The New Oceanic

Thoughts on the Lost Finale

2010-05-23T23:08:00.004-05:00

Hello everyone! It's 12:08am on Monday, May 24th and I'm getting ready to go to bed after watching the series finale of Lost on ABC. I decided to post up a quick response to the end of this show, as well as a tribute to the show in general. The finale was great; not fantastic and not without fault, but neither was the rest of this show and I believe that the writers were able to capture the most vital aspects of the show in the last 2 and 1/2 hours. The finale was epic and encompassing and left you filled with wonder and awe (truly satisfactory substitutes for curiosity and knowledge). I was very impressed with this show in general. Although I only watched it for the first time a year and a half ago (and have been desperately clawing through DVD box sets and Hulu updates to get caught up ever since), I feel that a major part of my life has been shaped and influenced, however indirectly, by the sorts of questions and concepts this show forced me to confront. The acting was brilliant, the sets were brilliant, and above all else, the music was beautiful.

If you have avoided Lost because you feel that it is not your genre of choice, I urge you to watch a few episodes and experience the wide diversity of themes the show touches upon. If you have avoided Lost because you hate broadcast television and prefer the quiet, intellectual prowess of cable shows like Dexter, I would urge you to give Lost a try; you may be pleasantly surprised to find that it has comprehensively and consistently escaped the majority of stereotypical cliches that harangue network television programming. And if you have avoided Lost because you feel it is too complicated, I urge you to get a Netflix account or dust off your BitTorrent tracker of choice because once you start watching this show, it is very hard to stop. Luckily, I feel that the writers have provided an ending that satisfies and delights. Watch this show!

Good night,
Andrew

The Work Bench

2010-05-13T11:30:00.002-05:00

Hello,

I've opened up a new blog (don't worry, NOT a replacement blog), that I hope will serve as a place for me to chronicle all my DIY projects this summer. Please head on over there and give it a look!

The Work Bench

Best,
Andrew

Thoughts on Poetry

2010-05-07T09:36:00.002-05:00

This post was originally titled "The Meaning of Poetry"; I just stumbled upon a blog that was filled with some pretty inspiring material. I knew it was inspiring because it forced me to think about what was being said outside of the context of myself. What I'm trying to say is, I stopped thinking about myself for a few minutes to read this blog. Afterwards, I started thinking about myself again, but for a few brief minutes I didn't. I don't like to think that my narcissism is at the pathological level -- I mean, I don't think it actually is, but I don't like to think about it either. The budding anthropologist, the evolutionary biologist within me says the following: Narcissism is vital to survival. Narcissism is simply the term humans invented when, upon looking backwards from their long journey of altruistic progress, were shocked to see that no matter how far they traveled from their primitive pasts, still had their roots firmly grounded in a reality sharply defined by the laws of nature. Eat or be eaten. We hate that, don't we? We have to. We don't like to think of ourselves as animals? This is where my thinking used to stop. I loved to think of us as animals. It would explain so much of the way my parents used to act when the doors were close and they didn't think we could hear them yelling at each other. It would explain the basic pleasure I used to derive from stealing food from my brother. Maybe the only reason I stopped was subconsciously I realized he had grown big enough to break my bones, to punish me for interfering with his own survival processes. This is where my thinking used to stop.

But now I can't help but reflect that we ARE different. We care about each other and we building gigantic monuments to commemorate the heroic actions of members of our community who travel thousands of miles away to get blown up by a mine -- defending too many people for us to explain. Definitely us, thought, right? At the end of the day, we can't think about the fact that our society has grown too fast for our sense of community to keep up.

On this train of thought, contemplating the defining characteristics of mankind, I started thinking about poetry. Our brains our firing constantly. Even comatose, disabled, vegetated people lying in beds in forgotten hospital rooms have brains that are constantly active. Synapse to synapse; microscopic lightning strikes. These storms brew and subside and boil and roar softly and loudly. Occasionally they force open the floodgates of our mind and we speak what we think and suddenly we have performed magic. Our bodies have transmitted electrical currents in one organ into sound waves in another and through this action we have increased the size of our population to 7 billion people. Our population is approaching the magnitude and complexity of our own brains.

What is poetry but the venting of excess thoughts. Some people say poetry tells a story. I say, the only story that is told through poetry is the singly story of human existence: we communicate our inner-most thoughts, opaque and diffuse reflections of the mechanized action of our brains, in the hopes that one word in a thousand words will be heard by someone else and change the way that person thinks. Poetry is not beautiful or simple or elegant. Not in its true form. It's merely a precision, targeted attack of thoughts. It the breath-taking cloud that occurs when a sonic-boom surrounds an ICBM.

I had originally titled this post "The Meaning of Poetry", but I decided to rename it "Thoughts on Poetry" for two primary reasons: 1) To fit the internal organizational vernacular that is consistent throughout this Titanic blog. 2) To show that, at the end of the day, I don't really know the meaning of anything.

A day in the life of a spaceman

2010-03-02T22:10:00.001-05:00

His day began when he woke suddenly to the icy cold air and his ears burned with screaming, and there was not enough oxygen left. Much later, the man slammed the button, locking the door, and turned exhausted to slump on the floor next to the blinking panel. There was not enough oxygen left. Five inches of clear plastic lay sheathed in metal and rubber and outside of this the blue planet lay still and silent and beautiful and the stars rotated in their thousand-year orbits and everything was very quiet. The filters cycled softly and the rhythmic hum of computers wheezed and coughed and sputtered and the air was very clean, but there was not much of it left and the cabin was very cold. The man panted, slowing his breaths and rested his head against the steel door.

“For the love of god Sherman!” The voice shrieked and frantically clawed upwards from the ice and silence and penetrated two layers of re-enforced aluminum and the sound was pushed and prodded along in its laborious journey across the increasing vacuum by a sudden violent pounding on the door. Against wild thrashing, the door did not budge, and the man closed his eyes, weary from the ordeal. There was not enough oxygen, and there was not enough time. “For the love of god Sherman!” The voice cracked halfway through, punctuated by a low muffled sound as bones and flesh and clothes slumped defeated to the surface of the cabin on the other side of the door. The voice continued, low and moaning, but the man did not listen. He could not listen. He had a job to complete and he would not allow her to get in his way.

After awhile he felt his strength returning, ebbing back into his bones and muscles like a cautious ocean returning to shore. He pulled himself to his feet and maneuvered unsteadily in the low gravity of the room. Catacomb pillars pressed in from all sides, and everything was steel and plastic, but there was a single window that perforated the hull and through its thick and stodgy surface, the vibrant and energetic stars danced and threw their refracted beams of light carelessly and laughed at the plight of the man in the cold. He pulled himself to a station and forced practiced eyes and hands over a console blistering with controls and gauges and screens and buttons. His attention was drawn through the thin air to a cluster of instruments in one corner of the console. Moisture from the air had condensed on the surface of the glass during the disaster and had flash frozen when the heating systems shut off, when he closed the door. He scraped his fingernails across the surface in a stupid and unwieldy attempt to defrost the display. Peering through the microscopic glacier, he squinted in the dim light at the position of the dial, frozen in position. He smiled weakly and exhaled a breath of relief. There was not enough oxygen left, but not everyone needed to die.

The air traced lightly around his padded suit and legs as he pulled himself into the nearest chair. As he swiveled around to face the closest window, empty candy wrappers and playing cards formed an orbiting debris field around his cold and stationary body. He tried thinking about the long journey that awaited him, but he could not focus on the details. He tried thinking about his family, only several hundred miles beneath him, but he could not remember their faces. Instead he focused on the movement of the stars and planets. Sudden slamming on the door behind him jarred him awake, but taking a quick peek at the display in front of him reassured him that there would still be enough. “Sherman!” the voice shouted through layers of metal and rubber and thin air. “Sherman!” the door cried out, the screaming slowly subsiding into low moans. “SHERMAN! You don’t have to do this! Please don’t do this!” The voice penetrated deep and he remembered. It was her.

He hadn’t known her two weeks ago, and they had different specialties on board, so it was very difficult for him to ever get a chance to know her very well. He remembered her red hair and her eyes that would often dart up from sheets of calculations, gauzy and red-rimmed from coffee and stim-packs, but the center was clear and piercing and he felt stupid to talk to her, so he didn’t. The voice continued, arguing and debating with an empty mantle of silence. The voice argued about possibilities and calculations and alternatives and slowly it grew quiet and muffled, and the only sound was in the man’s head, and he replayed scenes and sounds from his childhood, which seemed to come easier to him than those from his adult life. He could not think about her or her desperate pleas. He could not alter or stray from the path. He recognized the cruelty of the situation, but he had performed every calculation flawlessly and had considered every possibility. He knew with absolute certainty that there was not enough oxygen for everyone. He hoped enough remained for one person. He had to be sure. The scientist in him was curious, although the part of him that had grown small gardens in college and later in life was horrified and turned away and examined the beautiful scene slowly rotating in absolute cold and silence to the galactic rhythms of impenetrable and innumerable scale. And the two halves of him spent their various energies and utilized their various faculties, and so the man passed the time, unperturbed by the low and soft feminine wails, the rocking ocean of tears and sobbing occasionally peaking with white crested waves that rose in volume and broke upon magnificent levels of emotion and then were lost again amidst the quiet and constant din of despair. The door was locked and the lock had been sealed and there was not enough oxygen left, and the man knew that, and so nothing about the situation was changed by the crying.

Using tiny movements of his eyes, the man raked his trained vision across the displays and smiled inwardly at the increasing concentrations of oxygen. Yes, there would be enough. Yes, now the plan had sustainability; had life. All was not lost, and this fact stimulated his mind and he rose out of the cold darkness and promptly fell, his weak legs crumpling beneath him. He laughed softly at the ridiculousness of the situation. How long had he been sitting there? Four minutes? Five minutes? He checked his watch, but the hands had frozen almost instantly when he had locked the door several hours before. Continuing onwards, he crawled slowly, pulling himself over the floor to the other side of the room and crawled up the very wall of the console and leveraged himself to a sitting position, his shoulders burning with the exertion. He checked the screen. A swirling matrix of lights and information restlessly assembled into an organized fashion and the man waited and saw that his window of opportunity was very slim indeed. He could not think about the numbers now, the advanced math he had spent his life mastering slipped quickly away from the surface of his brain. He was no fool; he had written them down hours before. His thoughts flashed briefly to his home. His wife had always despised his predilection for planning, a subtle but dark hatred at his quiet and meticulous manner. He lived in his mind, and now he lived only in his mind, and he thought no more of anything beyond the present as he awkwardly fumbled with his pocket and retrieved a crumpled piece of yellow notepaper. Half of the small sheet had been stained red, but it was not his blood and so he was not overly concerned. He shifted his weight and squinted and read the numbers and laboriously entered them into the panel, each consecutive depression of the keys throwing up a tiny sparkling shower of ice particles and dislodged accumulations of crystallized dust. The computers seemed slow. They seemed to share his feelings of morbid lethargy. After a short eternity, the computer beeped once and glowed a comfortable shade of green and the mission was complete. The numbers ticked down and the man turned around slowly as he sunk once more to the floor of the room, carefully modulating his breaths. The window now lay across the room from him and he resigned his mind to the quiet contemplation of the intricacies of the galaxy beyond, his view of which was restricted by the size and position of the window to several square inches. It was a pitifully tiny space, but it grew in the vacuum and gradually encompassed his entire vision, and as the blackness of the picture naively courted and danced with the dim shadows of the room at the edge of his vision, the scene of a handful of scattered stars erupted in their full beauty and showered the deepest parts of the man’s mind with the sheer scale of their magnificence. They put on a show that was unlike anything the man had ever seen before.

As the filters slowly cycled and the numbers ticked down slowly on the screen behind him, the galaxy was free and joyous and gay and the man became the first one of his kind to witness the true parade of colors and spectacles that lay behind the opaque and distant surface. He saw the birth of stars and the death of worlds and the entire cosmic spectrum existed, for a very short moment, as an intimate and warm personal drama; of family members interacting with each other as they went about their daily lives. The numbers clicked to zero and the screen flashed red and emitted a loud beeping, but the man did not see the change in color or hear the beeping, and he had forgotten long ago about the sound of the woman pounding on the other side of the door, and he did not notice the low and terrible shaking as the hull split cleanly in two and the door that had once separated the kitchen from the bathroom now separated both from the very essence of space, and the smaller portion of the metal box swung away in a low arc and disappeared into the cloudy, brilliantly blue depths of the planet below and was lost amidst a fountain of superheated flame and gases as the atmosphere, grumbling its angry acquiescence, allowed the saved ship-half to re-enter the thick and humid air below. This saved ship-half with its minimally tolerable concentrations of oxygen returned to the wetness of the planets oceans, and the life inside was saved for future nights of coffee and red-rimmed concentrations and laughter and sex and births and deaths. Floating in an eternal orbit above, the spaceman in the other half bore witness to none of this, and the screen behind him flashed twice and automatically turned off. His gaze remained fixed on the small window on the other side of the room as he, in absolute silence and amidst a galactic festival of color and light and beauty, returned home.

Full Speed Ahead, Maniac Twins! (Pt. 4)

2010-01-13T09:55:00.002-05:00

I pulled myself out of bed and pulled on a pair of casual slacks and a shirt, over which I pulled a sweater sporting logo of my alma mater. I soon discovered that the sun rose very early in that area, and that even though I walked out of my building to find the camp still caught in the lethargic throes of sleep, the sun was already high and shining quite brightly. It was a hot morning, and the gravel and red dirt crunched under my feet as I walked down the main road and explored the complex a little. My phone had accumulated a large number of messages during my trip the day before, and I spent some time pacing the perimeter of the camp, checking and erasing messages.

The entire complex, as I later learned, had been built from the relegated ashes of an old industrial complex, something that the Navy had used. The land was very flat in all directions, and I could view the beach from a small bluff that was within walking distance from the barracks. For days on end that summer I would meander down the dusty road that connected my set of buildings with the beach, and when I finally reached the coast I would sit down on the white sand in the shade of looming bleached palm trees and stare out at the ocean. It was a large and mysterious body of water that lay off shore, neither Atlantic nor Gulf waters. Many times large thunderstorms would blow in from the southwest, and gigantic gray clouds, darkened with their rainy burden, would appear as if by magic, rising from the horizon like ghosts levitating out of a forlorn cemetery. Camp Daisy was a little less than an hour south of Cape Canaveral, and numerous that summer I got to witness a rocket launch. Both times they were spectacular, and since they both happened at night, the fiery explosions and rocketing combustion of jet fuels illuminated the dense cloudbanks that loitered off-shore. I found the entire experience to be very exciting, and even from my sand-dune throne underneath the albino palm trees, I could feel the air quiver from the energy of the launches.

I don’t want to give you a false impression of the nature of my stay in Florida. I found time to admire the natural, sun bleached, wind-swept beauty of the shoreline only during brief periods of respite. Upon arriving I was almost immediately conscripted into the services of a small engineering team that was working on fuel mechanics. At that point, these people were mostly private-contractors. I found that I had gotten myself involved in the beginning stages of a lengthy contract labeled Project Titan that had the primary aim of designing a satellite that was to be launched into low-orbit surveillance around its namesake, the most intriguing moon of Jupiter. The project had been started in the late 90’s by Nasa, but funding had been cut and the project aborted and moved into the basement of the Department of Defense. Apparently, a sub-committee swept up the project in a wide-scale search and rescue of abandoned ideas. On federal orders, they distributed the project to a variety of private contractors and research institutions with the simple idea of choosing the lowest, most cost-efficient bid for a program re-design. Jill couldn’t speak highly enough of this plan. In tones that reflected her exuberant mood and accompanied by a fierce concert of gestures, she would cry out, “The de-centralization of project oversight is essential in maintaining the intellectual integrity of privatized resources in the space program.” She always had something like that to say, and I began to predict, with uncanny accuracy, the type of inspiring or dramatic adjectives she would choose for her next tirade.

The end result of this bureaucratic musical-chairs was that a small firm from California proposed a bid that was a few million dollars shorter than the next guy, and that the federal government had proceeded to make an offer, whereby the funds and resources outlined in the proposal would be guaranteed by the federal government, and all research would be subjected to the oversight and review of the US Air Force. In addition, all research and testing would occur on US military property and there was an additional stipulation that all automobiles involved in the project must be domestic. I remember being very deeply touched by the irony of the situation; we were developing the newest breed of space technology, and we were being told in no uncertain terms that our automobiles must be domestic brands. It was these sorts of decisions that originally prompted my decreased respect for any sort of institutionalized collaboration between the military and the government and the private sector, and Jillian Weinstein capitalized on that fact very quickly.

I was assigned to a small team working out of an old airplane hanger that lay at the far end of an old cracked airstrip lined by palm trees. It was located about 15 minutes away from the camp, and I would often walk there in the morning carrying nothing but a knapsack and several gallons of insect repellant which I used liberally to ward off the hordes of aggressive mosquitoes. On my first day of work, I came dressed in a suit and tie, but quickly learned to wear a simple short sleeve dress shirt, shorts, and shoes. I also learned to do my laundry twice a week, or else the stains from sweat and the constantly pervasive moisture and dirt would become permanent very quickly.

I was working with 8 other guys; most were from the universities or professional industry, but a few were military-types. I found it funny that you could tell who was from the military not by their haircut or the way they dressed, but in the way they programmed their computers. Their code was simple and terse and tended to use unusual strands and language. Civilian engineers tend to flourish their code with unnecessary aesthetic touches. Military engineers wrote programs that were built like tanks; completely ugly but extremely tough. At that time, the project was still in its nascent stage and my team had been assigned to testing the position-control thrusters that would keep the satellite locked into a steady orbit over the relatively mysterious rocky geography of Titan. Our biggest worry was the electromagnetic poles. Very little data had ever been collected on the strength or location of Titan’s poles, and our biggest concern was flying our satellite straight through a magnetic storm and having everything on board knocked out of commission. So we spent a lot of our time in the hangar playing with giant magnets. Like curious school children we giggled while removing metal belts, cuff-links, and (in the case of one military engineer) knives, before entering the testing room were we would place instrumental pieces of the thruster apertures in the middle of large electromagnets and flip the switch. As a result, a large part of the initial work I performed at Camp Daisy ended up being very mundane; we would flip switches and laugh at explosions of sparks and dying machinery and as we played gods controlling domains of circuitry and computer chips we carefully took notes, detailing the strengths and weaknesses of our various creations and modifications. Like gods, we had little mercy for inferior machines and I cannot tell you how many innocents we would ruthlessly smite everyday in that rusty hanger at the end of the airstrip in Florida.

Full Speed Ahead, Maniac Twins! (Pt. 3)

2009-12-14T09:06:00.004-05:00

I must have fallen asleep during the flight, because the next thing I remember happening is a jolt as the plane touched down. The lights inside had been dimmed, and outside the airport was cloaked in a sea of black – impenetrable except for the steady blinking of guidance lights. I grabbed by bag, my jacket, and my briefcase and stepped into the aisle and out of the plane, followed closely by the blonde (whose name I was still unaware of), and Dr. Dagen. Outside, on the black tarmac, a sleek SUV was waiting, its parking lights glowing warmly against the ground. It was a warm night, but windy and as we walked across the empty airport a breeze swept up around us and my back crawled with shivers. Outside of the truck a slight man was waiting. He was wearing a dark suit and looked very professional. I nervously slicked my hair back and extended my hand. Taking it, he called over the still rumbling engines, “Hello! I’m Mr. Shepard, we spoke over the phone.” I nodded and smiled. He continued, “And Ms Weinstein! As lovely as ever.” I turned to see a look of friendly recognition on the blonde’s face as she warmly embraced Mr. Shepard. “Robert,” she said in her wonderfully awful voice, “How many times do I have to tell you to call me Jill?” Laughing, he replied, “How many times do I have to tell you to call me Robby?” Turning to Dr. Dagen he extended his hand for a firm handshake and salutations. We are now standing in a semi circle on one side of the truck and the wind was whipping our jackets, and suit tails, and ties, and skirt hems (in the case of the blonde Ms Weinstein) into a furious squall of textiles. Opening the rear passenger door, Robert Shepard motioned for Dr. Dagen and myself to climb into the backseat, which we did. Jill Weinstein circled around the car and piled into the passenger seat and Mr. Shepard took the wheel and we were off.

Turning in her seat to address Dr. Dagen and myself in a style very similar to that of a teacher attempting to educate two difficult boys, she began to explain her connection to Mr. Shepard. She told us of their time working together back in the 90s, when the government was big and bold and she flourished her stories with arm waving and hands and Mr. Shepard punctuated her narratives with polite laughter and precision grunts. Between the two of them I was able to assemble a pretty good picture of the sort of work both Robert Shepard and Jill Weinstein were involved in. You see, they had worked together, many years before in what Jill described as the “second space race – that which we contest with our own inhibitions” and which Robert described as “increasing collaboration between intergovernmental agencies in ascribing new policies regarding the development and utilization of space-flight technology”; I felt that Jill’s description was more exciting but far less instructive, ultimately. After several minutes of narrative I felt the tide of the discussion begin to tug pointedly towards Jill. Again, she dominated in speech. I noticed that Dr. Dagen had fallen asleep in the seat next to me, his head tilted slightly to the side while soft Germanic lilting phrases stumbled out of his sleep-inebriated mouth. Robert Shepard also began to grow silent, and I realized that I was in a car being driven by a man I didn’t know to a destination unclear being lectured by a woman who had talked to me for a very long time, but who I knew very little about, ultimately.

“And what’s more, there are people out there who believe that space is a dead end. That we should cut the funding. Do you realize what our defense budget looks like? I could hide four shuttle programs in the budget for new laser-tracking systems and no one would notice. Mind you, I am not advocating any sort of fraud. But can you believe the sort of ignorance that pervades the upper reaches of our country? To limit the entire scope of our creativity, of our knowledge, our inventiveness to a single point a Galaxy full of information? It’s quite ludicrous.” I was on the verge of overcoming my significant bashfulness and expressing my own similar outrage (albeit on a topic I had until moments ago never before considered), when Robert Shepard interrupted her. “We’re here Ms Weinstein so I would recommend that you stow the conspiracy theory stuff for the time-being.” At that moment, Robert seemed to become very much a military man, and I realized that I was very much unaware of what sort of people I was traveling to meet. It seemed very obvious to me that Dr. Dagen was a university-type, just like myself, and that Ms Weinstein seemed to despise institutions in their entirety, so I began to consider her a free-thinker; a radical who floated between the cracks (a conclusion that I would later reflect upon with a certain degree of irony). I couldn’t seem to place Robert in the mosaic of military-industrial-political complex I seemed to have gotten myself involved in. This was the first step in my journey of understanding the space program. It is a very complicated and confusing world in which many different sorts of people work together. I can only remember at the time being quite struck by Robert’s military undertone.

We arrived at a place called Camp Daisy at around 1 o’clock in the morning. It was very dark and I couldn’t see much of it, but I remember that there were a lot of dirt roads and very bland looking buildings and security checkpoints. We drove straight through the compound to a building with glowing lights and windows and it looked much more homely than the other buildings. It even had a small patch of flowers outside which helped to make it look less administrative. As we were parking Robert explained again how Mr. Bento was sorry he couldn’t meet us earlier that day, but that he himself was on a transatlantic flight from a European conference and that he wouldn’t be arriving until late that night himself. I was prepared for a few nights stay, and was very proud of myself for packing so lightly. It seemed that Dr. Dagen had a similar packing setup with just one bag and a briefcase and I was pleased with the succinctness that us “university-types” employed in getting ready for a short trip. Jill Weinstein was a completely different matter: she had brought several bags and pieces of luggage and we helped her to unload her bags and move them inside to a room that was marked with a polite sign: Dr. Jillian Weinstein, Consultant. I found a similar room for me and also one for Dr. Dagen. After I had settled in and took a stroll outside of the building, to soak in the place and get a feel for it. It was very late at night, and the birds and cicadas were causing a lot of noise in the bushes and trees that surrounded the area. I stayed outside for a while to admire the pleasant weather and to reflect on the trip so far. After a bit, I stepped back inside, removed my shoes and collapsed into the bed in a heap of tired eyes and exhausted limbs.

Full Speed Ahead, Maniac Twins! (Pt.2)

2009-12-09T22:15:00.005-05:00

I suppose I should note, at this time, that I am not what you would call “traditionally handsome”. I wasn’t clean-cut, and fit like the officers who had escorted me from the public airport to the military airport (and who ultimately ended up being pilot and co-pilot on the plane I had just boarded), nor was I worn-out and weathered like Jack. I was thin and lean, and had always been a little too tall for practical purposes. My knees had a tendency to knock into desks and drawers and my shirts never seemed to fit very well. In addition, I had never acquired the skill for taming my hair. It stuck out in all directions, and on a windy day like this, tended to aggregate toward the back and slightly off to the side of my head.

