this school hasn't produced one person that makes me feel even slightly good about myself. But who's fault is that? It's not like the propaganda machine at this school ever had pamphlets proclaiming "Meet your soul mate, plus learn stuff". That would be selling the total package.

So Kenji's done with this place. I'll wait until I'm loaded and I'll meet a nice ex-stripper, then take care of her.

Reminders for class: I really wasn't going to turn gay. It's just that I had ran out of women.

Singledom

Of the list of greater novels published in the last quarter in the 20th Century, I would not put Bridget Jones. Yet I find myself drawn to dozens of elements within the books. The main character is a woman, and I am drawn to breasts. There is a conflict with her personal sense of worth, while I am a white male. I can relate to main character through many commonalities.

Ahem. In seriousness, I mention it because I have continually borrowed a word from that book. 'Singledom', which implies the kingdom in which all us single people live in. You who are committed to a boyfriend/girlfriend, hookup buddy, or have actually married often forget our world. You may have visited our villages on several occasions, and I'm sure you can recognize our citizens. We have some people who never leave, like the overweight nice girl and the unconfident beta male. But for those that don't permanently settle down, you'll find for the most part it is necessary to stay in our kingdom to get to wherever you are going. I would advise many of you to make an extended stay here, because you might forget how glorious it can be.

Some of our people are over anxious to leave, but that's because they haven't appreciated their vacation (or annexation) to Singledom.

Our town has many niches, but that's not always great. Of the most annoying would be the constant traveler. Those who leave over night and come right back with stories. These would be your constant hookup-ers, needy bitches, and considerate - but failing - partners. We treat these people like pariahs or lepers. We have sharped sticks in the back of our closet solely for poking and jabbing these individuals. They whine too often and we do not care since they have not learned their lessons. The particular stick I use to jab these people with is named 'Garfield',and he is very small, unlike the fat lasagna loving cat of the same name.

I myself enjoy my nice one bedroom apartment in Singledom. I find I enjoy being single, expect for when I wake up, go to sleep, see another couple, or go grocery shopping. Outside of that, it's nice to know yourself. Once you get past the fact that you don't need anyone else to function, it becomes all the greater to find someone just because you like them. No sense in rushing anything. I am not a monkey swinging vine to vine, unwilling to let go of the last before I have a grip on the next. That's not how we operate in Singledom. Fuck - that's just not how you operate anywhere. We're more of a try it before you buy it community, not a stick and move place. It's silly, but we're the type of people that believe in timeshares. I know, don't say it. We're odd.

Reminders for the class: Nothing wrong with taking time to figure yourself out, but there is something wrong with sleeping with a different person each weekend. That's not part of the process. Be honest with yourself, nobody likes that kind of person. I say a slut can't be beautiful, and a slut can only be a slut.

Save Points

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Forward Momentum

I have a battle angel, one to look out for me. One who picks my sword off the soil, dusts my back, and places me where I need to be. We all need an angel, theological or otherwise, to take care of us. Our better angels, our saving grace, our redeeming feature. Without them, we'd be who we really are.

Take away all that makes us appealing, rob us of the routines that makes us regular, and starve us of the attention we depend on. We're left with someone who is us at core, but someone we'd rather not see. Inner demons and skeletons in the closet govern who we are. When the lights go out and we're left with our thoughts in the dark, don't be surprised who comes for a visit.

So I have my battle angel. Not a guardian angel, but a battle angel. Existing for only when I'm in the thick of it all. My level compass. My beacon at the next save point. I have that angel from now until whenever it is angels leave for closing time. I don't know if they're holding down a 9-5 like the rest of us, but for now I don't care. I'm being carried to where I need to be.

So why is it we always assume angels are women?

Reminders for class: When making a wrong decision, a friend will remain silent. A good friend will stand up and tell you not to do it. Your best friends will keep their mouths shut.

A little pick me up

Sometimes it's hard to get through the day.

This might help

Don't say I never did anything for you.

