Michael Jackson -> Popularity peaked in the 80's -> People in the 80's were different than we are -> People who act different than we do are funny -> Michael Jackson is funny -> ASB plays Michael Jackson daily at lunch.

Kelso called me a badass today.

That is all.

Fading sunlight. Specks of light floating. Leaves. Little spider with white legs. Infinite, infinite lines. God is in the details. God is in the details.

SCREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!

An incredible reaction to a drunk-driving lecture the other day. We all gather in the gym and listen to this guy talking about how his son and two of his friends died in a car crash because they were drinking, how it disrupted their lives for years after and how many family members were barely stuggling to stay functioning.

Basically no reaction. People are giggling, hitting each other, etc.

"My daughter, before the accident, was a 3.0 GPA student. A month after the incident, her GPA was 0.9."

Gasps, disbelief, shock.

Fuck that.

I miss Santa Cruz. I want to feel involved like that again. I want to feel stimulated by everything around me, instead of barely crawling through chemistry homework because I'm too listless to give a shit anymore. Back to that land of giants, where every person was like a painting you kept walking back across the museum to see again because it was just that intriguing.

As I grow older the mist parts. The gap is shrinking between now and then. I know why people did what they did; I'm starting to move and talk like them. The mystery is gone.

I feel like something important is missing. I feel passionately about next to nothing. I am excited by next to nothing. I am becoming nothing, consumed by myself.

What would be good would be to get on a plane, alone, and stay for a month in a city I've never been to before. Need to experience.

To anyone considering taking it, Video Production is the easiest class I have taken since web design. Once again, I have sat staring at this computer for an hour, with another forty minutes to go. To my right, Matt Kelly also stares at his computer, an iMac that behaves like it was dropped as a baby. Likewise, to my left, twenty other people stare vacantly at Shockwave games, the hands, the shambles of their empty lives. At the front of the room, the teacher has inflated himself to "ward off predator" stance as he confronts something shiny.

Matt and I have found ways to entertain ourselves. If we didn't, we'd spiral into a comatose twilight state.

Matt and Matt's top five methods of distraction:

1. Inordinately beat each other. If the teacher interferes, beat him too.

2. Harass the teacher to let us do news stories such as "Is our school prepared for attack by dinosaur?" and "SRHS video teacher android from the past, demands human sacrifice." When teacher rejects, argue. When teacher continues to refuse, hold magnets up to his head and rub.

3. Hide in the news room and play with the SRHS time machine, a metal box of unknown purpose or origin which we have determined is our key to a wacky romp through the circuits of time. If teacher hassles us about deadlines, reassure him that we can simply go back through time if we have more work to do.

4. Claim we are going out to gather footage for our stories and instead exploit the power of having a camera to hold free reign over the campus. Pull friends out of class, have Mortal Kombat-esque melee battles and hit stuff with big sticks.

5. Staying in our seats and staying on task, completing the items in our packets in the order listed and not screwing around on the internet. Writing story proposals, interview questions and scripts, capturing SOT and B-roll, logging with Final Cut, editing the SOT and B-roll together into a linear, coherent story and submitting the quicktime-formatted stories through the local server.

When do we stop distracting ourselves? When do the curtains draw? It doesn't end after school, does it? We have to start now, don't we?

What doesn't matter is that I will likely get a C in math.

What does matter is that when I start adding up variables, the answer is hidden, maybe not even there.

And yet, why is it that I will continue to do my math homework? I should set it on fire.

Absurd.

Nothing like waking up covered in bruises from a No Dough Show.

Like, incommunicable complexity of feeling, and stuff.

Badger badger badger badger badger badger badger badger badger badger

It's the color black.

It's eyelashes and a sweep of hair.

It's little moments of smiles and eyes.

That's my secret.

It never fails to crack me up how the VaVaVirgil AIM bot will never respond if you say "the sky."

ToAnim (4:39:33 PM): the sky
ToAnim (4:39:40 PM): the sky
ToAnim (4:39:45 PM): the sky
ToAnim (4:39:50 PM): the sky
ToAnim (4:39:53 PM): smoking
VaVaVirgil (4:39:53 PM): hey! that topic's right up my alley. what do u think of smoking?

"I AM A TERRIBLE ACTOR!!!"