So you can see why I was a bit nervous when I cleared my throat and said, “Hello! This is some strange trip, eh?” I firmly believe that it would been a smooth line, had it not been for the fact that right in the middle the pilot cut in with the two engines, and my words were lost in a whirlwind of howling intakes and screaming blades. This was not to be the last time I wasn’t able to successfully engage this beautiful woman in conversation, but I will touch on some of those other times where they are more relevant to the story.

The plane was crowded. There were only the three of us, plus the two officers in the cabin, and there was also a dog who had curled up on the floor and fallen asleep as soon as the plane had taken off. However, the majority of the space was taken up by a big pile of tarped and pinioned packaged machinery. My trained eye could see the outlines of manifolds, metal heat sinks, and tubes that indicated it was some sort of engine, perhaps a generator of some type, beneath the miles of gray military tarping stretched across the bulky surface. I had just spent the better part of six years and more money that I wanted to think about focusing on machines exactly like the one that sat in front of me, and so you’ll understand if I went out of my way to avoid thinking about it too much. Instead, I decided to stare out the window and watch the planet drop away as we took to the skies.

It was all very mysterious and brand new, and I had been caught up in the heat of the moment and not stopped to think very much about all that was happening around me. It was getting late at that point, and as we flew towards the east, the sun sank into the horizon behind us and the sky and clouds towering over the Gulf turned beautiful shades of gold and red. I thought about my apartment, and I thought about the lab in which I was working and also about the classes I was helping with, some lower level stuff. As the sky outside turned from honey to a bloody purple I couldn’t help but let my attention creep slowly away from the window, across the seats and the aisle and over to that blonde sitting across the way.

She was wearing a light gray leather jacket over a dark blue turtleneck, and her hair fell in curls around the neck. She had a book open on her lap, but was looking out the window, admiring the tremendous display of colors as the planet slunk away from the sun. The air conditioning cycled softly and the plane bumped and swayed with the light turbulence. I was very happy at that point because I was doing something new and exciting. I leaned over slightly in my chair and said, “Hello. Beautiful night, isn’t it?” She replied without turning around, “Very much so! We never had nights like this in Michigan.” Her voice was not lyrical or beautiful in any way. I’m not trying to say that she had an unpleasant voice – quite the opposite in fact – but it seemed to me that she talked as if she didn’t think before hand. Her words didn’t seem pre-planned, but spilled out of her with unapologetic honesty. After being surrounded for six years by people who spoke in sentences as carefully calibrated as the machines they worked on, it was very refreshing to speak to someone who spoke at the same rate that they thought.

In an attempt to continue this trend, I immediately said the first things that came into my head. “I hear Michigan is an incredibly awful place. Very cold, I mean.” She turned in her chair and looked at me for the first time. She had green eyes. She laughed. “In the winter it can get pretty nasty. However, I recommend you visit us in the early summer before forming any permanent conclusions.” I smiled and mumbled my agreeance, greatly relieved that she had not been turned off by my hasty response. She spoke again. “Where are you from anyway? You’re not from Texas are you? I can’t stand Texan men. They all think that they are cowboys. Unless of course you are simply living in Texas. Do you study? You seem like an academic type, very rangy. Or are you a career man? I hear Mark is picking up people from both sides of the fence so-to-speak. That’s the way it is with the government. They hire people who can think, and then they hire people who can run things and keep those thinker-people in line and on-topic. I’ve always had the distinct impression that university-types don’t need much guidance when they’re set loose on a project. They’re a little mindless to begin with, so as long as you tell them what you need and keep them well fed, they’ll keep working until they get the job done. What do you think about that? Do you think I’m too harsh on them?” Realizing that this woman enjoyed talking, and that I would be run-over by her in straight conversation, I tried to halt the flow of questions, by asking one of my own. “So are you a career woman or a scientist?” She did not seem bothered by my attempt to evade her questions, but smiled slightly, and turned back around in her chair to study the sky through her frost-encompassed window before replying. “I don’t believe that we should be limited by careers, and I feel very strongly that science is dead.” That was all she said, and I couldn’t think of a good way to respond, so I rested my head against the seat and faced the window, my head full of questions and thoughts.

Long Live the King

2009-12-08T11:59:00.003-05:00

The high dressed high bred highlights
run high rises from the drawing rooms of estates
the puppet strings strain under the tension of a thousand fingers
reaching forward, they stand like tombstones, impassable.

Here comes the revolution, a revolution of minds
Lets tear down these walls
Lets inspire the lonely loves, and lust for lost languages
Be prepared, we guarantee perfect anguish

The lowlands run red with the sanguine silence of the white collars and city brokers
Up above, the castle is without a door, without a throne
We thrust upon the mantle of holiness, the mantle of empires and civilizations
Laughing and shaking, the rafters rain down, Long Live the King!

Full Speed Ahead, Maniac Twins! (Pt. 1)

2009-12-07T22:55:00.014-05:00

CHAPTER 1: A Meeting

The first time I saw Jack Faust I knew for sure he was a pilot. He stepped out of his truck right in front of the main entrance of one of the test sites on the tip of Florida, the farthest eastern tip; right on the Keys. It was a bright day, and a swift breeze from the south blew dust past the strips of lights scattered for miles on the ground. This was back when I still carried a leather brief case around, and at that point I was still very fond of it, so as I walked to meet him I turned slightly and hobbled against the wind, trying to protect my leather brief case from the whipping wind and sand. “Hello!” He cried out, very cheerful. That is the way it is with pilots; they don’t say very much, but when they do talk it is very cheerful and short and to the point. His manner of speaking was very crisp, and I felt a little like an idiot when I responded, “How are you?” It seemed as if my words got lost in the miniature dust storm that had whipped up around us.

I could tell a lot about Jack from the truck he drove. It was very old, but not in a nice antique way. It was just old, like the men you meet outside of barbershops waiting to get their weekly haircut, despite the fact that their hair is very white and thin around the edges. Some cars and trucks are old in the way that old people on television are. Polished old. Jack’s truck was ancient, and it seemed to be falling apart slightly. When he exited the driver’s door, the suspension creaked and groaned and small avalanches of rust cascades off the bottom and the sides by the wheels.

He was wearing a black leather jacket over a worn gray t-shirt. You could tell it was a shirt that he worked with; it was thin in places where vigorous washing and bleach had been utilized in a constant war waged against drops of machine oil, grease, and dirt. That was the way it was in general with Jack. He was very clean, very neat, but thin in certain places. He was worn, well used, and his personality reflected that. He acted like a man that had seen a lot of the world, and met a lot of people, and made his conclusions and was confident that nothing he would experience stood a chance of changing those opinions that he had worked so hard to make. I don’t mean to say that he was stubborn in his ways, or negative in his intolerance. He was just well worn, like a belt that bends at the notch where you have tied it every day for 20 years.

I was a bit more of a mess than Jack. I had just gotten out of college at that point and was still reeling from the tremendous influx of knowledge that had poured through my brain. That is the way it is with college; they pour knowledge over your brain and you try to suck up as much as you can like a thirsty plant. At the end of it all, they wring you out and see how much you have absorbed. If you’re lucky, they slap you on the back and hand you a diploma and leave you lying on the side of the road trying to reabsorb as much learning as you can from the dirt before the sun evaporates it up. My friends say that my narcissistic attitude about college was in fact just one small part of my larger cynical nature, but I can assure you that I am overall quite an optimistic guy, and that the events of this story will prove that to be the case. I just don’t much like college, that’s all.

So, like I said, I had just gotten out of college when I first met Jack. I had studied aeronautics and engineering, and I could recite equations in my sleep. During my final year in school, I had in fact become a bit of a robot, and like a machine I would process variables and situations like a lightning bolt, quick and fast. Of course, in the process of all of this education, my social skills became slightly degraded, and so I will be the first one to admit that I wasn’t the coolest cat for the first couple years after I had gotten out. I had, only a few months earlier, published my first paper. I had been working with an old professor, Dr. Michael Iota, in developing a brand new way of cooling engines. It involved a lot of magnets, and rotating ion channels, and a lot of subatomic particles that whizzed by a series of conical convections tunnels made out of some really great brand new carbon material. It was fantastic and brand new, and the entire experience of developing it and testing it was very fun and exciting for me, considering at the time I figured I could get my name out there and secure myself in the scientific community.

A few weeks after we published, I got a call from someone named Mr. Shepard who said he represented a Mr. Bento who worked in the military, but firmly insisted I call him Mr. Bento, and not Major Bento or Colonel Bento or whatever rank he was. I can’t remember for the life of me. He may have even been a General for all I know, but I finally got the chance to meet with Mr. Bento approximately ten minutes before I met Jack Faust. Apparently, by some fluke of chance, my paper had landed on the desk of some bigwig, and they wanted to see me in person to discuss an issue of material science that was relevant to some new program or project. They flew me down to San Antonio from Dallas, where I was met at the airport by a couple of Air Force officers who carried my bags for me and addressed me as Doctor. This was an extremely exciting experience for me, as I had only two months before earned my doctorate and still was having trouble adjusting to the new title. Anyway, they drove me down to another smaller airport. I could tell that this was a military airport because there were no children anywhere, and the only people in civilian clothes either looked very angry or very sad. My two officer-chauffeurs brought me to a dusty tarmac where a small two-engined plane was waiting. Inside there was a small man dressed in a very neat suit who kept talking to me and asking me how I was. I eventually learned that this man was a Mr. Karl Dagen and that he was one of the most brilliant theoretical physicists of all time. At the time though, all I could pay attention to was the brilliant blonde sitting across the copious aisle from me.

To be continued

Thoughts on Cold Weather

2009-12-06T08:22:00.002-05:00

If there is one thing that should be known about life, it is this: one can never appreciate the tremendous discomfort caused by the cold. As humans, we have an inherent tendency to forget that which has caused us pain in the past. This fact, along with many other things (some of which I hope to discuss later) has led me to my current belief that we, as humans, are tremendously versatile and persistent creatures. Surely, the many monuments of our civilization, the books and poetry and artwork that marks the progression of our culture, like waterlines on a porcelain tub, are indicators of our ability to succeed and flourish in places and in manners that would be otherwise considered impractical or impossible. This progression, these advancements, are all due to the fact that we cannot remember that which has before caused us great pain. Instead, we store our knowledge of past failings, of past goals unmet, in some dark dusty, back closet in our mind. These memories sit there, quietly and perpetually contributing to our conscious process. The ragged edge of pain is dulled by this seclusion; we force unpleasantness to the back of our mind where it must push through countless layers of neural mush in order to reach the front of our mind, and in the process the sharp edge, the painful qualities are lost. So it is with the cold. We remember that cold has the potential to be and indeed often is unpleasant. We know all of this to be true; the intricacies and details that surround and define the interaction of cold temperature and our biological functions; the specific ways in which a dramatic decrease in heat and light can severely inhibit our body's natural ability to perform mundane functions like walking, tying your shoes, or breathing. We even remember how the cold air can invade our minds, freeze everything but the inner parts, the parts that tell us frantically to find shelter, to find warmth. And yet, despite these recollections, despite the fact that we, as humans, seem to be imbued not only with a sense of memory, an sentient awareness of the continuity of time and our place in it, but also with a recognition of the powers and weaknesses of our own recollection machinery; we still manage to find ourselves completely surprised by the cold.

It's cold now, and we had our first significant snowfall last night. I use the word significant to indicate a level of snow that is quantifiable, and which does not turn immediately to an awful slush upon hitting the wet ground. Soon, the ground we'll freeze, and stay frozen for several months, and any snow that falls will stay here, glued to the ground, slowly subliming into the atmosphere on sunny days.

Thoughts on Punctuation

2009-11-25T12:26:00.002-05:00

The pages of his notebook, worn from years of use,

yellow on the edges, the edges now blowing in the warm breeze,

and salt, true sea salt from the sea,

spreads in ripples across the perforations and dots small dunes,

quizzical patterns forcing him to ponder the lines and the writing on the page;

those pages are the ones I am talking about,

those pages flutter softly now,

and they have since he arrived,

and they sit on a small wicker chair,

and every line is dotted with a firm period.

The Conquistador's Journal

2009-11-18T11:45:00.003-05:00

He closed the book, and tightened his eyes against the highlighted truth.
It had not always been this way, he thought.
I had not always been this weak.

Where had the time gone? He wondered as he drove away.
Gravel flies far in cold air.
Maybe he could fly far.
He's already cold, the difference between now and then seems forever, seems distant.
He's around the corner now.
He's down the road.
The houses whip by in a whirling blur of subatomic light, blinding.
When will his vision recover?

A map lies crumpled at the floor.
Notes dot the edges, trace winding paths that lead to her heart.
He can't reach for it, can't stop. Tears blur at the corners of this single-sided, two-dimensional world.
He won't flip over if he reaches the edge.
He won't stay stuck, like a magnet on the kitchen fridge.
He'll catapult off.
He'll stop being, and start not being, and the before he knows it, the race is over.

Ice in the Sky

2009-10-31T14:13:00.002-05:00

Like spikes driving through the back of your head,
Cold metal,
Wiped,
Cleaned,
Until the stench of sterile steel stuffs down into every pore.

You concentrate on the spikes driving through the back of your head,
They hurt less when you think about them.

You adjust your grip.

You focus your brain.

You turned inwards, rotate your eyes on their axis,
Racing messages on trembling axons.

You examine what you have failed to destroy for the majority of your life.

The power that lies on the very tips of your fingers, coiled like a spring, seems to you the distance of the Grand Canyon.

You are at the bottom looking up.

You tighten your spring and begin your ascent.

The Struggle

2009-09-23T21:28:00.002-05:00

The air blows cold on my outstretched arms
I feel my fingers wrap around
I speak words slowly
I think slowly
The dirt caked on my hands breaks into fine lined spider web designs

The air blows cold on your outstretched legs
Sunlight speckles stutter across
You move your face
You move your face again
Patterns of purpose prepare a march across your prosperous thighs

Between every crack on the wall
And every crack on the ceiling
We find ourselves, finding ourselves
An eternal struggle

A Capacity for Learning

2009-08-06T14:35:00.003-05:00

The swell of emotions revolves around the parabolic tip of a hypodermic needle
And like its planet of origin
Revolves two-fold
Around a center of gold.

But watch! For once in its rotation it reaches a points that lies between fine-tuned vertices
And the plunging swells sweep up from underneath
And beneath this, lies, without feeling
Everything you feared thinking.

Are we that powerless? Can we not change the mundane orbit of our intersecting existences?
Logic reminds us no
But watch! For once in its rotation it reaches a point that lies between fine-tuned vertices,
The miracle within, becoming without beginning,
And quite becoming,
Returns to where it started.

A Tremenous Ocean

2009-07-27T20:12:00.003-05:00

I had a dream in which I stood on the face of a tremendous ocean,
which spanned in every direction expect the one I came from.
And that the motion of the sea mirrored the motion inside,
and that the beasts of the deep moved from the inside.

I dreamed that in time, with time, the hopeless rhymes of hopeless men,
oscillating wildly between heaven and hell, between the lovely and the sane,
would resound against mountainous waves, and reverberate down valleys of water.
These things lose their values, redefined amidst a tremendous ocean.

For love and for learning and most assuredly for life, we undertake tedious tacks,
and lose tremendous distance, and sacrifice tremendous gains.
During the night, and during the calms, we call ourselves tremendous, primary projections on an oceanic existence.
But during the storms and when the valleys crash around us, and the books we read when we were young lose their meaning, we lose ourselves and submit.

Thoughts on Books

2009-07-15T12:53:00.003-05:00

Holy smokes, have I read a lot this summer. I suppose its all relative; after coming out of 8 months of controlled and intense college curriculum, I finally have the time and disposable income necessary to properly tend my addiction to reading. In all honesty, I have bought very few books this summer, most notably borrowing Centennial from my mother which initiated a slight Michener-craze (I followed Centennial with Space). I found Michener's style to be irritating at times (not in a Dan Brown-type sense), however his ability to put the reader in the exact place and time his story is set in is a truly remarkable skill. After awhile I gave up caring about shallow, underdeveloped characters and began to appreciate the fact that Michener was describing a world to me instead of simply telling a story. Quite rewarding.

I found time while I was reading both of these rather large books to polish off two slightly smaller books. Again, I spent no money on either, instead relying upon the generously stuffed bookcase of my girlfriend. Breakfast of Champions by Kurt Vonnegut and Freakonomics by Steven Levitt. Freakonomics reminded me of when, in 9th grade, I decided to read The World is Flat and subsequently worked the word "globalization" into very school-assigned essay I wrote. Easy and fun, equal parts intriguing and idiotic, I believe I read it in a single day (not that I believe speed is a good measure of enjoyment, or even less, understanding). Breakfast of Champions just confused me, but I'm using the strenous nature of last semester as my excuse for lacking the specific literary gravitas to appreciate Vonnegut's adolescent, glandular-disorderesque whining.

After these four books, Sarah reccomended (and lent me) Pillars of the Earth by Ken Follet. Chock-full of uncomfortable rape scenes, Pillars of the Earth left me bewildered. I thoroughly enjoyed long sections, only to be interrupted by a random and graphic scene that left me reeling. Perhaps its my over-developed sense of self-righteousness that left me indignant at the sort of content I wouldn't have batted an eye at if I watched on a TV show. Whatever the case may be, I think I will pick up the sequel before the end of the summer.

While I was in Maine, I picked up Crime and Punishment by Fyodor Dostoyevsky and Pride and Prejudice and Zombies (a rewritten version of the romantic classic by Jane Austen). Crime and Punishment is, in a way, a sort of self-inflicted torture. It is, by no means, an enjoyable book. However, when I sit down with it on the train ride home and painstakingly march through 20 or 30 pages, I am reminded of my English AP class in high school, as well as the English courses I took during my first year of college. I learned a long time ago that you don't need to like a book to appreciate it, and Crime and Punishment, while terribly dull is one of those books in which runs a electric and exciting undercurrent just waiting for someone to tap into. Reading the introduction (and analysis by contemporary critics), and applying some of my own literary evaluation to it is an exciting, if not terribly rewarding experience. Perhaps the only reason I am having trouble breezing though is because the book was originally written in Russian.

Pride and Prejudice and Zombies, on the other hand, is a simple and fun book which Sarah took upon herself to lend her considerable voice talent to on the car ride back from Maine. As a result, I am waiting until she returns from vacation on the Cape, so that we can finish reading it together.

However, today I made the realization that I may have to commit the rest of my summer to a book that is not my ideal choice: the 8th Edition of Calculus.

Until next time,
Andrew

Thoughts on the Summer

2009-07-14T19:22:00.003-05:00

I started my summer class this morning at 8:30. I'm taking Calculus II at a satellite campus (which lies about 30 minutes down the train tracks from me). The city of Stamford is quite pleasant, and the refreshing sense of freedom I am experiencing this week at home alone was further intensified by the beautiful weather and the fact that I biked to and from the train station. The walk from the Stamford train station to the Stamford campus was extremely pleasant, and made me wish I had never given up rollerblading.

The class itself seems good enough. My professor, a quiet looking man who pushes his sarcasm through a thick Italian accent is eccentric and just disorganized enough to make him appealing. The class is large, and I have a feeling I won't strike up real friendships with anyone in the class, despite several lively conversations today. It seems that the electric anxiety that courses through most classes during the first meeting has been diluted to some degree by the relaxed summer-time atmosphere. We skipped review and plunged straight into the first chapter, and when I got home I finished five of the recommended review problems.

In other news, I just recently returned from a trip to Acadia National Park, in Maine. I stayed five days there with Sarah, and despite rainy weather on the second-to-last day (which consequently ruined a potential whale-watching cruise), the trip was tremendously enjoyable. I got a great deal of joy out of cooking my own food, trying (largely in vain) to start campfires in the face of adverse, rainy Maine weather; and the new experience of waking up to someone every morning and being perfectly content. There's no other way to describe it.

Undeniable Movements

2009-05-27T18:44:00.002-05:00

You are a sinking ship
Off the coast of my perception.
And every word we shared
without a care
only dragged you deeper.

These undeniable movements abound
and force us to bend backwards
quivering with anticipation
We take what we want
But what we want we hate
Because we, too, are undeniable.

So, in a dramatic fashion, we pass the time
And sculpt towering skyscrapers out of gold filigree using atomic bombs
Until we find that in the interval
The damned interval
There exists nothing but undeniable movements.

And we are powerful in our own way.

New Songs

2009-05-12T18:01:00.001-05:00

Since getting back from college last weekend, I've been doing a lot of songwriting. I put an earlier piece of poetry (For Science) to music, and I like the way it came out. I began a song on the piano today. I haven't worked out a title for it yet, but I may post a video sometime soon. In addition, I'm hoping to play at an open mic sometime this summer.

For Science:

2009-04-06T19:09:00.003-05:00

Surrounded by pharmacy:
the science foretold
things that weren't written
and fixed what needs fixing
and changed the status quo
at a comfortable pace

Modern mechanists tell, always
sub-atomic secretaries to, and
with a fervor of mind begin, forever
tapping out telegraphic tendencies
Listen!
Moving along a doorway
And through a light
Always on the move; speeding
lightning streaks across tiles on tables in kitchens in Kenya
until...

The end result is, in the end, the end
And no amount of calculations
can yield reliable algorithms
to the quiet ticking
inside
.

Thoughts on Contrails

2009-03-31T17:33:00.003-05:00

This picture was taken by a friend of my, and I included it in the April issue of the newsletter that I run. It's a really nice picture, obviously, and shows just how beautiful the sunsets can be up here.

Master Marathon

2009-03-31T17:27:00.003-05:00

Master Marathon, ahead of the pack
Thinking in miles and breathing wrung-out air
He pulls and pushes and transforms
Until the goals that were so far are now so fair

And then he slips through a light
and all the who's, whats, and hows
disappear into a blistering cloud
of whens, whys, and wherewithal.

Inside Out

2009-03-31T17:25:00.003-05:00

And then there was nothing.
And it was worse than before.
Carefully articulated nothings.
And disaffected somethings.
As if nothing could ever work.

And then there was a dream.
Brilliant, bright, illuminating mirror.
A dream, it would seem, would be
to feel all that can't be felt.
As if nothing would ever work.

And while we're talking,
let's not forget to mention
The Sky.
Infinite, infinite, empty.
As if nothing could ever work.

Lovely Typos

2009-03-12T19:28:00.002-05:00

I am on spring break right now, a week long hiatus from school work. And for me, that is more true than for many students. A lot of my friends have papers due after break or assignments that need to be emailed before we return to school. It is not without a bit of irony that a lot of these students are the same ones who have large and fantastical plans for break. Going on a vacation to some exotic (and some not) place where the alcohol is cheap and the music is loud. I don't feel as if these people have it bad. In fact, I would be lying if I said I wasn't a bit envious of their ability to spend time with careless impunity. I am left in the peculiar spot where I have nothing to do over break AND nothing due over break. Alright, maybe that is not entirely true, I have a few obscure english readings to do, but it has sort of become custom for me to do my english readings right before english class, and being a man of custom, I'd be hesitant to break tradition. With all of this spare time on my hands I have powered through more than a half of a season of Lost, played probably 50 games of MTG with my brother, and accomplished very little real reflection. Today I had a road trip, visiting someone who was sick. She was very glad to see me, and I know how simultaneously helpless and frustrated you can feel being sick on vacation. I got the chance to listen to new music on the way back, and I have to say one and a half hours of driving with nothing but music to listen to you forces you to think a little bit. While I came to no outlandishly unique or refreshing conclusions, I can say now, with a bit more confidence than before, that I have less and less of an idea of what I want to do with my life. I must admit, college had provided with the tools and experiences to more accurately approach what I would consider to be my "ideal" focus of studies. That is to say, what I enjoy the most and what I find most intellectually exhilirating. However, this perfect niche I seemed to have found myself has no obvious counterpart in the world of adult employment and I must say, that at the end of the day, the ratio of the time I spend enjoying what I'm studying to the time I spend worrying amount my future has become unpleasantly disproportionate.

On the upside, my interim advisor this semester is an extremely pleasant Frenchwoman. There are some days where I wish I had taken French in high school instead of Spanish.

The Ones Who Listen

2009-03-12T19:26:00.001-05:00

Who hears the music?
The person who hears music?
Or the person who doesn't?
Who listens to reason?
The person who reasons?
Or the person who doesn't?
Who finds purpose in life?
The person who has purpose?
Or the purpose who doesn't?