A Tie

I don't want to work anywhere that I can't where a tie. I like ties. I catch a hold of myself in the mirror and go "hey! Tie-man. Goddamnit, you look good. Keep that up."

Tonight, when a gentleman from the Tampa Bay newspaper came to speak, I noticed how awesome he looked in a tie. His personality was zip, actually rather boring - but that tie, MAN! He knew that tie was cracking, so he didn't even try to be cool. He was just all like 'I'm a big fat doodie and I probably made up my wife and kids, but since I have this tie it makes me more man then you Ken', and I was all like 'Yessir, you are right'.

Ties have that power. I ever tell you how I got my job? It involves a tie, a kick ass beard, and a kid with too many good looks. I will now tell you this story with utter regard for the truth.

I woke up one morning and kicked about sixty one women out of my bed I had used the night before so I could watch children's cartoons alone. I went to go turn on Dora the Explorer, universally the most talked to television show by stoners everywhere, when the signal was dead. I totally flipped out and threw my bed through the window. So I took a shower and got dressed in a suit.

Why? People don't fuck with white men in suits. Seriously. A well trimmed white man in a suit is power. My plan was to go into the cable place and bitch that our recently installed cable had been disconnected. But on the way out the door, the cable came back on. Jobless, with the day unplanned, I drove around town in a suit. People everywhere showered me with gifts. This one guy asked me to place my seed within his daughter, but she was super ugly so I said no and kicked his kneecap.

So driving around town, I see this sign for hiring. I drive down to a hotel, where they were working out of, and kick my way through a crowd of losers to get to the front of the line. When I was there, this totally old chick tried to mack it on me. I let her, because she gave me an application. When I was done, she said if I waited around someone would interview me. I picked up my cell and said "Let me make a couple calls, I'll see if I could fit you in." I totally owned her and she loved it. (Long story short, that woman now shampoos my crotch)

So I got into the interview and said about six words until they got around to hiring me. "Holy crap," this frog looking lady said "You are way too qualified. Please come back and meet our manager."

I came back like six days later in a better suit and rocked his world like a KISS concert back in the day. Also, during all of this I have a real kick ass beard and people hear White Snake and Def Leopard wherever I am. My boss grooved out to "Here I go Again" while I gave him 241 reasons why he should hire me. I was half way through the first sentence on reason one and he hired me. (Long Story Short, that man is now fathering my children)

So like I said. If I can wear a tie one day, I'll probably rock all the more. Also, I might get a shot at doing a re-write on a horror script for some company somewhere. After reading the script, they need it a lot more then I do, but it would be cool.

Reminders for class: Look professional and be me. Two steps to get ahead in life.

An Admission

The summer I graduated from high school is when I started to learn things. The majority of my knowledge was from those three months, and everything since then is thanks to movies. My real college education was near the corner at Williamson and Church, inside a rundown movie theater during matinee times for five dollars a week.

During the end run, there was a self aware vibe through the community. Knowing things were ending, we acted without regard. We commented without consideration, and... well.. we didn't dance like no one was looking... it was more like we drank like our parents didn't suspect anything. As the world began disappearing, we took to whatever we could for comfort. Jobs. Cards. Girls. Alcohol. There was solace in physicality. Things we could imprint with our presence were good things. Something to claim as first. We weren't content to swim in the pool, our ripples would fade once we left the water.

This behavior was not reckless. It was liberating. We washed clean a stigma from life, preparing to accept another. The best part? People got honest. Layers of bullshit were cut through to the core. Girls would call, not 'Lets go get ice cream' but 'Look, I've always had a thing for you'. It was shocking to hear so many (let alone one) females be honest. I know now it was the last chance to say something before it would become harbored internally; forever dry docked.

But in college, people aren't doing it so much. Same scenerio, same doomsday clock. We'll be a pumpkin by midnight. What does it hurt to be honest? What does it cost? Do it and the humiliation will be outweighed by relief. So what if you never talk again and everything goes down the crapper. At least you get it out there and won't be thinking about it on some idle Tuesday six years from now, wondering over a bagged lunch if you made a mistake.