In Chem we were watching Big Fish to pass the time. A very good movie, and involving enough to make it hard to watch towards the end when things start coming to a close. During the saddest sequence in the movie, in which I couldn't help but get a little hurty, the assholes sitting behind me started doing what they do best: being assholes.

"Whaaat? He turns into a fish? This is so fucking stupid. God, we should have watched Pirates. This is such a stupid movie. How can anyone watch this, seriously(one of them shuffles a deck of cards as loudly as possible)."

Then I was silently angry at them and continued to watch the movie without saying anything.

I have no heroes.

There are no heroes.

But I still want heroes.

I have no enemies.

There are no enemies.

But I still want enemies.

My blog looks like new car smell.

"Some day, Matthew, women will fuck you for your words."

~Sasha

I just found this in the dusty way-back of this blog, but it's so good I think it deserves a re-posting.

Cougar

I'm fourteen again, the whole world is new, I'm scared out of my skin and timidly loving every minute of it.

This STAR testing has my left eyebrow locked in the "up" position.

This is how I see it. They take us when we're four or five years old, put us in intellectual shackles for ten years, do their best to strip us of our individuality and break us down into drooling automatons and then come to us to help them jockey their way up the financial ladder. They themselves have even declared it: the only purpose of this three-week-long test is to strengthen their status in the school system's hierarchy so that they can get more money to throw away.

The ball is now in our court. Most people seem to want to pass it right back.

If the test actually affected us in any significant way, they wouldn't have to try to intimidate us into doing well; if it influenced our college applications, we'd march in lines for them. They showed their cards when they sent office goons to every classroom to try to scare us into trying.

My advice is this: don't intentionally do poorly on the test, but just don't give a shit if you have to spend five minutes working through one algebra problem.

Schools function like a pack of buzzards grappling for the few scraps of monetary carrion our rotting carcass of a school district still has clinging to its bones. Some bureaucrat idiot up in Sacramento grinds the organ and all the monkeys dance.

The largest share of educational funding goes directly into the pockets of suits who have no purpose but to sit at their desks and throw leftovers to local administrators who then use their minimal resources to do stupid things like re-carpeting the main office and planting flowers in front of the school (a new goal proposed by Forcier).

It's not like you can just throw money at a problem until it goes away, either. The whole "compulsory education" idea is a travesty anyway, but that's a whole other can of illiterate worms.

I'm considering cutting my ties to the media machine entirely, if maybe only for a couple months, isolate myself completely just because I can. No internet, no AIM, no Diablo 2 and certainly no DAMN television.

I've gotten too complacent. Not self-righteous enough anymore.

I like letting parameters slip into place and then breaking them.

Take some aspect of your life you think you can't exist without, and then exist without it.

I was sitting on a bench in front of my driveway watching the sun disappear. I was there for half an hour before my neighbor Bradyn pulled up in her Explorexcuradventure with her little brother in the passenger seat, rolled down the window and demanded to know what I was doing.

The message was clear. Any action we take must, MUST be some means to an end, we must ALWAYS, AAAAALLLLLWWWWAAAAAYYYSSS be doing something productive and logical. If something doesn't fit into the standard equation of daily, monotonous, routine life, it must be questioned, scrutinized and avoided.

"I am sitting on a bench."

"Why?"

I stared at them for a good while before walking over and climbing through the passenger window onto the dashboard.

"Drive."

Why Xanga is a stupid little bitch:

1. You have to have a Xanga account to comment on Xanga weblogs.

2. eProps.

Kudos to the Natives for their excellent battle of the bands performance. It was one of my year's major highlights. Thanks, also, to all of you who made me crowd surf.

Rock music.

Bryan: Matt, tell me something that you think I should know.
Me: Babies come from the sun.

(10 minutes later)

Me: Where do babies come from?
Lauren: I think I came from the sun. I don't know about everyone else.

Call me The Synchronaut.

The Fleshy

When I exhale through my nose it sounds like a majestic eagle.

Thoroughly disappointed in the low turnout for Friday's No Dough Show.

The Natives are trying to do something good here. How many times have you just sat at home on a Friday night hunched over in front of your computer, typing fractured sentence after meaningless fractured sentence to people who you can't see?

The No Dough Show is basically the only cool thing that ever happens in Scripps Ranch, so I encourage you to take advantage of it while it still exists.