Tell me, where are the answers, and how can I find them without changing myself?
Tell me, where are the others who despite all the changes remind me of myself?

Thoughts on Writing

2009-02-01T18:28:00.003-05:00

Hey all. The new year is going pretty well so far. I like my new classes, and have even gotten the opportunity to snag some research work with faculty members in the Anthropology department. In addition, I'm chairing the newsletter committee for the Honors Council here, and I've gotten the opportunity to meet some really fantastic people. In other news, I'm playing a lot of guitar and a lot of piano lately (following my friend introducing me to the music building and its copious amount of sound-insulated practice rooms---all with pianos). I've also gotten addicted to the card game Magic, and have invested several of my hard earned Aquarium dollars into a few cards. And to top everything off, I've finally gotten around to starting Zelda: Twilight Princess, which I haven't gotten the chance to play yet. Yes, I am aware that it was released almost three years ago, and the part of me that loved Ocarina of Time almost died in the interval. I can't believe I have avoided playing Zelda for so long. It's a blast.

However, the most exciting, and I believe most important, new development is a story I am currently working on. As of right now, it is only ten or twelve pages, and I don't see it developing into anything longer than a forty or fifty page novella. However, I have a firm idea of what I want out of it, and I feel like I am striking the exact spot with my writing; that ideal balance between Ernest Hemingway and Gabriel Garcia Marquez. I might post some of it up here in awhile.

Until later,
Andrew

Tales from Oregon Pt. 4

2009-01-15T12:32:00.002-05:00

12/18/2008 (continued)

I have these memories of white-washed adobe walls, half in cool blue shadow and half lit up in blinding white sunlight. I have memories of blue skies bordered not by anything visually tangible but bordered instead by this sense of dizzying, awe-inspiring height. A reversal of vertigo, in which I am struck most viscerally, by an immeasurable vertical distance. I am not in fear of a downward fall but instead passionately intrigued by some vertical ascent. I once had a dream in which I was sent to live in this large valley bordered on all sides by towering cliffs, and with some sort of ceiling too high for me to see but impossible to ignore. An underground valley, but flooded with sunlight. I remember that upon waking from this dream I was hit with a strong sense of nostalgia, like this pit of my stomach filled with a thousand memories, not al mine, and I was, for a fleeting moment, aware of myself.

I suppose one of the reasons I came to Oregon to visit my grandfather was a desire to capture that ethereal essence of my early childhood. The part that I don't remember, enshrouded by notions of romantic, California fiction. Oh, I am a Romantic, I cannot hope to deny the way that my mind is inflated by things like poetry, music, and conversations and upon these warm winds rises up into the cool plane upon which it has space and instrumentation to allow its most undefined and mysterious faculties to engage their better natures and frolic amongst the memories of things that have passed and things yet to come. I am fully committed to the notion that humans have the capacity for Romantic escape, a capacity to, in times of stress and in times of peace, rise above the present reality and do...what? I cannot pretend to know.

It's almost 9:00 and I have to get up and take a shower before eating breakfast. I plan to read a lot today.

The End

Tales from Oregon Pt. 3

2009-01-10T14:24:00.002-05:00

(and a happy New Year)

12/17/2008

I am struck by the intellectual impotence of these people. They seem to be aware of their inability to change or alter anyone's opinion in any meaningful way. They are smart, and experienced, but they have over time, lost that mysterious faculty that enables one person to influence another.

12/18/2008

It's 8:00 in the morning and I'm sitting up in bed listening to the rain pattering against the window pane. It's the storm that was supposed to come in sometimes yesterday afternoon but which rolled in later, as I was preparing to go to sleep. It was roaring a few hours ago, with strong gusts of wind blowing against the side of the house. I've always found that I sleep better when its raining outside, but I kept waking up last night. However, I'm not exhausted for lack of sleep. I think its because I went to sleep so early last night, around 9:00. I remember when I was young and I went to sleep every night at 8:00 on the dot. I'd be up at 6:00 the next morning, and the days would last forever.

There is a strange pseudo-reality that seems to hover on the periphery of every memory I have of my early childhood. I say "early" her out of a need to differentiate between the two parts of my childhood, the first and the second. The before and the after.I moved from California to Connecticut when I was seven years old, and I have remembered almost everything about my life since then. Everything before that is hazy and jumbled with occasional patches of striking clarity. The nature of memory has always intrigued me, and I am compelled to assume that the reason for this dramatic change in recollection quality, from cloudy to clear, stems from the dramatic change of that transnational move. Suddenly my life was bifurcated and my forced realized of the transient nature of my existence, my life in California, subconsciously forced me to take a stronger and sharper perception of everything that has happened since.

My memory of my early childhood, however, is not completely realistic. It cannot be. There are things I remember which float aimlessly though the bubbles of clarity, inter-mixing with the real. They are strange artifacts, these pseudo-memories of quasi-realities. They consist of a varied multitude of things, hitting every level of my senses with their vivid unrealism.

to be continued

Christmas

2008-12-25T21:02:00.002-05:00

Merry Christmas, everybody. This year we had a total of 8 or 9 presents under our tree. We decided about a month ago that we were going to have a small Christmas this year, and I am so glad that we did, because this has been the best Christmas I have ever had. We (and by 'we' I mean the extensive collection of my immediate family -- my mother, my brother, and I) decided to put a large part of the money we normally would have spent on presents that would go largely unappreciated towards a local or national charitable or non-profit group. I have decided to put my ~$100 towards the Sierra Club, an organization I have immense respect for, and a personal connection with given my parents extensive participation in the Club during their younger years.

In addition to that, I spent a wonderful day in New York City the day before Christmas Eve with my girlfriend, Sarah. I have not written about her yet, and am hesitant to, not because of some strange feeling of setting things in stone that may be only temporary, but because I feel I can not do justice to how amazing a person she is. Like a painter attempting to recreate or describe a perfect scene, I cannot hope to articulate how perfect she is -- not as a person, but for me, perfect in the way she fits who I am as a person. She is subtle and understated and largely quiet...things that I am not. She is strikingly intelligent, and yet is so personable and so approachable and so humble -- all things which I find trouble doing. And while she is in many ways the complete opposite of my extrovertive, overcompensating, and highly excitable personality I find myself irrevocably attracted to her. Best of all, I feel as if she appreciates the way that I complement her own personality.

And if that wasn't enough, I have a wonderful selection of books to read over this break including finishing up my second reading of my all-time favorite epic 100 Years of Solitude, War and Peace, and The World Without Us. To top it off, Sarah got me, for Christmas, A Moveable Feast my Ernest Hemingway. My love for Hemingway is rooted in the very core of my appreciation for and fascination with the English language and literature in general. That book is also featured in City of Angels, which is one of my favorite movies. I cannot imagine a more perfect gift.

Until next time (and with more updates from Oregon),

Andrew

Tales from Oregon Pt. 2

2008-12-22T01:18:00.000-05:00

12/16/2008

My grandfather had me a captive audience. In spite of his wife’s persistent warnings stories began to trickle out of him like water from a leaking container, until the stories themselves took on a sort of self-persuasive force and combined they pushed into the open. With little regard for continuity and held together by the slightest of segues, stories begin to flow out of him at an accelerated and exhilarating pace.

He told me the story of his experiences in Hawaii in the months leading up to Pearl Harbor. He told me how he was 17 years old, and was ticketed for taking his dad’s Plymouth down the road at 90 miles an hour with 5 of his friends in the car. He told me how is license was taken away for 60 days, and how he went to the DMV on December 6, 1941 to get it back. He told me how he signed up for the National Guard the on December 8th. He told me how he got rose through the ranks to Staff Sergeant, before being demoted when they realized he was only 17 years old. He told me how, over the next two years he worked his way back up to Tech Sergeant from Private. He told me how, after his contract with the National Guard was up, he signed up for the U.S. Army as a cargo-specialist, routing supplies through Hawaii to the various armies fighting in the Pacific Theater.

Tales from Oregon Pt. 1

2008-12-19T14:23:00.003-05:00

Right now I'm sitting in front of my gate at Eugene Airport in Eugene, Oregon. My plane leaves in about an hour and a half. It's a very clean, very small airport and they have free public Wi-Fi which is ridiculously fast, so all-in-all I'm pretty happy right now. I love traveling of course, but its always nice to have the experience go smoothly without hectic lines and crowded terminals with crying babies. Damn those babies.

Alright, to avoid going off on a tangent about babies, I'll get straight to the point. For the last week I've been staying in Oregon with my estranged grandfather. When I arrived in Eugene last Monday and walked up to his car, I got the chance to see him for the first time in my entire life. This trip (paid for by him) is sort of a last-ditch effort to meet each other before he dies. He's 84 years old and physically quite frail. I can talk about him like this for hours, about what I learned and what I didn't learn, and whether or not my perception of him as a cowardly and selfish person who did little to support my mother growing up, and who divorced my grandmother as she laying dying in a hospital in order to marry the woman he had been having an affair with for years, has changed at all. I can talk about whether or not I was personally changed by this trip. And I plan to. Over the course of the next few days, I'll post up the entries I made in a journal I kept this week. I wrote down some of my thoughts, some of the stories he told me, and a whole lot of rambling. I'll edit it as I put it up, possibly differentiating the old from the new with bold formatting or something to that effect. Anyway, without any further ado, here is my first entry in this short Tales from Oregon series...

12/15/2008 (Monday)

This is a really clean plane. I’m on Delta Airlines Flight 1003 from JFK to Salt Lake City where I’ll catch my connecting flight to Eugene, Oregon. I planned on keeping a journal of sorts for this trip (I bought this writing pad specifically for that purpose a few weeks ago). However, I was on a roll with some Sudokus and probably wouldn’t have started writing at all if it hadn’t been for this girl sitting across the aisle from me. I have an aisle seat, and there’s a really, really thin guy sitting at my window. He’s kept it shut and is currently reading something with a full page black and white photo of Clint Eastwood on it. There’s no one in the seat between us, which is nice. I can put my laptop bag there (I don’t know why I brought my laptop, I have no idea if my grandfather is even aware of the existence of the internet), and have room in front of my own seat to stretch my legs. Across the aisle from me is a clean-looking guy with dark rimmed glasses and business pants. Another empty seat, and then the girl. She’s listening to an iPod and committing a lot of herself to scribbling furiously in a notebook full of yellowish unlined paper. She’s on her second pen now. A lock of hair keeps falling in front of her face which I imagine must be rather frustrating.

Having said all of this, I believe it’s important to note that I am not some hyper-observant creepy guy. I just get bored on planes quite easily. I can’t sleep and I’m forced to read or write or pretend to work on expert-level Sudokus. I’ve got my iPod on, lasting emo-rock from five years ago at a low murmur. All-American Rejects, Dashboard confessional, and some newer Jack’s Mannequin pay at the same volume as the cycling air conditioning system and the muted engines. I should point out that I enjoy flying immensely. I enjoy travel, and the feeling that accompanies watching the ground below sink into indistinguishable flecks of color. I like the transient in-between feeling I get at airports. I like to watch the baggage checkers and the TSA screeners do their things, seemingly numbed to the awe-inspiring concept of such expedited global connection. Of course, I am numbed much in the same way. I have to sit down and think about it before I realize how large and awesome we as humans have become; where we can hop on a plane and be thousands of miles away in just a few hours. But that’s the way with things. We grow comfortable with new ideas. I suppose this is good. If it wasn’t for eventual complacency, if we were continually amazed at our own inventiveness, at our own capacity for engineering our own miracles, we would grow stagnant, we would lose our desire to replace and reinvent.

Everyone tells me I should write. That’s what they tell me. “Andrew,” they say, in a tone that conveys authoritative guidance (occasionally bordering on patronizing), “You really have a gift. You should write.” I should write. I should write. I should write…what? There are moments where I enjoy writing, moments where the exhilarating feeling of being able to articulate your thoughts and emotions in a way that makes them accessible to everyone and anyone sweeps over me and I fall prey to notion of Romantic or transcendental thought. This seldom happens when I am writing something for class, and I seldom write anything outside of class, so I seldom experience this feeling. I’m not sure if I feel it right now, but I do know that my hand is cramping up, so I’m going to stop for now.

Now I’m on my flight to Eugene. The plane from Salt Lake City to Eugene was apparently delayed and then its engines broke and then they had to reroute another plane from Reno. So it ended up being about two hours late. However, I don’t think the time was wasted, because I got the chance to try out a new Odwalla drink, which is always an exciting experience for me.

I am sitting next to the girl I mentioned earlier. She sat down next to me as we were both waiting for the plane. Apparently we’re both headed to Eugene. We started talking. We’re still talking.

The Radical Middle Pt. 2

2008-11-25T20:15:00.003-05:00

The Radical Middle love their guns. Boy, oh boy, do they love their guns. The Radical Middle hold the 2nd Amendment up on a pedestal, a tribute to the radical liberties that our Revolutionary government pioneered in the face of overwhelming tyrannies. A government granting their citizens the right to own their own weapons was seen as the fortifying element of an American government run by the people of America and not by an elevated bureaucracy.

What has this resulted in? It's resulted in the Radical Middle's resentment in every limitation imposed by the Federal Government on gun ownership. They have resented the restriction of magazine sizes, the ban on assault weapons, and the limitation on where we as citizens can fire our guns. They believe that they have the right to use their guns to defend themselves, their property, and their loved ones. They believe that the Constitution grants them the right to own guns as a safeguard against the government, sort of a self-check system which, when it reaches critical mass will result in a complete overhaul and renovation. These people believe that our government, as it stands currently, is fast approaching this state, where they will be not only able to, but obligated to overthrow our government and replace it with one by the people.

Notions of government overhaul are as old as time. History will tell how the cycle of revolution, development, prosperity, degradation, and, finally, revolution again, runs.

to be continued>>>

The Radical Middle

2008-11-11T15:42:00.009-05:00

I, like many Americans, was both excited and relieved last Tuesday when Barack Obama was elected president over John McCain. I could tell you why, but I think that there is already enough rhetoric out there from both sides and there is little I can accomplish from adding to it. I will say that I appreciated both Obama's acceptance speech and John McCain's concession speech and feel that if America as a nation can accomplish this election peacefully its a testament to our strength as a nation and the merits of our democratic political system.

But I'm not here to talk about the election (Probably the most efficient way to grab attention in the blogosphere right now). I'm here to talk about The Radical Middle. When I say the Radical Middle I do not mean it in an oxymoronic fashion. I am not talking about moderates, or independents. I'm talking about people from America's middle. The mid West, the upper Great Lake Region, and of course, Texas. Anyone who has looked at that popular NYT graph showing democratic voting tendencies has observed what I am about to critique: the increased democratic leanings of America. From the West Coast to the East Coast states voted bluer in 2008 than ever before. You can read this evidence in several ways to make several conclusion based on several political stances. However, I was more concerned with the smudge of red in the middle. This election did not bring together the country in the way either candidate promised (although now Barack Obama is in a prime position to do so). It has had the effect of polarizing the voting base, 70% one way, and 30% the other.

After the election I made my weekly round of blogs and political sites. There were plenty of stories and entries detailing the democratic revolution or writing the GOP's obituary. I dismissed this as mere partisan adrenaline, venting excess excitement after the cataclysmic events of last week. What caught my attention was the blog of a friend I met online several years ago. I have known him (or her for all I know, although it should be noted that he doesn't strike me as the kind of person to lie about something like that) for over 7 years, and we were originally brought together my our mutual love of writing. He is committed to his anonymity, and maintains a blog which reveals little about himself or where he comes from. I, however, have come to learn several things about him in the many years I have known him, including the following: he is three or four years older than I and he lives somewhere in Northen-Central America, probably in the Western Great Lakes Region. For several years we shared our opinions on various things, ranging from music, to writing, to water guns and potato cannons. Two years ago, I started this blog and very soon after that, he provided me with the link to his. I saw this as a great opportunity to get to know him outside of web-forums (from which, at the point, I was slowly drifting away and now have completely detached myself). I have realized only within the span of the past year or so his political leanings, which can be best described as radical libertarianism. He is a staunch supporter of gun rights, freedom from taxes, and appears to me to be a stern believer in the destruction of all things Federal.

It is worthy to note that he is unlike any radical libertarian I ever met (which is interesting considering I have never met him). He is articulate to an extraordinary degree, and from what I have read of his work (consisting of several short novels, some short stories, and collections of essays) he is able to express himself through the written word in an aggressive, eloquent, and above all influential way. I would venture to say that if we as humans are destined for one thing, he would be compelled to be a writer of intense and inspiring condition.

So when he writes from a position of radical conservatism, it is not without a sense of eloquence and thought. His arguments take upon themselves a grace of movement; each portion of his work seamlessly integrating with the next. His work also seems to take upon itself a matter or prophetic self realization, setting ultimatums for America that must be broken in order to feed the fire of his work. In so doing he has created a portal into a rare and often ignored segment of the American populace; The Articulate Radical Middle.

Hearing this term would cause much anger among the radical middle blogosphere, although ironically it is their own actions that continue to perpetuate the stigma of an articulate radical front. I will here implement the tools of an anthropological researcher (which I believe may be good preparation for cognitive anthropological research I will be conducting within my major next semester) in the hopes of distinguishing the character of this section of the American populace and analyzing there place in the changing dynamic of American society that was, if not initiated by, than definitely alluded to in the last election. This assessment is not based on exhaustive observation and I hold no doubts that it will contain several elements of speculation. Often times this speculation will be conducted through the lens of a liberal mindset, although I will actively work to reduce the effect of this on my writing. My primary goal in conducting this assessment is to provide some foundation from which an explanation for the political stance and social motivations of such people as my friend from America (taken here in the most profound sense) can be based.

The Radical Middle exists without a time machine, something that they seem perpetually disturbed by. They appear to view time as a malignant agent, that the change that has been brought by ravishing forces of time has created an erosion of American values. They have seen the disastrous effects of war and governmental changes and wish now for nothing more than a return to the time of the American revolution, when the values of independence and personal freedoms were able to stand in the face of tyranny and overwhelming economic, political, and military might. When an army of slaves defeated an army of masters. They have taken this time period and assigned it a place in the psyche most normally reserved for matters of religious reverence. And why not? What did the term "manifest destiny" mean if not "by god"? Were we as a people not destined to expand to cover this continent from east to west, from forest to plain, from mountain to valley and in the process create a new land, free from the turmoils of Europe and free of the oppressions of traditional government? To forge a new government by the people and for the people? This is an idea that most anyone can identify with, it is this "American" idea of nationalism that has pervaded the very essence of our national being. This is what it means to be an American at the very core level. This is what the Radical Middle believes.

The Radical Middle believes that the forces of time and such evil institutions as globalization have weakened our ability to defend our rights domestically. We have stretched ourselves too thin, put our fingers into too many cookie jars and int he process have run into a dilemma. As our businesses opened in Moscow and Beijing and as our military defended South American airbases, we were no longer able to successfully maintain our traditional Revolutionary government. The government by the people and for the people ceased to be and in its place sprang up a new and terrifying replacement. Based on the ideals of old European imperialism, our new government sought hegemonic authority over personal liberty, sought international power over the stabilization and maintenance of the will of the people at home. As a result of this our government grew, bloated in on itself, would collapse under it's own weight if it wasn't held up by the struts of new taxes, new institutions, and larger more centralized authority. Drawing from the hardworking middle class, America transformed hard earned incomes into federal revenue and used this money not for domestic revitalization but to secure interests abroad. The American government of today is not the same government that existed during the revolutionary war. It now resembles the very same British Empire we strove to secure our freedom from back in the 1700s. Understanding and realizing this transformation is key to understanding the views of the Radical Middle. America is not the same now as it was before, and it is up to us as a people to make our government ours again.

It is important to note now how this mentality has effected the cultural and civil activity patterns of The Radical Middle. Fast becoming an anachronism, they strive to keep themselves as separate from the Federal government as they can. What does this result in? Lower faith in the effectiveness of government reduces voting rates among The Radical Middle. Lower faith in the effective implementation of tax programs increases tax evasion and other related crimes. Increased emphasis on personal protection results in increased firearms felonies. The general observable trend is decreased active participation in government in lieu of personal isolationist strategy coupled with increased criminal activity. However, it is important to note that The Radical Middle rarely conflicts with other members of society, because they often isolate themselves into population areas of shared interest.

At this point it becomes necessary to describe the revolutionary path of The Radical Middle. This program of social and political rehabilitation involves a dramatic reshaping of American politics, stripping away superfluous agencies and governmental organizations until the only thing that is left is that same revolutionary government that stood at the conclusion of the war for independence.

to be continued>>>

The Human

2008-10-15T09:17:00.002-05:00

So, college is off to a pretty good start. I'm about a month and a half into it, and the semester is already halfway over. When I started taking midterms a few weeks ago I was a little freaked out. However, my distress was soon replaced by wonderful feeling of pride as I got an A+ on a political science exam. My classes are hard, but not so hard that I don't see a chance of making them harder for myself next semester. And I've found myself doing work at odd hours of the day. This is quite unusual for me who all through high school was accustomed to finishing projects and assignments the night before. I'm not sure if I've been swept up by the spirit of college level academia, but I do know that I'm learning things now that I really enjoy instead of learning things with a sort of resentment.

And my learning hasn't been restricted to the classroom. I've joined a number of clubs and activities. I was in the library the other day, putting the finishing touches on a project for one club when I stumbled upon a really old Anatomy textbook. It had been sitting on the table that I was working at and during periods of writer's block (roughyl every two minutes or so), I would flip open the book and learn something about some odd part of the body. I found it absolutely fascinating, to the point where I checked out the book on my way out. Due to some strange alignment of the planets I have gotten into the honors program here at my university. One of the strange advantages of being in this program is the ability to check out books for extended periods of time. So now I have an anatomy book until April.

Thoughts on Music

2008-09-29T11:23:00.007-05:00

I've got two songs for you, my lovely readers, today. The first is one I hope you're very familiar with. By this time, I have probably mentioned Death Cab for Cutie a few hundred times. In case you missed those, let me tell you now that they are my favorite band, and quite possibly the second best thing in the world, after watching eating hot tomato soup while watching a Globe Trekker marathon while you stay home from school during the seventh grade. This song is Soul Meets Body, the first song I ever listened to by Death Cab. And while I may listen to Death Cab constantly during normal periods of my life, this song has particular resonance with me now, as next weekend I journey to another concert with my little brother. Needless to say, I'm pretty excited. The second song is one I've been listening to non-stop for the past week or so. It's titled "Sinnerman" by Nina Simone. There's a good chance that you've have heard some version of it by this point in your life. It's an older song, but one of the few I've ever listened to that has taken me back in time for the duration of the song. I find it simply terrific.

Red Eye

2008-09-11T12:04:00.002-05:00

I want to take you where the sun shines in glistening waves
Where light from the sky mixes with the air
in new and enlightening ways

Far from here where the sounds of trains and cars
sound distant like a memory

This place despite judgements past and present
exists in a sense most real
for in my mind I can't help but sense
the glistening shimmering fields

Natural Selection

2008-09-11T10:40:00.002-05:00

One week ago I found myself surfing the internet, doing a little bit of searching on Wikipedia. I think you know the kind I'm talking about. The kind where you start by searching something possibly related in some way to something in your life, perhaps an assignment in class or a subject brought up in conversation. As you read the article on this first topic you click a link to something else you find interesting. For example, I might be researching the Segway personal transporter (something I do far too often for my own good), as I might click a link to learn more about electric motors. From the page I'll link to something about the physics of electricity, and then onto a page describing the life and times of British scientist William Sturgeon and so on and so forth until I wind up at a page describing platform screen doors and learning how they prevent suicides. In this way I hop from one subject to another, never staying long enough to learn anything substantial but covering enough topics to get me past the first few rounds of Who Wants to Be a Millionaire? Is that show even still around? Wait, yes it is. If you haven't already discovered this for yourself, you've no doubt discovered just how fun such a process can be, like six degrees from Kevin Bacon except with things that matter slightly more.

Thoughts on McCain/Palin

2008-09-07T13:59:00.002-05:00

They're actually not my thoughts at all, but I thought that this NYT article summed it up pretty well. And while at that moment I may be slightly too tired to articulate my own opinions, it doesn't mean that my lovely constituent of readers should deny themselves access to an educated (if slightly partisan) opinions on the matter.

Source: http://www.nytimes.com/2008/09/07/opinion/07rich.html?_r=2&ref=opinion&oref=slogin&oref=slogin
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Palin and McCain’s Shotgun Marriage

By FRANK RICH

Published: September 6, 2008

SARAH PALIN makes John McCain look even older than he is. And he seemed more than willing to play that part on Thursday night. By the time he slogged through his nearly 50-minute acceptance speech — longer even than Barack Obama’s — you half-expected some brazen younger Republican (Mitt Romney, perhaps?) to dash onstage to give him a gold watch and the bum’s rush.