Ah, but even I can't buy what I'm selling. That exact moment to prove myself has come twice in my life and I've failed both times. Not just with one person, but two. And the moment had been right twice. I had the words to make it alright, but I bombed and now I can't do anything to make up for missing them.

Yes, the person I wanted to care for is still around. But she's not the same. I fell for a sweet girl my freshman year. That girl was abandoned, used, and now a cosmopolitan, sororistitute takes her place. I think she snogging a limey or a aussie or something now, I don't know.

That' s a lie. Of course I know what she's up to.

So, reader, you have a chance to do all the right things before we bounce up outta this muthafu'. Your situation complicated? Right on. Do it anyway. This is a world built upon decay, ascending to decay, and will eventually breakdown and decay once we leave it. You're either building ontop of your old problems or around them. Shit don't fix. Shit never fixes. You can't move away and hope to start new. You'll only move away and bring the same baggage.

But if you can just admit it to yourself, you can find hope as you control the descent and crash somewhere safe. Look hard enough and there is beauty in the breakdown. There if life teething in every minute, every moment, before it all ends.

It should always be the night before you leave for college, and you should never regret saying what you felt.

Reminders for class: Tomorrow is Monday. Take a mental health day and pretend its Sunday 2.

The Price of A Nut

Here's where the female's infinite supply of orgasms fails: they'll never know the value of one. I didn't do anything today that made me suddenly value my one pump squirt approach to climaxing, but I did think about the relative calm that comes afterwards. In the quiet, every man becomes a rocket scientist. We are MENSA members. We are board certified, NASA astrophysicist smart.

The weight of the world is lifted, and goddamned if the stars don't line up just right to give us second sight. We divide our thought between what we want and what we know.

Every second before is leading up to what we think we want. It's tough, riding the bullet, because it's an amalgamation the things we don't want to admit. Maybe too many of the secrets come spilling out of the closet. Cosplay? Fat Asians? Toothpaste? Sure!

Done.

Suddenly our IQ's quadruple, and it becomes about what we know. We rationalize. Realize. Experience epiphany after epiphany. Then we shamefully accept it all. We understand the logistics to every problem ever befallen us. We see the fallibility in existence. We accept the crooked frame work and twisted design of life, and admit its impossibility.

That's the sad truth. The price of a nut is instantaneous, total genius. What a load to saddle. Maybe we get ten seconds of it, maybe twenty, but it's enough to understand life in total. Why? Because in the brevity of aftersex, we are concerned with everything but the task at hand.

Don't mock me - cosmic realizations occur in this moment. Don't ever think you know what a guy is thinking in the afterwards. Even if he says "That I've never been this happy before", he is thinking about why everything sucked so badly in order to make that statement true. He's just saying it in a really nice way.

Consider Atlas, who bore the weight of the world, and was only being given a moments rest by Hercules. All men, in the afterglow, are a Titan who's curse has been lifted. It's great to be able to stretch out for a moment and see things as how they are, and not how we hold them to be.

Reminders for class: Homework assignment. Crank one out. Write your thoughts in a journal. Tomorrow, we'll have the girls compare with the boys and see who had the more philosophical thoughts.

Plan B

There is a trend, I've heard, of creating alternative plans with someone you trust. The idea is that if everything fails for you and for them, you at least have each other. Although sweetly intentioned, it seems similar to the class morons cheating off one another, or the promises of a dead beat father. Though the intentions may be pure, it's set up to fail.

The notions behind plan B are simple: You both like each other, but not enough to make them Plan A. It seems to me if you're in a situation to Plan B it, you might as well admit to the possibility of Plan A'ing it.

I think they made this sad little concept into a movie with Julie Roberts. It sucked, but then again she has made little that hasn't.

I mention all this because the other day I drunkenly made a Plan B of my own. Upon making it, I realized I had several Plan B's going on, though some not as clearly pronounced as to be made into a verbal commitment like others. To discover I had so many back up plans while no fully realized plan existed was a slight shock (kick) to the system (junk).

