i hate this fucking blog

DOGRIDERS PART 4: MYSTERIES AND REVELATIONS

2010-02-08T21:22:00.000-08:00

THE STORY SO FAR: They called them "nubs", back when there was enough of a populace to acknowledge such things. But once the "nubs" began to appear on the backs of every dog on Earth, those who were witness to their arrival were quickly and visciously eliminated. Now, with the fate of all humanity teetering over the insatiable maw of oblivion, one of the few remaining survivors, Josh Wibler, crawls from the wreckage of civilization to witness a chilling new dawn... a Dawn of The Dogriders.

CENTRE ISLAND, REMAINS OF PARAMILITARY BUNKER: Despite once housing a crew of seasoned warriors, the bunker now appears as but a scar upon the marshy ground. Fresh dirt is strewn wildly among the corpses of men and dogs. Smoke rises from pockets of fire beneath the surface. And out of one such pocket, A HUMAN HAND EMERGES.

JOSH, 27, claws his way into the daylight, a sight resembling some sort of pagan birthing ritual. He is dyed brown with soil, peppered by wounds and bloodshed. His pain is visible across his grimacing visage. He is the only survivor of the violent skirmish which died out only moments earlier.

JOSH: Fuhh...

He sits among the carnage, speechless. His eyes glisten with the arrival of tears. His place in this world has become increasingly ill-defined. As he hangs his head, a low and repetitive thumping begins to fill his ears. Looking up, he notices the wind stirring the scorched trees overhead. Suddenly, A BLACK HELICOPTER IS DIRECTLY OVER HIM. A voice calls down over a loudspeaker.

VOICE: Phoenix. Alpha. Zero.

JOSH: Help! Hey, help me!

VOICE (insistent): Phoenix! Alpha! Zero!

JOSH: Please!

The voice ceases, and the helicopter ascends slightly. Josh's tears have cut streaks of white across his mud-caked face. A ROPE LADDER unfurls from the helicopter, dangling before Josh like Christ arisen.

HELICOPTER, SOON AFTER: Josh is pulled into the massive craft by a SOLDIER in full riot regalia and brandishing a high-caliber rifle. He is tossed briskly to a row of chairs within. His uncertainties compounded, he presses his face in his hands.

JANEK: Quite the turf war you set off down there.

Sitting opposite Josh is HANSMANN JANEK, 50, a silver-haired scientist with questionable military ties.

JANEK: You see, the Dogriders don't like to sacrifice territory they've already claimed. That's why they sent a whole pack for you. Very territorial, these creatures.

JOSH: Who are you. What... what is all this?

JANEK: I suppose some explanation is in order...

JOSH: You "suppose"... I just watched the slaughter of everyone who ever meant shit to me and you "suppose" some explanation is in order?

JANEK: ... I stand by my words, yes.

JOSH: What could you possibly tell me at this point that would make the slightest shred of fucking difference? What could possibly undo the horrors I've had to witness in the past 24 hours?

JANEK: Space.

JOSH: Space?

JANEK: We believe they came from outer space. Their cellular composition, while very similar to the dogs they use as host bodies, is unlike anything we've come into contact with here on Earth. Simply put, it is not DNA. It exists outside the constituents of most known organic life. If anything I'd say it's like a mass of sub-atomic particles that, instead of electrons and whatever ionic components one might normally observe, there are chains of organisms , smaller still, resembling viruses. In essence, a virus made up of many smaller viruses, impossibly small by atomic standards.

JOSH: And I'm supposed to feel better about this?

JANEK: No. I'm merely allowing you to perceive what it is that's killing your entire race. And I do mean entire. If I were you I'd stay out of the Soviet Union for a while, and most of Asia Major for that matter.

JOSH: So... is this it? Is this... the end?

JANEK: For many people, yes. This is a roman tragedy of disaster scenarios, my boy. One in which savior cannot come with a dire price.

JOSH: What are you guys gonna do?

JANEK: We'll fight them, yes, we'll do what can be done. But the true goal now is the preservation of what little humanity remains. We still stand upon a world of human ideals, a world that cannot and will not cease to be, at least not while there are those with a say in the matter.

JOSH (getting angry): Why can't you kill them? Why couldn't you stop them?

The soldier turns from his post, sensing Josh's restlessness. Janek halts him with a raised hand. Returning his attention to his guest, Janek continues.

JANEK: We're returning from an assessment mission, and the assessment of this particular mission was that Long Island is no longer habitable. Similar assessments have been made regarding Manhattan and parts of New Jersey. Myself, I haven't slept in some 40 odd hours, what with all the assessing that needs to be done. I could name a dozen or more men who are currently on less sleep then myself, still, assessing. My point being that everyone, not just the army or the paramilitaries, everyone, is doing everything within their power to stop this from going any further. And should you choose to scoff at our efforts and disregard your own capacity to help... well, you're no better off than the bodies you leave behind.

JOSH: I don't know what's left to live for.

JANEK: Then maybe it's time to think about what's worth dying for.

They sit in silence as the helicopter cuts a clean path through the clouds.

PILOT (O.S.): Hang on, we're coming up on the Orange Zone.

JANEK (into radio headset): Any word from Cutter or his men?

PILOT (O.S): Negative. All comms have ceased as of fifteen-hundred hours.

JANEK: Damn.

PILOT (O.S.): Sir. Permission to EVAC to Hyperion Alpha?

JANEK: Negative, soldier, I want an eyeline on the Orange Zone before we even think of leaving.

PILOT (O.S.): But sir, we've only got twenty minutes...

JANEK: That's a direct order, Pilot. We're not going to lose those nukes!

JOSH: Woah woah, nukes? What the fuck are you guys doing?

JANEK: Exactly what you've surmised we're doing, my boy.

JOSH: You're gonna nuke Long Island?

JANEK: No no.... just Manhattan.

JOSH: What!?

JANEK: There's a nest of them in the subways. Biggest we've seen. We've got men on the ground delivering the payload as we speak.

Janek turns to look out the window as a smoke-streaked Manhattan skyline comes into view.

JOSH: Why can't we just drop it from a plane?

JANEK: It's essential the payload is delivered to the same depth as its target. A surface impact would only harm them; it wouldn't kill them. Every Dogrider must die.

PILOT (O.S.): Oh my god. The Orange Zone is compromised! Repeat, Orange Zone compromised! We have multiple CBP's inbound!

JANEK: Good Lord, is there no stopping them!?

Through the helicopter window we see the southern tip of Manhattan Island... WITH EVERY INCH OF TRAVERSABLE SURFACE SWARMING WITH DOGS OF ALL SHAPES AND SIZES, EACH ONE "RIDDEN" BY PULSATING GRAY NUBS.

Makeshift military compounds stand in tatters along the major streets, entire fleets of armory left idle among throngs of vicious canines. The nubs cry out in unison, their tiny mouths screeching skyward as the helicopter closes in...

INSIDE THE HELICOPTER, everyone is scanning the streets below for survivors.

PILOT: I've got eyes on their landing craft. Looks like they made it off the boat.

JANEK: Wait a minute, takes us a block to the north.

The helicopter leans forward and cuts deeper into Manhattan. Janek spies the one item he did not want to see: THE NUCLEAR PAYLOAD CASE, A HUGE YELLOW CRATE MARKED WITH RADIATION SYMBOLOGY, COMPLETELY SURROUNDED BY DOGS.

JANEK: There's the device. (to the soldier) Scatter them, but don't detonate the weapon.

The soldier nods, tossing a gas grenade to the streets below.

The grenade explodes against the back of a large husky, spewing gas in every direction.

IN THE COCKPIT, the pilot eases the helicopter away so as not to dissipate the gas.

JANEK (O.S.): Now take us down there.

PILOT: Are you kidding me? We can't land in this!

No sooner do the words leave his mouth than A FLYING DOG WITH NIGHTMARISH GRAY WINGS EXTENDING FROM ITS NUB SLAMS AGAINST THE WINDSHIELD.

PILOT: ARRRRGHHGH!!!

DOGFLYER: NYEEEEEAAAAAHHHHHH!!!!

The dogflyer slams an overripe paw effortlessly through the glass, pushing the pilot against his seat.

IN THE BACK OF THE HELICOPTER, everyone reacts as the craft veers sharply upwards.

JANEK (into radio headset): What the hell's going on up there!?

PILOT (O.S.): Huuhh... aughh...

The helicopter continues to ascend at full speed.

JANEK: Take us down, that is a direct-

ANOTHER DOGFLYER SMASHES THROUGH THE WINDOW, SKEWERING JANEK WITH SPINDLY NEEDLE-PAWS.

JANEK: Hahhhh!

JOSH: Woah, shit!

Janek is brutally pulled through the opening in the window, gone in an instant.

SOLDIER: MOTHER FUCKER!

The soldier leaps across the helicopter, sticking his rifle through the broken window and firing wildly.

OUTSIDE, the helicopter begins to spin out of control as more dogflyers cling to any available footholds in the metal.

The soldier screams, switching his rifle to fully automatic and emptying every shell.

SOLDIER: Get some! Get some! Get some! Get some! Get some! Get some!

A huge wolflike paw slashes the soldier's throat wide open. Josh is splashed with hot blood.

JOSH: Guah!

The soldier collapses, staring dead-eyed at Josh. Understandably terrified, Josh cowers against his seat. The engine begins to sputter, and a quick glance out the window reveals they are far above the city now.

Any number of thoughts flash through Josh's head. Time slows as sunlight changes directions across the shards of glass lining the floor.

Dogflyers flap eagerly outside, sensing their prey defeated.

In a move fueled by adrenaline and bloodlust, Josh charges forward over the soldier's corpse, sliding open the cockpit door. The pilot's body lies bloodsoaked in his seat. Outside, a dogflyer clings to the jagged opening in the windshield. Josh impulsively grabs the pilot's handgun from its holster.

JOSH: RAAAAAAH!

He opens fire on the dogflyer, thrusting it backwards into the powerful helicopter blades.

Josh drags the pilot out of his seat and plants himself uncertainly before the controls. He eases the handle forward and the damaged craft points its nose to the urban sprawl below. The engine stammers, trying to recover. The city below is closing in at an alarming rate.

JOSH: Ahh.

He sees the nuclear payload below, its sickly shade of yellow like a beacon among the scruffy dogs. He adjusts the path of the falling craft, trying in vain to line up his crash course.

JOSH: Come on, you son of a bitch. Fuck you, you son of a bitch.

The helicopter goes into a freefall, dead set on the yellow rectangle below. The dogs swarm as the craft falls alongside skyscrapers and financial institutions. As the unavoidable impact reaches out to claim Josh's life, he blocks the view with his arms.

PURE WHITE fills the air. As Josh lowers his arms, he realizes he is now standing still, alone in an endless white void.

JOSH: Uhh.

A booming voice fills his head: it is DOGIRA, an entity that speaks on behalf of all Dogriders.

DOGIRA (O.S.): Do not alarm yourself, human. You are within our care.

JOSH: What is this place?

DOGIRA (O.S.): We have contained you between strings of time, where you shall remain until we allow your release.

JOSH: Are you... Dogriders?

DOGIRA (O.S.): We are called Dogira. We speak for our people. Your word is nothing more than that: a word. We are a reality.

JOSH: You killed my friends. Took everyone I know from me. What now, you'll kill me too?

DOGIRA (O.S.): You find yourself here because in your time you were about to commit a Dogubus: a mass death of grave consequence. We foresaw this, foresaw the great many deaths of our people. A Dogubus cannot occur. Not in this eventuality; not in any string we inhabit. So we must enact a Doxodus. We are leaving your world, but for a small reminder.

JOSH: So that's it? You're just gonna-

JOSH IS ENVELOPED BY BLINDING WHITE LIGHT.

NEW YORK, A SUNNY DAY: Light particles flutter and retreat into a perfect blue sky. Josh's eyes adjust to the blinding glare of the sun.

JOSH (cont.): - Leave me here?

Josh catches his breath. He's seated on a park bench in SoHo, his sweater warm and smelling of fresh laundry. A basketball game is taking place beyond a lane of gridlocked traffic. A woman in a blue dress walks by with a slew of shopping bags.

PUPPY (O.S.): BROUF! BROUF! BROUF!

Josh looks around, pale as a ghost. A BROWN PUPPY, no older than 2, scampers out from a line of taxis. It runs straight up to Josh and stops a few feet away, staring up at him.

PUPPY: BROUF! BROUF! BROUF! BROUF! BROUF! BROUF! BROUF! BROUF!

--- THE END ---

?

TECHNOLOGY WILL MAKE US INDISTINGUISHABLE FROM GODS

2010-01-14T10:52:00.000-08:00

Call me a diddler, folks. I like to sit around and diddle with things. Videogames, corn chips, art, you name it; chances are I've diddled with it. So anyways, the other night I'm sitting in my room diddlin' away like always, and this particular time I'm diddling with line drawings. I spent high school and college creating a lot of line drawings in my notebooks (this existed separate from my coursework) so that has become a bit of a style for me. So I'm drawing this epic scene from the Sci Fi Novel I've got stored in my brain, The Crimson Star Saga, and it gets me thinking about the things we as a people create.

My drawing that night was of a space battle, in the moment when both sides of the war are face to face in outer space and nobody's opened fire yet but hot damn somebody will any second now. The perspective of the drawing was from the front lines of the Gedo (antagonist) army ships, staring straight ahead at this massive fucking phalanx of MSO (good guys) army ships. All the ships are different and unique because these guys literally flew everything they had out there on this specific occasion just to be like "Yo, don't FUCK". And as I began to look over all the different ships I was drawing on the paper, the big science frigates and the bombing cruisers and the massive "diplomatic" ships, I reflected on how I had gone about creating this tableau in my mind.

As fucking crazy and schizoid this all may sound, it's actually culled from a fictional history I've been creating in my head and in various drawings/writings since about 1999. As dense as it is, The Crimson Star Saga basically focuses on a main cast of characters involved in this conflict some thousand-or-so years in the future, wherein Earth is totally restructured as a Multinational Oligarchy and as such has created this expansive Space Military in order to fight this New Mutant Enemy that's started attacking from somewhere out in space. Our cast of heroes is a platoon of 8 men sent to a Military Boot Camp and Base of Operations on the planet Mercury, which has in the past hundred years been knocked away from the sun by a comet and since been deemed colonizable.

That's the setup, don't wanna spoil the ending for you, but suffice to say a lot of warring ensues. And my drawing is basically a depiction of one of these massive, history changing battles. So as I'm drawing and reflecting on this iteration of our solar system I've created, I consider where the fuck any of this is going.

After all, I'm not really doing this out of a desire for some award or a contract to make an epic film trilogy out of this immediately marketable story although I would... I just make this because it's there in my head and I want to get it out on paper, and on screens, and in text, and basically anywhere I can create something from this alternate reality. And this specific desire, which I guess a lot of artists share, gets me thinking about: To what extent am I actually CREATING this alternate reality?

Humor me for a second, and let's assume I can use any number of artistic tools in building the Crimson Star Saga from scratch. Let's say that I have my own army of CG designers and production people and writers and everybody's intent on creating these characters and this world they inhabit, and let's even go so far as to say the computer people put Artificial Intelligence into the characters (c'mon, we'll have it soon enough). Technologically, it's already possible to build a To-scale version of this imagined Solar System in the digital realm, so long as the right super-computers are at the helm. Is it such a stretch to imagine this universe inhabited by advanced artificially-intelligent 3-dimensional characters, each one preprogrammed with their emotional and cognitive range relative to that point in the story's timeline? Could be doable in a few years, right? Well then, if such a creation is possible, how are it's creators distinguishable from God (whatever you take God to be). Have the people not created life there, as long as the electricity feeds it? If that world is changeable, malleable in its own precoded way, is it so different from our own? Sure, its core constituents exist in a complete different form, but the rules and the chaos of both start to look strikingly similar.

Are we then not Gods of all we create, as we are the ones who have willed it to be? (I guess this argument is nulled for people who believe that God ordains everything you do). I think that as long as we create these worlds and stories within our heads, we are basically confirming their existence. By knowing that such a place CAN exist, we are opening to the possibility of infinite alternate realities, and thanks to the concept of Infinity, there is a reality set aside for each and every story we dream.

Wrathodous - Way of the Dragon God BY DAYLON QUENNING

2010-01-01T20:27:00.000-08:00

as my fingers stroke the keyboard, it is 11:27 pm, a friday, january the first, 2010. a decade has just rolled off the earth and cast its historical light into the ocean of energy that binds our universe. it was the un-nicknameable decade, one i occasionally and sadly called the Naughts, and in the haze of its having just recently passed, i find it difficult to reflect on what's been accomplished in the past ten years.

personally, i'm ok. i'm growing up and my cells are maturing and there's more ball starch and i moved to a new apt. in the ghetto. in two months i'll be 25 years old, having myself absorbed the past two decades of Earth in their entirety. but worldwide, i can't really say how things have progressed. from a number of perspectives, it would seem things have digressed actually. my country of america has retained its status as a worldwide superpower and in doing so has cast an ominous shadow over the rest of the planet. every day we warmonger and pillage, doing so under a number of auspices and symbolic goals, none of which bear any strong connection to reality. our majority is one that detests any and all minorities, we are a people that claim to love while secretly hating everything that isn't Us. we are ironic and removed and ill-prepared for life beyond the glowing rectangles. we pollute with reckless abandon, attempting to recover a situation that worsens with every drawn breath. and there's the very real possibility that at some point we'll be so fucked that the planet will do something crazy like disintegrate into space.

culturally and spiritually, we try to escape this downward spiral by retaining our Humanity: music, art, food, wine, dance parties, neon fuck castles. to an extent, it worked. we blew up a lot of people as usual but mostly everyone turned out ok. i'm here. i've spoken to most of my closest friends today; they're all here. and we're all still participating in this shared idea of what A Life should be, even though our opinions and needs clash so fucking much. so this ongoing system of birth happy sad death perpetuates, and in the face of overwhelming calamity we continue onward into the oh-tens, where any number of bizarre and exciting destinies await. already we've become self-referential to the Nth degree, and technologically we're just pole-vaulting upward with no end in sight. i cannot say what the past decade has accomplished, whether all that's been wrought is good or the eventual cause of our Undoing, probably a bit of both, but i can say that as a Planet and a Species we've progressed and evolved, and with an ever-increasing speed (that still manages to amaze me).