Plus, y'all missed seeing Matt Louv dance and scream at people.

I'm starting a new AIM slang term.

"lqucs"

Pronounced "luh-cuks."

It has no meaning except that which you ascribe to it.

Spread it.

Mmmm...watching Mulvey squirm as he realizes he's outnumbered. Good show, everyone.

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAANGH...
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAANGST...

You buy it.

There is scariness down there. I dreamt last night that I was standing on a sidewalk lined with shops when two helicopters with an object held between them on a rope passed overhead. Everything went quiet and the sky was orange.

"Oh shit, here it comes."

The object dropped, the sky blackened and the slim outline of a mushroom cloud appeared through the smog. It blossomed, the whole earth shook violently and I was buffeted on all sides by an unbelievable wind. I screamed and screamed as I lost myself in chaos. Then it stopped. I was alive.

Someone ran up to me and I just held them while they cried.

I didn't know I had that inside me.

Writer's block gone. I can kill you all with my mind.

"Hi, I'm Gabriel Garcia Marquez. I like being cryptic. See, you know a story's good when you can't tell what's going on. Impenetrable + morose = meaningful. You go to hell, Matt Louv. You go to hell and you die."

Oh Optic Nerve, how I love thee.

The article that got me rejected from Journalism class:


Administration to impose new “anti-everything” rule

Due to the recent rise in pointy/sharp/generally un-agreeable items on campus, administration has collectively decided to add a new “anti-everything” clause to its zero-tolerance policy.

“For far too long, irresponsible students have been allowed to jeopardize the security of this school with their flagrant use of objects.” One administrator had to say. “With this new rule we hope to finally free ourselves of any financial liability whatsoever…and safety…and stuff.”

The proposed clause reads: “While on school premises, no student is permitted to have in their possession a material object of any kind, including but not limited to: backpacks, compact-disc players, combs, shoes, handguns, automatic weapons, sub-automatic weapons, bullets, erasers, hollow-point bullets, clothes, knives, swimwear (top or bottom), double-edged knives with serrated edges, hats, etc.

Obviously, this new turn by the administration has many students concerned. “I am very concerned about the new rule,” Had one student to say. However, there is a growing base of support amongst some circles. “I think this is a step in the right direction. Finally, the school system is taking firm actions against things. If the rule passes, I will finally be able to feel safe at school, comforted by the knowledge that no longer will I ever be threatened by an object, ever again.”

Administrators feel confident that the rule will pass; they are met by virtually no opposition on any front, and quick proceedings are ensured.

“We feel Scripps Ranch is totally justified in their decision,” said an employee of the San Diego City Schools main office. “If our children are allowed to bring objects to school, the terrorists have truly won.”

Cook My Sock

School makes me vomit yin-yang and feel all mood-swingy all the time. It don't let me just be.

Ever feel like you're dating your past?

This weekend I was consulting myself at a local pond. The sun was particularly angry. The fish were curious.

After half an hour, standing on the same shore upon which I've stood for eight years, I spotted a brown-haired little boy walking towards me, staring intensely. He stops a few feet away and inquires as to my opinion of Ninja Turtles.

"They're pretty cool." I was partially baffled, partially amused.

"This one's Raphael..." He trailed off, spotting an elderly woman walking her dog. He rushed off to display his action figure.

Later he stood by me and watched, asking questions and occasionally demanding to know why I wasn't catching anything. He had the affect of a first-grader; I wondered if he had mental handicaps or just the speech impediment.

"So you put the pretend fish on your line and bring it in and the real fish come up to it and they eat it?"

"Yeah."

"I have a fishing pole, but my mom, she won't let me fish."

"Why?"

"I dunno."

He attacked me with questions about everything from my rod and reel to the Redwing Blackbirds that were perched nearby. Eventually I hooked a little bass and raised it out of the water so he could see.

"I've never caught a real fish, only tadpoles. What kind of fish is that? It's bigger than tadpoles."

"It's a bass."

Tommy ran to his house to retrieve his two-foot-long purple Scooby-Doo rod and reel which he had never used before.

"I've never fished, so you have to show me how to fish, can you show me?"

After ten minutes of casting instruction he was still sword-slashing with his rod and making "ninja attack" noises every time he slammed his lure into the water by his feet. I figured he was content just to be talking to someone and wasn't very concerned about catching fish. I resumed fishing and left him to his own devices.