Picture the grasshopper and the ant. In this scenario, I am an eight year old boy. While the grasshopper does nothing and the ant sacrifices, I am walking around the park with an ice cream cone on my shorts. I will not have learned a moral come winter, for I am not a member of the insect kingdom. I am an eight year old boy who cannot see beyond the next gift-giving holiday.

And since I cannot learn anything, I will make no resolution to go out and find a Plan A or try and follow the romantic comedy route to turn a Plan B into an A with my charm, wit, and unorthodox approach to love. No. I cannot do those things. I will instead continue to be me, continue to rock harder then the 80's and late 70's rolled into one, and continue to nod my head in agreeance with whatever widsom is spouted from the great spheres of the ages. I just have to admit, though the term 'Plan B' is reassuring, there are no plans in life. There's just what happens and the shit you wanted to have happen.

If we're going by what I wanted to have happen, I would have hoped those mutant powers would have kicked in by about now.

If we're going by what actually happens, then I'm clueless, and to me this is all just starting.

Reminders for the class: Though I act like I have a lesson plan for each day, I'm more or less just winging it. So are you. I'll admit my actual concerns lay far beyond these walls, at a point where the classroom is only a flash in the rearview. You might better yourself by admitting the same.

Cantina Thursdays

Cantina Thursdays will always be one of the best things in my life.

I fear I may one day become sober and forget what it was we drank, or that I may get senile and forget the strangers - the ones who clasped my back and were proud to toast with me. If I were ever to become rich and forget how great a cheap beer can be I might wind up losing a core piece of myself, and in turn forget it all.

I'll forget that a low rent bar nobody cared for was home for the best times I had in college. That among its dirty tables and wet carpeting I could ever find myself becoming sentimental, especially about being crammed into a booth.

I could forget the soggy chips and bland dip, the cold food, the overly loud bad music, and the rude manager who was never there for fun. I'd like to forget having our chairs stolen and being forced to use makeshift tables from the odds and ends of every corner of the restaurant.

I'll be sad one day if I had forgotten Molly, our only friend there. We went to the worst bar in town, a place where we still couldn't fit in, but she made us feel wanted. She'd take our order and ignore everything else for a second longer then she was asked to, making us feel important enough or worthy enough to take a seat in a dump that would water down its beer. She'd wait on us and make small talk, and even though we had no way to prove our cool, she would let us slide on by without. But I fear I'll forget all about her, just like the name of the girl at recess who used to give me gum, or why the lunch lady in middle school who would always see I got an ice cream cone when my meal was finished.

So if I can, I'd like to choose now - while I'm drunk and in a talking mood - of what I'll remember and what I'll forget. I want to forget the strangers who crashed in uninvited, picking us up and knocking us around from table to table, stealing our pitchers, spilling their drinks in our hair, and mistaking us for somebody who mattered or gave a crap. I'll forget the ugly girls who latched on and wouldn't leave, and the good looking guys who took them away at last call. I'll forget all the things that didn't matter, the drama that didn't concern me, and the price tag for damage done at the end of the night.

But I won't forget how much it meant to sit at that table. Few things were reliable as that or comforting as that. Because when I do forget all but the traces of these nights, it won't matter where I was, or what I drunk, or if I felt comfortable. What I'll take with me is how much love could fit into a tiny booth, exist among so few people, and sustain a schmuck like me.

The Man Dances, Too

Once a man has seen a woman naked, there has to be a mighty good reason for him to want to see her again. I'm sure they're charming, intelligent, or whatever other adjectives it will take to help ease this next comment, but it's the truth. Oh yes. When he finishes there is always some voice in the back of his head that telling him to get up, walk home, and go sleep in his own bed.

Some guys will fight this basic principal so much that they cuddle and spend the night. Some even deny it as a core part of themselves that they get into long lasting relationships with someone who is obviously as low as a "Class-4 - Bagger" (i.e., your average overweight, metal mouth, or general frumpy disproportionate face).