As of the 2nd decade of the 2nd milennium of the latest version of history recording psychos, we're still here, goddammit, and we're gonna get a hummus wrap and listen to a mashup album and drink a forty and say fuck you man should you piss us off and whats up if you're alright. and the sun will continue to radiate the light that will etch our bodies across the milky way, just like the Dragon Gods intended.

Crimson Stars I: Deployment Module

2009-12-14T23:43:00.000-08:00

INTEGRAL ONE - TRANSMISSION OXE-39115

translated from Gedo dronespeak:

"
Glory to the dark savior, resurrector of the seven, protector of the
"

END OF RECOVERY

the transmission terminates here. the originator of the transmission perished in a suicide dive while operating a small Gedan link craft.

* * *

PROPERTY OF M.S.O. PROCESSING AND INFORMATION - CLASSIFIED DOCUMENT, DO NOT RE-DISTRIBUTE
DOCUMENT IS INTENDED FOR USE SOLELY BY M.S.O PSYCH OFFICIALS
PSYCH EVAL ORANGE ALPHA

GEN PROFILE: Kesai, Xeve
SEX: M
AGE: 22
BIRTH: 06/03/3007 3Sol:08:15:26 - Fort Wharton, NEDCH
STATUS: ENLISTED, PENDING TRANSFER TO MERC CITY TRAINING ACADEMY
COMMENTS: Subject demonstrates a strong willingness to serve and die in duty of MSO. Cites enlistment of as motivation, despite having been raised by foster parents. Father was KIA during routine sweep on Janshee-118. Uncle is MIA, last recorded prior to space skirmish with Gedo heavy interception, Vector 268-339-006. M. Kesai's foster parents reside in munics outside Fort Wharton, though both have tested negative for neural transfers with New Grey Earth Frontists. Despite a questionable mental background, Kesai is neuro-transfer negative, and psychologically fit for ground and air combat.
PSYCH OFFR.: K. Layton
CONFIRM: *******

- ASS'S ASS'S ASS'S 8 8 8 8 8 8 8. L-Chroma Ready, and Ready 4 U!!! Not too be missed, myfriend. homegrown. good stuff indian/eurasian call me anyti--

BiLLYChannel4: "HOLDING THE TONGUE OF THE SPEECHLESS" - What's the latest buguptheass of the Terracrats these days? Are we going back to the days of First Amendmence? And does anybody REALLY care what FuBiTAah wore to the Cinema Torch's last night? The answers and more from Rick Carton.

CARTON [in yello]: You know what I love about this town? If you're ever gettin' mugged, let's say a guy's comin' at ya, trying to mug ya, you can just scream "GEDO!" and there'll be an officer along real quick ta help ya [lagh]. D'ya ever find yourself, you know, like, making love to a fem, and the thought just oohp! Pops right into your head? [pantomimes knocking on door] "Sorry honey, we have to stop, the cops are here." [lagh] "Yup, my fault again. Sorry, beb."

***ENCRYPTED TRANSMIT***
RESTRICTED ACCESS
THIS IS A SECURE LINE
ACCESS BY NON MSO ORIGIN WILL BE PERMANENTLY DISABLED & INVESTIGATED.

AudioRoomDAT//MSO Enlistment Frigate GEORGIA 11//Transfer Pod Bay:
K>TENNION- Oh, man. Oh, god.
T>JONNEL- What is it? What's going on?
D>REAGAN- [We're] coming in for a landing.
H>HABER- Is that her? Is that-
K>TENNION- That's it.
G>LART- My god. It's-
K>TENNION- It's fucking beautiful.
D>REAGAN- Wait until you see the temple.
T>JONNEL- Temple? What temple? The Gedo have temples around here?
D>REAGAN- No, you idiot, it's one of ours. Merc City.
K>TENNION- Look, there it is!
H>HABER- I can't see.
D>REAGAN- [lagh] Damn, these things are fast!

* * * * *
Raynon-Pillenger Defense Contracts & Aeronautics

At Raynon-Pillenger, we conduct our business by the time-honored belief that beauty is bound up in symmetry. That's why, in each product component, in every elemental variant, you can find HELIX cells re-enforcing each individual molecule*. These lycro-carbon moleculites create a hardened casing around every applied surface, with the added bonus of aerodynamic texturing. Studies conducted using a Halite Spraystar Vac to Ground Missile continuously yield a fifty percent increase in target accuracy on an average launch of six kilotons per payload.

*standard metalloids only.
* * * * *

sigmetc cc cccccccccccc
...--...
nmet ... .... cc . c . c . c . cc

TRANSLATING DRONESPEAK - - Loaded.

TARG001- Cold cloak red throat,
TARG002- Lotheode.
TARG001- What? You so brazenly speak my name outside the enclave.
TARG002- The Master's eyes don't watch here.
TARG001- How can we be sure?
TARG002- I serve directly under him.
TARG001- Your tongue moves more than you speak.
TARG002- Does this convince you?
TARG001- That blade, where did you get that?
TARG002- First some answers from you, brother.

SIGNAL LOST - NO DISCERNIBLE SIGNAL AS OF 43Wasp:18:09:17

*

Bicycle Lost

2009-10-16T23:08:00.000-07:00

I know that the bloggings have been sparse, but believe you me, I hate this fucking blog. Since there have been many appreciative posts concerning my mountain bike and mountain-biking in general (early silent footage of me biking - http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3pl1zvkVvg4) I feel it is my duty to report to you loyal readers that my mountain bike was recently stolen on the corner of 3rd and Brown in Philadelphia. It happened around 1:30 in the morning while I was drinking in a bar across the street. The bike was tied to a traffic sign with a steel cable lock, which the thieves cut in half and left lying prone on the ground. I drunkenly approached the former parking spot of my bike and began to process what had happened. Several years and countless hundreds of miles of biking flashed before my eyes like a life that was about to end. In many ways that bike was a close friend to me, and there are more than a few times in my life where I would've been shit up a creek if I didn't have that vehicle on my person. It is sad to lose a good bike and I wish painful death upon the thieves and that is all I will ruminate about the matter.

Things are going great, blog, but I don't think I have enough time for you right now.

*reveals silenced gun from beneath jacket and fires point-blank at computer monitor*

53 Miles... Uphill.

2009-07-31T00:09:00.000-07:00

On the 28th of June in the year of America 2009, myself and a rambunctious team of rowdy rapscallions embarked on one of the single most strenuous days of biking in my ongoing career of hobbyist cycling. It was the 2009 Long Island Harbors Ride, hosted by some ambiguous cycling group known only as "Bike New York". There were 4 ride options, ranging from 27 to 105 miles, each blazing their own trail through the hills and harbors of Long Island's northern shore. My friends (the eponymous Greg and Bill) and I decided to do the 53 mile course, a challenging but ultimately doable ride.

I was up by 6 that morning, sequestering an egg sandwich (no bacon) before traveling to the starting line with my fellow riders. Our crew arrived under cool grey clouds, thankfully spared the rains that had hitherto been plaguing the northeast. We were all pseudo-ready for the trip, each having done some amount of riding to prepare for the day's riding. But despite numerous training miles logged, we were each dealt a debilitating blow by the sheer scale of the journey ahead.

Since it was a ride and not a race, we departed at our leisure from the starting point at Brentwood, Long Island. From what is basically the middle of the island (north-south-wise), we headed north on a highway service road, bound for the coast. Long, broad roads gave way to forested side streets, and we made our way deep into the hills and valleys that comprise the great north shore.

We were warned of hills well before we set out that morning. The frequent elevation change was a challenge to even the most seasoned of riders, and just a glance at our group proved we were not the most seasoned of riders. Nevertheless, we pushed up those inclines, shifting gears and flexing calves like it was going out of style. Within a few big crests and troughs we found ourselves in familiar territory, for after all our ride was known as "The Huntington Loop" (and duhh that's where i'm from). We faced some local terrain with which we were grudgingly familiar, including the dreaded Snake Hill, a winding ascent that more than lives up to its name. We swilled water from insulated bottles and wiped sweat from our brows, cutting a path from familiar isles into eastern mysteries.

The sun roared out of the clouds just as the true nature of our ride revealed itself: this was not so much a harbor ride as much as a steady uphill climb through monotonous residential lanes. At some point the elevation gain began to lose sync with reality, and the amount of uphill in no way matched the meager downhills that dotted our course. The promise of scenic harbor views was ill kept, replaced instead by tree-enclosed stretches into infinity. A quarter mile uphill ended in a sharp curve only to reveal another mile and a half uphill. A gentle downward slope was but a prelude to a vicious ascending angle. Entire neighborhoods unfurled against brutal hillsides, baking in the hot noon sun like a heathen feast. As our water supply dwindled, our might as cyclists was put to the test.

Long gone were the peaceful inclines of highway service roads. Now was the meat, the true mettle of our journey. We each faltered at times, stopping increasingly frequently for whatever solace we could render on a humid sidewalk. Numerous sojourns found us splayed out wildly as corpses on the roadside, so that yellow-vested ride officials were forced to inquire after our well being. A kind of anguished frustration set in; the sense that this path was deliberately chosen for its maddening uphill stretches. We began cursing our route in between catching breaths. Often I stumbled upon Bill at the side of the road, his head against his handlebars in defeated repose. Even one of the official rest stops was perched far back on a hillock, one that had to be traversed entirely upwards and off course to reach (a sort of deranged cherry to this unhappy sundae was the fact that this was the worst of the rest stops that day, featuring little in the way of nourishment and plenty of Bob Marley's "Legend" on repeat)

As the afternoon sun lilted in the sky, talk of the finish line grew among our fellow riders. "8 miles left." "6 miles to go, you can do it." "You're almost there, why is your face so red?" We had come so far, yet one final stretch lay before us. As if to fully discredit the designation of "harbor ride", the final leg of our journey entered into a vast wash of industrial zoning. Endless fields of fresh cut grass outlined boxy business complexes, places of boring work where real life was muted in the interest of profit and faxes. It was here that we faced our final uphill attack, a shallow yet prolonged ascent past repeating examples of mankind's basest architectural creations. A security company gave way to a storage company, which preceded a corrugated metal tubing company, their monotony matched only by the steady pounding heat of the sun. But we were not there to report to some mind-numbing version of employment. No. On shimmering steel frames we glided through the Long Island afternoon, intent on the accomplishment we knew lay just ahead. It was then that we knew no amount of uphill could conquer us. We were The Riders. We were there to progress onward despite the most trying of conditions. And with that final determination, we coasted back onto the familiar streets of Brentwood, NY. The sound of Rush on echoey speakers was our fanfare; we had arrived. In that handful of hours we had put 53 miles of asphalt behind us, having done so solely with the manpower exerted upon our vehicles. To the more skilled rider this is all in a day's work. To us it was an achievement of strength and willpower. We had faced a great many uphills and taken each of them on with force and precision, never once dismounting to walk our bicycles to the top. It was a full day's ride, and as far as we were concerned it was a masterful accomplishment on par with summiting a mountain or strangling a freshwater catfish. A peaceful exhaustion setting in, we loaded up our bikes and headed for Carvel. Whatever the question was, a root beer float would be the answer.

P.S. I don't know any of the people in that photograph.

DOGRIDERS PART 3: BROTHER, CAN YOU SPARE SIX BULLETS?

2009-06-17T21:07:00.000-07:00

THE STORY SO FAR: They just looked like harmless little nubs. Grey knotted lumps that began to sprout from the back of each and every living dog on the planet. So quick and unprecedented was the event that none were prepared when these same nubs gained consciousness; a collective hive-mind that willed the dogs into an Assault on the whole of humanity. And when man met his attackers, vicious and bloodthirsty as they were, he named them Dogriders. There are many tales of calamity and loss surrounding these frightening events, but this particular story is that of Josh, a 27-year-old data entry clerk from Long Island, witness to the eradication of each of his friends, having last been seen swimming into the stormy waters of the Long Island Sound...

CENTRE ISLAND: A grey shoreline. Waters lapping at pale sand. JOSH, 27, lies motionless near the high tide line. His hair is wet and flecked with sand. His clothes are tattered and soaked through. He stirs.

JOSH: Hunhh...

Dizzy from too many hours at sea, he rolls his head around. Sand, trees, and sea, as far as the eye can see. He sits up, regaining his senses. A low growl issues from behind him. He braces for the inevitable, slowly turning to face his fate. A LARGE BROWN DOGRIDER snarls at him.

JOSH: No.

The beast paces forward, crouching as if ready to pounce.

JOSH: No no NO!

DOGRIDER: BROUF! BROUF! BROUF!

The Dogrider leaps at Josh, ONLY TO BE SNAPPED ASUNDER BY RIFLESHOT.

JOSH: WOAH!

The Dogrider, dead, lands merciful feet away from a stunned Josh.

SHELMAN (OS): You injured?

JOSH: What?

FRANK SHELMAN, 32, emerges from the brush, a sniper rifle slung behind his back. His gruff exterior belies a love of adventure and a sardonic outlook on life.

SHELMAN: Did that thing hurt you at all?

JOSH: No, I'm OK... thanks. thank you.

SHELMAN: What's your name?

JOSH: Josh... Josh Wibler.

SHELMAN: You able to walk, Josh?

JOSH: I think so.

SHELMAN: Then let's go. There'll be more where that came from.

FORESTED PATH, SHORTLY LATER: Shelman leads Josh along an otherwise unmarked woodland trail.

SHELMAN: What were you doing all alone out there?

JOSH: I was in the water. Trying to swim away from those... things.

SHELMAN: On your own?

JOSH: I was with my friends. We were trying to find a way off the island but they... they all...

SHELMAN: Alright, OK. It's OK.

They walk for a while in silence, the sounds of the forest murmuring around them.

JOSH: You're one of those paramilitaries aren't you?

SHELMAN: Used to be. Until all this.

JOSH: What about the others? The guys in your unit?

SHELMAN: Ran off, tried to fend for themselves. Most of 'em KIA. Those of us who did stick together, well, you'll see.

JOSH: Where are you taking me anyway?

SHELMAN: We'll head upriver in the airboat.

JOSH: Airboat?

RIVERSIDE: A marshy stretch of river that feeds into the Sound. A large structure is hidden beneath an olive tarpaulin. Shelman pulls away the tarp to reveal an honest-to-goodness AIRBOAT complete with a giant airplane propellor at the aft.

JOSH: Oh.

LAZY RIVER: A winding labyrinth of streams and tributaries. Josh and Shelman whizz along on the airboat, Shelman expertly navigating the maze.

JOSH: Why head North from D.C.? I thought we got hit the worst?

SHELMAN: That's what the media said before lights out. Now it's twice as bad down south. Riders are forming bigger and bigger hunting parties, sometimes hundreds deep. Lucky for us they can't swim as well as when they were, you know, dogs.

JOSH: But why Long Island?

SHELMAN (sarcastic): Always wanted to summer up here.

The airboat cuts a sharp turn into a narrower stream marked by A DOG SKULL ON A PIKE.

MARSHY EXPANSE: The airboat drifts to a stop alongside a GRASSY MOUND. Shelman hops into the knee-deep water as Josh contemplates his disembarkation. Shelman gives him an "are you serious, pussy?" look and then addresses the mound:

SHELMAN: Dader, open up, I got a live one here!

DADER (OS): State the password.

SHELMAN: I told you, we can't have a password in a hi-act area. Strategically, it's bullshit.

DADER (OS): Password, Grunt!

SHELMAN: (exaggerated sigh) Happy Halloween.

A slab of moss opens mouthlike from the mound to reveal DADER, 30's, a lanky gentleman with a sharp face and spiky brown hair.

DADER: Shabat shalom.

SHELMAN: Yeah, OK, hi. Get this guy some water, he's been in the shit.

DADER: What do I look like, the Red Cross?

MAKESHIFT BUNKER: A musty earthen tunnel, peppered with small portholes to the outside world. Spots of sunlight and the orange glow of gas lanterns. Dader and Shelman lead Josh into what looks like a hastily-dug dwelling. 3 or 4 other men are posted along the walls, downtrodden.

DADER: You know I'm not too keen on sharing, rations being what they are.

SHELMAN: Sorry to break your back but he's the first survivor we've seen in a minute. Let's not forget why we signed up for this shit.

DADER: Please show me the part in our contract where wild dogs devour the planet.

SHELMAN: Whatever happened to the overeager piece of shit I followed out of Maryland?

DADER: Look, you wanna babysit Timothy Hutton's balloon sculpture? Be my guest. Matter of fact, put him to work.

Dader tosses A SMALL HATCHET to the ground, which Shelman ignores.

DADER (CONT.): We need more lumber for the south tunnel.

Dader storms off, pushing a clod of dirt off the wall.

JOSH: Who's Timothy Hutton?

SHELMAN: Forget it, kid. Drink this.

He hands Josh a military canteen, of which he drinks deeply.

SHELMAN: You'd think for once people could look beyond their own gripes and try to help each other out.

Josh is silent.

SHELMAN (CONT.): Maybe that's what got us into this. All that hate, greed, selfishness. Maybe it rubbed off on 'em. The dogs. Made 'em change into those things.

JOSH: My dad says it was radiation from space.

SHELMAN: Don't believe everything you hear, kid.

SOLDIER (O.S.): RIDERS!

Shelman snaps alert, approaching the soldier.

SHELMAN: Head count.

SOLDIER: Two of 'em. Scouts.

Shelman takes a furtive glance out one of the root-curtained portholes. Across a marshy stretch, two Dogriders dart over an embankment.

SHELMAN: We gotta take them out commission before they report to Momma. Where's Mills?

MILLS (O.S.): Here, sir!

MILLS, 28, a bespectacled schlub with messy facial hair, waddles up.

SHELMAN: How's your shooting eye?

Mills crosses and uncrosses his eyes, both grossly exaggerated by his lenses.

MILLS: Uhhh, good, sir!

SHELMAN: Alright. Stick your neck out there. If it's just those Scouts, put 'em on ice. Any more than that and you call for back up, understood?

MILLS: Sir, Yes, Sir!