"My dad, he got sick from smoking cigarettes."

"Oh...I'm sorry."

" 'Sokay. I want to be with him, but I can't when he's in the hospital."

He looked at me in his bewildered, uncomprehending way and I understood why he had been talking to a stranger for two hours. He asked me more questions, and I answered.

I still can't get over the fact that Randy Savage has a rap album.

There, that should more than compensate.

Surprise, I'm not "totally self-sufficient and confident" as I told myself in eigth grade. In fact, I find myself wracked with an entirely new set of doubts almost weekly. It only gets more confusing as I start learning more and being confronted with new problems. It only gets worse, but it's good. That's the strange thing, I think I'm a little in love with the pain that life brings.

There is no guidance anywhere. It seems like nothing is applicable. Everyone's busy climbing their own ladder. Everything means something different to every person. It's all one giant, ineffable web that makes me feel like vomiting whenever I think about it too hard. And I've seen maybe one inch of one strand while the rest of it spans out forever, and ever, and ever.

I know I couldn't say any of this in person. We're all too embarassed by the fact that we're not just composed of jokes and flowers and rock music. It's been so long since I could look someone in the eye.

Everything I write is completely contrived and cliche'd, I feel like I have no voice and nothing to say. Every idea I have turns into the same "I am very afraid of big-bad world so hold me" story. I'm starting to doubt that expressing myself is really a priority in my life. Constantly feeling like I should be gathering my experiences into some product that I can sell; what is that?

My insides are sore and happy and crying. There is no reason. Just the feeling. You know.

[hypocrisy] Eighties day. AAAAHAHAHA!! IRONY! SO IRONIC! [/hypocrisy]

Humility. Me oh my, humility.

So first the 48-hour movie bombs spectacularly and rubs my own pretentiousness into my eyes until they bleed. That was good.

So then I find out I got rejected for Journalism. I'm in too bad a mood to actually feel superior to anything so I won't go into just how bad the writing in that newspaper is, but needless to say I could run circles around them. Oh well, oh well. I guess I had somehow hoped never to have to confront the fact that I'm horrible at expressing myself in any kind of creative medium.

So I was sitting in front of Vons with Mikey and the whole situation gradually revealed itself to me. I have become one of those young, angsty, aimless suburban white male do-no-rights that we've all been taught to believe are the scourge of the earth. I have no aim, no focus; I am no longer excited by nearly anything; I'm jaded and cynical; I wear black clothes and sit around watching movies all day. Fuck. FUCK. Oh well, so is the way of things.

I know this weblog has been rather dreary, and I apologize to you, dear reader(s), and promise that as soon as I get a sense of humor and a goal, I'll start posting pictures of people in funny clothes again.

Like this. Just like this the world changes. I ran into Joe Caudillo today. He was one of my best friends for seven years, haven't talked to him in a long time. Suddenly he's a total stranger; this kid who was a permanent installment in my life is now completely different, changed. Don't we all want to go back.

Sleep will chew you up and spit out beautiful, I swear. Somehow the most banal details of life get re-processed through the dream machine into something completely, earth-shakingly amazing.

There's one dream that's stuck with me for over a month now. I was somehow wrapped up in the spiritual manifestation of New York city; a spiraling, twisting crazy place of rusted beams and concrete. Riding in a dilapidated subway car, I see on a wall next to the entrance to a dark tunnel an image etched in spraypaint: the girl from the Les Miserables poster clutching a neon-green Uzi in an expression of strange nobility. I looked up through the pavement to see massive, contorted spires of buildings and an incredible dance of strife, perservearance and death.

And then I was carried into the tunnel, looked at the trash strewn around the car's dilapidated interior and thought "This is where it happens. This is it. This is the city."

I wake up and a month later I'm thinking the coin may have two sides.

"Blaaah! I'm the creeper! I'm super-spooky and eat people! Blaaaaaah! I trick you into watching my two horrible movies and wasting four dollars that you could have used for soda and candy! BLAAAAH! I CAN FLY! ISN'T THAT SPOOKY?! I ATTACK SCHOOL BUSES!! BLAAAAAAAH!!!!"

Top five rainy-day activities:

1) Spend hours playing computer games. Briefly look out window disparagingly, continue playing computer games.