I myself would like to deny this part of me. I bite my tongue, ride the coyote ugly, and wait until its over. It's common courtesy. You don't leave the dinner table because you were promised steak and you got a cold Hungry Man XXL instead. No, you finish the cold meal, go home, and crank one out on your own time. Why? Because it spares the feelings of everyone involved.

You've seen her naked, you've gotten all you need. Tell your friends they don't need to ever touch her, neither talk to nor about her again. Nothing bad will happen if you take this route. I promise.

That is, unless you experience when one of your friends fails at life and winds up hooking up with another one of your friends. That whole fiasco is like when a network collapses from a freak virus. Except, the virus in question is the curse of alcohol combined with two fat, retarded, horny people who came together with no other options, and left with the only remaining one. Suddenly, everyone has to reorganize parties, functions, bah mitzvahs.

I guess, reader, I'm saying do not question your worth once you've spread yourself thin. You've made mistakes, but so have many before you. It's alright and you will be ok. Unless you're a slut. Nobody takes a slut home to momma. Strippers, yes - but that's only for shock value when mom keeps trying to set you up with the neighbor girl who is so ugly people's genitals have been reported to have turn to stone on the spot when they see her. A stripper can/will stop all that. Why? Because Mom'll be crying too hard to call.

So, in conclusion; Seriously, Mom? I'm fine. I don't need your help in finding that special someone. My dealer totally has my back with this stoner chick who will do anything for a hit. She already has kids, so you can become a grandma instantly. Isn't that want you want? Huh?

I digress. Even though MTV has some how managed to incorporate sex in with the term 'partying', don't fall prey to their schemes. Pulling out does not work! Alcohol is fine on its own! And always, always be sure you don't pose naked while drunk. That's like giving the milk away, then slitting the cow's neck. Nobody wins. 'cept for the dudes that get a hold of that picture. Don't let your friends hook up with your other friends. And don't dip in a pool that is clearly polluted.

Reminders for the class: Double bagging won't get rid of the memory. Yo, Joe!

Let's talk about what grinds my gears

Just watched Disney's The Sword in the Stone. Good thing I didn't look at the cover art. It's not like the freakin' DVD case would have gave away the ending of the movie or anything. It was only the kid lifting the sword up out of the stone while holy, magnificent, awesomely glowing light engulfed everything around him.

So, of course, I was shocked when it ended the same way as on the cover. I guess I was sidetracked by how the title alone could beg so many questions throughout a viewing. Like, how did the sword get in their to begin with? Who thought to place it in stone? And with such a large dilemma, who would be the one individual who would pull it out? Will the sword suffer poor resale value after being left in stone for so long?

Call me a cynic, but if your movie is called "Sword in the Stone" make it about either one of those nouns, or either the article or verb in between them. The movie had nothing to do with that sword in the stone. It was about a some crazy back asswards old man who came from the future to bitch about the past and turn a boy into various animals so he can be criminally assaulted. First the old man turns him into a squirrel - where the boy is molested. Then he turns him into a fish - where he is stalked and an attempt is made on his life. Finally, he is a bird - where he is held hostage by a suicidal owl. Holy crow, what a bad thing to teach our kids.

Seriously, why not just wheel them into the classroom and make them watch 'Requim for a Dream' until they start to shake and cry. They don't need overt methods of telling them danger is around every corner, we can actually just wait around every corner with knives and drugs and anything else that might hurt them.

I am going to be a great father some day.

Reminders for the class: One day until Cantina.

Finding A Voice

When the day ends, I'm pretty sure the only one who's influenced by my ramblings is myself. I have to reread what I say a lot, and I often doubt I'm the one who said it. I'm not sure I've gotten the feeling its me when I'm reading whatever I crapped out the night before, it has always sounded like a different person. (until yesterday)

Usually my first draft of anything sounds like a raving art student who got mad because he turned his girlfriend into a hardcore lesbian. Now my stuff sounds like a raving student who got mad because he found out he got played by a high schooler. I'm comfortable with the voice of the latter. He sounds like someone who's honest, well built, and ungodly talented.