Mills runs back down the corridor, dropping a mag of ammunition on his way.

JOSH: Are we safe in here?

SHELMAN: Until they learn how to dig tunnels.

Shelman grabs a rifle from the wall and aims at Mills. Mills makes his way to the entrance hatch and cautiously pushes it up. He stands halfway exposed at the mouth of the hatch, panning his gun over the landscape. He rests his aim on something neither Josh nor Shelman can see.

MILLS: ... shit.

A DOGRIDER SNAPS AT HIM FROM THE ROOF OF THE MOUND, PULLING ITS SCREAMING PREY OUT OF SIGHT.

SHELMAN: FUCK!

He shoots at the entrance, but the bullet just dings the hatch as it snaps shut.

JOSH: Oh, no.

DOGRIDERS (O.S.): BROUF! BROUF! BROUF! BROUF! BROUF! BROUF! BROUF! BROUF! BROUF! BROUF! BROUF! BROUF! BROUF! BROUF! BROUF! BROUF! BROUF! BROUF! BROUF! BROUF! BROUF! BROUF! BROUF! BROUF! BROUF! BROUF! BROUF! BROUF! BROUF! BROUF! BROUF! BROUF! BROUF! BROUF! BROUF! BROUF!

Pawsteps pad the earthen roof like a violent hailstorm.

SHELMAN: Full auto! We got K9's incoming!

Soldiers hurry along the tunnels, scanning portholes with weaponry at the ready. Barking echoes from every direction. The men take potshots at fleeting shadows on the marsh. Somewhere down the tunnel a man screams. Josh backs against a wall, horrified.

SHELMAN: Where's Dader!? We need everything we've got! More than everything!

Shelman jams his rifle into one of the portholes, unloading round after round into the outside world. Outside, Dogriders swarm amidst the brush. Whatever horde was nearby is now directly upon them.

SOLDIER (O.S.): I'm out! Christ, there's too many!

SHELMAN: Don't let up! We gotta wear 'em down!

DOGRIDERS (O.S.): BROUF! BROUF! BROUF! BROUF! BROUF! BROUF!

SHELMAN: Get some! Get some!

Josh becomes aware of a LOW GROWL emanating from within the tunnel. He looks down a narrow corridor which drops off into darkness. A SHINY SNOUT begins to emerge from the shadows, bearing VICIOUS PINK FANGS. A DOGRIDER IS INSIDE THE BUNKER.

JOSH: Frank!

DOGRIDER: GrrrrrrrrrrrBROUF! BROUF! BROUF!

Shelman spins around just as THE DOGRIDER LUNGES FOR HIM. He holds his rifle sideways as the Dogrider clamps its wicked maw around it, knocking them both to the ground. In the struggle, a gas lantern is knocked to the ground, spreading liquid fuel across the ground. FLAMES RISE UP AROUND THEM AS SHELMAN WRESTLES THE HELLISH CREATURE.

SHELMAN: Ack! God DAMN YOU!

The Dogrider's teeth remain fixed to the rifle as Shelman tries to jar it loose. Josh backs against the wall as flames further separate him from Shelman's struggle.

SHELMAN: Kid! Get outta here! Go!

The Dogrider leans in with the brunt of its strength, its dripping fangs mere inches from Shelman's face. Shelman stares right into its murderous eyes.

SHELMAN: I'll be waiting for you in hell, you son of a-

The rifle SNAPS IN TWINE as the Dogrider chomps through steel and oak. Shelman screams as HIS THROAT AND FACE ARE RIPPED APART. The fire, now somehow raging throughout the corridor, casts nightmarish shadows of the feasting monster. As the Dogrider claims the life of its latest victim, it turns to face Josh... ONLY TO RECEIVE A HATCHET-STRIKE DIRECTLY TO ITS NUB.

NUB: EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEHHH!!

Josh withdraws the hatchet and STRIKES AGAIN, HIS FACE ALIGHT WITH NEWFOUND VIGOR AND RESILIENCE!

JOSH: YEAGH!

NUB: EEEEEH! EEEEEEEEEEEEHHHHHH!!

The dog twitches as its nub bleeds viscuous black death. By the time he's finished chopping, Josh is splattered with the stuff, completely exasperated.

JOSH: Hahhh... huuhhhh.. hohh.

Shelman coughs through a gurgle of blood.

JOSH: Frank! Can you hear me!?

SHELMAN: Ruh... rock and roll, kid.

Shelman breathes his last and is still. Already separated from his newfound friend, Josh is awash with swirling emotion. All around him, the fire continues to grow, climbing dirt walls that are for some reason highly flammable.

DADER (O.S): You.

Josh whips around to see a bruised and battered Dader carrying A HIGH-CALIBER MACHINE GUN.

DADER (CONT.): You led them right to us.

JOSH: No...

DADER: We were safe here. We had a plan. Shelman. He wasn't supposed to die.

JOSH: I... I tried to save him.

DADER: You BROUGHT THIS UPON US!

He levels the gun at Josh.

DADER: Oh, but I'm not gonna let you fuck this over any more, no. You think you can waltz in here, kill my men, burn my base to the ground. You have the audacity to-

A GIANT WHITE DOGRIDER (eerily similar to the one that ate Nick in part 2) LEAPS FROM THE SHADOWS, POUNCING DADER.

DOGRIDER: BROUF! BROUF! BROUF!

Josh staggers backwards as Dader and the Dogrider tussle amidst the inferno.

DADER: Hagh! Aeeyagh!

Dader is SLAMMED into a dirt wall. The combined force of the impact and the hungry flames triggers a chain reaction. Massive columns of dirt begin to collapse around them. Dirt and mud fall in sheets along the corridor. Terrified, Josh backs into a corner of the room. As he crouches defensively, THE ENTIRE CEILING COLLAPSES IN A BLANKET OF SUFFOCATING DARKNESS.

(end part 3)

King of Recreation

2009-06-06T23:32:00.000-07:00

I am not a man of great accomplishments. I have made modest steps forward in life and celebrated personal victories on a very respectful scale. I have not accomplished as much as others in similar shoes but I have filled my life with enough appreciable moments so as to achieve at least a balanced sense of self-worth. When it comes to recreational activities, this ideology remains. My victories are spread out among a sea of mediocrity. Today, however, was a day of victories. Recreational victories.

It being a weekend, and a nice one at that, a decision was made among friends to engage in recreational activities at a local park. Following the acquisition of bacon, egg, and cheese sandwiches and large half-n-halfs (lemonade & iced tea), a game of bocce was embarked upon. It was myself against Billy "The Kid" Marsalise, with the winner going on to face Greg "The General" Reihing. Each round was an exacting struggle, with the pallino being knocked about the court in strategic warfare. Rains had come through the night before, while Billy and I were still just a couple of bros dancing around at a Phish concert. As a result, the court was smoother than expected and ball friction and drag was greatly reduced. Thanks to a few key throws that posited my balls just inches closer than The Kid's, I was able to win the first match.

Next came The General, and with him a brutal new form of strategy. The "bocce-ing" of the opponent's balls away from the pallino with a well placed throw became the attack-du-jour of this match. Just when it seemed a victor had been decided, a new ball came smashing into play, upsetting the entire playing field and drastically reallocating points. Despite an almost insurmountable lead by The General, I was able to rally my bocce skills and smash his balls into next weekend, removing his skillfully placed throws from their intended targets. This second victory propelled us into the final round, in which I would once more take on Billy The Kid.

All the previous experiences of the past two matches came into play for this final showdown. The finesse of every shot, the manipulation of the pallino, and yes, the bocceing of the opponent's balls. It was another close match, but thanks to some unforeseen luck and an almost preternatural sense of the game, I was able to cement a 3-match victory over both my opponents.

This recreational domination carried over to J.T. Carrington's Bar in Huntington Village, where a game of Cricket (the darts game) raged amidst the 80's classics of possibly the best DJ on Long Island. This time I was teamed up with Billy The Kid, but old grudges were set aside in pursuit of new glories. And glories there were, as we steadily worked our way through each of the numbers magic-markered onto the whiteboard, finally cinching the victory with a few well-placed bullseyes from yours truly.

Even in the post-alcoholic return to the bocce courts, I tasted the sweet nectars of ball victory. Out of a humble track record I emerged with winning skills and visionary determination, winning two more highly competitive matches. It was perhaps the my finest showing at any recreational event. Even though I lost in an end-of-the-night showdown with Billy The Kid, my overall achievements for the day were more than enough to represent a personal goal, a victory among a sea of mediocrity. Even though I may never again enact so pristine a performance in a single day of recreational activities, I can always look back on this sunny June day and know that, for a magical handful of hours, I was the King of Recreation.

LET'S TAKE A MINUTE TO TALK ABOUT MY CALVES

2009-05-24T23:04:00.000-07:00

LET'S TAKE A MINUTE TO TALK ABOUT MY CALVES IN ALL CAPS. I STRESS THE CAPITALIZATION BECAUSE THIS IS SOMETHING OF A BIG DEAL FOR ME. I DON'T GROW MUSCLES ANYWHERE ELSE ON MY BODY EXCEPT MY CALVES. THIS IS DUE TO THE HIGH VOLUME OF BIKING/LOW VOLUME OF EVERYTHING ELSE IN MY LIFE. RECENTLY I NOTICED A PLEASING DEFINITION IN MY CALF MUSCLES FOLLOWING SEVERAL LONG DISTANCE BIKE RIDES. THERE IS A FORM AND CURVATURE TO MY CALVES NEVER BEFORE VISIBLE AND I MUST SAY THEY FEEL "RIGHT" WHENEVER I GIVE THEM A GOOD SQUEEZE. WHEN THE LIGHT HITS THEM THE RIGHT WAY, THEY ACTUALLY CAST A SHADOW OVER THE REST OF MY LEGS. SOMETIMES I STRETCH THE WRONG WAY IN MY SLEEP AND PULL SOME MUSCLE DOWN THERE AND I AWAKE TO SHARP STINGING PAIN IN EITHER CALF. NOT THE BEST THING TO AWAKEN TO BUT IT CERTAINLY ZAPS AWAY THE GROGGINESS. IF I COULD BE REMEMBERED FOR ONE THING IN MY LIFE IT WOULD BE A DEDICATION TO THE CREATIVE ARTS. IF I COULD BE REMEMBERED FOR TWO THINGS IT WOULD BE A DEDICATION TO THE CREATIVE ARTS AND A FIRM MUSCULATURE OF THE CALF MUSCLES. I AM NOT EVEN JOKING YOU CAN TELL HOW SERIOUS THIS IS BECAUSE IT'S IN ALL CAPS.

Wolverine v. The Global Economic Meltdown

2009-05-21T21:24:00.000-07:00

by guest columnist Wolverine

Hey Bub.

Over here, in the alley. It's me, the ol' Canucklehead. I'm the best there is at what I do, but lately what I do's gettin' less and less nice.

Been fallin' on some pretty hard times lately, what with the economy and all. Prof. X had to close the Mutant Academy. Told me I couldn't squat there no more after an incident involving bear shit. A lot of bear shit. See that dumpster back there with the hobo piss? S'my new home.

Now I know it ain't paradise, but a man's got to settle for what'n he can in these troubling economic times. Livin' ain't easy, but livin's all I got left.

Done a lot things I ain't proud of. Ate a guy's family the other day. Can't say he didn't have it comin', though I reckon he didn't altogether deserve it neither. That's the thing about life out in the wild: you take the hand your given.

Tried to wrap my head around the situation. Washington. They're the bastards got us into this mess. Looks like it's up to yours truly to get us out of it. Now, I don't know to much about systems of aggregate growth or nothin' of that sort, but I do know this: if you want the job done right, you're gonna need a good dose of ice-cold adamantium rage.

Cooked up a plan all on my own. No X-men, not this time. Too much red tape, too much "Logan, this isn't even a plan, you're just stabbing people at random". Nice try, Cyclops, but I got this one all worked out. Y'see, what I'm gonna do is I'm gonna go down to Washington and start stabbing people. This will pretty much be at random, but the thinking is sooner or later I'm gonna wind up face to face with one a the bozo's responsible for messin' with me an' mine. And when I do, bub, you can bet he'll wish he had my mutant healing ability.

It won't be easy. I ain't ever taken on no economy before. Space demons, sure. Ninjas, plenty of em'. But when it comes to fighting an intangible concept based on a set of rules I can't rightly fathom, I'm at a bit of a loss. Lucky for you I handle all my problems the same way: with a judicious amount of stabs to the gut. When the ol' Canucklehead here gets done with this global economic downturn, they're gonna be pickin' through my bear-sized shit just to try'n identify it.

another ode to biking

2009-04-26T21:15:00.000-07:00

the weather in the northeast is finally of a caliber i would call fucking fantastic. as i write this, my door-sized windows (actually they are doors but they don't lead anywhere except a three-story death drop) are wide open and the warmcool air that's usually reserved for the dogrider days of summer is filling my room. i just rode my bike home through this intoxicating weather and i was reminded of my biking adventures thus far in 2009.

let me first state that i am really an advocate of biking. i am by no means what you'd call a "biker" (i.e. no distinguishing clothing, no road bike, no crew of bros on bikes) but i am very much enamored with riding my bike through cities and forests and everywhere in between. i ride a big conspicuous mountainbike, a trek, and i like to take it anywhere it will let me. one of the things i like about biking is you create all your own energy for your vehicle. your speed and endurance is generated entirely by your own will; there's no other fuel source to worry about or throw money into. also it reminds me of sprinting incredibly fast but ALL THE TIME. even when you are catching your breath there is still the possibility of traveling at high speeds. lastly, there is an adventurous feel to traveling on a bike, something that hiking comes close to but doesn't fulfill in the same way. i think it's the combination of the journey and the speed. this is especially poignant when bombing through a forested trail and playing the lord of the rings theme in your head at full volume.

in this first quarter of the new year i've already had a variety of bikeventures, let's call them (yeah, i don't have many friends). one of the first truly warm days this year was so unseasonable that it got all fucked up by clashing high and low pressure systems and crazy storms resulted. riding out into the warmth, i was greeted halfway into my trip by the craziest sunshowers ever. the sun was bright above but the rain was whipping in sideways out of nowhere. i got absolutely soaked but was rewarded with a gigantic and perfectly arched rainbow over the delaware river. somehow it was all very symbolic; the sunshowers, the rainbow, life, the universe, my bike. i think it meant everything's going to be ok.

oh god are we still going with this post? phew, ok. this season of bikings also holds the farthest distance i have yet to travel in a single day, which was roughly 50 miles. i went from my apartment in south philly, along the scenic schuylkill river, all the way to valley forge, pa and back. i could not move for a little while after i got back. clearly it was awesome. i was considering not doing the whole thing but then saw a huge factory on fire and remembered that going out and seeing things was better then not, so i continued on through a brown haze of smoke and toward my eventual goal. this also had some symbolism but i don't wanna get into it.

today's bikescursion (yeah, basically no friends) was a reminder that you can't always go out and rock n roll when it's 94 degrees and you've barely eaten anything. i tried to hit up one of my mountainbiking haunts outside philly and shit was good for about 5 seconds before the heat and the hills combined to punch me in the face. i was in a bad way, walking my bike over terrain i would usually attack head on. i noticed that i wasn't very sweaty and in fact was getting goosebumps and this usually means you're about to have a heat stroke so i called it a day and got a milkshake at this really good place down the street. it was a trying experience and largely unpleasant (sans milkshake) but i equate it to just another tale of bikeventure. there will always be difficulties and hills you simply have to walk your bike up because they're too fucking steep and loose, but that's part of the journey. if there weren't hills and heat and rainstorms out of nowhere, you'd never see the forest or the industrial fire or the rainbow's perfect arc across the sky. i know this is a very obvious point to be making, but it reveals itself time and again through the simple act of moving forward on a bike. the journey is the destination, and vice versa.

i love this fucking bike.

Look Good In Time For Mass Genocide

2009-04-15T21:32:00.000-07:00

i just found this ad on facebook. hilarious. not only is facebook on a downward spiral into incongruity and suck, but now they're running ads with neo-nazis telling you to get in shape. of all the muscled icons to use to promote ab-toning, they go with ed norton circa american history x. brilliant. toughen up those pecs so you can tattoo swastikas onto them! strengthen your calves to curb stomp minorities! i think the internet is just running out of ideas. that, or i am just completely disconnected from modern society and there is absolutely nothing wrong with this image. fuck. game over, man. game over.