2) Fantasize about Ben Affleck.

3) Cower in existentialist dread, gripped with all-consuming fear of your inevitable demise. Then make a hot-pocket.

4)


5) Tony Danza.

Barbie and Ken break up

This is not a joke.

Martin Luther King Jr.'s "I Have a Dream" speech translated into German and back into English with the Google translator:

... legend I to you today, to my friends, to despite the difficulties and to frustrations of the moment, which I still another dream have. It is a dream, which verwurzelt deeply in the American dream becomes. I have a dream that one day this nation rises above and lives from the applicable meaning its Kredos: "we hold these truths, in order to be natural; that all men are caused on an equal footing "..., I do not have a dream that my four small children become one day phases in a nation, in that it judged by the color of its skin however by means of the contents of their letter..., This is the day, if all children of the God are in that to sing with new meaning "tis my country ' of thee sweet country of the liberty, of thee, which I sing. If you land where my fathers died, country of the pride of the Pilgrims, from each mountain side, liberty ring left."... If we leave liberty ring, if we are it of each village and of each Doerfchen, of each condition and of each city clips to leave, we able to accelerate this day if all children of the God, men and white men, Jews and Gentiles, Protestants and catholic one to blacken, in whom, hands are to connect and in the words of the old affairs of black sing, "freely finally! Finally release! Thank Gottalmighty, we freely finally are!",



"Dream, for to I am have plankton."

Tom Scharpling is the host of a New Jersey-based radio show called "The Best Show on WFMU," to which I listen on a weekly basis. Tuesdays from five to eight, channel WFMU. It's possibly the greatest thing ever to be broadcast on the radio, and the guy accepted my friendster.com request to be his friend.

I wrote him an email asking him to add Heimbourge to his list of "Factory Wrapped Douches," i.e. people he disapproves of for one reason or another. Here's what he had to say:

Dear The Cool -

Thanks for the kind words. The show has its ups and downs sometimes, and you just have to ride them out.

That's some gym teacher you've got. You should call up and talk about him on the air sometime. But one thing you CANT do is give his name. 

Talk to you soon!

Tom 

Me:"Hey, do you play Magic: The Gathering?"
Everyone else:"Shut up, nerd. What are you, some kinda fag? Go suck dick, nerdy fag nerd."

Kettcar Bio

Alas, my short-lived dream of hosting an internet radio show is crushed by legal red tape and big words I don't understand.

Emptiness is a beautiful, beautiful thing.

I have concluded that liquid DayQuil is the worst over-the-counter cold medicine currently sold. My mom brought home some orange-flavored DayQuil for me, as I have a cold. Since there is absolutely no similarity between the flavor of the medicine and actual oranges, I am led to believe it is flavored after unhealthy, "been stranded in the desert for three days without water," viscous, orangish-yellow urine.

The bottle claims to relieve sinus congestion. Yes, this is true. I read the ingredients three times just to make sure "fucking molten lava spewed out of Satan's ass" wasn't one of them. Swallowing this medicine makes you feel like the top few layers of your trachea have been seared off, and the feeling doesn't go away for half an hour.

Woke up in that blissful state you get when the world heals itself in your dreams. One of those "perfect girl" dreams. You know what I'm talking about; where everything fits, everything's perfect. They turn out to be the most frustrating thing that can happen to you in your sleep save wetting the bed. The fall to earth lasts for hours.

I don't allow myself any humanity. Contact consists of a few seconds passing in a hallway, a few stupid faces and gestures. The few times some visceral connection actually occurs, it's always cut off. So superficial. We all wear so many masks.

Watched "The Fifth Element," the cinematic equivalent of a "perfect girl" dream. These things leave me disappointed but hopeful, buzzing with half-full half-empty paradoxes and confusion.

College University

Watch episode 7.

Who would you rather bone: Caps lock or Num lock?

Hell!

Which Trainspotting Character Are You?

My life since hormone first-contact has basically followed a cyclic trend; long periods of mediocrity pocked with the occasional radical shift up or down. I'll occasionally be hit by short periods of utter bliss and euphoria, and sporadic periods of dischord and depression. Must be something chemical, just a natural process.

During these emotional lapses I always have a hard time explaining to myself why I suddenly want to jump for joy / off a bridge. It's probably simpler just not to ask.