So why care about me and my writing? The process. All of it. You shouldn't. My good looks don't transcend to the written word. Sure, you can feel my awesome coming off the page, but you need to see it to witness my true form. Anyway, you're still here reading me, which suggest a multitude (or slew) of things I can assume about you. I will now categorize all of you into three groups:

1.) That you're the kind of person who likes to procrastinate so much that they'll read blogs as opposed to work.
2.) You check away messages so often that when you've gone through your whole list of people and have nothing to do, so you've moved on to read a blog or two.
3.) You love me more then Jesus could, so you check this blog just because I made it for people like you.

There are no other reasons. Not in my eyes. As people, we try to rationalize and explain our world by the very standards that govern our lives. Notice how I did not put "crazy sex pot" in as a possible explanation. That is because I've never experience one. We cannot expand on the reasons why things happen. But sometimes we don't need to. Sometimes we're right the first time. Like when I say there are people who drink beer and then there is the rest of you poor bastards. Now that is true. It's the way its always been. Since before time. Since before God. Since before the first rays of light were sprung upon this universe and creation began, there have always been drunks in a bar, together, alone in the dark, drinking while the power is out. There is a name for these people. Champions. Champions of strength and conviction. They are the moral leaders and the studious gentleman who will remove us from our mundane lives for just a moment, amuse us with a joke, maybe get so drunk they show us their willy, then throw up all over Aric Berg's car. These are the people I admire. These people, drunk in the dark, only know their drink and know the value of their voice. These are voices I admire, voices that silence only to drink. This is a voice that calmly holds up its glass, no matter how many drunk it may be, and proclaims to the world "Cheers, bitches".

Cheers indeed.

Reminders for the class: Why doesn't listerine taste good? Why does it always leave the sensation of burning ass stuck in my mouth? I don't know. Go ask Mr. Owl.

The Center of Your Universe

Ever feel like they'll never know your name until its on the stone? Or that you'll only be remembered because you were forgotten? Well, you shouldn't. Those are stupid Emo kid thoughts. That's just morbid and depressing. Even more so because you know me. Especially since you know me - I should be the shining beacon of light in your life. Seriously. When you wake, I better be in the first ten goddamn thoughts of your day. I don't care what's on your plate or how busy you get, you should be thinking of me. No excuses. If you were to wake up and were to find your house was on fire, you should manage to incorporate me into your scattered thought process. Kind of something like this:

"Omigod. My house is on fire. I wonder what Ken is wearing right now. The children's bedroom! Oh, dear lord. There's so much smoke. I need to call 911. My door is locked. I can't get out! How will I save the kids? I hope Ken had a full breakfast this morning. Ahh! I am burning alive! Oh, no! Help! I regret that I never got to climb a mountain and write a book! I'm too young to die! Ken sure is the best piece of eye candy this planet has to offer! Ack! I die!"

There might be a slight divergence in the exact thoughts, but you should be thinking in a fashion similar to this. Notice how despite the chaos, thoughts were redirected back to me at the more critical moments. That's because I am a pillar. Count on me. I will take care of you. I am that awesome. My beard is 2nd only to that piece of hairy landmass on Chuck Norris' face. In addition, I am a very good kisser, my mom says I'm the coolest kid in school, and I have a sweet singing voice.

So the next time you start to feel depressed, pull out a picture of me and smile. I am here for you. I will be your strength when all else fails. My guns are jack diesel and you should be jealous. If you're not jealous, you haven't been leering long enough at my rock hard abs and sweet bum. You know you want to rock this.

EGO TRIP! WOOOO!

Reminders for class: Documentary and a Mockumentary coming up soon. I'll post them when done.

I Love L.A.

Making plans from Burlington, NC always seems futile. It's like if Hitler tried to take over from New Jersey, declaring it a position both necessary and vital for his future invasion of America . Like he needed a whole state of burning tires to succeed.

But tonight was kind of like that. Making the long, impossible shot that makes no sense but you do it anyway. It's like that long jump halfway through level 8-2 of the first Super Mario Brothers. You know you can't make it without failing, but goddamned if it ain't the only way across. Warp Tunnels can only take you so far, cheater McBeaver, you eventually have to make the jump.