UPDATE: apparently there IS nothing wrong with this. facebook just wants more cash and therefore the levee of decency is allowed to break. look, even gawker commented on this same ad: http://gawker.com/5215018/facebooks-get+rich+quick-scheme-has-yankees-player-sliding-into-home

p.s. I BEAT YOU GAWKER BY A WHOLE DAY. WHO'S RELEVANT NOW?????

why i'm bad at dancing

2009-04-14T23:45:00.001-07:00

Age 10, I am at a German restaurant in upstate New York with my parents. Everything is going swimmingly until an accordion-toting musician enters the room. Sporting lederhosen and a feathered cap, he launches into traditional Bavarian folk tunes of a bygone era. I try to accept the scenario as harmless but it escalates severely. "We are now going to do the Chicken Dance," he announces, "and this young man is going to demonstrate how it's done!"
He's referring of course to me, the only child in the room. Any intended humor is lost to my juvenile mind, and I am faced with the very real threat of having to chickendance for the thirty-odd patrons in attendance. I plead with my parents, please don't let him make me dance, in a tone reminiscent of a child being dragged to a death camp. My heart is pounding, my head heavy with the thought of flapping my lanky arms while the accordion squawks its tune. Already the crowd is laughing in anticipation. Already they await my drawn out humiliation. I can feel his eyes on me, ready for me to join him in the center of the room, his leathery jowls like the collapsable lung of his instrument.
I cannot accept this fate. I refuse to face the firing line, to be jester to these bastards. I run from the room, out into the lobby. I would sooner abandon my family than dance like a chicken at a German restaurant. As a consequence, I will never be able to dance in any acceptable way, and all efforts to hone this skill will fail miserably. My body shifts awkwardly. I stumble. I lack rhythm. I will simply look for the nearest exit and run.

a couple non sequiturs about music

2009-03-22T19:28:00.000-07:00

a friend told me they thought music was the most engaging art, a medium that communicated to the human soul more directly than any other medium in existence. i realized i agreed with this, probably always have, and probably always will.

lately i've had several "only listen to the smiths" phases. while the implications of this are bad (emo), i realize that i could have far worse taste in music.

the new animal collective album, while good, is one of their worst. breakfast at sulimays was right. (and whoever edited that episode is sexually enticing [and possibly me])

i have no problem with playing a song on repeat for hours on end, in fact this happens at least every other month. it helps me stay in a certain mode of thought while drawing or writing, plus sometimes you just need to keep listening to a song.

i played the upright bass in high school and just as i was starting to get good at it i got accepted to college and never played it again. this is possibly a regret.

my music listening habits are on a sort of pendulum that swings between melancholic tender tremblings and raucous heavy shit. i spend a few months on one side before swinging back to the other, and back and forth into eternity.

in the past few years i've gained a taste for more chaotic music i.e. tuneless structureless emotionless jarble that most people would shy away from. i even bought the whole druqks album by aphex twin. this likely stems from my overall appreciation of chaos and it's outright refusal to adhere to maths.

i was, at one point, a phish head. i saw their "final" festival in vermont and got lost for several hours on mushrooms, during which time i casually peed in front of a great many people and tried to lay down on a pile of mud. this is possibly a regret.

scott goldstein introduced me to the pulp album "this is hardcore" when i was in ninth grade and it became one of the greatest things i have ever listened to. it is now adorned with many mental connections of which i am reminded every time i give it a listen.

what genre is tv on the radio anyway? art rock? fuck, i don't know.

the first concert i ever went to was weird al yankovic.

last year i made my first honest-to-goodness music documentary about the band arizona. i like to think of it as unique because i was able to capture the birth of a song. literally the exact moment the idea for the song came into existence was caught on film, followed by its progression into a fully fleshed-out piece of music. if you haven't seen it, take a 20-minute breather and do so now.

playing drums on rock band is a lot of fun but my drums are broken right now FUCK.

i recently made a mix cd that included: talking heads, fugees, kate bush, wilco, ben kweller, the manhattans, tegan and sara, and the berlin philharmonic orchestra, to name a few. i don't think those musicians have ever all made it into the same sentence before.

i had a dream last night that my mom took me out to dinner with barack obama. it was thunder and lightning outside and we all sat at a candlelit table conversing like good friends. he asked me if i thought he was the best president ever. i said "given the current situation and your resolve in dealing with it, i think you are doing great." barack just sort of smiled at me as lightning flashed outside. though this isn't music related, i thought it was worth mentioning here.

in times of severe depression and loneliness, the only thing that can truly shift my mood is good music. this is endemic to the idea that music is the most powerful medium of all. AND SO THE CIRCLE IS COMPLETED.

Baseball Caps

2009-03-18T16:13:00.000-07:00

i don't know what it is, but i am just not a baseball cap fan. this has been a lifelong issue for me. something about wearing a baseball cap, sports-themed or not, has never gelled with my character. every time i don one it looks like i'm faking it, like i'm wearing it in the most insincere way possible. the worst part is i can't even put my finger on why this is. put me in a wool cap, a tophat, a mining helmet, or a tri-cornered revolutionary ditty, and i get along fine. hell, my look might even improve in one of these. but as soon as i try on a standard baseball cap, everything goes wrong. my hair gets weird, the shape of my head changes, and my temples are constricted, causing the veins on either side to throb as if my soul is filled with hatred. then there's the brims. i can't get the brims right ever. they are either perfectly flat, suggesting i need special education, or overly bent into a horrid upside-down V, suggesting i'm some sort of asshole. even if you were to give me a hat with the brim perfectly curved in whatever way the kids are wearing them these days, it would constrict into some unacceptable shape the minute it came in contact with my scalp. don't even get me started on the thing in the back where you can adjust the size.

as i said before, the only thing worse than my incompatibility with baseball caps is the utter lack of a reason for this issue. my head and face are pretty average; there's no definable reason why i should have an issue with caps, yet i am continually beset by this curse. i don't even have photographic evidence of this because i am so rarely seen sporting a baseball cap. i think the only way to ever overcome this would be to transmogrify into a completely different person, and though i've toyed with the idea, we both know i wouldn't look anywhere near as good in snow hats. CASE CLOSED.

THE WORST THING ABOUT HAVING ROOMMATES

2009-03-12T22:59:00.000-07:00

is that no matter how badly you want to scream at the top of your lungs, you can't. somebody will be upset by it, become worried, contact the authorities. they'll want to know why you screamed, what's wrong with you, etc. and you just can't achieve the kind of release one gets from screaming until completely hoarse. i'm not talking about a wail of despair, a wrath-filled bellow, or even an orgasmic cry of joy. just a good old-fashioned scream in which all the things you couldn't already say are ushered forth in a display of just how wild and loud a human voice can become. i do it driving in my car all the time, in addition to the other weird noises i make to keep busy (a lot of people are put off by this idea, yet i continue to be open about it). i'll be driving along some road in heavy traffic and, upon making sure the windows are all up, AAAAAAAAAGHGGHHGHGAHAAAAAH. the louder the better. if you can damage your own hearing with it, great. just so long as you are able to let every bit of scream pass through you and out of you. that is so fulfilling. it just feels right. christlike, almost. like taking a much-needed piss. but of course something so unabashedly good is beyond the constructs of normal society, and to scream with all your might outside of say a grindcore show is typically frowned upon. there's something almost perversely pure to it, like it should almost be made illegal. there are certainly repercussions for doing so in the wrong scenario. getting caught indulging in a scream is mortifying, as if the veil on your most personal secrets has been lifted. but when it's just you and the scream, all primal and powerful and meaningless and omnipresent, it's like saying hello to god. if you think i'm joking, try it. go out into the woods, or on a mountaintop, and just fucking cut loose. you're welcome, planet earth.

Smut Cave on G4TV

2009-03-11T22:43:00.000-07:00

Welp, it's the moment i've been waiting for, and i wasn't even waiting for it. by some bizarre twist of fate (this one totally out of the blue), my brainchild Smut Cave was featured on national television in a generous spot from G4, the lonely masturbator channel. here's the clip:

http://g4tv.com/attackoftheshow/aroundthenet/66389/Smut-Cave-Obese-Spider-Monkey.html

this came as an utter shock to me, since the show (smut cave) really isn't too popular or for that case TV-appropo. yet somehow i see these people saying these words on the screen and it all pertains to me like i'm the character in some bizarre twilight zone episode (except instead of being a bad thing it's really ok). to see actual TV people banter about me like i actually matter gives me the feeling that maybe i am starting to actually matter. which in itself is incredibly exciting and somewhat frightening. it's just like uncle ben said: with great power comes great responsibility. let's say this smut cave does continue to grow, and i become the spelunker, web celebrity. what then? my greatest recognition is born from a retarded idea about a cave-dwelling internet-fiend who likes gross shit. yay? don't get me wrong, this is truly awesome and i graciously accept the feature from these guys. i just love to second-guess my achievements with negative brainwaves that render my joy meaningless. put it this way: i don't want smut cave to be the be-all end-all of my persona. i love that in this day and age i can earn renown through such a weird venue. and i love the comments i get from people who rofl at my shit. but i want this to be a starting point in something greater. the scope of my ability goes far beyond the guy in the mining helmet. i have but to convince the rest of the world of this. if all goes according to plan, smut cave will serve as the base board for a very grand and eloquent representation of myself as meta-video-artist. i seek to deliver not only laughter, but intensely sparkling creativity the power of which is rivaled by those free agents that alter nature's math in that other entry where i talked about that. i want to inspire. i want to be new. i never want to be pinned down, definable, or prone to youtube comments like "gay" and "this sux". this much i know, america: as long as i have the strength and wherewithal to do so, i will continue towards this end and, god-willing, bring to this planet something it didn't know could even exist.

like furbies, except they have mind-control powers and make everybody zombies and you have to fight the zombies and they're really scary but eventually we figure out a way and it's cool like a dream that you wake up from smiling but with tears streaming down your face singing hallelujah free at motherfucking last.

Death Nerds, or How I Got On Street Carnage

2009-03-06T22:23:00.000-08:00

it was 2am last night and I was feeling frisky. the mood struck me just right that i felt like pimping out my craft to the world. i do a lot of work with videos of all shapes and sizes but they don't always get received by the widest audiences. so, feeding this urge to spread my artistic seed, i reached out to a favorite blog of mine, street carnage.

if you dont know street carnage it is a fun little site hosted by derrick beckles, the mastermind behind the awesomeness known as "tv carnage", and gavin mcinnes, one of the founding members of vice magazine and creator of the fashion do's & dont's, one of my favoritest things ever.

i didn't think much would come of this contact i'd established. street carnage seemed very caught up in its own bizniss. but lo and behold, by the time i managed to wake up this morning i began noticing a bunch of fresh hits on my youtubes. and then it dawned on me; i'd been featured on street carnage:

http://streetbonersandtvcarnage.com/blog/dear-street-carnage-introducing-smut-cave/

they put up a bunch of my videos as well as my desperate letter to them. they even declared me the first in a new subculture of nerd: Death Nerds. my life is so much closer to completion.

the little cherry on top was a personal e-mail from gavin himself later in the day. i present it here uncircumcised:

I like it but I don't think you should do that voice
be teh spelunker and yell like a monster but be yourself
that's more interesting to people than a fake monster man

dude has a point, but the voice of the spelunker has been an ongoing issue for me, and i am very torn about whether or not to alter it since its been altered for every episode thus far and kind of established as my thing. i wrote back thanking him for the constructive criticism and offering a guest spot on the show for whenever he and derrick were ready, replete with the ability to make said episode about basically whatever they wanted. as a regular to streetcarnage.com, it was awesome to find myself included in my own daily web browsings. it's a wonderfully validating experience, even though the general public seemed underwhelmed by it all. now i am somewhat obligated to make the next smut cave about their site, as promised in my letter to them, but my designation as the founding Death Nerd is more than reason enough to follow through on this promise. like a rainbow in the dark, i will spread the demented joys of the smut cave throughout the interwebs AND BEYOND BITCHESSSSS

*flips on shades and rides harley into desert sunset*

*sun explodes and destroys solar system and all organic life*

24 TO 24

2009-03-01T21:39:00.000-08:00

I've just about 24 hours left of being 23. one step deeper into manhood. it's been quite the year. many progressions and transitions, as well as a few recessions. incredible highs and lows and my first-ever broken bone if you don't count that time i fractured my skull in the 6th grade (yeah that whole thumb story a few posts back? totally broke it). i became host of a marginally popular web series, and created probably more videos of every sort than any other time in my life. and i only just realized that as i typed it out there. that's kind of cool. if nothing else i further stated my artistic intents, which can be summed up as questionable at best. i guess what really counts is i was able to live my life according to some extension of my beliefs and outlook on How I Want Things To Be. granted things were by no means ideal, and as much as i rejoiced i despaired, but fuck if that isn't the human condition, right mon? i mean shit. mufuckas try an roll up on jah, jah just roll right back.

it looks amusingly enough like my last day of 23 will be a snow day. as in a blizzard literally keeping me in place as it coats the world in snow. this is kind of ok. as evidenced by this:

especially if you fastforward about 2 minutes in when they start kicking the trees and the snow falls in clouds. that to me is a piece of heaven. so, on concluding this 23rd year with what is probably the last blog post of my 23 year old self i say

it's been utterly fascinating thus far, let's see where we can go with this nick.

signed,
the neon cthulu that lives inside your skull

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2009-02-28T22:44:00.000-08:00

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king of the jungle

2009-02-25T22:19:00.000-08:00

my aunt gave me this bottle opener when she came back from africa. the handle is made of bone, the smoothed tooth of a lion now gone. at the root now fixed a metal heart shape from which i crack many a beer. carved along the side the lion is mid-hunt, stalking toward whatever end he met. i like to think he's still out there, minus the tooth, but it's fixed so final, carved and smoothed and sold off. there ain't much hope for him. i scratch my head with the tooth, thinking what damage it might incur had the tooth still been attached to its owner. its just a thing now, no longer fierce, once torn through meat but now inert. an item in a drawer. necessity to novelty. maybe he got old, starved, too slow to hunt. maybe they cut him down in his prime. it's a trinket now, and will probably never serve me the way it did that beast. there is still a strength to it, a quality that recalls its former prowess. the curve of the tooth evoking the snarling maw. as if it might reconnect with its master and suddenly become a force to be reckoned with once more. maybe he still waits for it, poised like the carving on his own detached tooth. across an ocean and lost to new meaning.

DIARY OF F. SHELMAN, FINAL ENTRIES, OCT. 2015

2009-02-24T19:58:00.000-08:00

October 5th: Bad scene. Poloucas ordered the base on LD til they get a better idea of the situation in Delaware. My guess is, it's worse than here. If those things took Philly, what's to stop them from moving on to the next metropolitan area? Until we get some answers, we're on ice: no EL's, no RnR's, all AD's suspended. Typical. We've made it to the shit but the doors are locked.

October 9th: They caught Ramsley trying to make a run for it. Poor bastard didn't get but 2 clicks from base. He didn't even try to cut out his chip he was in such a hurry. Now that's just asking for it. Bollard says they're still deciding how to process him, says he lost family, maybe he lost it inside a little too. I say throw him into the hypereventuality chamber and see how many places his bones can occupy at once!

October 12th: Dead quiet. Still haven't been deployed to any AA's, though it must be getting worse each day. Govt is calling it a biothreat, asking for more time, more sitting on our asses while BOVAT mulls shit over. I don't buy it. All I know is we need to flush these fuckers out before they set up a permanent residence. Starting to sympathize with Ramsley: need to GTFO.

October 14th: It begins. 4 units deployed yesterday, 5 more today. Somebody figured out we need to start fighting these things.

October 19th: Have been on several limited recons in past week. Not pretty. Saw my childhood home in Edesville burnt to the ground. Must remember to pay somebody back for that. Govt waited too fucking long to do anything about this, now it's all over us. Northeast fubar. Delaware mostly gone. Welles and Chen both AWOL. Starting to wonder if maybe I'd be better off fighting these things on my own terms. p.s. The news (when we get it) finally came up with a name for these things: Dogriders.

October 25th: A day I did not expect to see. Poloucas fucking ABANDONED BASE. What a cocksucker! We have to stage just about the greatest fucking paramilitary rally in the history of America and fucker just up and leaves. Now Dader's in charge. Fucking peachy. Like replacing a vagina with a eunuch. Oh wait that's exactly what it's like.

October 26th: The Dogriders have got designs on the base. I've seen them on firewatch the past two nights. These are not our dogs. They're thinking somehow, strategizing. They know how to hide and when they've been spotted. They travel in numbers. And they're always just out of fucking range. Dader is considering setting a trap for them when they do come knocking. Must admit, like the idea.

October 30th: We are essentially alone. Everything north is OAC. Base is a tomb. Everybody either deployed or AWOL. Those who stayed behind have agreed not to go without a fight. They've given us every indication they're gonna hit us, so we can only return the favor. Have rigged West Mess with so much C4 you'd think it was Christmas. Sentry guns at West and East Gate. Infrared drones on a click radius every five hours (electric permitting). Have gained slightly more respect for Dader since he realized we're thru fucking about.

October 31st: HAPPY HALLOWEEN FUCKERS!!!

-recovered near former location of paramilitary base-

Fibbonachos

2009-02-18T20:06:00.000-08:00

I worry a lot about this concept of everything being mathematically definable. you know, the theory in which everything can be reduced to a series of mathematical equations that are just playing themselves out according to math's rigid bible of rules. it makes sense when you look around, trees are trees, the wind blows, everything in reality is definable within math's elegant tongue. but this concept, however sound, frustrates me as a human being of supposed free will.

if the idea was true, like einstein and everybody else said, and everything really could be boiled down to maths, then fate and destiny and unavoidable circumstance are all forced into being as well. if everything translates to an equation, then our lives are just one big equation that has a calculable answer like 2 + 2 or 7 - 4,770. a world completely bound in math is a world with no real freedom, every single action is part of an ongoing series of actions traceable by whatever exotic maths back to the point at which the equation began. think about it. if maths really are inherent in our entire reality, and there's nothing that maths can't account for, then everything that ever happens to us is just part of whatever mathematical system is playing itself out through the ages.

and this is where i take issue with this theory. i think there are undefinables, free agents if you will, that roam through an otherwise logically harmonious existence spreading chaos and uncertainty and perpetuating true freedom of one's will. i couldn't just list these things off to you, it's possible i've never even seen them, but they are out there, these unknown unknowns, and they disrupt the math in ways that make calculators say ERR. maybe you are scared of this, maybe you long for complete mathematical certainty in every facet of life, but believe you me when i say that things are the way they are because our maths are met by entities so chaotic they are rivaled only by math's rigidity. so just keep in mind my friends that sometimes, when x is supposed to equal something, there simply is no answer, no logic, no maths. and we're never going to have the slightest idea why. and maybe it's time we started being ok with that.

so much unfairness of shit

2009-02-16T20:14:00.000-08:00

somebody at my office threw away a list of things i needed to do. it was all random video shit i had written over the course of several days and at least half the list is unrememberable to me now. when i found out about this i thought 'that's not fair'. by my reckoning, it was a harmless list intended to help me and somebody went and removed it from the world. then i started to think about the phrase: that's not fair. it's a hell of a phrase. that's not fair. it implies a wrongness of things with undercurrents of maliciousness and defeat. that's not fair, that's not the way it's supposed to be, this isn't right. i fuckin' hear you, man. shit certainly isn't fair, BUT

it is ever more apparent to me that "not fair" is the way many things are. things that run against your current are doing so because they have to run with some other current, and there really isn't any way for one bro to change this. unfairness happens every day. people disregard rules and ethics and suddenly there is a fatal imbalance to every mortal thing. the worst part about that's not fair is the more you use it, the less relevant it becomes. the more things you decry as "not fair", the more you construct an artificial way of viewing the world in which everything exists in opposition to you. suddenly "not fair" becomes a divine curse that contorts every situation into some kind of war being waged against you by invisible enemy armies. not me though, BECAUSE

after a while you kind of have to accept the unfairness as what it is: the other side of good livin'. many things are awesome in life, and many more are shitty, just as the yin yang has two distinct halves that together complete it. and while the darkness may shroud everything in seemingly irreconcilable ways, it often gives way to brilliant white light. and not in a gay jesus way either. i remain a firm believer in an ultimate balance to all things, so it is only fitting that so much unfairness of shit can only lead to supreme awesomeness of legendary proportions. that's how it works out, right guys?