Still, attention must be paid. McCain’s address, though largely a repetitive slew of stump-speech lines and worn G.O.P. orthodoxy, reminded us of what we once liked about the guy: his aspirations to bipartisanship, his heroic service in Vietnam, his twinkle. He took his (often inaccurate) swipes at Obama, but, in winning contrast to Palin and Rudy Giuliani, he wasn’t smug or nasty.

The only problem, of course, is that the entire thing was a sham.

As is nakedly evident, the speech’s central argument, that the 72-year-old McCain will magically morph into a powerful change agent as president, is a non sequitur. In his 26 years in Washington, most of it with a Republican in the White House and roughly half of it with Republicans in charge of Congress, he was better at lecturing his party about reform than leading a reform movement. G.O.P. corruption and governmental dysfunction only grew. So did his cynical flip-flops on the most destructive policies of the president who remained nameless Thursday night. (In the G.O.P., Bush love is now the second most popular love that dare not speak its name.)

Even more fraudulent, if that’s possible, is the contrast between McCain’s platonic presentation of his personal code of honor and the man he has become. He always puts his country first, he told us: “I’ve been called a maverick.” If there was any doubt that that McCain has fled, confirmation arrived with his last-minute embrace of Sarah Palin.

We still don’t know a lot about Palin except that she’s better at delivering a speech than McCain and that she defends her own pregnant daughter’s right to privacy even as she would have the government intrude to police the reproductive choices of all other women. Most of the rest of the biography supplied by her and the McCain camp is fiction.

She didn’t say “no thanks” to the “Bridge to Nowhere” until after Congress had already abandoned it but given Alaska a blank check for $223 million in taxpayers’ money anyway. Far from rejecting federal pork, she hired lobbyists to secure her town a disproportionate share of earmarks ($1,000 per resident in 2002, 20 times the per capita average in other states). Though McCain claimed “she has had national security as one of her primary responsibilities,” she has never issued a single command as head of the Alaska National Guard. As for her “executive experience” as mayor, she told her hometown paper in Wasilla, Alaska, in 1996, the year of her election: “It’s not rocket science. It’s $6 million and 53 employees.” Her much-advertised crusade against officials abusing their office is now compromised by a bipartisan ethics investigation into charges that she did the same.

How long before we learn she never shot a moose?

Given the actuarial odds that could make Palin our 45th president, it would be helpful to know who this mystery woman actually is. Meanwhile, two eternal axioms of our politics remain in place. Americans vote for the top of the ticket, not the bottom. And in judging the top of the ticket, voters look first at the candidates’ maiden executive decision, their selection of running mates. Whatever we do and don’t know about Palin’s character at this point, there is no ambiguity in what her ascent tells us about McCain’s character and potential presidency.

He wanted to choose the pro-abortion-rights Joe Lieberman as his vice president. If he were still a true maverick, he would have done so. But instead he chose partisanship and politics over country. “God only made one John McCain, and he is his own man,” said the shafted Lieberman in his own tedious convention speech last week. What a pathetic dupe. McCain is now the man of James Dobson and Tony Perkins. The “no surrender” warrior surrendered to the agents of intolerance not just by dumping his pal for Palin but by moving so far to the right on abortion that even Cindy McCain seemed unaware of his radical shift when being interviewed by Katie Couric last week.

That ideological sellout, unfortunately, was not the worst leadership trait the last-minute vice presidential pick revealed about McCain. His speed-dating of Palin reaffirmed a more dangerous personality tic that has dogged his entire career. His decision-making process is impetuous and, in its Bush-like preference for gut instinct over facts, potentially reckless.

As The New York Times reported last Tuesday, Palin was sloppily vetted, at best. McCain operatives and some of their press surrogates responded to this revelation by trying to discredit The Times article. After all, The Washington Post had cited McCain aides (including his campaign manager, Rick Davis) last weekend to assure us that Palin had a “full vetting process.” She had been subjected to “an F.B.I. background check,” we were told, and “the McCain camp had reviewed everything it could find on her.”

The Times had it right. The McCain campaign’s claims of a “full vetting process” for Palin were as much a lie as the biographical details they’ve invented for her. There was no F.B.I. background check. The Times found no evidence that a McCain representative spoke to anyone in the State Legislature or business community. Nor did anyone talk to the fired state public safety commissioner at the center of the Palin ethics investigation. No McCain researcher even bothered to consult the relevant back issues of the Wasilla paper. Apparently when McCain said in June that his vice presidential vetting process was basically “a Google,” he wasn’t joking.

This is a roll of the dice beyond even Bill Clinton’s imagination. “Often my haste is a mistake,” McCain conceded in his 2002 memoir, “but I live with the consequences without complaint.” Well, maybe it’s fine if he wants to live with the consequences, but what about his country? Should the unexamined Palin prove unfit to serve at the pinnacle of American power, it will be too late for the rest of us to complain.

We’ve already seen where such visceral decision-making by McCain can lead. In October 2001, he speculated that Saddam Hussein might have been behind the anthrax attacks in America. That same month he out-Cheneyed Cheney in his repeated public insistence that Iraq had a role in 9/11 — even after both American and foreign intelligence services found that unlikely. He was similarly rash in his reading of the supposed evidence of Saddam’s W.M.D. and in his estimate of the number of troops needed to occupy Iraq. (McCain told MSNBC in late 2001 that we could do with fewer than 100,000.) It wasn’t until months after “Mission Accomplished” that he called for more American forces to be tossed into the bloodbath. The whole fiasco might have been prevented had he listened to those like Gen. Eric Shinseki who faulted the Rumsfeld war plan from the start.

In other words, McCain’s hasty vetting of Palin was all too reminiscent of his grave dereliction of due diligence on the war. He has been no less hasty in implying that we might somehow ride to the military rescue of Georgia (“Today, we are all Georgians”) or in reaffirming as late as December 2007 that the crumbling anti-democratic regime of Pervez Musharraf deserved “the benefit of the doubt” even as it was enabling the resurgence of the Taliban and Al Qaeda. McCain’s blanket endorsement of Bush administration policy in Pakistan could have consequences for years to come.

“This election is not about issues” so much as the candidates’ images, said the McCain campaign manager, Davis, in one of the season’s most notable pronouncements. Going into the Republican convention, we thought we knew what he meant: the McCain strategy is about tearing down Obama. But last week made clear that the McCain campaign will be equally ruthless about deflecting attention from its own candidate’s deterioration.

What was most striking about McCain’s acceptance speech is that it had almost nothing in common with the strident right-wing convention that preceded it. We were pointedly given a rerun of McCain 2000 — cobbled together from scraps of the old Straight Talk repertory. The ensuing tedium was in all likelihood intentional. It’s in the campaign’s interest that we nod off and assume McCain is unchanged in 2008.

That’s why the Palin choice was brilliant politics — not because it rallied the G.O.P.’s shrinking religious-right base. America loves nothing more than a new celebrity face, and the talking heads marched in lock step last week to proclaim her a star. Palin is a high-energy distraction from the top of the ticket, even if the provenance of her stardom is in itself a reflection of exactly what’s frightening about the top of the ticket.

By hurling charges of sexism and elitism at any easily cowed journalist who raises a question about Palin, McCain operatives are hoping to ensure that whatever happened in Alaska with Sarah Palin stays in Alaska. Given how little vetting McCain himself has received this year — and that only 58 days remain until Nov. 4 — they just might pull it off.

Unusual Findings Pt.1

2008-09-03T13:30:00.003-05:00

Hey folks. I know updates have been a bit sparse, but fear not. I've got a post coming up (hopefully by the end of next week), that I've put quite a deal of thought into. And by "quite a bit", I of course mean very little at all. But I am proud of myself for the little bit of mental energy that I did invest. I think you might be pleasantly surprised as well.

In other news, college is going great.

My College Life Pt. 1

2008-08-23T07:40:00.003-05:00

You guessed it. Yesterday marked the first day of my exciting college career as I packed my life into my dad's Jeep and made the two hour trip up to my favorite state university. And contrary to what the image above might suggest, I've actually found my college experience so far to be fairly enjoyable. My room turned out to be a bit larger than I thought it would be, by roommate Hank is neither a psychopath or a recluse, but instead is a really smart and fun guy, and I've yet to suffer alcohol poisoning. But Andrew, you might say, isn't it a bit early to be making these conclusions? Yes, I suppose, none of the things above may remain true for very long, but for the time being they are and I'm enjoying it.

My IMAX Experience

2008-08-11T23:16:00.003-05:00

As my summer winds down, a startling fact has made itself evident: my employment at the aquarium is close to over. In two weeks I will pack my life into a variety of brightly colored bags and embark upon the next step of my collegiate experience. While this job has provided its share of stress, it has also helped me to figure out some things about myself. Some examples include:

1) Dealing with people is easier when you don't have to deal with like 10 billion of them.
2) Chaperones are utterly incompetent. It's just their nature.
3) When dealing with money, its best to feel absolutely paranoid and insecure at all times, to save yourself the trouble at the end of the day.

However, I think amongst all of the things I learned, one stands above all the rest:

Call of Duty 4 is a hella fun on IMAX.

That's right folks, yours truly got the chance to battle it out in an epic showdown with four of his compatriots after work one quiet Wednesday a week ago. This experience was without a doubt, the most awe-inspiring thing I have seen since the Grand Canyon (and even that seemed to lack something in the masculinity department). The person who got all of this started was our fun loving projectionist Dave who, between sky diving trips, managed to convince the aquarium administration to let him hook up an Xbox 360 to the smaller projector in the IMAX theater. When I say smaller, I mean in the sense that it does not fill up the entire screen. Rest assured however, that when I calculated the square footage of the screen we were playing on, I found it to be comfortably larger than, say, any of the Baltic states.

A minor problem with this setup is that the game is also wired through the theater's 10 channel sound system that sounds as if its powered by that big glowy thing that Han Solo blew up inside the Death Star in Return of the Jedi. However, and I think any guy between the ages of 12 and 30 will agree with me, punctured ear drums is a small price to pay for such an ridiculously fun experience.

We hope to play again this week, maybe I can get some video. Updates to come.

Prelude

2008-08-07T15:19:00.002-05:00

I'm aware of the lack of updates to this blog this summer, and while I might try to explain them away by citing my increased work schedule or college preparation, the only real reason I can think of is a distinct lack of creative will. I've had plenty of inspiration, perhaps even more so than I experienced during the school year. Everyday at work, or on the train commuting to and from work, I have been witness to some of the most astounding examples of humanity. I mean that in the least profoundly stereotypical sense. I mean real people, people who I otherwise would have looked right through. Sitting on the 8:29 local train to New York every morning has forced me to take into consideration the people around me, if even on the most superfluous of levels. When I'm not lost in a book, or attempting to shake of the wispy fog of sleep, I have found creative refuge in the people around me, forcing my imagination to make the time pass. It's shown me that, despite what I may have thought, it's been awhile since I have really used my imagination that way. I'm talking about the old school, looking-at-people-and-inventing-their-life-stories-in-your-mind kind of way. And it's captivating, and darkly comic; providing what would normally be considered prime material with which to write about. So why haven't I taken such great inspiration and transposed it here?

I suppose the answer to that question would be found in the same place I'd find the answer to a lot of questions I've been asking myself lately, like: Why am I not as prone to argument anymore? Why am I not as sarcastic as I used to be? And, perhaps most disturbing: When was the last time I had a really good conversation?

Sitting here and thinking about those questions has provide me with a jolt of sorts, awaking in me a refreshed need to express myself.

Memoirs of a Human Looking at the Sky Pt. 2

2008-08-04T16:02:00.000-05:00

When the boy woke up the following morning, the first thing he did was pull on a pair of pants, pull the medal out from underneath his pillow where he hid it last night, and drop it deep into his pocket. He thought for a second. The ninjas hadn’t snuck in last night and stolen his medal. He fished it out of his pocket and studied it. It looked real; it’s sleek silver finish reflecting the yellow early morning light. The child ruled out the possibility that they had replaced the medal with a duplicate. In fact, he was beginning to doubt that he had seen any ninjas last night at all. He returned the medal to his pocket, ate breakfast, got his drawing pad, and left for the hill.

School had let out a while ago, and it was an exceptionally beautiful summer. By far the most beautiful the boy and ever seen. Although he was young, he was not too young to appreciate the golden sun, radiant warmth, and the blue sky. The sky was what interested this boy the most, and he spent a lot of his time each day fascinated by it. When he got to the hill, he smiled. There was no one else around. The hill was secluded, separated from the park by a stretch of tall, thick pine trees. The hill overlooked the river, a wide powerful current, which separated the land that the boy was familiar with, from the Beyond.

The Beyond had always fascinated the boy. He had flown over it in large planes with his family. He knew that other people lived in the Beyond. In fact, the Beyond had an actual name, the boy just chose to think of it the way he thought of it. The Beyond was fairly vast, a huge expanse of hills and valleys. Smatters of forest spread throughout the Beyond, and in the far distance lay the Mountains. They were grand jagged peaks of dark rock. At their base giant forest of trees covered the ground, however at this distance it just looked like smudges of green. At their peaks, snow gave the allusion of a white blanket covering the ground.

He loved the Beyond, he loved the Mountains, but, as I explained earlier, he loved the sky the most. Blue beyond comprehension, it baffled the child. Looking at it on a cloudless day it almost seemed like an optical illusion. It seemed two-dimensional as if a giant can of impossibly blue paint had been spilled across an expanse of paper. However, when clouds dotted the sky, there was no mistaking the depth of it. It seemed to go on forever, a vast expanse of blue. The clouds were enormous, humongous and white. They curved in and out, stretched thin in some places, and bunched up as thick as a mountain in other places. The boy’s father has explained to him the nature of clouds. How they are formed, and the different types. The boy’s first plane ride had been a bit of a killjoy. Despite the obvious excitement of being in a flying piece of metal, the boy was disappointed to see that the sky was still above you, and that when you flew through a cloud, you could hardly notice the thin wisps of fog comprising it.

However, the boy had long since decided that above where the planes flew lay the sky as he observed it. A great expanse of blue with giant mountains of clouds. An endless expanse.

<>
>I read your book, Mr. Shwang.
>You did?
>Yes. Dreams of Our World, Our Perspective, Our Fellow Humans, and Our Imagination.
>How did you like the section on tax evasion?
>I found it enjoyable and quite insightful. However, that wasn’t the section that interested me the most.
>Took me months of research.
>What?
>The section on tax evasion.
>Oh yes. Listen, I was more interested in the section you wrote on the creative development of children. How children learnt to see the world.
>Yes?
>Well, a recent series of events in the government has led to the creation of a sub-division inside of the SAFE. It’s called the DCC, or Department of Creative Control.
>Okay…
>Although I’m technically a secret agent, I think it’s right to be truthful with people, so I’m going to be frank with you. The purpose of the DCC is to attempt to control the creative processes of our nation’s children in hopes of making all of our citizens obedient and law abiding, whilst at the same time repressing any notion of individuality to create a conformist streamlined population of human drones.
>Sounds good.
>Wait, what? You’re okay with this plan? Most people object completely.
>Sounds okay to me. Law abiding, obedient citizens. Sounds like a swell plan.
>Oh…okay. Okay then. Great! Fantastic! I’m so glad that you’re okay with it.
>Where do I come in?
>Well, this is where we need you…
<>

Thoughts on Beautiful Mornings

2008-07-10T06:25:00.003-05:00

You can always tell that a day is going to go well when you start it off with a great morning. Now, I should clarify something: I am definitely a morning person, at least compared to both people my age. What I mean by that is that I am capable of not only waking up before 12 o'clock on a weekday, but I am also capably of doing other things within minutes of waking up including, but not limited to: getting out of bed, getting dressed, and feeding myself. These are things that would ordinarily consume roughly an hour or so of a normal teenagers immediate post-wake up time. However, I'm able to do it all in almost half that time.

Now, I don't mean to brag, although by this point I'm not going to make any excuses for my superiority complex. For me, mornings are extremely special. Because I tend to get up a bit earlier than most people (to walk my dog, Killer), mornings tend to be a very quiet and relaxing time. Occasionally I will find myself engaging in some serious reflection which is good. I think our modern society discourages taking time out to reflect and relax and while I am in no way advocating a nomadic, vagabond(ic?), hemp-filled lifestyle, I definitely believe that taking a few minutes off each day to do absolutely nothing but think is extremely important.

An important thing to realize at this point in my story is that I live in the Northeast. When most people think of the Northeast, they tend to think of really cold winters, rough fishermen, or (and this one if the most ridiculous of all for some very obvious reasons) New York City. However, what many people don't know is that during the summer, the lovely region of New England turns into Hell. The temperatures goes through the roof and accompanying the temperature is something that many people in the West are acquainted with: humidity. The humidity in my quaint New England town during the summer will occasionally reach levels that render most brain functions completely useless, and you start to perform the mental equivalent of a fish flopping around on dry land. The humidity is, in my humble opinion, quite a bit worse than the temperature.

Now normally, the morning provides something of a respite from the scorching heat and humidity. Often though, rolling out of bed from an air conditioned room and going outside to walk Killer is a pretty terrible experience and I have to prepare myself for it with rigorous and methodical mental training.

This morning however, proved different. When I opened our door and allowed Killer to perform her daily attempt to rip my arm from its socket via strenuous pulling on the leash, I realized that not only was the morning cool and clear with temperatures in the low 60's, but that there was virtually no humidity. Feeling my skin dry against the air was quite possibly the best feeling I've had since summer began (which isn't to say that my summer has been bad, just that I really enjoyed the weather this morning). There was a slight breeze, and bright sunshine. To top off this truly fantastic morning, the bugs that usually swarm around anything living were nowhere to be found. As a special treat to both myself and my dog, I embarked on an extra long walk this morning. I think we both deserved it.

Memoirs of a Human Looking at the Sky Pt. 1

2008-06-30T06:27:00.009-05:00

I said I wouldn't post anything today, but I felt like a small piece of writing would be a good way to end June and provide a transition to July. This is very old, from a few years ago. I thought up the general plot on my way home from school one day and never got around to fleshing out more than a few pages. I'll post the short story in segments, probably three or four total. Who knows, this might even motivate me to write up a rough ending for it.

Memoirs of a Human Looking at the Sky
Written by Andrew DeCoster
3/8/2006

The ninjas first attacked the boy the night he won his regional car design contest. Perhaps “attack” is not the correct word. “Observed” or “encountered” might be more suitable. They were obviously ninjas, what else could they be? There were four of them in all, clothed in black ninja suits, with billowing pants tucked into small black boots. They had their faces wrapped in back cloth, with only a slit of an opening for their eyes to peer out. On their backs, they carried ninja swords, short and sharp little one-handed swords used for stabbing mostly. The boy noticed them the moment he got out of the back seat of his mother’s car. They were there, waiting on the roof of his house, a bit hard to spot against the pitch-black night. However the boy saw them right away. They were not very good ninjas.

The boy had just returned from a design contest. He had won second place, a very reasonable spot among almost fifty other kids his age. Being young, his design wasn’t extraordinary. It did however possess a certain style to it, and his drawing skill helped to fill the gaps where his imagination left off. The car was a boxy little four-seater. He drew it using some brand new pencils fresh from the box. He had actually just drawn it that afternoon, although he had applied to the contest almost a week earlier. The small silver medal he had won was tucked deep inside of his jacket pocket, so no one would see it, and perhaps in a fit of jealousy take it. The boy was going to wait until after he was safe inside of his bed before examining his new object. However, now that the ninja’s had shown up, he began to panic. They were obviously there to take the medal from him. Any reasonable person would try to, the boy reasoned. It was shiny.

However the ninjas didn’t attempt to take his medal. In fact they didn’t move at all. They just watched him and fidgeted around on the roof. His mother, for some reason, didn’t notice the ninjas on top of the roof, and ushered the child inside before he could alert her to their presence. However, once he was inside he decided that she didn’t need to know. The ninjas didn’t seem to be attacking. Perhaps they were just taking a break on a cross-country roof-to-roof journey. The boy laughed quietly to himself. He wasn’t truly afraid of the ninjas. In fact, seeing them up there, fidgeting around, looking uncomfortable, and looking at each other, he sensed that they were the one’s afraid of him. He drank some water, took a shower, and went to bed.

<>
>>TO: NormShwang576@united.net
>>FROM: UltraSecretMan22@government.gov
>>RE: Job Opportunity

>Mr. Shwang?
>That’s me.
>Hello, this is Mr. Blank.
>Oh. That’s a nice name.
>Thanks, although it is not my real name.
>What do you mean?
>I work for the SAFE, a branch of the government.
>SAFE?
>It stands for Secret Agent Intelligence Force.
>Wouldn’t that spell SAIF?
>Well…yes, but SAIF is not a word.
>Yeah, you’re right.
>I have a proposal for you, Mr. Shwang. A job proposal.
>I’m all ears.
>Fantastic, listen carefully…
<>

Thoughts on Les Pauls/City of Angels/End of June

2008-06-29T21:55:00.003-05:00

Alright people, prepare yourselves. This is a triple feature post, containing my thoughts (in varying degrees of linguistic competence; it is 11:00 at night) on three distinct topics of conversation, blended with a requisite amount of useless banter and sarcastic rhetoric. First off I'd like to formally bid adieu to the month of June. Tonight is not the last night but I do not plan on posting anything tomorrow, so I'll say it now. Goodbye June. Thank you for all the memories. Thank you for delivering me safely from the clutches of high school. Thank you for showering me with moist air and really ill-scheduled thunderstorms. Most of all, thank you for giving me some time to breath during this big transition. I'd also like to note that during June I was successful in evading many of the nostalgia laden emotional roller coasters that I witnessed many of my fellow friends and classmates embark upon without much in the way of grace or poise.

June has also proven itself to be a time of strengthening friendships. I've found myself growing closer to some people than I would have expected. I've also found myself finding new potential friendships amongst my future classmates in college. More than anything, I've found myself struggling with how to describe the aforementioned experiences without coming across as effeminate.

Image is something I have worried about quite in my life, to an extent that I am now realizing may have been excessive. This is something that I have been pleasantly surprised to find has changed. As I go into the summer before my first year of college I have not worried much at all about how people will perceive me. Instead, I've found myself focusing almost exclusively on the academic and personal ramifications of the decisions I will be making, and how they will affect my future. If I can say one thing about high school, I suppose it would be that it has taught me that the social circles we run in can be laughably obscure and that the only thing we have control over truly is the kind of people we associate with. I can honestly say that I am quite content with my circle of friends, and I wouldn't have it any other way.

Alright, onto a plane of discussion that is hopefully more ripe for sarcasm...

Two days ago my mother and brother left for California, on a trip to visit friends and family. I stayed behind, in order to continue working. The end result is that I have the house to myself, along with the car, and a significant amount of food. While this may strike you as the essentials for any teenager, I have found myself quite baffled at the lack of something I can now attribute solely to the presence of my family. The human element, though quite imperceptible while in abundance, has, in its absence, left my house in a slightly disoriented state. Everything is quiet. The house seems at least twice as large as it usually does. And while I have not spent much time here over the past two days, due to work, I can't help but expect my mother or brother to burst through the door at any point, home from work or school. I can't say that I'm not enjoying my time alone. It has given me room to decompress, and push the envelope of my independence. It just feels strange not having people to live with.

I'd like to clarify the previous statement. There is another occupant in my house besides myself. Loyal readers of my blog, you should know her well by know: that's right, its Killer, my loyal canine and occasional pal. She is steadfast and noble, holding the house securely until I arrive in the evening from work at which point she demands to be taken out, played with, petted, and sung to. That is, unless there is a thunderstorm afoot, in which case her usual stoic and attentive demeanor is reduced to a shivering, whimpering pile of fur curled at my feet. Quite pathetic.

However, nothing helps you get through bad weather like a good movie. Being a man, I opted for something that would inspire feelings of testosterone and male initiative. I opted for City of Angels, everyone's favorite epic romance from 1998. I wish I could tell you I was joking right now, but the truth is I love that movie. I usually end up watching it only once a year, and I guess I filled my quota for 2008 (along with my quota for crying during the climax).

If you've never seen City of Angels go rent it right now. Watch it by yourself, and comment in reply to this thread with your thoughts. I think you'll agree with me that is really quite fantastic.