And so I say that the only person besides Berg who is still around has made solid future plans with me in her immediate future. To L.A., in fact. We drank to it. What does that mean? Several Things:

1.) My testes have dropped. They are now caught somewhere between my thighs and knees. (Please do not visualize this region) This also indicates I will now use my college education.
2.) It acknowledging that the accolades I've gotten throughout the years here aren't just because no one else submits. They might signify something. Like accomplishment.
3.) I am not as short as I thought I was.

Who's excited to be writing screenplays for the next few months/weeks in preparation? This kid!

Reminders for class: When Monday starts, best avoid all of it. Sleep 'till Tuesday.

[ed note: went back and fixed all the things that didn't make sense. I posted drunk. really.... drunk.]

The Man Speaks The Truth

Got off of work hella late, but it was worth it. Towards the end, somewhere in between talking about Xbox 360 and stainless steel countertops, my boss said this:

"You need to quit. You are too smart for this job. This isn't something you want to do forever."

And just yesterday a friend said I should move to LA with her. The world is telling me to get out of Burlington, North Carolina, despite it being the thriving metropolis that it is. My future sense of living out a mediocre future is trumped by this new impeding mortality, failure, and doom I face outside of this city.

Niiiiice.

Reminder for class: Saturday means we don't have class. Go get laid. Drink a beer. Pretend Monday won't stop you from having fun (oh, 'cuz it fucking will).

Double

As I won't have time to post this evening, I'll do it now.

Andy Rooney just made the statement "What is a blog? I return with "Why isn't Andy Rooney dead yet?" Because he needs to die. Seriously. Old people need to step down and eek off into the woods, dying under a bush or a fallen tree. This is the natural cycle in life. Old people aren't supposed to cling onto their last moments in front of the national spectacle and curmudgeon-up the airwaves with their technophobic crap. I heard an old person in line at the grocery store today with a cell phone. The man was in poor shape. By skin, posture - the bucket was a couple feet in front of him, just waiting to be kicked. Then this guy's cell phone goes off at decibels so loud my balls ache, and everybody is looking at him. Even the crazy nail girl with the custom Lil' Jon ringtone was staring at his honkey ass going "Pick it up". But he did not, for he was old, and it was not in his ways.

So the phone rang again.

And again.

And I'm sure it went off again as he hobbled his way out.

Point being, old people suck.

Reminders for class: Old people can't see below eye level, so put stuff in their way to trip on.

Care Bears and Joe Brizz

I have a friend who will show the Care Bears movie to all his potential girlfriends (SHOES, by the way, Kelly- clearing that up quickly). This may or may not work as a guiding principal for all relationships, but goddamned if it doesn't work for him.

People tonight told me the idea was rubbish, that it would never impress them. I would agree with them, except I've seen it work. Work really well. Work so well and to such an extent eharmony.com was taking notes on matching procedures.

So maybe it's not the method, but the madness. Maybe an innate charm exists in a person. A lot of what I say isn't funny, but people laugh. Probably because I'm gorgeous and they don't want to upset me, but also maybe because it doesn't matter what I say. I'm just trying to inject some levity into the moment. If you've got the warm fuzzies for someone, anything they do or so is cute because that's what they are trying to be. Love is a slightly skewed perspective on life.

Example: Think of you last boyfriend/girlfriend. What the hell were you thinking? Seriously? What? But then at the time, you were so into that, girlfriend. I'm not offering reasons you went ahead and tapped Shelly the Barbarian or Pimply Dave, but I will say that its understandable. Sympathetic almost. Conditions, situations, extended periods of sexual isolation - they all come into play. Your whole sad, pathetic existence comes is a factor when choosing a life mate.

History too. You don't see the caviar crowd begging for triscuits and a wheel of cheese. They've been spoiled. But dine on spam and eggs for a few months, and some triscuits with melted cheese sounds good. It's all relativity. Grab a hold of a hot pan, and a minute can seem like an hour. Grab a hold of a hot girl, and an hour can seem like a minute.