guys?

ode to my bike

2009-02-15T22:48:00.000-08:00

bike

i fucking missed you

it was the winter and it was cold and even though i wanted to ride you i was held back by the weather. i'm sorry i left you in the garage for so long with your chain all twisted up. i thought of you often and our adventures together last summer.

when i rode you tonight, down broad street in high gear with the early spring wind in my face, i remembered: i love you. you are the only form of exercise i will ever truly enjoy and want to return to. you take me to work for free, and you are powered by my own energy, which is awesome. when i want to go fast, you go really fast.

and you are a mountain bike too. there is no terrain you don't mind attacking. jumps are nothing. your shocks absorb even the most tremendous of impacts. and when i'm riding you under the influence, you always seem to steer me away from parked cars at just the right moment.

thank you, bike.

it's good to have you back in my life.

modern love

2009-02-11T22:20:00.000-08:00

i went to a psychic with my ex-gf in our latter days. it was an outing i was somewhat opposed to, since every time i've had my tarot cards read i get "death" and "the devil" and that heart with all the swords in it. i feel like because my own personal beliefs are kind of hazy and change from day to day, that actual calculated mysticisms like the tarot & such will often look unfavorably at my life and condemn it with bad luck and evil that isn't really there (i mean some of it's there but according to the tarot i have the shittiest life ever that is slowly spiraling downwards).

so we go to this psychic despite my reservations and we both get some ten dollar premium palm reading with an outlook on love and life. to my ex the psychic says "you will find love with someone who is very close to you in your life". cool. then it's my turn and already i'm expecting her to shriek at my hand as the cross on the wall catches fire and melts. what i get is this: "you won't find love for a long time. but when you do, you will be very happy and will have a prosperous life"

not long after that night the axe came down and i once more found myself a single man in the world. so now i wonder if i have perhaps entered into this period of being without love and just how long this all lasts until i find someone and become happy and prosperous. the way the psychic made it seem, i have a long period of emptiness ahead. no love, no meaning, only wandering the path that will eventually lead me to Where I'm Trying To Get, which due to my shifting beliefs doesn't seem to be anywhere specific. i wonder about what will eventually become of me and my love life. i have believed in true love before and didn't that turn out to be a jolly load of shit. as far as karma goes, i've done things i'm not proud of as a so-called lover, so perhaps i'm experiencing a bit of divine retribution. in any case, i have entered a season of bullshit devoid of reason and direction. i don't know if having love would necessarily right whatever wrong is represented here, but it couldn't hurt right?

NO YOU ASSHOLE STOP BLOGGING ABOUT TRUE LOVE YOU'RE LIKE A DEPRESSED 13-YEAR-OLD GIRL ONLY WORSE BECAUSE YOU MASTURBATE A LOT AND DON'T SHOWER FOR DAYS AND JUST KILLED AN ENTIRE BOX OF TASTYKAKES IN LIKE 2 DAYS AND YOUR TASTE IN MUSIC IS THAT OF A GAY DJ FROM THE 80'S AND YOU SPEND WAY TOO MUCH TIME BROING AROUND AND TRYING TO ORGANIZE ULTIMATE FRISBEE TOURNAMENTS.

come to think of it, my life is really awesome right now. happy valentine's day.

LIKE JAMMING YOUR FUCKING THUMB INTO A SHEER ROCK WALL

2009-02-08T21:40:00.000-08:00

I went rock-climbing this weekend. for some reason my friends are way into rock-climbing now. they have membership passes to this rock climbing place that's like a gigantic warehouse filled with 150 foot climbing walls and other x-treme shit. i have been x-tremely hesitant to go on these rock climbing excursions because a) my arms are pale and lifeless b) yo, what if that shit breaks? and c) you gotta drop like $24 to climb for the day. and i could have just as easily stayed in bed and gotten another hour of sleep for free and casually smoked a bowl instead but NO. gotta mix it up. can't fall into routines buddy, that's where they get ya.

so i'm climbing with some bros and brodettes in this indoor climbing monstrosity (it's called island rock, it's on long island you'll love it) and we're doing free climbing. no helmets, no ropes, just a cushy mat under you that you have to fall onto to not break your world. there are different ascents up each rock wall marked by colored strips of tape. so we're all five of us trying to do this one particular free-climb path. when it gets to me, i fuckin give 'er my standard 85% and come close to the top of the path, about 12 feet up. i can't get a steady hold on the top spot but technically you just have to be able to touch the end of the path, which is marked by an X in whatever color you've been following. so instead of securely establishing my post atop the Red X, i kind of hoist myself up high enough to slap it five, then drop off into nothingness. i landed hard on the edge of the mat, slamming my back against the wall in the process. everyone was all like 'are you ok are you ok' and i'm all like 'im ok' and i start to get up and take stock of my various appendages when i realize my thumb doesn't feel right at all. not necessarily broken, but definitely not normal. the pain starts to grow and suddenly my thumb is swollen to twice it's size and hurts to move.

i decided to stop climbing for the day and dwell on the fact that my thumb was severely fucked up. rather than seek medical attention, i decided the best course of action would be to go to the movies, eat a large dinner, and get wasted. later, while wasted, my friend greg asks to see the thumb. after looking at it for like a second, he came to the conclusion that it was dislocated and would have to be snapped back into place in order to ever return to normal functionality. for those of you who have never had to re-locate your thumb into its socket, it involves yanking on your thumb as hard as you possibly can. there was no way i was going to do this to myself. 'you do it, man' i say to greg. 'just get it over with'. he takes my thumb, and after an ungodly tense few seconds, he pulls. the cracking sound that emitted from my thumb was almost worse than the pain itself, but all i could do at that point was deal with it and hope for better times and a working thumb. a few minutes later, greg decided that maybe the thumb was messed up on the lower joint and not the upper one, which would require a different kind of yank (lol). i hesitantly volunteered him to do it again, just to make sure my thumb wouldn't go further into its plump unfunctioning state. this time it hurt like a motherfucker, a moment that was captured in the picture above. it was a grueling gauntlet of pain to endure, but i honestly think it had to be done. now it's been about 24 hours since i let a guy yank me and i'm a lot less swollen. it was a weekend of pain, hilarity, and the ongoing reminder that yo, everything's a test. sometimes shit gets real and you have to pay a hefty price to get out of it, but man, once you do, you can look back on all that pain and all those trials and tribulations and be like yo, i fuckin did it. i fuckin did it.

Fear of What?!

2009-02-04T22:05:00.000-08:00

you may recall from the last hatepost that interviewee lisa noble concluded her questioning by noting that she'd written an essay on fears (of which she has many). we've received a copy of this essay and present it here, unedited, for your consideration:

Fear of What?!

For a good part of my youth there were often nights when I would imagine myself rising from bed still asleep, and unintentionally hostile. I’d walk out of my room, creep downstairs, and find my way into the kitchen where there would be a knife or some other sharp utensil I could manage to grab depending on the position my somnambulism has placed me. I’d then walk through the main hallway of the house, all the way into the master bedroom where I would proceed to stab and kill my mother or my father or both, in a blind and bloody sleep-filled rage. Sometimes instead I would stumble down to the basement where my brother sleeps and I’d murder him. Other times I would be too disoriented to make it past the kitchen, and my subconscious would settle for killing myself. These were the nights I would need two Extra StrengthTylenol and sharp swig of Nyquil to calm my nerves get into a nice motionless sleep. Otherwise I’d be awake nursing a mild panic attack all night, fearing against all odds that such an improbable accident might ever occur.

I have never been a sleepwalker. The only instance of sleepwalking that has ever taken place according to my knowledge was once, when I was about four, my mother found me downstairs in the living room, helpless, crying, and evidently unarmed. Yet, after many years of replaying this unfounded but highly morbid vision and all its variations, I will not go to bed entirely comfortable until I have shoved the scissors to the back of my desk drawer and suggested to my roommate that she invest in the proper bedside armor.

It’s not always sleepwalking that triggers such, shall I say, paranoia. I’ve actually gotten over my potentially threatening subconscious for the most part by convincing myself that most people tend to wake up when someone is standing over their bed with a knife. I can only hope that I would wake up in time as well, if anything to save myself the embarrassment of accidentally slaughtering a loved one. These days, my fears are a little less drawn out in length and detail, and play out more like fleeting thoughts of probability. I experience what I can only describe as a two to three second flash of an images having to do with my present situation and what might come of its risks . And as low as the chances may be, the effect of consideration is paralyzing. For instance, I often wonder how many minutes exactly it takes standing in front of the microwave before the radiation gives me brain cancer, or skin cancer, or colon cancer or whatever. In the midst of a blink I’ll picture myself rubbing a tumor the size of my fist. However, this is a possibility that I cringe over briefly in the last few seconds it takes for some mozzarella sticks to finish cooking. I might scratch a fresh mosquito bite and the thought passes through my head that this pest has taken great pains to make his way transcontinentally all the way from Africa to my arm and now I’m sharing blood with a diseased child from Somalia. The bump starts to redden and selfish thoughts of malaria are overpowered by a minor irritation of the skin. As laziness would have it, in both of these cases the convenience of inaction overrides the need for resistance of what are already short-lived fears. This is how I came to make the distinction that these considerations are indeed fears, and nothing more extreme as would a phobia imply.

A phobia, I found out, is more than a fear; it is an attempt to avoid your fear at all costs. A phobia would cause me to not only not use a microwave but dodge its line of vision when inactive and burn the instruction manual, just to be safe. And while fears can be just as irrational and just as distressing as phobias, fears do not significantly compromise ones way of living (i.e. agoraphobia: fear of leaving one’s home, or kathisophobia: fear of sitting down). So my question is then, what do they compromise?

If my chronic fears ever did turn into chronic phobias I would never walk up stairs for fear of falling back down and breaking every bone in my body. I would stand a good 50ft distance from street curbs either to deny villainous pedestrians the satisfaction of pushing me into oncoming traffic, or any buses likely to tip over in an attempt to turn the corner, squashing me like the reckless bug I am for not taking better caution. I would be an expert on exotic spiders, knowing in detail the features of one whose bite might shock me into a state of paralysis (this is not to say that I don’t avoid spiders when I can. But the occasional spider bite won’t really need medical attention until it’s mutated the fibers of my DNA and I’m climbing up walls like a tormented comic book hero). If I were prone to phobias, I’d constantly be in search of the best possible maneuver to surgically attach a carbon monoxide detector to my nervous system. But the last time I skimmed the aisles of CVS and found these things were running for $25 each, I decided to wait hold out for the coupons. And as of now, I don’t even have one for my apartment.

I don’t even know why these anxieties are so specific in the first place. In all logic, it doesn’t really make sense to be scared of one thing and not of another. Heights, terrorist attacks, roller coasters, and drawing pints of blood from my veins don’t faze me. Yet I lose sleep over just thinking about the chance of a lighter getting to close to my face. There’s just so much randomness out there; so many chances for a lost limb or a punctured retina that we just don’t see coming. Sure there are plenty of means for fears to be induced. The media is constantly telling us we’re likely to be shot, bombed, or asphyxiated at any given moment. Rumor could be what makes us wince in the dentist’s chair, anticipating the moment that decides whether or not that dental hook will end up lodged in your esophagus. Maybe even some of these anxieties spring from a traumatic childhood experience. My parents’ house has several very large mirrors which were not installed securely enough by the previous owners. The mirror in my parents’ bathroom fell off of the wall, smashing and scattering into what seemed like a billion pieces one night. My mother avoided this incident that likely would have killed her, by about fifteen minutes as she was finishing up her favorite TV show in the other room. We had all of the mirrors replaced after that, but until then, I was always a little hesitant to check my own reflection for too long. And it can’t be that all fears work this way, ingrained by some existing form of experience. Like I highly doubt that 80% of adults who are now afraid of clowns were possibly abused by one as a child.

For me personally, I need those little panics periodically. Fearing something irrational somehow makes me feel as if it’s prevention in itself of having to come face to face with it; that letting the uncontrollable know that you’re keeping your eye on it, makes it back off, turn the other corner and focus its attention on someone who’s not going to expect it. It seems safer to expect the unexpected, because there are things that you just can’t control by force, avoidance, or even rationality. It may be that it’s the irrational that serves as your only means of defense. Furthermore, it makes me feel all the more accomplished, getting through each day, knowing all there is out there to survive.

lisa noble is a coffee production manager who hails from georgia

interview with lisa noble

2009-02-03T21:15:00.000-08:00

i wanted to interview my friend lisa noble because she is a fascinating member of blogciety and i think one of the great minds of this or any decade. she makes coffee for a living but is a skilled writer by night. also she's really weird. we sat down for a chat recently on aim, and i decided to talk about being scared, as this is a situation i often find myself in:

(IHTFB) so what would u say is the scariest thing that ever happened to u?

(lisa) im done. cant think og anythign

u suck. wors interview ever.

yoir the worst inttertvie ev

why dont you actually try to think of something instead of being a rag doll clump

nuthin that scarys happened to me

nothing ever happened that freaked you out and you thought there was gona be a ghost or monsters or something?

once i fell into a wall really hard when my brother was trying to hypnotize me, but that wasnt really scary...it just hurt a lot

or like scary men with feely hands on the subway?

oh shit yeah! ihad some childhood fears...i just thought you meant like getting run over by cars

well anything super scary stories

i used to sleep on top of the covers because i thought scorpians were going to be hiding in my sheets

how come?

cause i lived in georgia where there were lots of bugs and my house was kind of embedded in the woods

were you scared a lot growing up?

yeah but i think most of my fears were/are irrational...or at least implausible for the most part

how do you reconcile the implausibility with the ongoing fear if you know its baloney?

mostly laziness

whats your biggest fear right now?

apocalypse

what sort of apocalypse?

usually earth being demolished by an asteroid or comet

why do you think that is?

i feel like we're due for another one

are you crippled by your fears?

no. except i dont light candles because im afraid my apartment will burn down. but other than that... i dont think so. i mean im definitely scared of a lot of things

what advice would you give to people who are scared all the time?

well most fears i usually only think about when applicable. for instance im scared of buses tipping over when they turn the corner. and i definitely think about it every time i see it happen...but i feel like thats some form of prevention in itself

how so?

i guess because alot of fears are random and mostly have to do with the unexpected freak-accidents in life...at least for me. so if you expect the unexpected... it probably wont happen.

i think that about wraps it up. thanks lisa!

i suck. actually ive written an essay about this exact topic before

lisa noble is a 22-year-old blog writer living in new york.

Found Note: December 2015

2009-02-02T00:18:00.000-08:00

-found by a scavenge team outside a firebombed neighborhood in eastern Connecticut.-

Honey,

I don't know if you got the voice mails or if you'll ever return here to read this, but I'm leaving this here in the hopes that you can find it and we can reunite. The house has been without power for 6 days. I can't get any calls out, still those emergency messages. After what happened I don't know how safe it is to go out. All the neighbors are gone, DON'T GO INTO THEIR HOUSES, there's NO FOOD, nothing left. I don't even want to tell you what I saw in some of the houses. ALSO - Don't Go To New York. Whatever you do. The last I heard, and this was last week, those things overran the whole city. We thought Dana and Grover were sick, but it was something else. I can't explain it to you but it's something nobody expected. Those growths on their backs, I knew all along there was something off about it all. They were like tiny riders, controlling the dogs, communicating through them. It sounds absurd but I know if you've seen half of what I have this week then you suspect it too. You're so smart, baby, I know you found a way to make it through this. If

-the note ends without completing the sentence, nor any indication of who the author was.-

AURAL FLAGELLATION

2009-01-31T21:50:00.000-08:00

I filmed a concert by the scumfuck band Amebix tonight. it was swell. i got to wear a special wristband with a skull&crossbones on it and stand in front of the barrier that held everyone else away from the stage. the only downside to this was having my ear directly to the main amp and not having earplugs. the loudness and bass force of it all shredded into my ears, destroying hearing fibers & entire pitches and frequencies. at this very moment i am plagued by an intense ringing and a general fuzziness to everything i hear. at one point a gentleman jumped from the balcony of the theater (this was at the trocadero in philly), onto the giant side amp, and then onto the stage, from which he stagedived right over my head and back into the crowd. truly an impressive feat, met only by the severe aural flagellation wrecked upon my inner ear cavities. if you don't know Amebix they are like Motorhead but slightly more satanic and slightly less metal. they attracted a rather crusty crowd, and the scent of bag was ripe in the air. all in all a good show.

BONUS: a friend told me we spoke for several minutes last night and every sentence i said would end in BRUUUUUH. i don't even know what that means and i have no recollection of it due to profound drunkenness BUT this goes to prove my ongoing theory that when i reach a point of being black-out drunk my body reacts subconsciously by making me call someone on the phone to spew my drunkenness at them. it's kind of like casting a message-in-a-bottle out to the realm of sobriety. otherwise you might just slosh in a sea of drunk forever.

elimidate

2009-01-26T22:13:00.000-08:00

there are many busies to be busied about. i don't make nearly enough money but i am always working at something. many times the work isn't necessary to my survival but rather the survival of my craft. i am a fucking artist, although much of what i do is in jest or simply without relevancy to anything anyone else would want to identify with. i am directing a movie called baby boner and hosting a show called smut cave. there is always the drive towards some sort of punchline, some striving that goes beyond creativity into "how fucked up can i be" land. i often regret that language cannot represent all the things that go on in my head. i think the only way i will make it big at this point is if someone who has already made it "discovers me" and decides to bring me into whatever echelon i can sing and dance my way into. mine is not the path of glory, rather the scenic route of curiosity and fringe possibilty. while kanye raps about getting arab money, i listen to the piano sections on drukqs and think about rainy days. someone told me recently that if they were in my shoes they would be really depressed. the only reason this is not so is because i am not usually in my shoes, rather floating somewhere above them. i'm making a music video with a cat that lives in my house. my facial hair looks really rugged lately. the heating system in my mom's house makes horror movie music. i stayed awake until the sun came out.