In PE today I felt a kind of resonating loneliness for no apparent reason. I found that just going with it actually made it a rewarding experience. When you stop trying to attach labels to your emotions, they harmonize. Be sad for the sake of being sad, happy for the sake of being happy. There was something soothing, cathartic even, about that experience. Nothing all that special, I just thought it was refreshing to feel something pure, even if unpleasant. It passed of its own accord, it always does.

James Bond vs. Macho Man Randy Savage

Bond: A suave but deadly secret agent skilled in the ways of espionage and seduction. His strengths include a quick wit and an even quicker gun.

Macho Man: In his own words, Macho Man Randy Savage is "the Wrestling OG, from back in the day, Randy Savage don't play." Indeed, Randy doesn't play; especially when he's ripping your head off and using it to beat your grandma into submission. Strengths include strength.

Match 1:
The first match begins with a lighthearted quip from Mr. Bond, followed by a flying-elbow-to-the-face by Mr. Savage. Bond quickly recovers himself, adjusts his tie, straightens his suit and briskly chops Randy in the neck with the side of his hand. As a retort, Macho returns the gesture; snapping James' left clavicle in two. Not to be slowed down, Bond withdraws his slim, sexy Walther PPK and dramatically aims it at Macho, his legs splayed and his left arm thrown back behind him. The gun fires, a bullet hits Randy's chest and ricochetes back into Bond's pallid, flaccid penis. Seizing the opportunity, Randy snaps into his secret weapon, a Slim Jim. Now fueled by x-treme, in-your-face flavor, Savage calls down the ancient Nordic war gods of "Hardcore" and "Badass" to shred James Bond into a thousand fleshy pieces to be consumed by the Macho Man, ensnaring Bond's strength and spirit to make Macho an all-powerful deity of ass-kick. And then he farts. Hard.

synopsis: Macho Man Randy Savage rocks your face.

Randy Savage is Punk
Macho In Time

's true.

How I beat Diablo 2

"Click....click click...click....click click click...click....cliclicliclicliclick....click click click....click....clicliclicliclicliclick...click click...click....cliclicliclicliclick....click click click....click....clicliclicliclicliclick...cliclicliclicliclicliclicliclicliclicliclick......
click.....cliclick...click...cliclicliclick......click.....cliclick...click...click click click...................click..............clicliclicliclicliclicliclick...
(Repeat about 10000000 times)

I am slowly compiling Macho Man Randy Savage's illegitimate rap child "Be a Man." It is, quite possibly, the funniest thing humanity has ever squeezed out of an orifice.

For those of you who have not seen Return of the King, let me recap on a thirty minute basis.

Section 1: Smeagol EVIL! Frodo gooood.

Section 2: Lots of people prepare for battle.

Section 3: Battle for Middle Earth.

Section 4: Battle for Middle Earth.

Section 5: Battle for spinal integrity.

Section 6: Battle ends. Long, drawn-out death rattle begins.

Section 7: Try not to scream while what seems like another three hours of violin/mandolin/celtic-olin play over weepy faces. Stupid people in the audience start crying. The fire in your back slowly creeps into your neck, engulfing whatever last bit of patience you may have had. Run out of the theater and punch an old lady in the face.



We ride...for MOOOOOORRRRRRRDOOOOOORRRRRRRRR...

My problems are so abstract.

And now for the dramatic personality shift to swing in. Every time I'm removed from my natural habitat for a number of days (i.e. school, social circles) I grow happier, more self-confident, friendlier.

I must admit, the thought of delving back into the game makes me sick some mornings. I hate that I will, that day, be expected to fill all the roles you and I have agreed that I should fill. Let me tell you, I want Matt dead. I want to be able to interact with people in my own way, not Matt's way. I don't want anyone to have to fill any role ever again. I want to do away with every set of rules I have been brought up with. I don't want to know that "girlfriends" exist; only people. I don't want to know that "friends" exist; only people. I wish we weren't fed lies, daily, that only serve to limit us.

And I wish I could believe in what I say.

This is an actual review taken from the Amazon.com page for "Hulk Rules," Hulk Hogan's foray into the musical arena.