So why do Care Bears work for Joe Brizz 100% of the time? I think, as I've been trying to prove, it's just Joe Brizz being himself. Politicians can recruit younger people all the time - not by their values or beliefs - but by their intensity and tone. Why should it be any different on a personal level? There are some things we just respond to. Cleavage. A dude playing a guitar. The Cardigan's brilliant masterpiece 'Love Fool'. Something instinctual tells us this would better us. I had a friend tonight tell me she was interested in thirty year old men because they offered stability and security. Gold Digging? Yes. But that's my point. We actively seek or passively submit to those characteristics we find necessary. So Joe Brizz has got it right. Maybe just being cute is enough, and the Care Bear crowd knows it.

Reminders for class: My weekends equal work and more work. Find some way to save me Saturday night. Seriously. It's my only free time.

Freezie Miracles

Proof God may exist:

I was eating a freezie pop, splitting a red between a green, when a slight tear ripped into the edge of the red one. I had put them both under hot water, making them slush like, when the liquid poured out of the bottom. It spilt all over the floor, the counter, all over existence. BUT NOT A DROP TOUCHED ME. I was wearing white, but not a single red, period looking dot got on me. Holy crow. Someone may be looking out for me.

Sometimes I question the relevance for seeking the existence of a higher power. Take paintings on cave walls from way the hell back when B.C. The primitive God-like etches from a cave dwellers perspective might seem like a crude way to explain existence. A God for crops, a a God for maternity... it all seemed like the most logical way to categorize life. If you can't find direct reason or purpose, place it in a higher power.

Now jump forward to about two days ago. Hurricanes, Tsunami, Economic Ruin. We still argue that a God willed all that - but the reason has changed. The hardcore religious would argue we deserved it. Lust, greed, sloth - pick your sin - but our actions and failure to praise him dictate the way God judges us.

Backtrack to the cavedwelling buddies of yesteryear. If they had a lousy harvest, would they say it was nature or more of a failure to appease the god's properly? Ah, I hear you saying something about the difference between their beliefs and yours. Valid point, I'm sure, but I'm not listening. Faith is cool. Organized religion is a crutch for the weak. HEY! Those weren't my words, Former Governor Jesse "The Mind" Ventura said that. He has a point though. I know many people who have faith but don't attend mass. These people rock.

Then there's the people who congregate in groups to find a common denominator to blame for the problems of the world. Seriously, Gays? Are Gays the real cause of all the problems the Catholic Church faces? Thanks Pat Roberston. Thanks Jerry Falwell. You truly are awesome. Liberty College needs to be taken down brick for brick and remade into a Gay Dance Club. I'd totally bounce there.

See, I tangeted when I started talking about religion. So many holes and I want to poke through all of them with my wang. For another night, I guess. For now, let's be thankful my white shirt didn't get dirty. That in itself was cool enough for me to forget the rest of the problems that accepting a miracle might bring about After all, it was a miracle. It's not like it was good luck or a coincidence. Just like a good harvest coming for our cave habitants. Miracles. Not just good soil and a green thumb.

Reminders for class: Holy cow, so many of my friends are out of college by January. Sweet!

Bayside

Hey, hey, hey. *What* is going *on* here?

What ever happen to Dennis Haskins from Saved by the Bell? Principal Belding seemed like a shoe in as a long standing thespian, maybe as a side character in dozens of movies. Could you picture him as the straight laced cop in a buddy buddy action film? Good Lord that would be awesome. He could even have this faux death scene where he thinks he was shot, but the bullet just hit his father's badge that he carries with him at all times. Man that would be a movie I would pay to see.

On a side note, Uwe Boll uses nazi gold to pay for his movies.

Anyway, nothing important to say here. Just got sad thinking of old Dennis. Hey! Dennis - if you read this, totally email me. We could be pen pals. I totally think you're hot.

Reminders for class: My power went out at 4 am. Any reason? I don't think so.