DOGRIDERS PART 2: BAYVILLE

2009-01-23T18:50:00.000-08:00

THE STORY SO FAR: Somehow, completely unbeknownst to the scientific community, the Dogriders launched an Assault on the World of Man. Their purposes unknown but violently demonstrated, the Dogriders were once average house-pets spanning the globe in untold billions. Whatever consciousness existed within the animals, it chose to unleash itself in a terrifying unison as each and every breed & pedigree of dog on the planet simultaneously sprouted a nub on its back resembling a mottled troll of yore with a wicked countenance to match. Strategic masterminds on the urban battlefield, the Dogriders formed large hunting parties, systematically extinguishing any trace of human life their keen senses could detect. As the Assault wages on and fewer living souls remain, we join survivors JOSH and NICK, waging a desperate struggle to remain hidden in the sewer systems of Long Island, New York.

SEWAGE SYSTEM: Josh and Nick trudge through thick rivers of slop.

NICK: If this goes East, we could make it all the to Bayville.

JOSH: No, we're getting out of here as soon as we can. That smell... awful.

NICK: What, and meet up with those Dogriders again? I don't think so.

JOSH: I'm gonna throw up again.

NICK: Breathe through your mouth.

The ROAR OF DOGRIDERS echoes through the tunnels.

JOSH: Where's it coming from?

The ROAR OF DOGRIDERS swells.

NICK: Sounds like they're up top.

JOSH: Did they find us?

NICK: Not likely. I don't think they can smell us through all this ass-puke.

Josh vomits into the shit river.

NICK: Sounds like some kind of a rally. Could be hundreds of 'em up there.

JOSH: Let's not stick around and find out.

CONCRETE TUNNEL: Still covered in shit, the two take cautious steps down a massive underground pass.

JOSH: Shouldn't we get off the island?

NICK: You got a plan, I'm all ears.

JOSH: Well the mainland's back thataways right?

NICK: Oh, the City, brilliant idea. Let's go where even more Dogs are at.

JOSH: We go east we're just gonna run into the ocean right?

NICK: I'm counting on it.

JOSH: What, and take a boat?

NICK: Or a plane, or the L.I.R.R., or fucking ANYTHING, WE CAN FINDALRIGHT?? WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU WANT TO HEAR? Th-THERE'S A ROYAL CARIBBEAN OCEAN LINER WAITIN' FOR US IN MONTAUK IS THAT WHAT YOU FUCKIN' WANNA HEAR?

Josh is sullen, keeping his head low as they walk. The wind reverberates in low registers through the subterranean hall.

NICK: Alright, I'm sorry Josh. I just... I got nothing.

JOSH: It's OK.

NICK: All I know is if we keep moving maybe, maybe we'll get out of this.

JOSH: Yeah...

They follow the corridor, led by the growing gloomy note of the wind.

SEASIDE DRAINAGE OUTLET: A chickenwire mesh screens the steady flow of sludge arcing out over a sandy inlet. There's a wavering in the stream as bare hands grasp the mesh, tearing it asunder. Nick emerges first, dropping to the murky puddle fed by the outlet. Josh pokes a cautious head out and joins him on the sandbar. The ocean makes itself known with a subdued dashing of froth to the shoreline.

BAYVILLE BEACH, DUSK: Josh and Nick walk along the deserted shore, keeping an eye on the upcoming township.

JOSH: I don't see any boats.

NICK: I think there's a harbor coming up around this bend.

JOSH: You said that the last bend.

NICK: It's Bayville, there's gotta be... bays.

The staccato of summer rain pelts the surrounding beach.

NICK: How bout that. At least it's washing the shit off.

JOSH: Smells like rain.

NICK: I love that smell.

A faint bark nips the air, barely audible.

JOSH: This is good, we're not seeing any of them, right?

NICK: We haven't seen anything since we got out here, Human or Dogrider.

The rain is picking up, and already a a gray cloud brews overhead.

JOSH: Maybe they all left.

NICK: And went where? I don't get it. And why would they go after us in the first place? We didn't do anything to them. I loved my dog! And where's the armies? Where's the guys who're supposed to be saving our asses?

Nick trips, falling hard into the sand.

JOSH: You OK?

NICK: I'll live.

JOSH: Look what you hit.

Both pairs of eyes come to rest on a SHOVEL, partially emerging from the dunes.

NICK: Alright.

He picks it up, examining the blade as rain streaks patterns on the metal.

NICK: Could be a good weapon, right?

All the color has dropped from Josh's face, his mouth slightly agape.

NICK: Well, I think it could be.

Josh's head is shaking ever so slightly, as if in stunted disbelief.

NICK: Hey, quit it.

Nick turns the shovel blade so that it reflects to him what Josh is actually staring at: a dark shape approaching behind them. Nick turns to see the hundred or so feet between him and TWO EXTRA-LARGE EXTRA-VICIOUS DOGRIDERS. The Dogriders approach slowly in full-on hunt mode. There's a dark shaggy one and a pure white wolf-like one, the pair forming some kind of nightmarish yin-yang amidst the growing storm. Nick raises his shovel in a ready position.

NICK: Josh, I want you to run, run to the ocean and do not look back, got it?

JOSH: Nick?

NICK: You're gonna swim out as far as you can as quickly as possible, understand? And do not, look, back.

JOSH: Nick, what are you doing?

NICK: Josh, I'm sorry to raise my voice again buT RUNNNNN! GO! GET OUT OF HERE, RUN!

DOGRIDERS: BROUF! BROUF! BROUF! BROUF! BROUF! BROUF!

NICK: GO,WHAT ARE YOU DOING, GO!

Josh tumbles backwards but snaps into a sprint as the Dogriders begin to rush them.

DOGRIDERS: BROUF! BROUF! BROUF!

Nick swipes at the black Dogrider, slamming it aside with an astounding impact. The white Dogrider leaps past, keying in on Josh as his feet slap against the shoreline.

DOGRIDERS: BROUF! BROUF! BROUF! BROUF!

Nick raises his shovel high overhead, bringing it down hard on the felled Dogrider. For the first time ever, the horrific brown nub protruding from the Dogrider's back opens its infantile maw.

NUB: EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEH!!!

It's a horrific noise, the sound of bitter troll suffering amplified to an unnatural resonance. The sound stops the white Dogrider dead in it's tracks; it's a distress call of the highest order! The beast is momentarily stalled: does it go for Josh or return to help its downed huntingmate?

NUB: EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEH!!!

The white Dogrider doubles back with renewed anger.

DOGRIDERS: BROUF! BROUF!

Josh thrashes about in the choppy surf, bobbing among waves as the riptide pulls him farther out.

JOSH: NICK! NICK!!!

He swallows seawater as a wave slams into his face. Between the whitecaps and sheets of cold rain, he sees the white Dogrider lunge at Nick, knocking him to the ground.

JOSH: NICK!

He tries to swim back but the current is growing under the storm's power. His vision obscured in the brine, he catches one last glimpse of the white Dogrider and the recovered black Dogrider swarming their prey, now a mere red blob on the receding coast. Thunder erupts overhead as waves begin to blot out the shoreline. It's a struggle to merely keep afloat.

JOSH: NICK! NICK!!! NIIIIIIIIH-HIH-HIIIIIICK!!!

(end part 2)

Facebook 3.0

2009-01-22T20:42:00.000-08:00

Facebook: Complete social networking made simple 4 U.

Network Socially over a vast Social Network of friends and advertising schemes. Totally 3.0 for Today's High-Speed Internet!

Facebook 3.0 is a totally revamped, reserviced social network allowing U to:

* Virtually connect with each and every member of your family, regardless of whether or not you want to let them in on the personal life you've so carelessly built up before there was even a possibility of them reading about it!

* Learn the minutiae of all the people you spent years trying to avoid in college while our servers publicly broadcast each profile you view and for how long (mandatory broadcast to all friends and subsequent friends of friends)!

* Built-in messaging system creates sense of guilt similar to e-mailing: simply receive unwanted messages and experience bitter obligation of crafting a response!

* Picture-tagger automatically sorts photographs based on how much fun your ex's are having now that you are a fading echo doomed to the bleak recesses of their long-disinterested minds!

* Fun applications!

* Homeland Security Monitor automatically lists which authorities are notified when you write "bong" in a comment!

* FacebookChat is the fast, easy way to see which of your friends are online and whether or not you need to sign out immediately (all online contacts notified exact period of time between their login and your logout)!

* Pay real money for intangible electronic pixels to decorate your profile!

* Lists. Endless, irrelevant, mind-numbing lists.

SKI SLOPES LIVEBLOGGING EVENT

2009-01-20T14:12:00.000-08:00

I DID IT! WENT SKIING IN VERMONT AND AWESOMENESS SKIS FUN. HERE'S A LIVE VIDEO FROM THE HOTEL ROOM:

A.K.A it was too cold to take a camera outside (-26 at the top of the mountain) and all we could do at night was get retardedly drunk and play drinking games involving monopoly, risk, and the ice tray. it was fun though. glades, fresh powder, and the like. you should've come. virus download complete.

hit the SLOPES

2009-01-11T23:21:00.001-08:00

i haven't been skiiing in years. i crave it so. which is why im foykin' PUMPED to be going SKIING this weekend. me and some bros are going to jay peak in vermont and fuckin RIPPIN IT UP. i've been bitching about this winter business for so long it's time i just fuckin got out there and ski'd all over it. just fuckin' GIVIN IT. this is the same mountain i got lost on several years ago and had to spend an hour and a half hiking through snowlogged terrain to escape within inches of my life. AWESOME. i can't wait to hit up those glades again. i love darting through the trees and running the risk of smashing your shit straight into one if you're being retarded (which i DEFINITELY have people). i want to do a liveblogging event from the slopes in the -5 degree weather but i don't have a gayphone or any technology with which to liveblog my events in realtime. suffice to stay i will conquer the mountain like a speedy stoned rocket and all the ski bunnies be waitin 4me at the hot tub later on (obv that song that goes "shawty u a tennnn, a tennn" will be playing).

i'm so extreme i don't really like listening to my own thoughts.

the controller spheres have disappeared

2009-01-10T21:42:00.000-08:00

everything is at once thrilling and difficult. things are moving very fast and sometimes impossibly slow. i make noises to myself when i think about things, especially while driving. when i get excited about the ideas in my head they just sort of seep out, and i'll be cruising down columbus ave making little shrieks as the dogriders ride through my brain. i think an honest, rational man would probably disassociate himself from me. i want to be able to create all the things i have to offer from within, even the lego pirate story i transcribed to the cleaning lady when i was 7. there is so much to shine light on. i wish i could be artistic in all walks of life and you could pay your bills by drawing a nice landscape on them. i wish there wasn't a constant grinding down of the individual by the massive gears that have been turning since the dawn of history. of course there are reasons we can't transcend certain realities, but come on people do we really have to put a chip in our thigh so the government can keep tabs on us wherever we roam? i say progressive anarchy fueled by human mental evolution. self-sufficiency through telekinesis. i say let's all turn into god-like beings of pure light and colors and sounds that harmonize. wait, when did we wander into bizarre hippy territory? what the fuck, smells like fuckin patchouli and scrote hairs up in hur. anyway, i have many hopes for a hyper-evolutionary humanity-wide event, i just hope obama can get the ball rolling on this one.

heh, ball.

Dogriders: part 1 (rough draft)

2009-01-08T20:18:00.000-08:00

DAYBREAK: Four dark figures huddled in a dark house. No electricity. We gather that a very unseemly set of events has led them to this moment. As our eyes adjust to the light we see:

HARRISON, 29, takes a furtive glance through the curtains, as if spying on someone. He is a solemn man wracked by many woes.

JOSH, 27, seated at an empty dining-room table, hands pressed against his forehead. He looks like he might be a jovial fellow in nicer times. But these days are very dark.

NICK, 28, leaning against the wall, deep in thought. A handsome man with a cool dark quality about him. Catlike almost.

BILL, 25, standing in a doorway methodically loading a revolver. His gruff exterior hides a heart of gold, but he's not about to let that shine through in times like these.

After an almost eternal and boring silence...

HARRISON: I think they've gone, maybe we should get moving.

JOSH: No. I'm... not going out there again.

NICK: We're gonna have to move eventually, they'll come back. (a beat) They always do.

BILL: Well, we're definitely not gonna sit here and argue about it. Either we get to higher ground or find a more defensible location.

HARRISON: Bill's right, we've outstayed our welcome.

NICK: Alright, let's get moving.

Josh shakes his head as the four of them leave the dining room.

STILLWELL ROAD: The four men walk along the center of the forested road, each one with a makeshift weapon (and Bill's revolver). They make sure to keep a visual perimeter around them, each man taking turns looking north, south, east, and west.

HARRISON: We've gotta be halfway to Woodbury by now!

NICK: Keep your heads up, we're not out of the fire yet.

BILL: Hold up.

The group stops, everyone having spotted the same thing at the side of the road... a huge, fly-swarming turd. Moist in the morning light.

JOSH: What is it?

BILL: (intensely long beat) ...Dogriders.

A massive beast covered in matted brown fur leaps from the surrounding underbrush with magnificent strength. It looks like a giant wolfhound and is fitted with a saddle upon which an armor-coated barbarian humanoid warrior rides.

No sooner does Bill raise his gun than the beast is upon him, biting his arm right at the shoulder! The remaining three pause in shock as Bill gets thrashed against the street like a rag-doll.

JOSH: GO! GO! GO! GO! GO! GO! GO! GO!

Josh, Nick, and Harrison all run full speed past the hellish nightmare creature. As they run, three more Dogriders leap from the woods.

DOGRIDERS: BROUF! BROUF! BROUF!

BILL: (faint, dying) nguh, heeelp.

Harrison stops, unable to ignore his comrade's pleas.

JOSH: WHAT ARE YOU DOING GO! GO! GO! GO! GO!

HARRISON: We can't leave him, he's still alive!

NICK: HE'S DEAD JUST RUN!

JOSH: COME ON WE GOTTA GOOO!

HARRISON: Someone's gotta save him!

A Dogrider pins Harrison to the ground, gnawing at his skull.

NICK: FUCK!

JOSH: RUN! WE GOTTA RUN! FUCK!

HARRISON: (braindead) Buhhhhelpme.

DOGRIDERS: BRAAUGHGRAGHGRRRR!

JOSH: GO! KEEP RUNNING! GO!

NICK: HERE OVER HERE!

The two leap over the side of the road, where a sewage outlet pipe runs. They climb into the open pipe, barely squeezing through the steel bars.

DOGRIDERS: BROUF! BROUF! BROUF! BROUF! BROUF! BROUF! BROUF! BROUF! BROUF!

The Dogriders try to headbutt the sewage pipe, but they're stuck outside.

DOGRIDERS: HRRRRRRRRRRBROUF! BROUF! BROUF! BROUF! BROUF! BROUF! BROUF! BROUF! BROUF! BROUF! BROUF! BROUF!

NICK: They can't get in here...

JOSH: (taking in the previous events) ... fuck.

Nick leans against the curved wall of the pipe. Josh buries his face in his hands.

DOGRIDERS: BROUF! BROUF! BROUF! BROUF! BROUF! BROUF! BROUF! BROUF! BROUF! BROUF! BROUF! BROUF! BROUF! BROUF! BROUF! BROUF! BROUF! BROUF! BROUF! BROUF! BROUF! BROUF! BROUF! BROUF! BROUF! BROUF! BROUF! BROUF! BROUF! BROUF! BROUF! BROUF! BROUF! BROUF! BROUF! BROUF! BROUF! BROUF! BROUF! BROUF! BROUF! BROUF! BROUF! BROUF! BROUF! BROUF! BROUF! BROUF! BROUF! BROUF! BROUF! BROUF! BROUF! BROUF! BROUF! BROUF!

(end part 1)

january bullshit

2009-01-07T21:31:00.000-08:00

this month is cold and rainy/snowy. 2009 is supposed to be awesome according to my highly optimistic celebratory blog but for now i am condemned to cold nights of aging in the mirror and trying to play the drums on hard in rock band. which is going ok by the way. anyway, this bullshit sucks and i'm ready for summatime. if you're resigning yourself to a cold bed in an underheated apartment like me, here's some pure white lightning to warm you up tonight:

let's hope the days start getting longer, warmer, and awesomer real fuckin' soon bra. can't wait to play some ULTIMATE FRIZZ.

2009

2009-01-01T22:56:00.000-08:00

AND SO THE CYCLE TURNS ONCE MORE...

it's 2009. it feels pretty good considering the world is collapsing into molten pits of liquid-hot earthcore. so far i'd say we're off to a good start. and you can't really argue with the number 9 at the end of a year. i'm a strong believer in the power of certain numbers (even though i wrote all that shit about not liking math) and i think 9 is good news because 3 goes into it 3 times and 3 is an important number in my life. i hope this year is as good as i hope. i have a lot of hopes right now, as do many american citizens. and citizens of the globe. let's hope that at least a few more people can resolve their differences and live in peace instead of everybody bombing the fuck out of everybody else. seriously. and while we're talking about people changing and opening up their eyes, here's george carlin (rip) on the american dream:

fuck y'all, go 2009, i'm out, fuck you, peace, what's up, later.