"Oh my.. I am at a loss for words. This album makes my year. I give HULK RULES 5 stars because of its extraordinary mix of musical styles, and also because of the Hulkster's surprisingly awesome vocal ability. As a child I was a HUGE Hulkamaniac, and this album is a must for any hulkamaniac's collection. The feelings of nostalgia it produces, and the undying message the Hulkster continues to communicate to the young people of America and the world make this the ultimate album of all time.
I am not lying when I tell you that I cried the first time I listened to Hulkster In Heaven. Being a US Marine myself, I love the message Hogan sends about standing up for what is right and loving America and saying your prayers. But on the other hand, the college boy in me loves to boogie down and party like Hulkster does in the wild and crazy Beach Patrol. I Want To Be A Hulkamaniac... the title of the song says it all right there, and I say "me too." Hulk's The One shows how much the Hulkster is loved by the ladies, and gets your feet moving, as does Hulk Rules. By purchasing owning this album, you can help Hulkamania live on forever!!!"

Delawar once introduced me to an internet forum which discusses politics. He said I should join and have fun with the insane people it draws. My latest post may be my last. Here, read, laugh:

Here be assholes

I'm under the screen name Outtro. Knowledge of the original subject of the topic is unnecessary; politics is soon dispensed for an all-out insult grudge match. You are all more than welcome to come join the fight. Delawar was the first casualty and is now banned entirely.

Tha....that baby's....that baby's DANCING! A dancing baby?! HOLY SHIT!! THAT BABY'S FUCKING DANCING!!! OH MY GOD, I'M GOING TO SHIT MYSELF WITH LAUGHTER!! I SHOULD EMAIL THIS TO ALL MY FRIENDS!!! I HAVE NEVER SEEN ANYTHING SO HILARIOUS IN ALL MY LIFE! TO THINK, A BABY...DANCING!!!!!!!! Thank you, dancing-baby-animator, whoever you are, for bringing joy to my dark, lifeless heart.

"A routine will turn into an enchanting escapade."

Fortune cookie eerily relevant. The sky is winking.

SAAAATAAAAAN!!!

Chronicling my slow descent into Starcraft:

Day 1: Following an impulse I occasionally get to revisit computer games I used to play in sixth and seventh grade, I challenged James to a light-hearted game of Starcraft. We ended up playing for over an hour; our humorous textual interplay had stopped about halfway. After we had had enough intergalactic death and destruction, we quit for what I thought would be quite a long time. I was mistaken.

Day 2: Once again finding myself with nothing to do and no incentive to pursue something intellectual, I organized a game with Bonnie, Jake and Jenny. The first two were quickly dispatched, leaving Jenny and I to butt horns and shake the earth. After forty-five minutes or so I crushed her with a fleet of Carriers, felt a mild sense of accomplishment, and then proceeded to sit at my computer for another hour, listening to mp3's, waiting for something to happen on AIM and browsing the same twenty sites I always browse.

Day 3: Unable to find anyone willing to play, I was alarmed to find myself entering the mouth of the beast: Battle.net. This seedy little cesspool is inhabited with what I have come to regard as the lowest, most inebriated, mindless neanderthals the internet has to offer. And I was willing to play with them. Since playing traditional Starcraft on Battle.net is made impossible by gaming zealots who have come up with new and original ways to utterly destroy you in under ten minutes, and are likely not house-broken, I opted for what I thought would be a more casual session of Use Map Settings games. These are Starcraft maps which have special rules to create a game with objectives more or less unrelated to the original game. For example, movie-Starcraft adaptations are very popular. Battle.net favorites include Gone in Sixty Seconds, The Matrix and Rain Man: a touching story of two men's battle to cope with Autism.

I chose an aliens-and-giant-robot-killing-machines version of the comic strip classic Calvin and Hobbes. The game consisted of bombarding your enemies with hordes of murderous space pirates which have been renamed to match characters from the comic. It's amazing. I had played the map so often in eighth grade that I could pretty much overcome any adversary. I was playing against two other guys allied against me, and when it became clear that they would lose, one of them spouted, "This game is fuckin rigged. God, ur such a newbie, fagget." un-humorous textual interplay continued for a while, before he was wiped off the face of the planet by my insurmountable army of tanks named "Mom."

Day 4: My friends, now recognizing my growing problem, politely refused to play with me. I again turned to Battle.net for my badly-needed Starcraft fix. In the shared opinion of the entire network, I was still a "fagget."