In addition to watching sad romance movies, there is one other thing I like to do when I'm feeling lonely or disjointed: music. If you don't know, I play both guitar and piano and sing when no one else is around. Music is a very important part of my life, up there with waffles and the battery life of my laptop. I play mostly acoustic guitar because it fits the kind of music I listen to, and I can play it by myself with minimal fuss or cables/amps. However, today I went to a local Guitar Center with my dad. In the process of explaining to him how guitars work, I stumbled across a used Epiphone Les Paul. Anyone who knows anything about guitars knows that the Les Paul is a model of electric guitar made by Gibson. It is quite possibly the most renowned model of guitar along with the Fender Stratocaster. Epiphone makes extremely good replicas of Gibson guitars, because they are a subsidiary of Gibson.

The guitar was a little worse for wear. Some of the frets had been sanded for a rough finish. There were some nicks and scratches on the back, and one of the pickups seemed suspiciously loose. However, for the price, I couldn't ask for anything better. It was coated in a beautiful cherry sunburst varnish and seemed to glow from the rack. I picked it up and it felt simply amazing. After plugging it in and playing with the tuning I decided I was going to buy it and share it with my mom (who is lacking a good guitar at the moment). After bringing it home, cleaning it, re-tuning it, and adjusting the action, I couldn't be happier. The guitar has an awesome, clean tone that comes across great even on my tiny amp. It's perfect for the same riffs I'd play on my acoustic, and also more aggressive chord patterns. All in all, I'd say buying a guitar is a good way to end any day, and it hardly put a dent in my wallet. The picture is of my new Les Paul along with my keyboard and speaker set up. I'm planning on taking all of this to college with me. Needless to say, I'm investing in a few locks.

Fishing for Funkmaster Flex at the Aquarium...

2008-06-24T11:31:00.002-05:00

..because sometime the truth is so much better than fiction.

Alright, so my day is winding down at the Aquarium. I made a good number of sales at my cashier station, considering it was a relatively quiet day (good weather=people have better things to do with their time than patronize the local aqaurium). I go to my boss' office where I hope to be cashed out for the day and go home. In the middle of counting my twenty dollar bills my boss gets a call. It's from a nice guy who works in Imax named Davi (we take the train together occasionally). The phone conversation went something like this:

Davi: "Kent?"
Kent: "Yeah?"
Davi: "I'd just like to tell you that Funkmaster Flex is in the building."
Kent: "WHAAAAT?!?"

I'd like to note at this point that I had no idea, I mean absolutely no idea who Funkmaster Flex is. now, this might be because of the fact that I'm a white man. I mean really white. Caucasian.

What followed was perhaps the most ridiculous game of hide and seek I have ever played in my entire life. I can honestly say, with the most sincere conviction, that I will never again spend 30 minutes with my bos running through an aquarium looking for a famous DJ. I mean, it might happen, but I really don't think so.

Now, I chose the above picture (for all of my culturally unaware readers, that's a picture of Funkmaster Flex, not my boss. That said, I kind of wish my boss was Funkmaster Flex), specifically because it made Funkmaster Flex look like a magician. There was undoubtedly a bit of magic involved in this little accident, and I can't help but believe that Funkmaster Flex might be a magician, or at least a wizard. You see, my boss and I scoured the aquarium from front to back 3 times. That's THREE times, with the Funkmaster never to be found. Everyone at the Imax entrance, which is on the opposite side of the building from where I was working, said they had seen him just moments before, and the excitement was palpable. You could smell it in the air. It might have just been the seals, though. They do smell Funky.

Thoughts on Gun Control/The Constitution

2008-06-20T09:36:00.005-05:00

I'd like to make one thing perfectly clear: I am a firm believer in the virtues of restricted gun control. I do not see that there is a necessity for guns in any avenue of civilian life. There are a few distinct reasons that staunch supporters of the 2nd amendment cite whenever a conversation about gun control comes up.

1) The right to bear arms is outlined quite clearly in the Constitution.
This one is big. This argument is taken by every conceivable demographic, including those who in most other circumstances would declare such a literal, narrow-minded, and antiquated interpretation of the Constitution to be fundamentally insane. To see such people turn a blind eye to the blatant discrepancies that exist as a result of (and largely compounded by), in such a restricted view of the Constitution is not only disappointing, but also frightening.

My view: The Constitution was written in 1787 (Wikipedia corrected my earlier assumption of 1781), during a time of tremendous political and social change. The actions of our founding fathers were heroic when taken into the context of the world they lived in. However, we cannot possibly hope to plug their decisions and views into our modern America without some degree of incompatibility. And yes, these were the views and opinions of a select few individuals, not the wishes of the country as a whole. The Constitution was written during a time before telegraph or telephone or the internet. These select few people did not represent constituents in any dramatic or romantically traditional sense. Instead, many of these people were business men or politicians that relied heavily upon tied business to stay in power. This is a facet of government that has not changed. The firearm industry was very large int he economically powerful region of New England. Without the continued support of such a large industry, who is to say how much actual power the fledgling American government would have wielded. In light of this, how can we possibly hope to taken the Constitution and apply with literal force the things outlined in it.

"Flexibility" has become in the world of conservative politics almost a swear word. "Flexibility" is seen as the weak alternative to a strong and strict operating procedure. "Flexibility" is seen as the undermining force in the quest for a more stable and morally secure America. However, it seems to me as if a flexible interpretation of the Constitution would be the more challenging and ultimately rewarding route. A flexible interpretation of the Constitution would challenge American politicians to find the better alternative instead of relying upon a set of antiquated guidelines. It would challenge American politicians to find a way to fit American policy (which is still bloated and weighed down by a Cold War mentality) into an increasingly efficient and globalized international community.

This post started out about gun control, and I still aim to outline my concerns on the matter in a future post. However, gun control (among a few other topics) inevitably leads me to the same conclusion: there are a few extremely profound deficiencies in not only the manner in which the American government conducts itself, but also in the mentality that surrounds the seemingly accepted interpretation of the Constitution by many conservatives. And although I'm well aware that many people have voiced similar concerns in forums much more visible than this and in a vernacular much more eloquent, I can't help but feel as if its my civic duty to express these concerns as my own as well.

Life

2008-06-18T08:41:00.003-05:00

Life is
and
without a clear purpose
we assign value

Life is
and
despite misgivings
we quietly concede defeat

Life is
and
in the face of the unknown
we desperately crawl to comfort

Life is
and
without recollection
we silently smother ourselves

Thoughts on Graduation

2008-06-16T12:37:00.002-05:00

Today I am graduating from high school. The profound importance of this occasion is not in any sense marred by the fact that it is being held indoors due to weather (although this might be the opinion of many of my classmates). I suppose that I should note here, with requisite nostalgia-dripped detail, how this represents an end to a section of my life that I will hold in my heart forever with fond memories. Now, I'd like to make it quite clear that I am not bitter about high school, however much so it may seem. In fact I've quite enjoyed my time spent in high school. I've made a number of good friends, found myself drawn intellectually and personally in a variety of unique of interesting directions, and found my perception of the world around me profoundly altered, for the better. Something I've always been concerned about is the manner in which knowledge seems to pass through our mind like water through a sieve, and how we so often forget what we learn soon after we have learned it. However right now that doesn't strike me as absolutely true. I cannot remember many of the equations that I learned in Chemistry AP right now. I can't remember the important principles involved in the rhetorical criticism of literature, nor can I remember the subjunctive tense in Spanish. But these are things I have learned, and the fact that I have learned these things, that at one point these things were stuck in the foremost and most prominent edge of my consciousness seems to be unalterable evidence of the importance of learning. I have learned something and because I learned something, I now see the world through a different lens. And now I may not remember exactly what I have learned, but my changed perspective is evidence of this learning, this enlightenment. And that, in my opinion is the most important aspect of education.

I don't feel that I'm writing as good as I usually do, but I felt like I needed to make a note of my thoughts on the day of my graduation.

While on Holiday...

2008-06-08T19:47:00.001-05:00

This makes me want to travel, long and hard. I suppose these feelings are somewhat augmented by the proximity of graduation.

Richard P. Feynman Would be a Great Blogger

2008-06-07T20:23:00.004-05:00

Hey all. School is so close to being over, it's ridiculous. Allow me to impress upon you the degree to which many of my teachers have forsaken all countenance of traditional educational structure, instead opting for long games of Jeopardy and...Mel Gibson? Anyway, I attended my senior prom last night with my good friend Zak. We had fun there, although we were not overly impressed by the significance of the event which seemed, to put it delicately, like "every-other-dance-I-have-ever-attended-in-high -school". So, no I was not awestruck by a sudden influx of maturity and poise on the part of my fellow class. Such graceful tendencies were found only in a captivating (and what I found to be intellectually stimulating) conversation I had about the subject of God and the importance of faith in everyday life. It should be noted that said conversation was conducted overall waffles with ice cream at 1 o'clock in the morning. Thank God for 24/7 diners.

Last week I attended a two day over-night Orientation program at UCONN, where I will be going in the fall. the program involved activities that were designed to be two fold in nature: Attempt to explain to us the differences between high school and college (with a particular emphasis placed on the dangers of drugs, alcohol, and rape. The orientation leaders did a surprisingly good job of conveying their message without losing the attention of the majority of the group. If you understood the maturity level of many of these kids, you'd find the previous statement easier to appreciate.) The second goal of these activities was to foster intense bonds of fellowship between the students that would be attending school, living, and smoking pot together next year. I can't say how well that worked out, but what I can say is that I met some really great people while I was there, and that the volleyball team that I fell into dominated completely.

In other news, work is going well for me. This is the first Saturday since March that I have had off. I spent the day sleeping, eating, and playing video games, and I would not have had it any other way.

With the end of 4 years of high school English I am cautiously wading into the waters of personal reading. I recently finished reading this, and was completely exhilarated by both the profound genius behind the book, and the fact that I read something I wasn't assigned in English. My current reads for the summer are this and this. I find both to be quite interesting.

Explanations and Imaginations

2008-05-23T07:11:00.002-05:00

The month is almost over and it seems like it never began. That's not to say I don't remember anything from it. I remember the middle quite clearly and with a bit of affection. The first week where I thought that I might end up someplace completely different from where I had resigned myself to. The few weeks in the middle where a set of exams took my breath away and where I finally understood the privilege I had been afforded by studying with the students that I have been. Quite spectacular. These are, of course, the AP exams which will determine what, if any freshman courses I will have to take during my first year of college. Knocking these out of the way means less money in tuition, fees, and books, and hopefully a quicker graduation. Knocking these out of the way means less loans which is very good.

On May 11 I headed from my Chemistry AP exam with a good friend over to a local Best Buy and picked up Narrow Stairs, the latest CD by Death Cab for Cutie. I do not know if I have impressed upon you my love for this band in earlier posts (and am, at the moment, too lazy to wade through the clutter and check). However, allow me to do that now. This band is pure genius, and I fell in love with them the first time listening to Soul Meets Body off of their 2005 album plans. Needless to say, this album does not disappoint. It's full of the same thought provoking lyrics, playful melodies, and subtle overtones that affect me (and I hope most listeners) in a truly profound way. This album is slightly different from their earlier work. It's more rough and loose with less emphasis placed on the sort of glossy sheen that was applied so vigorously to Plans. It is, in many ways, a throwback to their earlier work, even before Translatlanticism (a 2003 album that put them on the map in the popular music world). However, in many ways it's completely different from that as well. This new sort of music has the chance of alienating many of their die hard fans, but I have found myself enthralled by it.

The Final Seconds

2008-05-08T15:23:00.002-05:00

Wow. The last day has been hard. The last week has been hard, but yesterday might have been one of the most stressful days of my life. I'm talking about truly profound stress, the kind that reached deep inside you and twists something and you don't feel right for a long time after. Yesterday afternoon I had a call from an admissions official at Brandeis University, one of the institutions that I applied to in the spring. In March I found that I had been placed on the waiting list. I resigned myself to the fact that I would not make it into such a prestigious institution (don't feel bad if you've never heard of it, apparently no one has, but I encourage you to research it, it's actually quite a great school, with conspicuously high rankings among other competitive schools in the Boston area). Well, this guy named David calls up and informs me that I've been admitted to the class of 2012. The entire conversation felt slightly surreal. I had resigned myself to a future at my state's respectable university, an experience that, while I thought might prove itself to be surprisingly fulfilling. Now, in the final seconds of the game I've been told that there is another choice. An entirely new option. I got very excited.

They offered me $28,000 in aid. Seconds ago, I got off the phone, having left an extremely bewildered message on David's voice mail detailing why I could not attend Brandeis in the fall. The long and the short of it (as I frantically attempt to explain it to myself right now) is that, despite the copious amount of money they were prepared to offer me, at the end of my four years there, I would still graduate with close to $40,000 in debt. This, while perhaps negligible compared to some people's debt, was too much for me, especially when held in comparison to the parsley $14,000 in debt I would incur at my state school.

So I turned them down. My dream school, the school that had the potential to open for me doors to places I had never before imagined, lucrative careers, and a nurturing profoundly ingenious teaching rationale that encouraged introspection and understanding; tolerance over ignorance, with an emphasis on knowledge as the key to success. I place that, I feel, I would have fit right in.

But in the end, I have to think realistically. And the reality is that at this state school I would still relieve a stellar education at quite a reduced price. And right now, that's something I can't say no to.

Isn't it funny how supposedly win/win situations suddenly become lose/lose? I suppose we'll see how this all plays out.

My Exciting New Career

2008-04-28T18:56:00.003-05:00

It's been awhile since my last post, and there are a wide array of reasons for this that I can supply you with in order to satisfy your curiosity (with a varying degree of honesty). However, in this case truth proves quite stranger than fiction. For, it is with a solemn tone that I relinquish from this cruel the world the last iota of my dignity and surrender upon you the tale of how I spent last weekend providing hoards of young children with the joy of meeting one of the most jaundiced role models to accumulate massive wealth via intensively pervasive cross-media advertising.

If you're still following, I applaud your dedication. You must be as bored as I am.

If you're not, and I can completely understand if you're not, allow me to provide a visual aid:

That's right folks, our good friend and (let's admit it) blatant media whore SpongeBob Squarepants.

Through lengthy and difficult means I was able to secure an interview at the Maritime Aquarium, a prestigious center for recreation and education strategically located near a section of Long Island Sound that was named in a recent issue of North Eastern Living, the "smelliest accumulation of sea gunk this reporter has ever witnessed". Hahaha. All jokes aside though, this place smells. I think there used to be a beach here, but it is hard to be 100% sure because of the intensive layer of sea life that piles under the old docks in varying degrees of decomposition. Needless to say, Long Island Sound doesn't make for the most attractive draw for tourists, and this constant struggle that the Connecticut coast maintains with prevailing standards of aesthetics maintained by American society has resulted in one awkward aquarium. This is not to say that the Aquarium does not try hard. For example, they proudly proclaim via brochures and pamphlets that they exhibit only specimens that reside naturally in Long Island Sound. In fact, they go out of their way to make a point of this during tours and informative sessions. The only thing that troubles me is the otters display. I'm not sure that we have otters in the sound. But I'll be damned if they're not the cutest things you've ever seen.

Anyway, I aced the interview and got a ob as a cashier/usher. This is a pretty wild job in which I rotate around 4 stations that are equally montonous. One of the essential tenets of any good Aquarium employee is proficiency with the SpongeBob Squarepants 4-D Adventure Ride. This ride combines two things that children love: spine-damaging herky jerky motion and bright and loud cartoon characters acting out inane and often morally perplexing plots. Nothing beats the exhilirating feeling that accompanies a distorted image of SpongeBob Squarepants constructing a "Crabby-Patty" as your "one-size-fits-no-one" 4-D glasses slip slowly down your nose. Wait, I lied. Pretty much everything beats that feeling.

However, I am getting paid above minimum wage, so that has to count for something.

Updates

2008-04-17T18:48:00.004-05:00

So, I know I have been a little flaky with the updates lately, sorry about that. Things have been sorta hectic around here lately. My senior year is winding down and it looks like I'll be attending my local public university in the fall. I was a bit disappointed a month ago when I realized that it was probably the best option. Since then, I've felt like I've been living outside of myself to a certain extent, like an outside observer peeking into the goings-on in my own life. I was admitted to several prestigious private universities, my first pick among them, but in the end money trumps all, and you can't beat a practically free education. Besides, I was admitted to an select "honors program" within the university which will give me access to smaller specialty classes along with some other convenient perks. All in all, it won't be terrible. But there is a certain exhilarating feeling that accompanies resignation, a feeling of losing control and surrendering to forces completely outside of your control. I've tried hard in school, not as hard as I could have, but hard enough to sneak into a select group of students who have obviously tried much harder than I have to achieve not that much more. In this way, I feel like I've maintained a certain degree of academic excellence without sacrificing my last bit of personality or creativity.

Plus, my uncle sent me a new laptop as an early graduation present, and my shallow love for technology has provided with a means for temporary escape from any subtle wallowing that might plague most kids in my situation. The other day my mother told me though that I had handled this entire decision making process with a lot of maturity and logic but I couldn't help but admit on the inside that it simply felt out of my control. I told her that I was just making the best choices for the long term. And that's true too, I suppose.

Today I took my dog, Killer, for a walk in the park. I brought along a few tennis balls to entertain myself with. And when I say "entertain myself", I do mean, quite literally, "myself". You see, for my dog, a game of fetch is not a game at all but simply practice for the day when I once again allow her to roam the streets of our town hunting down squirrels to feed her illegitimate puppies, which is what she did as a stray. So for her, its not fun and games. However, for me the story is quite different. I must confess, there are few things I find more sincerely gratifying than watching my dog practically explode with canine excitement at the mere glimpse of a fuzzy yellow ball. It is during these moments of mindless, instinctual activity that I really do question both he sanity and intelligence of my dog. I've never been on to subscribe to the romantic notion of dog as man's best friend, with keen insight and loyalty to humans. No, instead I'm forced to accept the fact that my dog's intelligence would be more aptly compared to that of a dumb fish or even a plant. I can't decide whether or not her lack of intelligence helps her to lead a more enjoyable life.

Quantum Theory

2008-04-15T09:45:00.002-05:00

There is a trickle of particulate
articulating a decline in truth
Uncouth and with a sheen most malignant
to feel slow silk sliding over you

Soaker Season

2008-04-10T16:09:00.003-05:00

Today hit close to 70 degrees which is a remarkable accomplishment considering a month ago we were still fearing snow. All of this warm weather, combined with the impending end of my high school career in the form of the formal parade of pomp and academic glory of graduation, has gotten me very excited. So excited that I've taken up yard work. Planting flowers, edging, mulching, these are sides of myself than I never knew existed. Andrew the florist doesn't exactly fulfill my ideal career goal, however I'd be lying if I said I didn't think it had a nice ring to it.

With the warm weather comes some other interests, namely: soaking. Water warfare has been a serious hobby of mine for close to six years now, and while my interest in it has waned of late, I'm not about to let the last summer I have before college go without a single water fight. Currently, things are falling into place for a graduation party for both me, and by best friend Sean. I've been best friends with Sean for about as long as I've been soaking, so it would stand to reason that in addition to lots of grilling, football, and cake, there were also be a few large-scale water fights.

School is going good, but I am definitely beginning to succumb to senioritis. They say its bad, but I disagree. It feels great knowing that in a few months I will not be subject to the same obligations and academic commitments that have tied me down for the past four years. And while college holds the promise of an entirely new set of challenges, far greater in scale and diversity than anything I have encountered before, I cannot help but be grateful for the alleviation of all that I have come to despise. I recently learned of my class rank, 28 in a class of 360 or so students. Needless to say, I was pretty happy. I've think that I've really improved myself this year, however these improvements do not come with a feeling of guilt, as if I'm leaving it all behind. And while the concept of a large and dramatic departure from this place come graduation held quite a bit of appeal at the beginning of the year, I like to think that I've matured enough to understand and appreciate the reasons why I'm staying. I'm a little scared that I'll find myself continuing to tell myself that I will leave eventually and that these desires will never come to fruition. But the truth is that I've come to realize what the best next step for my future is financially. I just hope that I haven't become complacent to the point of denial.

Momma's Boys Are Drug Addicts, According to Science

2008-04-01T19:42:00.002-05:00

...or at least that's what I gleaned from watching this video after linking from Gizmodo. Truer words have never been spoken. This is like Christmas for us judgmental jerks.

Dear Apple Computer Lords

2008-03-26T20:15:00.001-05:00

Dear Apple Computer Lords,

During a recent session on my computer I was once again troubled by the persistent failing of the AIM program. Granted, AIM is a pretty flaky program to begin with. However, it seems as if the success of the program running on my Powerbook is based more on luck than any design of computer programming or other equally technical facet of engineering. For example, the other day, upon engaging the program I fervently prayed for several minutes and it worked perfectly. This evening I forgot to take the time necessary to recite the proper incantations and light the incense, and what happens? This troublesome digital charlatan decides to once again rear its ugly head and plunge my laptop into senseless disarray and confusion. This is obviously quite worrisome for me and has been a persistent problem for some time now. I am more than willing to make any and all amends with the gods that are required in order to grant my computer continued well being and operational success. Should I sacrifice an XBox on a pedestal of marble? Just say the word. What about an Unlimited Version of Vista? Your wish is my command.

Regards,
Andrew "Flapjack" Thomas

Crazy Dream (Part 1)

2008-03-21T08:58:00.003-05:00

Last night I had, perhaps, the craziest dream I have ever had. It involved copyrighted video game characters, strange rooms, Halo 3, and my father. The dream started roughly around 12 o'clock and seemed to last for several weeks, although in hindsight, it probably only lasted a few seconds. The dream combined vivid imagery with intense and profound symbolism, leading me to question the true meaning of the dream. But not before I took some time to recreate one of the characters of my dream in Microsoft Paint.

That's right folks. I dream I was Mario last night. The moustachioed, overall wearing, Italian plumber with a predilection for strange tubes and mushrooms (that last bit would sound really weird if Mario was a less known video game figure). I dreamt I was Mario last night, in Mario's 2D world, jumping from box to box, battling those strange blob shaped enemies and gaining a lot of strength from mushrooms and crazy glowing flowers. If you thought that Mario was intense to begin with, imagine living in a world where everything is flat. And I mean everything. No exceptions. Those Japanese video game creators were sticklers for that. But you know what? I didn't mind it that much. I'm not sure if it was because I was Mario or just because I was dreaming in general, but the world being flat was not high on my list of things to worry about. Death by turtles was. That is, until I stumbled upon the magic 3D room.

Alright, imagine this. You're calmly eating breakfast on a weekday morning before going off to work or school or any of your daily activities. You turn on the TV to watch the weather forecast for that day. But when the weather forecast comes on, instead of a map of the United States there's simply a large image of a cantaloupe on the green screen behind the meteorologist. And HE'S talking in Cantonese. And you look down and suddenly your plate is full of pancakes when seconds ago it was full of toast and eggs. Imagine all of this, and then imagine how much you would freak out. Well, if you took all of that and multiplied it by 5 times you would have some idea of the sort of manner in which my mind was blown by this. 3 dimensions? I think I may have said, "What the f*ck?" out loud, while I was sleeping. That was how amazed I was.

Anyway, it was a tiny room, hidden inside the back of one of the many little boxes that you have to jump to and from to get coins, shrooms, etc. in the game. It wasn't very big, but certainly bigger on the inside than one of those boxes was on the outside, which led me to believe that a certain degree of magic was involved in its design. When I got inside the box, a little message appeared to me. "Press X every 30 seconds for a 20,000 point bonus." Now, this struck me as a little odd. I'm not sure if original Nintendo controllers had X as a button, I haven't used one in a long time, but the strange thing about the message was that it was written in the same font/color/style that is used to tell you in Halo 2 when to pick up a new weapon. I was slightly bemused, to say the least.

By this time, the wonder of finding this strange new 3D box started to wear off. Suddenly the entire world was 3D, and if that was so, quick math revealed there was a lot more of the world to discover, so it felt dumb to stay for 30 seconds in some stupid box. Plus, at that point I think I realized that I wasn't playing the game anymore and the points didn't matter. I did notice one interesting thing before I left the box, and that was the names carved on the inside walls. I can't remember any of the names now, but I remember thinking it was funny.

This is turning out much longer than I expected so I will break into sections and post the next installment later. Don't worry, I won't forget how th dream went, as soon as I woke up this morning I told my brother all about it (with embellishments of course), so I've remembered it pretty well.

The Vicious Vernacular

2008-03-19T19:20:00.003-05:00

This is my life, and this is the way I write.

This is a way for me to express everything:

Everything I feel

Everything I think

Everything from the most shallow tendency to the most profound insight.

And I promise I will not be humble, I will not apologize, except when I feel so inclined, I will not forgive or forget except when I think I should and above all things I will not submit to the unwritten rule, just the unspoken agreement.