It's Always Sunny In MuthaFuckin ILLADELPH

2008-12-29T00:36:00.000-08:00

Just like Bobby DeNiro in that movie, I have a city that I love and hate equally. It's called Philadelphia, and it's currently the place I call home. A recent survey declared it home to the most unattractive, most uncultured people in America, and while this is mostly true, I can safely report that there are pockets of awesomeness and hilarity speckled throughout the shittiness. Fans of Always Sunny are presented with a city filled with assholes who are always on the lookout for number one, and this is the honest-to-goodness way it is, yet it can be so charming sometimes. I almost feel a strange catharsis when the servers at Pat's make fun of and belittle me. There's always a bit of sugar mixed in the diarrhea of inner-city Philly life. And there are many contrasts as a result. Areas of extreme wealth and extreme poverty are mashed together, as are people of extreme racism and unconditional acceptance. There are some of the warmest, most hilarious characters in the world, as well as the most despicable douchebags. And there are savage hipster hotties who could suck a bicycle tube inside-out (if you ride a fixy). As the great Ween said of this city: "Liberty Bell cracked in half, a Bacon Steak, a Perfect Match". It's the crack in the otherwise pure symbol of the bell that makes it Philly, just as it's the deliciousness of a good Cheesesteak paired with the dire health consequences. It is a city of ups and downs, blacks and whites, and a melting pot that bubbles and hisses with wild abandon. Unfortunately I am outside this beautiful and most historical of our cities today, having just watched "The Curious Case of Benjamin Button" in my hometown of New York (and it was a little too long if you ask me bro). Of course, had I seen the movie in my usual Philly theater, I would've been host to yet another slice of Philly life:

http://www.cnn.com/2008/CRIME/12/27/movie.shooting/index.html?iref=mpstoryview

This is just one more example of what makes this town so shitty/funny/awesome/terrible/violent/hopeful/endearing/appalling/unique. LET'S GO PHILS!

Got a selection of good things on sale stranger!

2008-12-28T01:28:00.000-08:00

By Guest Columnist The Merchant From Resident Evil 4

Welcome!

Got a coupla things might inch-rest ya, stranger. Ya can upgrade yer weapons... or more... for a higher price.

Whadday buyin'?

No no, wait a minute, whaddaya sellin'?

Heh heh heh, I'm buyin' at a high price. Got lots of things on sale for you then, stranger. Got a couple things worth openin up me trenchcoat for. Might wanna fish around for a hautomatic rifle or praps a shahp shooter pistol then. I got me pistol right eeyah, an it can be yours, for the right price then stranger.

No, I'm not making advances at you. Really. This is part of my chahming cockney hack-cent and mischievous personalih-ee then stranger. Heh heh heh.

No, I'm actually a married chap then. Got the wife an kids back in anuvah level. Look here in me trenchcoat. This here's me youngest, Dora. She's a wee sprite lass then. Not but 9 pence old to the day onna spot.

Don't get to see much a her durin a day, mostly standin' around eeyah, waitin' for you. Not romantically, no. Ya see I may call you stranger and laugh suggestively at the sligh-est hexchange between us, but b'lieve me then, I got a fit bird waitin' for me back roun a pub. Reckon I don't know where me accent come from. Heh heh, thank you.

Take care stranger, got a coupla good things on sale today.

The Merchant From Resident Evil 4 is an unauthorized firearms dealer and a frequent contributor to The National Review

songs i want to be playing on rock band right now:

2008-12-26T23:54:00.000-08:00

1. dayman (fighter of the night man)
2. mgmt - electric feel
3. the predator rap (the guitar part would be for the orchestral music)
4. really anything by tegan and sara
5. also anything by of motreal
6. fiery furnaces - navy nurse
7. the knife - marble house
8. eric clapton - crossroads

did i mention this has trumped gears of war 2 as my nerdly obsession?

Murry Chrizmus

2008-12-25T10:42:00.000-08:00

Hello All,

Welp, it's that magic time of the year again. And let me tell you, as a non-practicing Christian who pretty much committed every sin available in North America, I had a great Christmas Eve last night lighting Channukah candles with some of my favorite jews. These guys are awesome. While the rest of America is busy being festive and Christmassy, this camp is locked in a six hour horde mode session, breaking only for Chinese food (General Tsao's chicken, among others) and substance abuse. Gotta love the Long Island Jewish Community. I grew up with these assholes, and now I feel more at home with them than some of the psycho-religious-zealots on my own side of the religion wars. Holidays! Also, since it's Christmas, I'm going to use this post to break out an old classic, a traditional Christmas movie I made but a few short years ago. Happy Holidays you FUCK:

dj grunk

2008-12-22T21:47:00.000-08:00

hello folks,

i've been drinking tonight. and i definitely had an entire other blog post to share. and it definitely got deleted in a moment of sobriety. and i definitely know you wish you could've experienced the wonders therewith, but alas: this isn't some pussy bullshit. i'm not going to share my true emotions with you. only half-true absurdist musings that veer into existentialism at the drop of a hat. on that note:

PA'ing

2008-12-20T22:17:00.000-08:00

yeah it's necessary to learn the ropes yeah everybody should start at the bottom and work their way up blah de fuckin dah but doesn't it suck to be at the lowest link of the food chain? i've been lucky enough to hold a wide variety of these bottom-feeder jobs, clearing away the muck left by the superior ones and other exciting bullshit. if everything were to continue going according to plan, i will ideally have some sort of a career in the visual arts. what exactly this will be, i still don't know, but it turns out that nearly any profession in this field is usually prefaced by many hours of interning and PA'ing. Production Assistanting. An extra set of hands. just in case y'all tryna step to my street creds, let's take a look at some of the legit music videos i've had a menial role in the creation of, with colorful director's commentary...

1. Rob Thomas - "Little Wonders"

This was the first Hollywood production I was ever involved with. I don't even think I was technically a PA yet, just sort of there through my internship. My duties included moving some things, idling between areas of the set, and lunch. The whole thing was shot in a large green-screen studio on the Jim Henson lot. At one point the assistant director asked me to be Rob Thomas' stand-in so they could frame up their shot before actually fetching Rob Thomas (Matchbox20!!!). I got to sit with Mr. Thomas' guitar on that rooftop set you see at about 1:30, which in reality was just a box in front of a screen. They dollied and jibbed around me and I sat there uncomfortably until Rob Thomas (Matchbox20!!!) showed up and we actually had human contact when I handed over the guitar and he nodded at me (!!!). He was actually a pretty cool guy.

2. Christina Aguilera - "Candyman"
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GIfEgv7EExw
YouTube won't let me embed this one (fuckers). You know, it's that 1950's one where she's like a USO girl and shit. I got a walkie-talkie and everything for this shoot. We filmed it at these giant airplane hangars that were hours outside of LA in like Fresno or some shit. One hangar had two stunt planes set up inside and the other was used to build the diner and club sets. Christina was a lot shorter than I thought. She had a huge entourage, including a large flamboyant man who was constantly fanning her. I actually made a cameo on Entertainment Tonight thanks to this one. They interviewed Christina with the set as a backdrop and you can clearly see me in the background sweeping up the confetti used in the last shot of the video. I've arrived!

3. Linkin Park - "What I've Done"

I actually had a significant role in this one. The main part of the video was shot waaay in the middle of nowhere on a dried-out lakebed, which was as cool as it sounds. There were helicopters and trucks and barren wastelands and Linkin Park was there, it was straight out of Dante's Inferno. My big contribution came in the form of the b-roll clips littered throughout the video. I was tasked with compiling a bunch of these, as were several other people, and then the director (also the DJ in Linkin Park) made his pick of the litter. In the end, about 30% of those clips were those picked by yours truly, including some of the atom bombs, the KKK, and other terrible shit that's supposed to make you think about life.

4. Pretty Ricky (feat. Sean Paul) - "(I Wanna See You) Push It Baby"

I think I had just heard about Pretty Ricky like a week before I found out I'd be working on this video. My roommates and I were watching a lot of MTV jams at the time, and that song was always on that goes "it's fiiive in da mo-niiiiin". It became our coke jam. Then suddenly I'm entering the late night special world of Pretty Ricky. I actually had nothing to do with the Pretty Ricky part of the video, but I was all about moving some stuff and eating craft services for the Sean Paul section (which, unlike Pretty Ricky's Prague shoot, took place in a parking lot in Santa Monica). Basically it was Sean Paul rapping while scantily-clad models hung out in Eyes Wide Shut costumes. Everyone was high for this. It was the final video I worked on before returning to the east coast.

where is my bayou paradise?

2008-12-19T22:27:00.000-08:00

do people have any control over their individual fate? does the human consciousness influence our reality? if so, to what extent? what things are beyond our control, and what can we control with thought? it seems a prerequisite that nothing works out perfectly for anybody. but can't we change these things? we fucking figured out how to take over the world, surely we have powers over our own destinies. or maybe i'm just being napoleonic about my human abilities. i do have a mix of ideas about the role we play in the cosmos, and for the most part i think it is very tiny. so what can we really do at the end of the day? i'd like to know. i think that things change. things can be willed into life. and if somebody says something is gone and done for good, well, maybe it isn't. cue 80's synth and vocals:

Let us die young or let us live forever
We dont have the power but we never say never
Sitting in a sandpit, life is a short trip
The musics for the sad men

Can you imagine when this race is won
Turn our golden faces into the sun
Praising our leaders we're getting in tune
The musics played by the madmen

Forever young, I want to be forever young
Do you really want to live forever, forever, ooh and ever...

p.s. the first thing i would will into existence is me not being obsessed with music that i know is godawful. jk, i'm luvin' it (tm).

WHO'S READY FOR SNACKTACKULAR CRAVE-SATIONS?!?

2008-12-17T00:23:00.000-08:00

By Guest Columnist A Bag Of Blazin' Buffalo & Ranch Doritos

SWEET JESUS YOU LOOK LIKE YOU COULD USE A BREAK FROM ALL THAT SAME-OLD BORING REAL LIFE STUFF YOU'RE SO CAUGHT UP WITH. SEEMS LIKE IT'S JUST ABOUT TIME YOU HIT THE DUSTY DORITOS TRAIL ON DOWN TO A BAG OF BLAZIN' BUFFALO & RANCH. I'M TALKIN' REAL CRUNCHTASTICAL FLAV-SPLOSIONS OF INTENSE BUFFALO WING AND TANGY BLUE CHEESE CURDS. MIGHT AS WELL DOWN A WHOLE BAG OF THIS SHIT, YOU KNOW YOU'RE UP TO THE TASK. AFTER ALL, IF YOU'RE NOT TOTALLY CRUNCHMITTED TO THE TASK, YOU MIGHT AS WELL TAKE THE SOY-TRAIN BACK TO LETTUCE TOWN CUZ THIS HERE IS BLAZIN' HOT WING CENTRAL.

YOU SEEM LIKE THE KINDA GUY WHO WALKS THE LINE BETWEEN DANGER AND DELICIOUS CHEESE FLAVORING. MAYBE IT'S TIME TO PROVE YOUR SNACKVOTION BY POUNDIN' DOWN A COUPLE ROUNDS OF INTENSE BUFFALO-FLAVOR-POWDERS COATING THESE GENUINE TORTILLA HUSKS. YES SIR, YOU'RE X-TREME ENUFF TO TAKE A CHANCE, SO LONG AS THERE'S SPICY TANG-BASED FLAVORING INVOLVED.

YOU'RE A ROGUE. A FIRESTARTER. UP FOR ANYTHING. YOU COULD GET AWAY WITH MURDER. YOU WILL GET AWAY WITH MURDER. YOU'LL DO IT FOR ME, AND YOU'LL MAKE A CLEAN GETAWAY. THEY WON'T EVER BE ABLE TO TIE IT TO YOU. IT'LL BE AS IF YOU NEVER EXISTED. AND THE TARGET IS QUITE SIMPLE, REALLY. IT'S YOUR NEIGHBORS. ALL OF THEM. I WANT YOU TO KILL ALL OF THEM. EVERYONE YOU SEE. ANYONE WHO TRIES TO STOP YOU. YOU'RE GOING TO KILL. AND YOU'RE NOT GOING TO STOP UNTIL THE STREETS RUN RED WITH THE BLOOD OF THE INNOCENT.

SO GRAB A BAG OF THESE FLAVOR-BLASTED CHIPS TODAY!

A Bag Of Blazin' Buffalo & Ranch Doritos is an inanimate bag of corn chips

3 Men Mountainbiking

2008-12-15T17:45:00.000-08:00

i fucking love mountainbiking. yesterday i mentioned it briefly but holy shit it was awesome. i was 20 minutes outside of philly with some bros and we fuckin attacked these trails. it was a strenuous mountain path; lots of winding uphill, followed immediately by rock-laden downhill. and when i say rock-laden, i mean there's huge fucking stones in the ground you have to navigate while trying not to steer into trees at 20 mph. Plus it was muddy. and freezing. and we had collectively eaten some 7 or 8 cheesesteaks the night before that created an entirely new challenge. but holy shit my friends it was awesome. successfully going through a patch of boulders and slick mud is intense, unlike hiking which becomes slow and tedious. mountainbiking is like riding a wild stallion that knows every inch of the forest, but really the stallion is you, and it's an incredible adventure. why the fuck don't more people do this? i really can't think of a more interesting form of exercise other than sea-kayaking, hang-gliding, or, you know, sexy times. does anyone want to go mountainbiking? i'd also like to arrange a game of ultimate frisbee. still waiting to hear back about that one.

HEY MAMA YAHHH

2008-12-14T23:50:00.000-08:00

HOLY FUCK america i just ate like 4 cheese steaks in the past 24 hours, then took like 12 bong rips, then fucking partied righteously in your face, and then to top it off went mountain biking on fucking mountains like i hadn't been fucking shwasted only hours earlier. Mostly i blame my friend greg spatzles for these transgressions, but fuck it felt so real. like the real thing. if i was any more hard i'd be this guy.

Julia is 7 minutes late for Jazzercise!

2008-12-12T22:07:00.000-08:00

By Guest Columnist Samantha Wishkillsy

Look at this. She just leaves these clothes where she drops them. Now where did she, JULIA?! COME AWN! Ugh, now Peppy and Squawkey want food. JULIA, CAN YOU FEED THE BIRDS? BRING THE BIRD FOOD DOWN? CAN YOU BRING THE BIRD FOOD DOWN? FROM UPSTAIRS. THE UPSTAIRS PANTRY. IT'S IN, IT'S IN THE UPSTAIRS, Oh, I'll go get it myself, COME AWN WE'RE AWREADY LATE!

Ms. Nipperson, she's Julia's instructor at the Jazzercise clinic. We been goin there for two years. JULIE? JU-LAYY. Now the birds are flippin' out, Jesus Christ JULIA WHERE'SAT BIRD FOOD AT? I'm having heart palpations.

Hold on, okay, cup a cawfee. I got time for one cup, we're late anyways. Ms. Nipples can just wait. Ugh, with that squawking. Why did we get these birds? They hate each other. Oh and now the cat's in the living room perfect. BEBE, OFFA THAT, GET OFF. I'm tellin ya'.

This picture is of Julia when she led the marching band. Look she was so chubby there. Ugh and all sweating in that white suit my gawd. I'm relaxed now, it's like we're awready late so what's the rush? If she's gonna learn, if she's not gonna know when to show up, when she has to be there, then I don't what. What she learned. Unbelievable.

JULIA.

My therapist says I need to stop yelling so much. Says I'm damaging my noyves. Imagine that. When Julia won first place at Mathletes I screamed so hard I got a blood clot in my throat. They had to go in there with a hacksaw to get it out, I'm tellin' ya it was this big. It's really just been me and Julia since Michael left back in two thousand.

THAT'S IT, I'M WARMIN' UP THE CAR. IF YOU'RE NOT DOWN HERE IN 30 SECONDS I'M JAZZUHSIZIN' WITOUT YEHS. YOU CAN JAZZ TAP YOUR WAY DOWN TO THE ORPHANAGE, FORGET ABOUT THE IGUANA THIS CHRISTMAS, I'M SERIOUS. Huh!

Samantha Wishkillsy is a stay-at-home mom and teacher's aid in King of Prussia, PA.

Goodbye Horses

2008-12-10T20:40:00.000-08:00

Would you fuck me? I'd fuck me.

Holy Shit I sometimes want to be out of my fucking mind. I think this is the calling card of the true artist. To be slightly to seriously insane. To have some part of you detached from what we acknowledge to be the normal functioning human society. And then you can go and stand on that madness peninsula, and look back at all the normal stuff, and then try to relate to it in ways that produce artistic specimens. I really think I am painfully normal when it all comes down to it, and that most of the perceived insanity comes from heavy self-medication and me realizing I should be crazier. I think all art is tinged with madness. Even the symmetrical banality of lame architecture is born of some crazy inner vision the architect shat out of his brain. This kinda plays into my whole anti-math/chaos theory, because even though you can find the presence of math in virtually every work of art known to man, the real standout qualities in most of that shit comes from a completely different territory in which math pisses its pants and logic vomits profusely. I think I would benefit from being hyper-schizophrenic for a day. At least long enough to write a really good paragraph about it. Nothing too inspiring ever came from Bob in accounting. I like waking up and not knowing what happens next. Does this mean I'm on my way to being an artist? Will I ever feel comfortable calling myself an artist? Is this even a worthy pursuit? Is anything? Would you fuck me? I'd fuck me.

home frendz

2008-12-07T22:22:00.000-08:00

right now i live in philadelphia. it's hilarious. but sometimes i go back home to scenic long island. the past few times have been quite fruitful for their hangings-outs and general tomfoolery that takes place when i reconnect with my high school friends who have mostly remained a tightly-bound network of bros and duders for some odd years roundabouts. this thanksgiving was exactly the sort of shit-show i'd hoped it would be, featuring a fully-fleshed-out cast of supporting characters from my highschool the likes of which have not all been in the same bar in a life-age of the earth. but it fuckin' happened at katie mc's and, to a lesser extent, j.t. carrington's, two of my favorite huntington village bars rivaled only by the shamrock and valencia tavern. in the course of my drunken pre-holiday festivities, i must've said hello to like twenty people from my grade, which consisted of only about 70 back in the day (roustabouts). it was ridiculous in so many ways, and the cherry on top was the boys who once fancied themselves part of the "in-crowd", now grown fat and apathetic to the world in a cruel twist of fate (i'm probably also going to get fat at some point but it's nice to point out the failings of others).

gotta give it up for my home frendz though, an amazingly tight and well-oiled machine of a circle of friends, occasionally succumbing to issues of misguided diplomacy and in extreme cases treachery, but overall an excellent assortment of fellows who tell it like it is and know when to party and when to chill the fuck out. chill, cops. chill chill chill. throw it out the window man, throw it out the windowSHIT he's got his light on it FUCK ok everyone chill everyone calm down fuck i'm makin' a run for it.