Day 5: Desperate, desparaging, I severed all ties with those I previously thought to be "friends." They didn't understand me, and were only trying to undermine my happiness. I wanted to be addicted to Starcraft. It made me happy, something which couldn't be said of certain social relationships. Plus, I could stop whenever I wanted. All I needed was my laptop, a few cases of Dr. Pepper and a bedpan.

Day 6: My harddrive now filled with Starcraft maps, screenshots, replays and screen savers, I sought for a way to expand my ever-growing collection of Blizzard miscellania. When I realized that selling what was left of my belongings wouldn't garner enough funds to buy more memory, I became desperate. That night I snuck into my neighbor's house and stole an external harddrive they had purchased recently; they were on vacation in Massachusetts, blissfully unaware their house was being raided by a Starcraft fiend.

Day 7: Finally recognizing and confronting my problem, I admitted myself to a rehab clinic for some time to collect myself and re-prioritize what was left of my life. Realizing just how much damage I had done to my friends and family, I swore I'd try to rebuild what I could, repent for what I had done, and never again allow myself to lapse into such depravity.

Day 15: After I was released from my short stay in the clinic, I found myself an alien in what had once been a life so taken for granted. My friends and acquaintances eyed me warily, always watching, waiting for me to do something unpredictable. While they spoke to me politely and in a friendly enough fashion, I always sensed uneasiness about them. Some day I'll conquer the demon of my past, but until then, there's always Diablo.

Finally, I've found a way to spread my seed in the collective consciousness. Go here for my new image site, featuring Phobitopia propaganda for you to use for your own mischevious ends.

He sexy dude, lieks for womans, milk make bones as large, plus other things if you are knowing I mean!

Who's Yami, and why does he/she/it have hair as he/she/it does?

Eric Conveys an Emotion is fit for reading.

Mr. T Vs. Everything

AAAAAAHAAAHAAAAA!!!
AAAAHAHAHAHAAAAAA!
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHAAHAHAHHAHAHAHHAHAHAHAHAH!
..........AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHAAAAAAAAAAAAA!
AAAAAAAAAAAAGH!
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGHGH!!!!!!!!!!!!!

There's a very long, very involved retrospective piece worming its way out of me. Soon, soon. For now, I'm just putting together the puzzle.

Happy 16th Birthday!

The ASB wishes you a happy birthday and hopes that you'll take a few minutes to consider this... Did you know that most accidents occur when the driver is between the ages of 16 and 19 years old? Motor Vehicle Crashes are the number one cause of death among people between the ages of 15 and 20, and in California alone, 18,000 teen passengers are injured or killed annually in teen-driven cars. So, we ask you to be a careful and considerate driver, and remember NEVER DRINK AND DRIVE! So, Happy Birthday, and please be safe.

Sincerely,
The ASB

So a guy walks into a bar, says to the bartender, "gimme a beer." The bartender gives the guy a beer and the guy sits at the bar for a while, just drinking his beer and minding his own. Then he watches a football game on a little TV bolted to the ceiling for a while before putting his jacket on, walking out to his car and going home.

I...am...creative-esque.

I work hard on english project.

I mold something beautiful.

Still working.

Matt craft tale of love, death, sex, cookies.

You wait. You watch. Matt pleased.

"What is this human emotion you call...love?"

A half an hour ago my dad brought home two air-filtering units he bought from Sharper Image for quite a bit of money. While he was setting them up I read the instruction manual and noticed that you're not supposed to stand within a foot of it, and staring at it can blind you. Hmm. "That clean, fresh scent you smell is Ozone. The US government has set safe standards for ozone, and the Ionic Breeze complies with those standards." Something occured to me. If Ozone were safe, why would the government need to set limits on how much of it we can consume? I voiced this while my throat and nose started to close with a mucus-ey sensation. The units also glow with a blue germicidal light. Staring at this light can cause eye damage or even blindness. Hmm...but Sharper Image says it's safe.

My dad left, and it took about thirty seconds for my mom and I to find supported evidence online that not only does Ozone do very little to clean air, it actually agitates respiratory conditions and even promotes the growth of harmful contaminants. !!!!!.

"Well if the government lets us buy it, it must be safe." Cigarettes are still legal.

I'll stick with the cynicism, oh ye of little faith.


Beautiful, beautiful blue light...