This is the Vicious Vernacular and from here on out I will try to tag every bit of creative writing, whether it be prose, poetry or some strange combination of the two with this lovely alliteration, this titanic and terrifying tower of a tongue twister, twisted and mangled to suit my own needs and with a design beautiful in it's singular nature and singular in its beauty: to, above all things, cause you to disagree, agree, laugh, or maybe just maybe, change your perception.

I am leaving for college in less than six months. I have never been more scared or excited in my entire life and yet it still feels underwhelming, my life whipping past me with such ferocity and speed that I fear I am not aware of some very important things, losing them in the blurry motion of people, places, and thoughtful conversations. If there is one thing that I have an ultimate faith in, it is the strength that comes from the written word and this is something I do not plan on abandoning anytime soon.

Until next time,
Andrew

Sophisticated, Politically Dissinterested, and Socially Apathetic Expatriates of the World Unite!

2008-03-17T16:21:00.000-05:00

You know exactly who I'm talking about. The intelligent, mildly apathetic, indie rocker, art fanatic, Hemingway Jr., coffee-aholic who can't seem to shut up about their dream study abroad program in Paris when they go to The Gatsby School of Philosophy in the G.A. Herbert Memorial Foundation University to study European Literature and minor in Thoughtful Conversation. The expatriates of tomorrow. Our next, "almost" generation of quasi Americans who find the profound discussion of Chaucer over French espresso much more interesting than pursuing any legitimate form of existence that might, even for the shortest period of time, guarantee some form of financial and social stability for them and their children.

Now, don't get me wrong. I find an intelligent conversation with a mild adherence to grammar just as intellectually compelling as the next guy. I just can't see myself living for an extended period of time in a street corner cafe. I do plan to study abroad. However, I am not subscribing to the same hormonal rush that has seemed to draw so many college kids to the bricked pavilions of Italy or the rustic slopes of Monte Carlo.

No, I plan on journeying to the steep mountains of Nepal or Kashmere where I will devote my time to studying the remnants of ancient civilizations with far more historic worth than what, in my opinion, could be observed from behind the gauzed lens of a tour of St. Peter's basilica.

Also, I hate coffee.

Spanning the Gap

2008-03-16T21:19:00.002-05:00

So, I know that I haven't posted an update in a really long time, and while I would like to say that this is due to the intense amounts of time and energy I've been devoting to preparing an epic update of content, the truth is profoundly less dramatic. As my senior year gears up for an epic conclusion the tight curricular grasp that my academics currently have affixed around my throat has only tightened. I've found myself struggling to devote equal amounts of time to matters both inside and outside of school, while keeping my sanity at home. All in all, I feel pretty good about the pace I'm keeping, as I've witnessed many of my fellow classmates begin to lose hope, dropping to the right and left of me and making me feel very much like Tom Hanks in the Omaha Beach scene in Saving Private Ryan, and instead of a bunker full of German's, my only goal is graduation.

So I'm writing this to assure you, my loyal fan-base (ha) that I haven't forgotten completely about you guys, and actually have two articles in store that should be up by the end of the week. If you don't hear from me by then, assume that I have suffocated to death under a tragic collapse of textbooks.

Until later,
Andrew

Under Sodium Lights

2008-03-05T22:05:00.006-05:00

We're learning about poetry now. I'd just like to get one more in before this too is stripped of its mystery.

Let's take a walk together,
you and I
Along these city streets
Under sodium lights

It's cold now, more than before
I'm not sure
Mirages can exist in these conditions
But here you are

It's one paradox too many
I must confess
to be an artist in this grand city
I guess you've got it figured out

And I'm tired now
And I'm stumbling now
And I'm crisscrossing these sidewalks
Moving from shadow to shadow

And it's intoxicating, spilling from street lamps
and from the sticky notes left on your fridge
I didn't know it could get dark in these conditions
and these sodium lights are flickering and out of existence

So come with me,
and well flicker in and out of existence all night
we'll transverse this great expanse
lit by a sea of sodium lights.

My Spirit Animal

2008-03-03T20:43:00.006-05:00

Hey folks. I realized I haven't blogged in a while, and so in order to remedy this tremendous disservice I've decided to update you with a particularly juicy story from my life recently. See, the extent to which I'll betray myself for the sake of this blog is becoming clear; I just sacrificed the last of my dignity by using the word "juicy" to describe something besides a fruit.

I have, for a long time, been interested in spirit animals. I'm not talking about the strange fascination that a 12 year old girl would harbor for a horse, or the grotesque emphasis placed so highly on wolves or bald eagles (so memorialized in countless examples of bumper stickers and strange carved oak wall ornaments). No, I was interested in the profoundly deeper side of spirit animals, how our subconscious mind and our most inane and seemingly thoughtless tendencies affect our overall behaviors and how they might closely link us, in some manner, to an animal. Now, I have always believed in a very traditional approach to finding one's spirit animal, namely constructing a sweat hut out of available material, in the forest, and spending a great deal of time meditating and perhaps reading The Economist. And at the end of a long period of time, I would emerge from the hut extremely happy, and be able to say confidently that I know what my spirit animal is.

Instead I decided to embark upon a strange and mystical journey where, by means of a complex series of personal and abstract questions (in a fight, would you resuscitate your enemy after delivering a punishing blow to his/her larynx?), they determined, within a margin of error of .5% that my spirit animal would be a Jaguar.

I was crushed, needless to say. If the accompanying illustration does not completely illustrate my distaste for this choice, let me elaborate: I don't like the jaguar. It's a stupid animal that relies on its speed and stealth to take down jungle creatures, instead of its wit and charm. It's content to hide in the bushes all day waiting for a meal to come by than to just be proactive and take down something bigger than a turtle, like say, oh I don't know, a hippopotamus. It seems content to sit back and let the world pass it by instead of working to positively better its situation in the world, and in the scope of animal history. Many years from now, people will not look back on the jaguar with a pleasant sense of nostalgia. No instead, they will look back and grimace as they struggle to remember whether the jaguar was the one with oval spots or round spots.

Here are some other examples of spirit animals that are so cliché, so steroetypical, and so astoundingly pointless, that the fact that millions of preteen girls descend into a frenzy throws my brain into a series of complicated knots.

The majestic bald eagle.

I've yet to determine what the actual name for the this type of ornamental decoration is.

If Harry Potter cast a hormonal spell that went horribly awry and ended up changing all of his testosterone to estrogen, this would be the spirit animal he would pick.

Why Chicken Pot Pies are the Best

2008-02-20T11:20:00.003-05:00

"In one word: Delicious"

This was the response of famed Chef Antonia Fillagrinni when interviewed for her latest best selling cook book/romantic novel/fictional autobiography, Temptation in the Kitchen: An Adventure in Love, Life, and Paprika. The question asked was, 'how do you feel about chicken pot pies?'. And I cannot disagree with her sentiment.

The chicken pot pie has been a traditional staple of Native American cuisine for hundreds of years. The traditional recipe called for venison instead of chicken, however much of it remained unchanged. Originally the concept of a crust topping was a permutation upon a traditional cooking technique which involved layering thin strips of bark across the top when cooking, to preserve flavor. Eventually it was discovered that using bread instead of bark produced a better texture, free of gritty wood chips, moss, and acorns which upset the digestive system tremendously.

When the first explorers from Europe arrived in the late 1400's, and began to heavily influence Native American culture, the first Anglo-Saxon changes were implemented. Along with such delicious treats as influenza, small pox, and ravaging auto-immune disorders, these fine pilgrims also brought chickens, which they used to add the distinctive tender goodness to what is now regarded as the "Best Tasting Microwavable Commodity" by the US Annual Report on Food and Medicine.

TruLuv: The Dating Site for Discerning Individuals

2008-02-11T19:12:00.000-05:00

TruLuv

PERSONALS---DATING---FRIENDS---INBOX---ACCOUNT

UTheMan1221 (Male/Straight/Arbor Day)
Age: 22
Location: Sandusky, Ohio
Looking for: Friendship, Long Distance Relationship, Casual Encounter, Elopement

Message UTheMan1221
IM UTheMan1221
Flirt With UTheMan1221

Match Factor: General (67%), Hobbies (83%), Political Idealisms (22%), Ambitions (24%), Sexual Orientation (100%), Has Hair? (43%)

Likes: Long walks on the beach, surfing, swimming, working at pet stores until you're fired for something that wasn't your fault no one told you that parakeets are not supposed to be fed bacon bits.

Dislikes: Big crowds, open air arenas, hot air balloon, playing with darts, cocky assholes who work at pet stores and like to rat their fellow employees out.

Hey, my name is Justin but people call me The Man. I guess you could say I'm a man's man of sorts. A lot of people tell me that they don't agree with the paradoxical and often misogynistic idealism I present to them with my actions and the decisions they make but I disregard these people. I don't let their negativity weight me down. Why should I let someone else's opinion matter to me when that same person can't even bench their own weight. You know who can? Justin can, that's who! And once I forgot to take the pin out of the weights before I lifted them and I accidentally lifted more than my weight! But ever since then, in the mornings when I reach for the box of Eggo Waffles in my cupboard my back clicks and makes a noise like a whale song. Maybe that's me. It's such a sad sound.

Anyhow, I'm now a freelance graphic designer. I used to work retail, at a certain pet store, PetzDelux. I quit of my own volition, because my boss couldn't handle the sort of male competition I was bringing to work all day everyday. Some people can't take the heat.

UTheMan1221 Last Logged In: 12 Hours Ago

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Thoughts on Animals by Zak

2008-02-08T22:24:00.000-05:00

Zak is a writer, blogger, and political activist who takes pride in championing the rights of animals through the growth of knowledge. His expertise on unusual animals is unparalleled in the Western world. He spent three years living with bears, and once fought a tree.

The Narwhal

Here's what I think happened with the Narwhal. God was creating all of these creatures at the beginning. He was handing out body parts to each one as he went. When he got to the end, he found that he still had a whale body and a strange horn/tooth left. So he figured he'd combine the two and then put this creature in the Arctic Ocean, so it wouldn't be easily discovered.

The Infeasibility of a Clinton/Obama or Obama/Clinton Ticket

2008-02-06T16:26:00.000-05:00

During my daily perusals of websites oriented towards the '08 campaign, I've come across lots of discussion regarding the possibility of a joint Barack Obama and Hilary Clinton ticket this fall. I'd like to take this chance to point out some (obvious) problems with this combination, along with my personal opinion on the matter.

First off, both of these candidates are extremely dynamic; they are powerful public speakers and have extremely strong stances on issues and policy upon which they have really dug in their heels and refused to budge. While this bodes well for presidential nominations, it will ultimately handicap their ability to see eye to eye on many issues. And while both Obama and Clinton declare themselves agents of change and catalysts for a restrengthening of the Democratic party, at the end of the day, these are two people who really want this presidency, and won't settle for anything less.

Which brings me to my second point. I don't think either of these candidates is ready or willing to be a vice president. While many concerns of personal animosity between these two may have been put to rest during the last debate they had in L.A., I think the major discrepancies that exist in both their style and their policies will get in the way.

Don't get me wrong, the last thing we need is a vice president that mirrors the president's decisions and even personality. What we need is a vice president that compliments the president, making up for deficiencies or inabilities to compromise on certain issues. While the role of the vice president, once elected, may be of a much more administrative nature than the president, the role of a vice president hopeful during the campaign is very simple: appeal to the people that your running mate can't reach. In my opinion, both of these candidates are so strong and opinionated that their respective bases of support will have trouble transitioning from subliminal animosity to open cooperation.

Just my thoughts.

My Little Slice of Obama-mania

2008-02-05T17:10:00.000-05:00

Last night I attended a rally at the Hartford Civic Center for Barack Obama. He, along with Ted and Caroline Kennedy, and several of Connecticut's fantastic public servants made an appearance, and put on a show that was, forgive the cliche, inspiring. It was an experience I will not soon forget. Over 17,000 people crowded into the Hartford Civic Center after spending hours in line, outside in the cold and snow/rain. While this may not sound impressive to people who live in normal sized states, please keep in mind that our state is minuscule. However, the energy that I felt at this rally was simply incredible and put aside any doubt I had in my mind that Connecticut was simply a collection of apathetic business lawyers who drive Lexuses and care little about the few delegates we have to offer.

The picture above was taken by a good friend, who attended the rally with me, along with another friend, and my mother who sacrificed part of her sanity trying to find a seat. In the end, us limber young adults decided to stand during the entire length of Obama's impassioned speech, and it was well worth it. We were a mere thirty or forty feet from the man himself the entire time. And while we were almost crushed to death during the surge of humans at the end, we were able to get closer than I ever thought possible. The speech was nothing new, nothing I had not heard or read before. But witnessing it in person was amazing. There is a degree of power that accompanies the spoken word that is lost through type or transcript. I felt Obama's message more so than I ever did before, and as cries of "Obama! Obama!" and "We believe!" swept through the crowd, I found myself, for the first time in my life, totally at the mercy of something far larger than myself.

Today is Super Tuesday. I had hoped to update this blog last night when I returned home, but I was wiped out from the adventure and went straight to sleep. Now, today, I'm spreading the story of how I came to partake in a little bit of Obama-mania. Today, my state, and over 20 other states are voting in both Democratic and GOP primaries. It's proven to be a tough battle on both sides, and I don't think today's results will be definitive. But after witnessing that rally last night, I can't help myself; I can't stay focused on anything except for the fact that this time tomorrow, I'll know how many Americans have felt the same thing I felt last night. During the rally, periodically, Obama would preface a point with "If you believe..." and the crowd would immediately respond back with an awe-inspiring roar "We believe!"

I believe.

Nighttime

2008-02-02T21:16:00.000-05:00

Hello folks. I'd like to officially welcome the month February. I learned that 2008 is a leap year, and through the design of some archaic calendar system it has been decided that we will after an extra day with which to celebrate this glorious month. i have to admit, its quite refreshing to revel in the feeling of measurement system that has not been steam pressed, cut into perfect tenths, and authorized by the collective world powers. Sometimes a little old world thinking is just the thing to keep our heads in the clouds.

I am, of course, speaking gibberish, but for a good reason. This weekend has so far proven to be quite surreal. I slept for almost 12 straight hours last night, and whether or not this is due to some level of stress or subliminal fatigue that I have subconsciously accumulated over the past months remains uncertain. However, I do know that I accomplished absolutely nothing today: I sat around, listened to music, watched some tv, and thought a lot. And the time just flew by.

Actually, I'd be lying to you if I told you I accomplished absolutely nothing today. In fact, I achieved something quite impressive: I finished my first-ever Sudoku puzzle. Now, I know I'm about two years late to the whole Sudoku scene, but I actually was quite proud of myself and I was able to finish it in just under an hour, by myself without help. Two puzzles later, I was cracking them in under 20 minutes. I think that I may have discovered my calling in life.

Currently I'm trying to finish some of the epic piece of writing I've endeavored upon. No, it's not a new novel, or short work of grand importance. It's the chapter outline of the Connecticut State Driver's Manual I have to finish in order to receive the little certificate from ym local driving school that I can bring to my local DMV to prove that I learned how to drive a car locally so they can test me on my driving knowledge to prove to the state that I know how to drive so they can issue my a license to prove to the country that I know how to drive so I can pay to get this license renewed in 6 or 7 years depending upon which policy I choose. It's all incredibly ridiculous, and I see this as almost the final challenge against which I shall pit my last reserves of strength and patience before escaping to a life at college, like the angry boss that accompanied the end of every temple level in Zelda: Ocarina of Time. The only way to make it more picture-perfect would be to conclude this epic test with me driving away into the sunset. Unfortunately, gas prices have rendered this mode of transportation unfeasible for someone in my income bracket, so I'll be sticking to less romantic, yet more price-friendlier options like the Southwest Airlines.

Sweet Kisses

2008-01-31T18:14:00.000-05:00

These truths smash upon my conscious, unconscious
A ferocity, untamed and unchallenged by a series of bleak mistakes
But I would like to disagree, most profoundly and in a manner most epic
Set my hand upon the table and let the thoughts escape
For these truths are not held to be self evident
Instead, in a visceral slash of gracious communal action we incessantly pull back this marvelous

Marvelous curtain, against which we struggle
Marvelous enemy against which we wage a war most unholy
Marvelous speech slowly descending into the vernacular as we lose ourselves in the fog of another late night

We walk these structured streets with minds unstructured
Strolling past alleys and brick and mortar and trash cans
Occupied with the questions that our grand designer himself could not muster the courage to ask
Forcing fear upon us
While you fear the unknown, I fear the known more than I care to admit

These truths, killing me slowly like sweet kisses.

Updates from the Front Lines

2008-01-29T18:24:00.000-05:00

This morning I woke up with an intense pain in my stomach. It felt as if I had a very angry chipmunk running amok inside my small intestine. After analyzing the situation I realized that this was probably not the case. I immediately consulted with a nearby medical professional; my mom. She spent a good half a month as a Candy Striper at a local hospital growing up, so I figured if I was to put the future of my digestive tract in any one's hands, she would probably be the best choice. Also her relationship to me means that she doesn't charge me as much as my actual doctor up the street. Here's how the conversation went:

Me: Hey mom, I can't sleep. I'm experiencing sharp pains in my stomach. Please provide me with medical assistance.

Mom: Go back to sleep.

Me: ARGHHHHHHHHH *intense pain followed*

Mom: I guarantee you that it hurt worse when I gave birth to you.

Me: I guarantee you it did not.

Needless to say this did not get me far. Instead I retreated to the relative safety of my bed where I had strange and feverish dreams of rampant bears, waterfalls of Gatorade, a strange picnic where all the food was made out of a delicious cream, and foreboding excerpts from George Bush's State of the Union Address. Strangely enough, those last images were right on the money. It's seems impossible that I could have so accurately predicted a slew of patriotic rhetoric a full day before the speech, but I guarantee you its true.

So it was that I spent all day yesterday cooped up inside of my house confined to a couch with a bad case of the stomach flu. Aside from a few trips to the bathroom to empty my stomach with the sort of honest ferocity that made my envious of anorexic supermodels, I found myself lying on a couch covered with blankets shivering to death as I watched Season 1 of Battlestar Galactica. I kid you not when I say the low point of the day occurred around noon when I found I did not have the strength to get up to insert the next disc to drift through another four episodes of top notch SciFi drama.

Today I again stayed home, but I was not sick. I was still sore from all of the hacking and throwing up stuff and also the fact I ran a half mile a few mornings before in shoes that should not be run a half mile in (or any sort of distance at a pace faster than a mild saunter). However, at about noon I celebrated the one day anniversary of my inability to change the discs in my DVD player my turning off the tv, sitting down and finishing all of my homework. Four intense hours later, I retired to the bathroom where I shaved off my burgeoning mustache, a strange side effect of going five days without shaving. I decided to let the rest grow out, and if I look like Les Stroud by the time I wake up tomorrow, I might just keep it that way.

My Life So Far

2008-01-23T22:22:00.000-05:00

I realized it's been quite a while since I've updated this blog with a straight up summary of the current events of my life. In order to maintain the feel of this blog, and try to keep this thing as least-contrived sounding as possible, I've tried very hard to keep you guys happy with a steady flow of some creative work. You may or may not have noticed (depending upon your reading ability), that over the past two months I have really upped the ante, uploading everything from short stories to artwork, with even a poem thrown in for kicks, and I fear that amongst the creativity, my own life may have been lost. And while some may say that creativity represents a big part of my life, you have to remember these are the same people who took the metaphor in the last sentence a bit too seriously. Stow your literary lifeboats my dear readers. This ship is still sailing steady on the course it set out on when it left.

(Updates to follow when I'm less tired, but please note that I've tagged this post with "My Life So Far", so it'll be a recurring feature in later posts.)

Ode to a Dead Possum

2008-01-18T16:33:00.000-05:00

The other day I was walking home from school. It's about a two mile walk, and after a long day, and any sort of extracurriculars I may be obligated to, sometimes a long walk home is really nice.

However, not so much on days like the other day. It was about -180 degrees outside, which meant all the oxygen around me was turning into liquid. Needless to say, it was a mistake to be outside during such inclement weather. However, I couldn't turn around and hide at my school (where all of the oxygen is in a gaseous form), because of the secretaries who man the doors after school hours. It didn't seem like a good idea to infuriate them more than I assume they already are, so I decided to just be a man and walk home. I was almost there when I witnessed a very sad sight on the ground. It was an opposum that had frozen during the night and fallen from its tree onto the road. It was near the edge of the road and had not been run over (yet) by any vehicles larger than, say, a child's bicycle. I stared at it for several seconds before continuing on my way, sadder, and colder, than I was mere moments before.

I'm not sure if people understand or appreciate how hard a life a common opposum (or possum, or Virginia Opposum), lives. I know I didn't until I did some research afterwards.

According to a recent study, Opposums are the worlds ugliest creatures. I'm not sure how valid a result this was, especially considering such worthy candidates as The Naked Mole Rat (TNMR)
exist. However, I must agree the Opposum is not an altogether attractive creature. However, I find its mottled fur, beady little eyes, and bare snout a bit endearing. And it may be, by far, the worlds humblest creature. While some may say that the Manatee is the world's most humble creature, I have to say that I respect an animal that has to rummage for food in the garbage much more than an animal that spends all its time in Florida sunning itself and screwing with the propellers on speed boats.

Opossums do not have it easy. They're not native to the areas north of Pennsylvania, but were pushed up here by human development. As a result, they're not adapted to harsh New England winters. In fact, they don't hibernate, unlike most mammals here. Instead they're forced to deal with the cold by digging burrows and making nests out of sticks, bushes, and trash. Their ears are also very susceptible to frostbite. And on top of all of this, they still do not understand the dangers of cars. I can't help but feel bad for the little guys.

Team Amazing: Justice Taskforce Issue 3

2008-01-17T22:00:00.000-05:00

Avery Magnum ran a hand through his windswept hair, smoothing the golden strands down against the cool breeze currently blowing from over the sea. It was dawn on the island, and sunlight spilled like water from a bubbling fountain, pouring through the cracks in the thick gray clouds that clung to the indiscernible line that separated water from sky. In the distance, puffy cumulus clouds rose from the horizon like giant beasts, waking from their night slumber, stretching their arms towards the heavens in some mighty appeal to nature. Magnum allowed himself to be momentarily awed by the beauty of the island and early morning sea, the tangy smell of salt that drifted in the air, and the sound of water splashing against the wooden dock he stood upon.
He turned around to examine the work of the men behind him. They were currently unloading the package from the cargo table it had been airlifted in upon. Several forklifts were slowly angling their way towards anchor points on the large package, like barracudas attacking a large and helpless prey. Overhead loomed the metallic structures of two industrial cranes, their operators smoothly guiding wires and hooks toward anchor points on the top. The entire site, carved from the heart of the island and layered in steel and concrete teemed with men and construction crews, all scurrying about trying to get the job completed as quickly as possible.
Avery paced around the perimeter of the site, viewing the package from all angles, ignoring the pain in his ribs. It was gigantic, the package, a monstrosity of human engineering both in appearance and in purpose. Consisting of a thirty foot long aluminum tubular frame, skinned with magnesium, the package tapered to a fearsome point on one end. The other end of the tube was a messy explosion of tubes and wires, pipes and fittings, gaskets of all size coupled to a threesome of conical nozzles. The package was covered in certain places by hundreds of feet of military tarp, gray in the dim morning air, and damp from the night moisture before. It was cool still, and Avery watched as his breath formed cool wisps in the clear air, similar to the jets of steam that occasionally erupted from the openings on the package his engineers and mechanics were currently performing a delicate type of mechanical surgery upon. The entire thing seemed chaotic, but Avery reveled in understanding the true purpose of the project, and the design of the end result. As his crane crews tightened their winches against the strain of hundreds of tons of metal, Avery looked skyward and sighed contendly.

It felt good to be a villain.

The end of the...end

2008-01-16T18:19:00.001-05:00

I was planning on posting a blog entitled "The Beginning of the End", at the start of this week, to commemorate the eminent week of midterms that marks the end of my first semester at this crazy experiment they call the public school system. Unfortunately the time flew by, and here I am on a Wednesday night with the bulk of my midterms behind me. I'll describe my first midterm this week in the manner of a trailer for an action movie, which I believe will appeal to the presumably 9-12 year old age demographic that I'm aiming for.

Trailer Opens

(cackling sounds over a dark screen, light begins to show illuminating a table full of evil looking chemicals and assorted flasks, and a few tongs. screen fades to black)

Morgan Freeman (voice over): I once heard a man say that the only thing that matters in life, the only thing that truly matters, is what you do with the time given to you.