FREEZE!

JOSH RUNNNNNNNN!!!!!

BLAM

BLAM

BLAM.

Yeah my friends are pretty great.

introspective stoned 1 am post

2008-12-06T01:52:00.000-08:00

i am basically the same as i was ten years ago. twenty even. as much as i am here, i am right back there, examing trinkets in gift shops i don't remember. my body is growing, my cells are regenerating, i emit and absorb energy, but essentially i am exactly where i was before any of this started. i think i have always been this sort of consciousness, a presence that was brought to this particular dimension at birth and then honed into a human essence over the years and now i am able to look back upon this cyclical infinitypersonality and see the unbroken chain of it all and pretty much it is this: i am usually running, it's late at night or early in the morning, the sun isn't quite out yet, and i am urgently trying to get somewhere. i have always had this direction and drive and a self-manufactured sense of purpose even though i've tried convincing myself of the meaningless of it all. and i will probably always be this consciousness, running towards something of it's own design in the predawn before the rest of the world is revealed. and this is perhaps the case for everyone, each person a runner in their own right, until finally the sun comes up and the next realm is entered. there's a reason a drop of water looks like a tiny planet right? animal collective is really good.

- baz luhrman

self-indulging drunk 3 am post

2008-12-03T03:03:00.000-08:00

bitch i don't want to be famous

jes wanna keep shit feelin painless

and yo i dont mean frozen just lame-less

like a muthafuckin x box arcade set

thats my rap. ill fuckin punch ya lights out.

really though i don't think i want to be famous. all these formerly innocent celebs like LiLo and Britney be tawkimbout how once they got famous they "let all the wrong people in" to their social network and got taken advantage of in a not funny way. i don't want these random doucheswabs infiltrating my life. i mean, it's not even like i run the risk of becoming famous in any caliber, but assuming i did and people be all like "aww shit son it's da splunka!" then i don't want the soulcrushing leeches banging down my door. also i don't want to be the coke king of san diego or something like that. it's seems like the idea of celebdom to which i might have once aspired is now revealed as a shallow world of ass kissing popularity contests and unwinnable grappling towards the peak of a mountain of "talent".

fuck famous bro, i just want to be drunk and happy. and baked. like, herb-encrusted kenny rogers roasters, if you know wha'm sayn.

fuck all that hyphy shit. I WAS BORN ON THE STREETS.

is this what deaner was talking about?

2008-11-29T22:35:00.000-08:00

day one of "baby boner" principle photography complete. overall an astounding success. superb acting, accomplished visuals, and admirable use of a strap-on dildo. this is perhaps the most offensive piece i have thus far directed, yet i regret nothing. the truest test of an artist is how far they are willing to take their work, to what limits they can push their aesthetic. with any luck, tomorrow will wrap the shoot and i can start editing this biatch. in the mean time i'm enjoying some chocolate and cheese.

Annountsmentsse

2008-11-28T00:13:00.000-08:00

This is the newly-cut trailer for a series i began some 8 years ago at the tender age of 15. it was a variety of shorts that were alternatingly funny/dramatic/trippy/action-packed/retarded, culminating in two feature-length projects, all about a group of teen friends and the weird reality they inhabit. the trailer is basically to announce that i'm putting this shit on youtube now that it's a place where one puts such things. it's already begun, but be sure to check back throughout the winter months as i add the chronicles in their entirety.

youtube.com/fiorious

p.s. this weekend me and the j-man are filming this movie called "baby boner" and it's gonna be even awesomer than when we did this.

chaos theory

2008-11-24T22:54:00.000-08:00

i recently had a discussion with a friend that was almost an argument because as soon as our viewpoints met, they clashed like fuckin' titans. for some reason we were talking about the universe and the nature of things, and she admitted to loving mathematics because everything is inherently bound up in math. my immediate response was that i have hated and always will hate math (like this fucking blog) because the way i see it math is only part of the equation. at the time i tried in vain to adequately defend my side, saying how chaos was also everywhere and some things exceeded the rules and regulations of math. where my friend saw hidden structure and rigidity, i saw the possibility for decay and disorder. this extends into other facets of my outlook on life, but you've probably figured that out by now.

newayz, i let the argument drop from my head and it stayed blissfully gone until almost a month later when a flaxen toupee sauntered into my inner visions. i thought of donald trump, and somehow my argument resonated around this douchey man. now, i don't know much about this man, but i feel like most uber-rich people who weren't born into it have taken some sort of a chance (or several) over the years that proved bountiful to their wealth. mr. trump seems like the kind of man who would gamble with his wealth if it meant accruing far more wealth. and this striking-out-blindly in the name of progress is to me what chaos is all about.

it's undeniable that math is everywhere in our day to day lives. but to believe that mathematics is the be all end all rulebook to our cosmos is to me a bit narrow-minded. when chances are taken, when chaos enters the otherwise orderly fray, that is when true progress occurs. because to step out into the unknown, to try for something with no foreseeable outcome, is to embrace a certain kind of chaos. there are no quantifiable rules that govern an impulse. and even if there were an equation to explain the ebb and flow of thoughts through one's head, no living person would know how to write it.

i guess my point is that math and order are only the beginning. the universe is so rife with unknown unknowns that we cannot claim to understand even 2% of the shit that's going on out there. i do not deny that there are surface aspects to our reality that math can reliably account for, but i refuse to accept that math dictates as many things as we assume it does. when donald trump decided to buy a shit-ton of casinos in atlantic city, there was more than math at work. sure, the numbers may have hinted at profits to be made, but to actually go forward and buy up these monstrosities required a certain flirtation with chaos. in reality, the failure of some of those casinos nearly robbed trump of his iconic douchey persona, proving that the numbers didn't add up as the maths might've predicted. there are many forces at work when it comes to the things we do with our lives, but none of them can be diluted into a singular explanatory statement, as math would have us think. you could still try to argue with me about the hidden harmonic structure to all things within our shared consciousness, but as someone who's spent a lot of time playing with fireworks, i can tell you this: you never know what the fuck is going to happen.

My Penis Is Glittering

2008-11-22T22:16:00.000-08:00

By Guest Columnist Kevin Barnes

Reverse the epithet lining my uterine walls, I've come all over the place. I engage the stormtrooper parallax fighting the queer-eye hippy-man with the Sunlandic tan.

(series of unintelligible howls)

Dissect me with your science eyes, we're on an almond run to the IHOP dimension I know you've dreamt about it Sugar. Correct my inefficiencies you condone my vodka percocets not drinking it.

It's hard to swim in the frozen lakes (x4)

He pulled out supermanning me with his night juices. I am a pawn a pawn a paowwww this sheet is sticking. Rectify the rectal exam this planet bestows my eyes are a gleaming infinity insert psychedelic reference I'm gay but I let straight chicks check me out CHECK ME OUTOUTOUT.

(oohs and aahs for about 17 minutes)

She sucked her own cock at the pirate booth. Not something you'd take the kids to I'd already bought it on VHS. Delineate the rules of her tigress dress unravelled at my bedside I own a strap-on. We played dress up til the champagne kicked now it's time to paint buddhas on my ass cheeks please. It's hard to swim in the frozen lakes I write when the gnome ain't watching.

Kevin Barnes is the lead singer of Of Montreal and a frequent contributor to the National Review.

fuck so many things

2008-11-20T19:59:00.001-08:00

this is becoming a catch-all motto for me. it really represents an american male postmodern existential crisis based stance in today's society. honestly though, fuck so many things.

the amount to which people are forced to accept bullshit, lameness, heartache, buttache, and all-around retardation in the world today is bewildering. every day we are beaten down by the apparently unavoidable tidal wave of shit that flows through our planet. be it natural disasters, psychotic abusings of power, war for profit, or just the influx of assholes kicking around the globe, there's a lot on everybody's plate at the moment.

sure, there is undeniable good out there. many things are worth living for and pretty much nothing in daily life is worth killing yourself over. but god damn, fuck sooooooooooooo many things. starting with this blog and this emopost. then moving on to me. and then so many things.

YOU'RE TOUGHER THAN A BRUMAK, KID.

2008-11-16T21:54:00.000-08:00

By Guest Columnist Marcus Fenix

Son, you really hauled ass out there. Really gave 'er the ol' heave ho. And I'm not just talking about these ten crates of ammo I just had you hump up the side of this volcano. You got the guts to slop shit and shoot piss better than mosta the swingin' dicks I seen get shot to death out here.

Sure, your godawful aim and reckless use of munitions have left us stranded in this catacomb with some sort of worm creature, but before you threw those three grenades that all fell short of their targets, we had a good thing goin' there.

REAVERS, EVERYBODY DOWN. COLE, MAN THOSE TURRETS. WE GOT INCOMING GRUNTS.

BAIRD'S DOWN, SOMEBODY GET OUT THERE AND REVIVE HIM BEFORE THOSE BLOODMOUNTS GET ANY CLOSER.

Anyway, you really cleaned up today. Really kicked er' up, smacked 'er down, and didn't show up to be sentenced in court for domestic abuse. You're hard, Private, 'bout as hard as they come.

MORTAAAARS.

SANTIAGO, LIGHT UP THOSE BARRIERS, WE NEED TO CLEAR THE L.Z. BEFORE THOSE COBRAS TOUCH DOWN.

INCOMING GRUNTS, FIRE UP THOSE LANCERS. YEAAAGH.

THEY'VE GOT CHAINSAWS, TOO. RAPIDLY TAP B TO COUNTERATTACK.

Like I was saying, you got it where it counts kid, and that takes some serious cojones. Personally I wouldn't have jumped behind enemy lines to blindly attempt a shotgun assault, only to limp back to safety with only the slightest amount of health remaining, but again that's just a conflict of interest.

NEMACYSTS, EVERYBODY DOWN. PRIVATE, HAND ME ANOTHERhkk AUUGHH...

Marcus Fenix is a columnist for the Post and a frequent contributor to the National Review

childhoodz

2008-11-16T01:39:00.000-08:00

this was one of the first pseudo-serious movies i made in my youth. it was the precursor to a larger teen drama arc in my indie movie career. and by career i mean jokey weird short films that go back and forth between trying to be meaningful and totally jk.

i've never done acid, but i reckon this captures some of the essence of riding that psychological wave into seas of orange-flavored electricity.

also, i'm proud to make movies that hint at a plot but ultimately have no real story to tell. it's something most films would never dare to do.

reremixremix mix.

2008-11-10T21:51:00.000-08:00

something is being pioneered here. it's not necessarily good, it's just... something.

ghohst storie

2008-11-09T21:14:00.000-08:00

it's hincredible how emotion can change what you believe in.

and i'm not just talking about my favorite screamo bands.

on a fairweathered day i believe in most things. karma definitely. god, yes, of some sort. reincarnation in some form or another but probably not the way most people would understand it. fate and destiny and all that. also predators, aliens, aliens vs. predators, and ghosts.

when i am feeling shitty enough i will write all of this off as human constructs in a universe that randomly occurred and will randomly fall apart without so much as a single discernible reason or logic. nihilism is like the big bottle of scotch i break out when i don't want any shit from any assholes. it is a neat little package that wraps up any loose ends left floating around our doomed solar system. when the sun finally shoots its load all over us, it will have all been worth it because there wasn't any worth to begin with. this school of thought, much like scotch, is intoxicating for a while but too much will make you vomit it all up.

i guess when i am in my most typical mindset, that of slightly-confused-but-ultimately-content malaise, i tend to believe there is something else going on in those twenty-six other dimensions floating between your nose and mine. which is why tonight, in my mother's home on long island, i am forced to deal with a ghost(s?) that has haunted this house pretty much since i moved here. perhaps a more disgruntled me would think to myself, fuck your imagination go to sleep. but feeling about average leaves me faced with the very real noises and strange occurrences that seem to happen whenever i'm here. there's a fucking weird stain in the basement that predates our arrival here and has not been removable or identifiable as long as i've known about it. so clearly it is the spot where someone was violently murdered, their death stain lingering through the ages to warn of the evil forever surrounding that spot. now this restless soul is forced to creep softly among these walls and move my laundry hamper to the other side of my room while i try to sleep (this actually happened and there is still no explanation you guys).

does that fact that i don't believe in these things when i'm depressed make that a special ghostfighting power? or am i making myself more vulnerable to the spirit world by actively ignoring it? am i perhaps a communicator between the worlds of the living and the dead zone, chosen by fate to bring peace to the legions of limboed wraiths caught between the voids? this post has officially ventured out of the charming and into the "i don't know if he's serious and i don't like it".

i'm probably schizophrenic.

MUSIC 2.0

2008-11-08T22:55:00.000-08:00

i wonder a lot about the kind of cultural movement that will be associated with this decade. what is the style of the two-thousands? there really isn't anything original or something that hasn't been recycled in some way. this may have been said in the past but i think in this decade it is more apparent than ever. music, fashion, and television are all heightened versions of things they have already been. there seems to be an ongoing appeal to reference every stylistic movement of the past in a mish-mosh that is so contrary to itself that it develops its own appeal. this is carried out to a sickening extent by silk-screens of old things redesigned as new things to be printed on the side of something that's really old to be used as something it's not intended for in an environment it's unwelcome in. i played guitar hero 3 and had my friends hold the bowl in place so i could smoke it while soloing. more artists should aspire to do this.

i feel that our generation will be recognized by the extent to which it widened the postmodern condition to include everything that ever came before it and somehow make kitschyness out of banal things like rock-salt.

the only bands i listen anymore are ones that don;t make any sense at all.

aoh my gauwd

2008-11-05T23:15:00.000-08:00

dear hateblog,

ok sry about all the negativities, everything actually turned out ok.

i believe i already blogged about being an obama supporter. so it is with great honor that i join the rest of our planet in releasing this great queef of relief on a day when america shows some genuine progressive-mindedness.

STILL, ALL THIS HAPPINESS AND LACK OF FEAR MAKES ME UNCOMFORTABLE.

What if the fact that everyone is relieved and empowered by the past days events belies a darker reality, evil on a scale comparable to the mass deception cloaking it?!?!

What if all this Hope, Change, Progress business is actually some "They Live" style subliminal messagery aimed at convincing the people they actually desire the impending apocalyptic scenario?!?!?!?!!!!!!!?

What if President-Elect Obama's middle name was actually given to him because he is RELATED to SADDAM HUSSEIN>>?

it's thoughts like these that make me regret smoking pot for so many years.

cuz seriously though, i know deep down my man has got this shit covered. he's a solid guy and he gives a shit about everyone, not just his tactical military weapons development firm. i feel fuckin good about it in a way that only a democratic majority of house and senate can make a man feel.

ELECTION CENTER '08

2008-11-03T20:44:00.000-08:00

FUCK JOHN MCCAIN

FUUUUUUUUUCK YOOOOOOUUUUUUU

IF U SUPPORT HIM U CAN OFFICIALLY SIGN OFF MY BLOG RIGHT NOW BECAUSE I SEVER ALL CONTACT WITH YOU?

YOU KNOW HOW MCCAIN REFUSES TO TALK TO ANYONE FROM ANY COUNTRY THAT MAKES HIM EVEN SLIGHTLY UNCOMFORTABLE? THAT IS WHAT I AM DOING TO YOU, ENTIRE REPUBLICAN PARTY (Uncle Peter, you are still OK by me, that trip to Germany was awesome! and I guess Aunt Lorraine can stay too..)

BUT EVERYONE ELSE FUCK YOU AND THE FOX NEWS YOU RODE IN ON.

this has been the most disgusting campaign ever. every time barack obama farts (he doesn't; he is perfect) they try to link it to radical arab muslim fundamentalist iraqi i.e.d. ayers. gimme a fuckin break. if he actually turns out to be working with terrorists they can behead me first, because at this point i'd rather have iraq osama controlling my country than a lady who thinks science is for faggots. don't get me started on christianity.

a vote for mccain seems like a willingness to give up on basic logic. every time they push the alternative energy agenda i think of the billions of spent plutonium rounds that will soon be burning holes in every ecosystem on earth, while irradiated seals flop in the surf. and the idea that two people shouldn't be allowed to marry because they both have vaginas sounds liEK SOMETHING U READ IN A ANCIENT SCROLL THAT WAS MADE UP CENTURIES AGO AND DOESNT APPLY TO NETHING NEMORE.

i love you obama because the world loves you. they will never trust us again if we have the melting face of a bitter white man who hates "that one". we are not a sovereign entity hiding our secrets in blacked-out documents. we are a misrepresented stew of people trying to exist within an idea of freedom and justice for all. and we make great fucking music. so in the hopes that we can somehow change the course of this downward spiral the earth is watching us slide down, i am voting for barack hussein obama.

fuckmccain.

POSSIBLE BLOG TOPICS) to be deleted after they are posted online this is the offline version

2008-11-02T22:13:00.001-08:00

1. blog feelings. my feelings in general from day to day.

2. music song. this is a song(s) i'm listen to right now (itunes)

3. placeholder

4. this could be a story section where i tell an interesting anecdote could be from a friend doesn't necessarily have to be a story i know firsthand.

5. if i'm feeling very sad

DISKLAIMER

2008-11-01T23:40:00.000-07:00

so this is my new blog and i fucking hate it. i think blogs are stupid and fueled by narcissism. i'm voting for obama. while i am of the belief that blogs and most of the internet are inherently lame, i am a mild fan of the aesthetic that has bubbled up out of this lameness over the past decade or so. so i want to feed into that.

the marriage of technology and retarded people has somehow created an untraceably vast vernacular of joke words and quick-response abbreviations underscored by a sizable disregard for the language and grammar it's founded upon (hence the discontinuation of capital letters). while i agree that this latest development in social communication is harmful to the youth and their impressionable minds, i find myself continuously amused by the byproducts of this evolving monster. just ponder the implications of roflmayo.

so wait, i'm going to blog about this shit?

no, i guess this is more of a reaction to it, as well as a small contribution in it's own right. and also a place for me to put things that i value like this. and, you know, just bitch about shit nobody cares about, like how much i already hate the fact that i signed up for yet another fucking blog that will disintegrate into negative electrons probably a long time before i do.

so enjoy your time here, have a drink, relax. i'll probably give up on this long before it reaches its prime.

- the management