(image appears on screen, flickering bright lights that illuminate someone's feet pounding over wet asphalt, its dark all around, the person is carrying a flashlight which constantly strobes over the camera, blinding the view. The camera is shaky, the man is grunting, running hard. He's wearing Reeboks. screen fades back to black)

Morgan Freeman: That man's name was Mike Humbleton. Ever heard of him? *chuckles* No, I didn't think so. He's better known by his other moniker. The Night Owl.

(Screen glows again, illuminating the silhouette of a man leaning back in a swivel chair. He cackles loudly. The image fades to Morgan Freeman talking to a man outside the view of the camera. He's in a library. The shelf behind him is full of Harry Potter books)

Morgan Freeman: He's the man responsible for killing your family.

(Screen fades again to black, the sound of police sirens pierces through, the camera returns to a crime scene, multiple cars and an ambulance outside of a burning apartment. the view switches to a close up of a man's face. it's Noah Wyle)

Noah Wyle: (murmuring, blood on his face) Oh my god. I'm the protagonist... (struggles to wonder why all of his experience on E.R. couldn't save his family)

(scene switches to an old dusty laboratory, with Noah sitting down at a table and Morgan pacing around him wearing a super-fresh lab coat)

Morgan Freeman: The Night Owl is a chemist. One of the best. He killed your family with a new type of chemical weapon, never before heard of. He's planning on selling this weapon to the highest bidder, probably Lebanese terrorists. You were the only person who stood in his way, the only person with the right CIA connections. He made one mistake when he killed your family. He failed to kill you.

Noah: I don't know what to do.

Morgan Freeman: You're the only person who can stop the Night Owl. The only person with the knowledge of where he'll be next.

Noah: I hear he's like a phantom, it's impossible to catch him. I wouldn't know where to start.

Morgan Freeman: He's a chemist. I suggest we fight chemistry with chemistry.

(scene switches to a montage of brief glimpses into Wyle's training. He's pouring chemicals into beakers, lighting Bunsen Burners, Morgan Freeman is teaching him how to tie an apron)

Morgan Freeman (voice over): I'll teach you everything you need to know. How to mix, how to burn, how to effuse. I'll teach you how to make the periodic table your most powerful weapon.

(scene changes to Noah Confronting Wyle on the Golden Gate Bridge. the San Francisco bay underneath appears to be made out of jello)

The Night Owl (played by a demure Robin Williams): You think you know Chemistry? (camera zooms up on Wyles face) You don't know the first thing.

(a car explodes next to Wyle, bubbles of carbon dioxide rip apart the sky overhead, the camera flashes through a tumultuous and jagged array of scenes, bubbling water, fades to black. scenes switches back to a library, Noah is sitting down next to Morgan Freeman.)

Noah: What happened to you? You used to be one of the greatest chemists in the world. You could stand up to the Night Owl.

Morgan (looks into the distance): No, I can't.

Noah (angry): Why not?! What happened to you?

Morgan: A long time ago, I made a mistake. I've been running from it ever since.

(Noah is silent, for the first time ever, seriously rethinking his career)

(scene changes to a sweeping aerial shot of a city, perhaps Quebec, at night. scene changes to a cargo plane flying through dense clouds, pummeled by rain and thunder. A montage of scenes showing the Night Owl preparing his evil toxin, meeting with suspicious looking Middle Eastern men, scenes filled with armed gunmen and rusty warehouses. Camera finally returns back to Morgan Freeman's face, focusing on his old eyes staring into the distance)

Morgan (voice over): Once upon a time, the Night Owl and I weren't so different.

*Swelling of dramatic music, original score by Hans Zimmer, reminiscent of the Crimson Tide Theme*

(Rapid progression through action scenes, Noah fighting in a dark cave, spraying bullets from a machine gun that is glowing bright blue and spraying happiness from an exhaust port. scenes of Noah fighting deep underwater, battling a shark. scenes of the Night Owl and Noah waging an epic chemistry battle on the windswept ice of a glacier in the Arctic Circle, Noah passionately kissing a woman, a bus full of children teetering on the edge of a broken Bridge)

Morgan (voice over during these scenes): I once heard a man say that the only thing that matters in life, the only thing that truly matters, is what you do with the time given to you.

(camera changes to a scene where The Night Owl is holding a flask with glowing green liquid inside up in his hand and laughing maniacally)

Morgan (voice over): Well, what are you going to do? Are you going to make it worth it?

(final scenes show Noah punching the Night Owl in the face, wincing in pain because he's a lover, not a fighter, Morgan Freeman laughing next to a roaring fire in the library, the screen fades to a dark blue which, as the camera zooms out, is revealed to be chemicals bubbling inside of a flask suspended over a burner in a dark room. the screen fades to black. words appear)

COMBUSTION REACTION

3-7-08

Directed by Michael Bay

Current Analysis Preview

2008-01-12T14:10:00.002-05:00

Tonight at 9, witness the birth of a brand new News Show. It's CURRENT ANALYSIS. Introducing two new anchors you're going to love: Mr Happy Cube, and Alan Littleton. CURRENT ANALYSIS is a show geared towards the intelligent citizen, for those people who want to keep up-to-date on only the most important goings-on in politics, entertainment, and the economy. CURRENT ANALYSIS circumvents established rules of broadcast news, things like commercialization and product placement that only serve to diminish and trivialize the audience at home. Instead CURRENT ANALYSIS brings just the facts, interpreted to fit your needs and presented in a blistering honest way. It's a new kind of news show. It's CURRENT ANALYSIS!

Mr Happy Cube is a world famous political analyst hailing from Britain. In 1992 he won a Nobel Prize for his work in securing reliable education for the people in war-torn regions of the Congo. Unfortunately, he was not able to accept the award because of his lack of arms. Mr Happy Cube won the 2007 award for Happiest Individual of Questionable Organic Composition for the tenth year in a row.

Alan Littleton is an enigma in the world of news reporting. The network director Mr. James Littleton found Alan unconcious on the road one stormy night almost twenty years ago, and brought him home. James Littleton adopted this young unknown boy after police investigations turned up no evidence as to the boy's identity. The boy himself could not remember anything. Littleton decided to name him Alan, after a dog he once had. Over the years Alan developed an intense passion for journalism and broadcast news from his surrogate father, and attended John Hopkins University where he graduated second in his class in 1998. Since then, Alan has worked as an investigate reporter in numerous political and economic rings and has spent the last four years as co-anchor of Project Thunderteam, an investigate reporting show that had overturned several of the largest scandals in recent history including the famed 2004 Tritozene drug scare in which over 15 patients started turning purple.

Results from New Hampshire

2008-01-09T14:40:00.000-05:00

Well, the results are in from that 'ol Granite State and while you've probably already heard them a half dozen times today I'll reiterate them in my own style:

Hillary won the Democratic primaries, beating Obama by two, or three, or five points depending on where you go. In addition, McCain seems to have won the Republican primaries, but I'm not sure if anyone noticed. Ha, I am just kidding of course. Every republican in New Hampshire noticed. Every one of them.

With these results the primary has truly been thrown up in the air. Polls pegged Obama as the clear projected winner, at one point clocking double digits over Clinton in the polls. Many suspect that the thing that saved Clinton in the clutch was her emotional breakdown on camera at a diner. I admire her bravery. That women's tears melted the Granite Stater's presumably granite hearts. Bless them.

In so far as Obama is concerned, he valiantly pledged to continue forward, and with strong polls in South Carolina, I don't think that Hillary can immediately be called the front runner. If this race has taught us anything so far, it's that you can't assume anything. Well, I can, but that's because I'm a radical leftist blogger, and making up facts and diluting the truth to supplement our Communist agenda is our second favorite hobby, right after aborting freedom-lovin' babies. Have I told you how much I love America?

If you're getting slightly angry vibes from me, you wouldn't be too far from the truth. I'm not angry, just very disgruntled. This race is starting to taste a little bitter, with polls swinging all over the place. While it's true that a much larger percentage of voters so far have decided to get out there and exercise those slightly atrophied civic muscles, the possibility that a pair of watery eyes swung the elections in New Hampshire is something I haven't braced myself for. Stay tuned to The New Oceanic for updates regarding the primaries, and occassionaly, some truly objective reporting.

Team Amazing: Justice Taskforce Issue 2

2008-01-05T22:19:00.001-05:00

Bellow let the warm sun soak his skin, basking in the cool breath and salty tang of the ocean crashing into the beach beside him. The white sand sparkled in the sun like diamonds, coating his feet and allowing him to feel the crushing impact of each wave, breaking upon the shore, a rhythmic undertow, providing a foundation upon which the shrill cries of seagulls formed a melody, blending together into a seamless concert of nature. Squinting against the bright sun and blue sky, Bellow reflexively blinked as something caught in his eyelash. Reaching up to touch his face, he felt the cool run of moisture dripping down his cheek, melting snow caught in his hair and wild beard.

His mind slowly removed itself from the vivid dream as he struggled to retain conciousness, crashing down the side of the snowy ravine he had, until moments before, been running along. Thrashing out with his arms, Bellow struggles to find purchase against the solid blanket of white surrounding the rocky landscape that is swallowing him up. A hard wind is blowing through the pitch black night, ramming snow with freezing force at his exposed face, like countless numbers of sharp pins being pressed against his skin. He pushes himself up, and takes off at a run, jumping over a small ledge and back tracking over an exposed rock. His body feels strangely light. Suddenly something catches in his mind, still reeling from the blow to the head. Chelsea's Fury, his hammer, is not firmly grasped in his left hand. He looks around but cannot discern its large shape against the blinding sheet of white. It must have been knocked loose when he fell. Struggling to remember why he fell in the first place, he hears shouting over the large hill behind him, and above that, shrill against the howl of the wind, and whining noise. Seagulls? He wonders before realizing it's the sound of multiple SnowCats, large engined tracked snow vehicles. Suddenly the reality of the situation crashes back down upon Bellow's mind. The airdrop. The tundra cave. The terrorist research base. The helicopter getaway. Being shot down, tumbling to a sea of brilliant white. Running. Lots of running. Sounds of explosions. Smashing into something large and hard. Falling into blackness...

Snapping to reality, Bellow quickly launches himself 10 feet downhill angling his descent with reflexes honed by decades of experience. He's in his element now, the snowy capped peaks of jagged mountains. And if they chose to bring the fight to his turf, they were going to play by his rules. Running parallel to the slope of the ridge towering above him, Bellow races, legs pumping against snowy rock, eyes and face shielded by a shaggy mane of tumbling hair. The sound of the SnowCats is getting closer. Their angry whine now clearly discernible against the constant din of the wind, beating against the mountain. At this distance and given these conditions, he racks his mind and roughly gauges their position relative to his own. Relying on his years of mountain living to guide him, Bellow climbs the hill to his right, fighting against the slope and snow. Reaching the top, he runs full steam ahead as the sound of the SnowCats (2, 3 now?) grows to this left. Out of the corner of his eye he notices the glare of headlights bearing down through the driving blizzard, and then everything goes white. Bellow sinks fast into the snow, falling exactly where he estimated the hidden gully to be. No more than four or five feet deep, Bellow angles his body down keeping his below the surface of the snow above. He listens carefully for the sound of the approaching SnowCats, the dense snow transferring their sound with much more precision than the freezing night air above. Suddenly the snow around him rumbles, and Bellow tenses his muscles, letting out a booming yell, expending with every iota of air left in his lungs, creating a supersonic percussion that transferred with equal speed and ferocity into the snow surrounding his body. He's aware, for a split second, of the SnowCats racing along above him and then everything shakes to pieces. The sound of his cry and dislodged the sheet of ice and snow capping this side of the peak and with a sound akin to grinding a sheet of styrofoam along gravel. Gathering speed the snow charges along and Bellow breaks free to the surface, riding a wave of crushing ice behind the tails of the three SnowCats racing ahead, attempting to flee the tidal wave of white behind them.

Barack Obama Wins Iowa Caucuses!

2008-01-03T23:23:00.000-05:00

I just learned from the almighty CNN that Barack Obama has won the Iowa Caucuses, garnering 38% of Democratic votes. Not only is this a good indication of a changing political climate in America (there were roughly twice as many voters in Iowa caucusing today as did four years ago), but also a good indication of future success for Mr. Obama. Obama's grass roots campaign is heavily dependent on the intial turnout of voters, especially in the young indecisive demographics, to start momentum. Without this, Barack will falter in the face of Hilary's stronger campaigning and appeal to the middle class majority. Barack Obama's success in Iowa is quite frankly amazing, considering that 90% of Iowa's population is white. If a black man can make it in Iowa, he can make it anywhere and I truly feel that we are in for one hell of a democratic primary.

America's protagonist, John Edwards, is not sulking back in defeat. He ranked second in Iowa results, ahead of Clinton. You can check out a video on CNN of him delivering a "never give up never surrender" speech with flourish and gravitas. I love that man.

If you are among a large majority of Americans who cringe every time you see a closeup of Hilary Clinton's face on TV, I strongly urge you to register as a Democrat and vote in the primary elections in the coming months. Vote Obama for change, and we'll see how tangible the lustrous dream that this great nation of ours is built upon truly is.

New Year's Resolutions

2008-01-01T23:06:00.000-05:00

Happy New Years everyone, or at least those of you not incapacitated by crippling hangovers combined with the hollow feeling of already violated New Year's resolutions. Isn't the new year such a magical time?!

My New Year's Eve was nice, quiet uneventful, very much like the ideal holiday I had envisioned for myself when I'm 60 years old. In other words a little disappointing. I got invited to a party, but the way life operates, I couldn't make it and instead sat at home with my brother watching Gladiator. Before you remark about how manly a movie Gladiator is, I'd like to say that both my brother and I threw in the towel and went to bed early. Maybe I'm already a 60 year old man in everything but appearance...

...Sorry I was checking for new wrinkles. As much as my New Year's Eve may have been underwhelming, I'm getting very good vibes from the new year so far. Intrafamiliar conflict was kept pretty low today, I got most of the work I had put off all vacation done this afternoon, and even worked in some videogaming, which was fantastic stress relief. To top it all off I remarked this afternoon while watching the end of Gladiator that I would absolutely love a chicken pot pie, and upon opening the freezer tonight, lo and behold, there sits five or six chicken pot pies, ripe for microwavin'. Sometimes I think the world loves me too much.

Anyway, here's the list all of you guys have been waiting for:

ANDREW'S LIST OF NEW YEAR'S RESOLUTIONS:
(Revised to include at least a few he might actually keep)

-Stay focused on important things like work, school, and projects like building barns, harvesting wheat, etc. (This is something I've noticed myself improving in recent months anyway, so I figured I may as well not fight the trend).

-Think more about people who aren't me. (This one will prove challenging).

-Read more (I used to read like a book or two a week and I really want to get back to this).

-Worry less about certain aspects of my future (like what to name my kids).

-Worry more about certain aspects of my future (like how I'm gonna pay for all that schoolin')

-Blog more (you all deserve that).

-Never forget about the people that rely on me (This one is based on recent events and while relevant, also serves as the "obscure intra personal" resolution that is a requisite on any self-respecting list).

Well that it's for now. I might add some later depending on my mood, because any real New Year's Resolutioner knows it's never too late to resolve to change.

Thanks for a fantastic 2007, and I hope your 2008s are even better,
Andrew

New York City Adventures

2007-12-27T22:00:00.001-05:00

Today I took a trip down to the wonderful city of New York for the day with my brother, and a few assorted middle aged gems. Our destination was to see the Bodies Exhibition, on display in New York for the time. You may have heard of this, it's a science exhibit promoting a more detailed understanding of human anatomy, health, and well-being along with serving as an incentive to spur our young generation towards fields in medical research. The main feature of the "show" are the many specimens of preserved humans on display in varying degrees of disassembly. I previewed, with a morbid fascination, the intricate workings of the human bone structure, circulatory and nervous systems, and muscle groups. The bodies, as I later learned, were unclaimed deceased individuals from China, were the project was first started. There were about a dozen complete humans and several hundred parts, from preserved hearts, to skulls, to fetuses, and every strange thing in between. I have to say I was quite impressed with the level of preservation and the amount of work that must have gone into removing so much nastiness from so many nasties.

Anyway, I found the entire experience quite interesting and the day was topped off by a triumphant venture into Chinatown where we dined at an authentic Chinese restaurant, right in the heart of America. More on that tomorrow, if I find time.

Regards,
Andrew

As a side note, we were not allowed to bring cameras into the exhibit which is why a large picture of a plasticized spleen is not accompanying this post.

This is Courage, a stupid idea for a poem

2007-12-26T23:43:00.001-05:00

This is Courage, a stupid idea for a poem
I laughed, laughed wholeheartedly at the idea
Courage, courage is not something you can grasp
Courage is something invented by people who need
People who need something to hold onto
When everything else disappears, they need
Courage is for people who want something
Anything, to drive away everything that fails their nothing
Abhorring, the very thought, a mental drought, without, I am sure
We would wither and die on the inside, more so than we allude to
Courage, an illusion of magnificent proportion,
Creating a land where the simple addition of a comma can lend
Strange new worlds of significance to the white sheets of paper
Courage is not something that can be stopped or fought
Because Courage can’t be fought
With the same weapons we use against the people we love
When everything disappears and they need
To love they hate what they want they fake for Courage forces
Upon us these blatant untruths

A Machine of Grander Design

2007-12-25T21:57:00.000-05:00

You've already been introduced, but I don't think you have a firm grasp of what's about to happen, something that will blow the dust of inactivity from the deepest crevices of your mind.

You'll be forced to think about things.

The first thing I felt was my legs. I was on my right side, with my legs crossed under me. There were a few minutes where I could feel the ground pressing up at me, but then like a tidal wave of pain crashing down upon me I could feel the weight of the world on my legs. They were broken, I was sure of it. It’s a strange feeling to be conscious of a dramatic failure in the structural integrity of your own body. Before the numbing pain, the wash of emotions that blocks out everything else, like a solar eclipse, comes this surreal out-of-body experience. At least it did with me, laying there on the ground that day. I could feel my body helplessly broken, my mind, partitioned itself into a secure corner, safe from the havoc being wreaked upon every sense, exhibiting supreme triage over my synapses, choosing with extreme discrimination what it deemed I was ready to feel. Such a simple thing as a pair of broken legs and stripped everything away until my core lay bare, there on the ground next to me, blistering in the sun, reverting to the most basic of instincts in order to secure the survival. There on the ground next to me. For a second I thought I could see it…

I wasn’t able to see that first day. Whether it was a failing of the corneal or retinal machinery surrounding those delicate lumps of tissue, or something of a more profound nature, I do not know. I do know that it was over a day because I heard the alarm on my watch ringing twice, set to ring every twelve hours by me in some other world. I remember the watch, I remember setting the alarm. I don’t remember anything else. The first time the alarm range out, the sound carried across the ringing in my ears like a jet engine cutting across the noisy atmosphere of an airport tarmac. It rang and I thought my ears would explode from the noise. It cut through the air like a scalpel, drilling into my brain with violent precision. I tried to cry out, but realized I could not. My brain had long ago severed ties with such an inconsequential peripheral as my vocal mechanism. But that first time I heard my watch was wondrous. I added hearing to my list of operative senses. Two down, three to go.

Team Amazing: Justice Taskforce Issue 1

2007-12-22T18:30:00.001-05:00

Stupendous Girl crosses her arms in front of to brace for the impact as she leaps from the corrugated rooftop of the watchtower at the dock. The cold night air brushes past her as she lands effortlessly on the cracked pavement below, rolls twice and takes off running. Behind her, bullets smash into the ground, sending jagged splinters of rock flying past her. She ignores a tearing pain in her left arm and keeps running, her toned legs pumping smoothly beneath a blue miniskirt. Turning a corner she darts into the black shadows offered by a nearby warehouse. Hearing the shouts of the guards behind her, she looks for the nearest exit. A door to her left is covered by a rusty padlocked chain, which she breaks with a swift front kick. Running through the dimly lit room she front flips over a construction hole in the floor, missing by mere inches rows of razor sharp rebar covered in germs. Running from pool to pool of light splashed on the floor by flickering utility lamps, Stupendous Girl turns a corner and runs straight into a burly security guard with a mean face and an angry looking automatic rifle. She dispatches him with a neat jumping hurricane kick to the larynx and jumps over his falling body, handplants, and tosses herself through the window at the end of the hall. Falling for what seems like hours instead of mere seconds, she curls herself into a ball, slowing herself down before unraveling for a graceful dive into the icy cold and pitch black ocean below. Utilizing a perfect breaststroke she swims for a twenty yards before coming to the surface, right next to the ladder of the boat floating next to her. Clambering on board she gives a thumbs up to the dark figure in the pilots sea who flashes devilish grin before gunning the engine and turning the wheel sharply, throwing up a sheet of water as the boat races away from the dock at 40 knots. Squinting against the wind and ocean spray Stupendous Girl looks behind her as the dark monstrosity of the military complex that she had just infiltrated fades into the sea night behind her. For a moment she's paralyzed with fear. Did she connect the right wires? Her unvoiced question is answered as the series of warehouses, research labs, and troop barracks explodes in a bubble of white light which slowly fades to orange, lighting the sky with red and wreathing the small peninsula in a halo of smoke.

Turning back around in the boat, she allows herself to relax. "Well, that's one more terrorist base off the list."

My New Instrument

2007-12-21T21:01:00.000-05:00

For the past 5 months I've been teaching myself guitar, at first using my mom's ultra-crappy acoustic before stepping it up and buying my own crappy acoustic. Haha, no I am, of course kidding. Mine is not just a crappy guitar but a crappy guitar with a cool sticker that I sort of regret sticking on there. I've diligently memorized the basic major and minor chords. I've taught myself a few strumming patterns. I've restrung my guitar, and can now tune it thanks to the modern technology of the electronic tuner which makes up for the fact that I apparently can't distinguish between different sounds...like AT ALL. I've learned the riffs to about a dozen songs, mostly soft-indie or rock from the plethora of guitar tab sites online. Lately I've been experimenting with adding my voice, but I've found that my voice only goes with 1 in 5 songs I know and I am not comfortable with this ratio, so I'm going to stick to singing with my brother as my audience for the time being. Anyway, I'm writing this blog for several reasons. First, I felt I needed to write a lighter, more funny blog about something in my life, and I don't think I've blogged about my guitar adventures yet, so that seemed like an obvious choice. Second, is that today was the last school day before our nice secular holiday break. We had a half day today and half of the already shortened day was spent at our yearly "Christmas special". All of the kids who are either in band or in a theater group were gone from class for rehearsal and prep and many of my classes were pretty empty. I hung out with my friend Zak for the day and we got to talking about our song. From the beginning of the year we've been singing (in varying degrees of annoying volume) the song "Total Eclipse of the Heart" by Bonnie Tyler to each other in Foreign Policy because we thought that song best epitomized our feelings about life. Plus, last year when I watched this video, I realized it might possibly be the best song for a man to sing sarcastically. So today we decided it was time to upgrade our selection and we decided to run with "I Don't Want to Miss a Thing" by Aerosmith. While it may not completely dominate "Total Eclipse of the Heart" in terms of manliness, it has the distinct advantage of being playable on the guitar. So today we memorized the lyrics and this afternoon when I got home from school I sat down in front of the computer with my guitar, went online, and checked out the tabs for the song intent on memorizing it so I could astonish Zak over vacation. At first it seemed pretty easy, no more than 5 or 6 different chords in all with some pretty easy patterns. Plus, most of the song consists of incomprehensible wailing so I thought I'd be able to pick it up pretty easy. I was cruising along until I hit some new chord I had never tried to play before. B Minor. Now, it is important to note that with there are several different ways to play a chord (similar to piano which I've played about 1000 times longer than guitar). The fingering the tab showed for this chord made it extremely impossible. Absolutely unplayable. I could get four of the five notes but that fifth one would end up sounding like a dying animal. And while I haven't verified this, I'm pretty sure the whole point of the song is love, not dead animals. So I was in a quagmire. I'm sure I'll look back on this some day, laugh merrily and say something along the lines of "Oh Andrew! You were so naive," as I'm playing B Minor chords with my eyes closed. But for right now, that chord is the devil. Like a cruel prank. Like Aerosmith wanted to tease me with a song I could almost play, "But let's throw in this joke chord!" Thanks guys.

Happy holidays,
Andrew

Short Story 1 Installment 1

2007-12-20T15:04:00.001-05:00

Alrighty, walking home from school today after an epically short Model UN meeting I was struck with the inklings of a new story, one that centered around a single character (like most of work lately), but put more emphasis on human nature and how a singular existence can effect one's perception of the world. Also, it seemed like a really interesting, if a bit fantastically unusual, concept. I'll be posting stuff as I write it, so the only thing you guys'll see are the bare bones, completely rough draft stuff. I'll post edits when and if I see fit, but seriously who are we kidding? I don't make mistakes.

Short Story 1 (Until I find a better name, you guys can comment with thoughts/suggestions)

Installment 1

The world consisted of asphalt. Perhaps not the entire world, but asphalt stretched into the conceivable distance, and even after the sooty black disappeared into the horizon there was still the thought of more. It stood n a complete circle, encompassing everything like a large black maw of some great creature, swallowing up anything and everything. It was completely flat, as flat as human instruments and design could allow for. When it rained the water simply filled the surface, not running off in any direction. When it snowed it was impossible to judge distance. The completely flat surface of the asphalt was disorienting in it's perfection. But it was a perfection marred by its purpose. Like a beautiful detail on an otherwise grotesque and revolting visage, the great circle of asphalt stood on the earth, so massive that it curved with the land that fell away beneath it, separated by rock or dirt or grass my many hundred feet of compacted tar.

I knew it was at least 200 miles in diameter. A while ago I attempted to walk all the way out of it. It was stupid, thinking I could. I walked for six or seven days; after awhile I forgot to count the sun rises and sunsets. Near the end I was about halfway through my supply of food so I decided to turn and go back. But that failed adventure proved enlightening. I discovered that there was an end, I saw the mountains. From the center of the circle (where I assume I am), I cannot see anything on the horizon but the towering hulks of clouds preparing to make their smooth and rapid descent across the sky until they disappeared over the second horizon. But as I made that journey to the edge I noticed the mountains. At first they were just minuscule smudges of gray across the horizon. But even then I practically lost my mind. To know that there was something except for asphalt. And as I walked on they grew taller and taller until I was sure that the edge was no more than three or four miles away. But then I noticed the clouds. The clouds, that brought rain, and thus life to be on this barren circle of asphalt, were sweeping closer and closer, past the mountains. And when they swept in front of the mountains I realized the true depravity of the situation. These mountains I had seen were indeed huge. So huge in fact that they gave the illusion that I was nearing the edge, when in fact I was not even close. I might have walked 40 or 50 miles that week, but it felt like I had to walk twice that distance to get back to the center.

The center. Where I first woke up, so long ago. I implemented a system of calculation of date several years ago. Using the sun and the moon I've been able to tell time and date since then. A.C. After calendar, I called it. It's a pretty impressive system, but I didn't come up with it until at least a few years after had lived here. The center, that's where I woke up. I don't remember much from those first few years. The thing that sticks most in my memory was the tree. The tree, still there even now. As far as I've been able to tell, that tree, along with some small shrubs and plants, are the only things in this place that aren't asphalt. It's not a gigantic tree, but big enough. I don't know the species. But it has wonderful fruit that never goes out of season. It's trunk is about 8 feet across and it's branches spread out, about 30 feet over the ground and 40 or 50 feet in every direction. It's got these gigantic leaves that are soft and change their color constantly but never wither and die. At first I was perplexed by this tree. I thought at first I was dead and this was some strange after life, something out of a child's imagination. However, over time, I've discarded this idea. The tree is real. The asphalt, though its hard to believe, is real. Everything is real.

The New Oceanic Version 2.0

2007-12-19T06:43:00.001-05:00

The blog has a received a massive face lift in regards to the color, layout, and that giant whale at the top. All of the graphics (like the whale) were edited severely by me and I feel pretty proud about that because my 2D graphics skillz are not what you would call "amazing" or "clever" or even that most awkward of compliments "nifty". No, they lie in the large and always expanding plains of mediocrity next to the mountain range of self-adulation across the plateau of indifference. It's about 6:45 in the morning, on a weekday so you can't blame me if a slew of repetitive metaphors comes pouring out.

Anyway, the point is that this is only the first in a series of upgrades I'm going to be implementing over the next few months to dramatically change the way this blog operates. Another big change I'm hoping to implement is the inclusion of more pictures. More updates is another thing I'm trying to go for. Finally, the content of the blog itself may receive a small updates. It'll stil be a "summary of my life with jokes", but it may also contain more reaching philosophical essays, analysis on human nature, and construction guides for potato cannons. All in all my goal is to have the content of this site be completely unpredictable, and I think this new update is moving in that direction.

Until next time, I recommend you guys check out www.stopwhaling.org

Regards,
Andrew DeCoster

Snowstorms

2007-12-17T07:37:00.000-05:00

Last Thursday my lovely little state of Connecticut was hit with a pretty good sized storm that brought snow, rain, ice, and strange combinations of the three upon the roads and sidewalks and cultured lawns. It's pretty early in the season, technically its not even winter yet, so this early winter nastiness is a bit foreboding in my opinion. Last weekend we got hit with another storm, and this morning I awoke to the news of a delayed opening for school. While all of this weather might be having a positive effect on the amount of my sanity that is slowly sapped every day during my internment in our local public school, it is also causing just as many problems.

On the plus side, I got the lion's share of my Christmas shopping done over a week ago and our tree is looking more and more festive everyday. Christmas time in my house is one parts Splinter Cell via Ghost Recon via obscure spy movie for every two parts Holiday festiveness. After our shopping is done every member of my family hoards up in their room and waits there, sometimes for three or four days until we believe enough time has passed so we aren't suspecting of harboring gifts for our loved ones. Allowing them to know that we care enough about them to plop down the $9.99 it takes for the collector's edition of Lawrence of Arabia on DVD is simply forbidden. Instead we slowly filter presents on at a time, all stupendously wrapped, until the tree begins to look like a refugee camp for lost or misplaced packets of holiday cheer.

Happy Holidays,

Andrew

Presidential Primaries

2007-12-10T20:12:00.000-05:00

The presidential primaries are around the corner and I'd like to take this moment to publicly endorse Senator Barack Obama as my vote for the 2008 elections. Now, before any of you crafty readers jump to some conclusions you should know that I support him for reasons besides his amazingly handsome face, his deep baritone voice, and his deep soulful eyes (although to be fair, that's about 40% of it). In fact, I've read both of his books, Dreams From my Father and The Audacity of Hope. They're both tremendous pieces of work and I recommend both to anyone who is looking to get an insight into this inspiring public servant.

In addition, the concept of Obama as president is very trendy and while that might not be the most noble of assets, it might get him the votes he needs. So, this spring if you're a registered Democrat (if you're not, feel free to use the back button on your internet browser to navigate away from my blog), cast your vote for the man who inspires you to get in touch with your inner American, Barack Obama.

Death of a Magic Trick

2007-12-09T22:16:00.000-05:00

There are few things which continually serve to fascinate and amaze me as much as a magic trick. It's not the thought of magic that truly entrances me, but the thought and notion of the reality of the trick. How do they do that? Tonight I decided I would find out just how this magic coin bank my brother has had for the longest time worked. It's a pretty simple setup, now that I know how it works. A large box, walled on three sides, with a clear plastic cover on the fourth. The coin is slipped in the top and falls trough what appears to be an extremely thin tube into a tiny box on the bottom of the larger box. Looking through the two sets of tiny windows allows you to see the coins, just as you put them in, but really small. I knew that a distortion of light was at work here, it's impossible to shrink something like that with the setup I held in my hand. However, I was sill mystified as to how they fit the coins down the tiny tube in the first place. Looking earnestly through the first plane of plastic did not reveal any hidden mirrors. So, I decided to find out for myself. I forced open the plastic cover and discovered the set of diagonally intersecting mirrors. They reflected the walls of the box to make the tube appear thin when it was, in fact just a facade that was covering a larger chute.

Now I know, I suppose.

Impending Stagnation

2007-12-05T19:15:00.001-05:00

I can smell it in the air and feel it every time I get out of bed in the morning. Not when I wake up, it should be noted. Shaking off the lingering transience of dreams leaves me feeling like I just left a place I would have liked to stay in a little longer. Perhaps it's just because I don't get enough sleep. I'm inclined to think that I'm awake too long. There is a strange, obscure partition that separates our reality from our dreams and occasionally these defined regions of existence comingle and intersect. Recently I've tried my hardest to work and excel in my reality so that my dreams are tinged with the sadness of what could have been. More recently I've found myself slowly losing the fight against indifference. The outcome is inevitable. There will come a time when I no longer judge my potential worth as an individual in a degree violent enough to warrant my continued efforts. At this point I see it more as a race than anything else. What will happen first? Will I stop trying? Or will I be on the receiving end of a drastic change of scenery? I truly need a change of scenery. I find it harder everyday to cope with the way my house contains no right-angles. Or how when I walk outside in the morning with my dog, my eyes still blurry from sleep, my hand slams into the door. I fear that I am violating the most fundamental of rules of human conflict, don't run from the problem, deal with it. Unfortunately I don't believe that this is a problem that can be fought. The slow degeneration of my place in this town, crowned with the residual indifference I feel every time I read the local news can only indicate one thing: I need to find myself in a way that escapes the reach of indie songs, or slow and reliable mantras, or engulfing myself in work. I need to feel the same sort of way I felt while I was in Biloxi, doing something that anyone could do and reveling in the feeling of oneness with myself.

It all sounds horribly contrived, but I assure you there are few things more genuine.

Thanksgiving Wrap Up

2007-11-22T21:42:00.000-05:00

Tonight I find myself scouring the grease and grime from countless plates, platters, and dishes in a seemingly futile attempt to restore some sort of order to our kitchen. Alas, the plight of the overworked Thanksgiving Day dishwasher. Actually I find the entire cleaning routine sort of soothing in a strange way. It must be the rythmic, mindless quality of it, I don't know for sure, but I find myself distancing from the present situation and really relaxing, even while my hands are pruning up. The end result: a sparkly kitchen and a mellow Andrew.

So, today was interesting. I can't say it was a fantastic Thanksgiving, but no thanksgiving with my family ever is. around midday I had a sneaking suspicion my mother was really trying to enforce some family-bonding because this is my last Thanksgiving here at home. Call me crazy, but I was pretty sure the multiple boardgames and movies shoved in my face were a sly attempt by my mom to try and pretend, even for the shortest period of time, that we have something approaching a Platonic relationship. I rather enjoy the current state of affairs between myself and my mom. While I grow and mature I know that my view of my mom and her role in my life will change but for now I'm content and at least we've escaped the stereotypical conflicts.

In addition, today I made up for 4 entire years of misplaced high school pep by attending the Thanksgiving Day football game between the two rival high school in our town. Mine, and the other one. The game itself was underwhelming, but I was prepared for this and only allowed a small part of my heart to die with the hope that I'd at last find some small meaningful side to high school football and all that entails. At least I had the chance to catch up with some friends.

Until later,

Andrew

Update

2007-11-19T20:59:00.000-05:00

Recently the astonishing lack of posts in this blog was brought to my attention by a friend. "Andrew, recently I was browsing the internet and noticed a severe lack of creativity" she said in not those exact words. Well my loyal readers, I blame myself. I think it's been too long since my last post and I think that I'm going to have to fix that now, before I go to bed because I'm really tired from doing all the Andrew-things that I do which include, but are not limited to: eating, school, Taekwondo, snacks.

So, I know a lot of you have been dying for an update on my life and I'm here to satisfy that need. I'll start off with a story:

Andrew DeCoster rolled out of his bed with the ferocity of a mountain cougar that has just discovered its work expenses are not tax deductible. Quickly throwing on some random clothes that were astoundingly well coordinated, Andrew leapt down the stairs like a nimble mountain goat with his hair disheveled in a similar manner. Throwing on a coat or three he pried open a can of delicious dog food and poured into his dog's bowl so his dog could eat the food, she's very picky about her food and will not eat it if its still in the can, so needlesstosay Andrew DeCoster is a little anxious as he carefully places the food down on the ground and opens the basement door to let his dog into the kitchen. They keep their dog down in the basement because that's the accepted place for dogs to sleep and if she slept anywhere else she might start getting an ego and that can't happen. Everyone knows that Killer's lack of an ego is one of her main attractive features.

Anywho, Andrew DeCoster briskly walks his dogs keeping a sharp eye out for vagabonds or other people who might want to take his money. Rushing back to the safe cocoon of warmth provided by his house he returned Killer's leash to the weathered and beaten nail on the door frame and takes of his coat(s). What follows is approximately 20 minutes of Andrew laying face down on his sofa immobile amidst the floating melody of the easy jazz featured on the Weather Channel during the morning. The jazz makes Andrew feel very chic but soon he pulls himself up and forces himself to take a shower. The shower is really nice and warm and Andrew spends about 10 minutes drying off and making sure all of his various limbs are in tip top shape. No malfunctioning legs today! Combing his hair and brushing his teeth, Andrew pulls on a fashionable long sleeve top to match his fashionable pants and heads off to school.

If Andrew could go to school in any way he wanted to, he'd probably choose something pretty dramatic, like a dragon or a Mafioso’s limousine. Instead he settles for his mother's silver Hyundai Sante Fe which takes roughly 5 hours in the morning to warm up so it doesn't feel like the artic tundra inside. Andrew's used to this. He prepares. He brings a blanket.

In all seriousness he likes the fact his mother gives him a ride to school. Not only is it considerate on his part, but it gives him a chance to bond with his mom, something he doesn't get the time to do.

An example conversation to illustrate bonding:

Mother: Andrew I just want to say that I'm really proud of your as my son. Anything you want to talk about?
Andrew: zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz

Ahh, bonding at its finest. Andrew feels proud when he gets out of the car. Family is important to Andrew, right up there with breakfast, and with similar qualities. Varying shapes, sizes, flavors, and textures but at the end of the day it's all necessary to survive.

Another thing Andrew needs to survive: his fans. Upon arriving at school Andrew is immediately surrounded by an incessant crowd of screaming groupies he has to literally roundhouse kick out of the way. This can prove difficult especially when his legs aren't working, but this morning they are, and the result is tremendous. THWACK! WHAP! BAM! There's a clear path to school.

The school day that follows is a big blur for Andrew. He excels in all of his classes and as painful as this is to admit, all of the adoration of his teachers begins to blend together after awhile.

Teacher: Andrew, you have great potential but Lincoln Logs have no place in my classroom.
Andrew: No, YOU'RE amazing!

After school Andrew is presented with a few options depending upon the day. A few days out of the week Andrew has extra-curricular commitments. He approaches these with casual ease. A good example of this is the Model UN. Andrew's country is Canada. Many of the students participating in this club believe he chose this country for such greater underlying purpose, when in fact he just chose it because he loves pancakes and Maple Syrup and when he was vacationing at Niagara Falls two years earlier the gay man who owned the bed and breakfast he stayed at made tremendous pancakes.

After school and extra curricular activities Andrew finds himself in a bit of a quagmire. It's roughly 4 o'clock, and he doesn't need to go to Taekwondo (or the Ninja Academy as he refers to it), until 5:30. That's almost two hours, depending on your rounding. Instead of doing homework Andrew usually ends up reading books with such ambitious titles as "Humans: Creatures of Grander Design" or "Compasses: Archaic or Sex Symbols?” Occasionally he well read a book that does not feature a colon in the title but this is rare. He will almost never read a book that features colons as the main topic. Word choice is something Andrew revels in.

The End

So that story sums up (basically) my everyday life but don't be fooled. Everyday is an adventure for me and has something different to offer.

College has become a big part of my life lately, as I imagine it has for most students my age across America. The college search and application process actually proved underwhelming for me. I visited all of my schools in advance, had little to no trouble whittling my list of potential interests down to 5 or 6 I wanted to apply to and so far have not encountered any problems with the 4 applications I've sent off already. I've even been accepted into a University, my Number 2 pick, no less. While some may say this is good news, I disagree. I was really looking forward to the drama and trouble that is associated with the college application process. I'm talking about some last minute panic attacks, rushing to find stamps, kidnapping postal workers, discovering illegitimate children of important school officials, blackmail, and a hell of a lot more paper cuts. Instead I'm faced with the inevitable fact of modern life, the digital adaptation of even the most analog-based processes. I fancied myself a man of traditional nature trapped in a world of circuitry and dehumanizing processes but instead have reveled in the way the computer has streamlined and simplified the college application process. CLICK fill out some forms. CLICK make up some information. CLICK guess my social security number. CLICK send it off to the college of my dreams.

In addition, my brain has been working overtime lately, and not just on the usual stuff (Why DO badgers look like that?). No, instead I've found that the curriculum of my Advanced Placement English (which I find much more gratifying than saying English AP) has twisted my brain into strange new configurations. Suddenly a three sentence poem by such a great writer as E.E. Cummings can be interpreted as if it were a 7 or 8 sentence poem. New worlds have been revealed to me within the dusty pages of books I had never heard of before. As a result, I've been thinking about life and my role in the world a lot more lately than I ever have before.

I could go on and on about the intricacies of my crazy Andrew-thoughts, but I won't put you, my delicate readers with your fragile psyches through an ordeal like that. Instead I've summarized my thoughts in an easy-to-read wish list.

-I want to have the strength of character exhibited by Tommy Lee Jone's character in The Fugitive. You know the part I'm talking about. When he dresses up like a hobo to raid that dude's house with all the other cops and then when one of his officers gets a gun pointed to his head by a criminal, Jones doesn't hesitate but just blows the bad guy's brains out. I hope one day I can get to the point where my morals and values have such an integrity that I wouldn't dream of hesitating.

-Another person I'd love to be more like is Rosa Parks. Admittedly, this would be difficult. First and foremost I am not a woman. Also, not black. But I really admire the ideals she stood for. I'd say that I'd like to be like Gandhi because he seems like a male version of Rosa Parks but I'm not even sure if they had buses in India, plus he didn't have much fashion sense. I have no ideas how many lines I just crossed there, but I'm guessing it’s a few.

-Finally I wish that I could sleep as easily at night as I imagine Mr. Rogers did. I'm not saying I envy the man's life, although being privy to the goings on of a magical community full of puppets is kick-ass. But I would like to be able to, at the end of the day, sum up the lessons I learned and the mistakes I made using simple words and then take off my jacket and hang it up nice and neat before going to bed.

I really hope that this post was sufficiently long to (sort of) make up for the lack of posts in recent weeks.

Updates before the end of the week, I promise.

Thoughts on Halloween

2007-10-31T21:11:00.001-05:00

Ah yes, Halloween. It's the end of October and the beginning of November. This is an exciting time for me because my birthday is just around the corner. Halloween is also an exciting time for me because I get to exhibit my extreme pumpkin carving skills. I make a pretty good jack o' lantern using not much more than my bare hands, a knife or two, and a few assorted power tools. Anyway my brother and I celebrated Halloween by renting Disturbia (the movie everyone in the world except for me has seen) and staying up late. Disturbia was underwhelming, as was the trick or treater turn out this year. Usually our porch is festooned with many small ninjas, pirates, princesses, and ghosts. Not so much this year. Luckily my brother compensated for this by giving out handfuls of candy bars instead of the allotment of 1 candy bar per child as recommended by the Federal Candy and Sweets Charity Committee. Due to the laws of physics, it is much harder to grab an individual tootsie roll than it is to grab a mini-butterfinger, so as a result we will have roughly one thousand tootsie rolls floating around my house for the next two months. I don't have a problem with them as long as they don't try to start shit with me. Like get stuck in my teeth and stuff. Tootsie rolls love doing that. They thrive off of cavities, in this way they are very much like the criminal underground of the candy world. While high-rolling socialites like Kit-Kats are strutting around attending shows and functions, tootsie rolls are hanging out in alleys distributing marijuana to children. It's feels pretty late and I start making less sense when it gets late so I'll cut this short.

In other news in my life I recently found that my score on the SAT is now an awe-inspiring 2040. I was very excited to find this out and even danced a bit before someone else mentioned there score which was of course higher. I have to remind myself that in a year or so I'll be out of this state ons oem grand adventure and while this grand adventure might not compare to Link's exploits in Zelda or anything, I think it should be quite interesting.

Until next time,
Andrew

The Ever Changing Spectrum

2007-10-21T20:33:00.000-05:00

Everyday across the globe people are presented with the ferocious effects of the ever changing spectrum. The ever changing spectrum is all pervasive. It invades every aspect of life, taking joy in permeating every and all mediums of communication that we so rely on. Television, radio, internet, and print publications revel in the ever changing spectrum and the potential it provides. The ever changing spectrum, when properly presented, can make anything appear to be anything. The ever changing spectrum, when used in its most obtuse sense can make even slights against humanity that would be considered banal when compared against the true history, appear horrific and all encompassing.

The ever changing spectrum is completely impersonal. It does not care for the way people think or feel. It harbors no trace of empathy, the defining aspect of humanity. Its actions, and the painful justifications associated with them, are grounded deeply in the abstract reasoning of a system of logistical equations far too removed for us to imagine.

The ever changing spectrum is completely personal. It seeps inside our very core and distorts our views, taking pride in the way it can change an opinion into an argument, and an argument into fact. The ever changing spectrum takes things and turns them upside down and then sits back and watches as we struggle and fight and resist and, in the end, pull something beautiful out of the mess.

We cannot fully understand the ever changing spectrum but we don't need to, to be able to observe and appreciate the effects of its hard work. We find ourselves silently questioning every decision we make despite the barrage of accepted notions of normality and morality and philosophy that is hammered down upon our frail mentalities, thrust down our throats until our struggle against the system turns horribly and irreversibly organic, until we are left no option but to retch forward with the bile of our core, the instinctual dregs of our beings surfacing only when our accumulated principles and ideals are slowly but surely suffocated by the weight of this ever changing spectrum.

The ever changing spectrum is the way something that is assured suddenly becomes questionable. It's the way we cannot ignore our most pathetic pleas of humanity when presented with an issue of greater importance. It's the way we say one thing and mean another and by the end of the day have forgotten what we said in the first place.

The ever changing spectrum is the way our world challenges the individual to differentiate from the rest by saying what they think and thinking about what they say. By observing and considering popular opinion and then throwing back into the mix our own unique ideas with violent force. The ever changing spectrum is the way the world challenges us to turn the other cheek, before hitting us in a place we would never expect. And it hurts, this ever changing spectrum. It can hurt in ways unimaginable. And it feels good, this ever changing spectrum. It makes you feel better about yourself at the end of the day because even if the ever changing spectrum has dealt you a bad hand you never know what it'll deal you next.

I'm not resigning this to a pile of forgotten drafts.
I'm resigning this to the whims of the ever changing spectrum.

The Short Story From Hell-Part III

2007-10-19T19:08:00.001-05:00

Part III

Jacob pushed his way towards the front of the ship, permeating through numerous layers of archaic and forgotten sections, passing many areas of the ship that rung with the sounds of memories that still floated, reverberating through the empty corridors on quiet nights like this one. It was always night aboard the ship but Jacob had long ago realized that some nights were especially dark, even in the pitch black there were periods of time when there seemed to be nothing that existed except the ship gently floating through the lifeless and unforgiving medium. Jacob passed these sections quickly escaping the reach of the past for a little while at least. He reached the part of the ship that served as a command center. It held all the instruments and gauges that measured, through all of their intricate levels of preciseness and infallibility the true nature of the nothingness that the ship had imbedded itself in so many years ago. Settling himself into a worn seat Jacob ran his hand along the smooth surface of the table that sat in front of him. This low lying sheet of material curved gently into the walls of the room on either side and when Jacob ran his hand along it, it came to life glowing like a weak campfire illuminating controls and information that Jacob had long ago stopped caring about. Jacob turned on the sensors; a ritualized practice that he felt was carved, like a groove into his memory, worn smooth over time by repeated use until the action itself was almost instinctual.

The sensors swept for a large distance in all directions from the ship. The ship was currently located deep within the bowels of the remains of a dead star, the nebulous collection of gases had long ago been ripped violently to one side due to an imbalance in the magnetic forces and over the years had drifted until its present state. From afar it resembled a dead creature, disemboweled and flung across the sky. Inside, it was a cavernous, consuming cloud of ionized particles and fragments of metallic dust that shimmer and glinted against light that was coming from hundreds of years away. In galactic terms, this cloud was as isolated as it could get and Jacob reveled in the feeling of suffocating escape, putting as much distance between him and fate as possible. He had felt the same way when he had entered the cloud many years ago. Racing along the convoluted paths it offered reminded him of a maze on certain days. On other days he was overwhelmed with a feeling of déjà vu when he considered his situation. It felt like his attempts as a child to hide from the world underneath the encompassing folds of a large blanket, feeling that the warm insulating layer would protect him from everything and anything in the world. It was this same instinct that drove him to fly into the cloud in the first place so many years ago. Committing to a life of isolation and loneliness was small price to pay for the feeling of safety and security that he occasionally felt, feeling invulnerable among the nothingness.

(to be continued)