Back to school, back to school, to prove to dad I'm not a fool

It's 8:36am, and I am back on campus for my first day of classes. I am happy about this. I have been waking up with no obligations beyond my medical requirements for the last four months. It feels surprisingly good to have goals again. Of course, I still have to fulfill said medical obligations, but now I have school to distract me instead of nothing.

My first class isn't even until ten, I just carpooled in with my roommate using my newly acquired gibble pass. Sorry, my handicapped parking permit. Two more months of crutches, so I deserve the fucker. Gibble. Gibble gibble gibble. Gibble.

I am in the library, and I was the first one here by a long shot. It's freaking quiet. I 'm excited for class, but a little bit scared about today's lecturers. One of them is very ESL, and one of them has his own equation in the textbook and is slightly soul-destroying. Also, combover.

An aside:
As I was standing in the kitchen this morning, (well, more tripodding, what with the aluminum legs and all) my roommate walked in holding a cereal bowl, and he looked so unhappy. Granola clusters + balkan yogurt = sad face, apparently.

More to follow. Hell, probably more to follow today. I'm overstimulated.

I Know How You Wasted Your Time This Summer

Oh me oh my oh me oh stuff.

First, I must apologize for the lack of updates this summer. Frankly, I've lacked inspiration in all but the barest forms. Being stuck on the couch with no forward progress in any medical conditions, let alone monetary ones, will do that to you. To write, what I really need is an obscure combination of overstimulation and severe boredom; to whit, what is found during school. I need caffeine, esoterics and the screaming need for an outlet. Catastrophic indolence is no recipe for originality.

This summer, I have played many video games. I have seen many movies. I have read many books. What I have not done is worked or really challenged myself, because the new drugs and the new treatments and my fucking foot have been enough of an obstacle all by their lonesome.

What I have garnered is essentially a series of reviews. 3D-dot game heroes is amazing. Scott Pilgrim in all of its forms is worth your time. The Expendables is so terrible that I would honestly rather watch New Moon again over it (there's a girl, okay?). In exchange for her reading The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy, I have agreed to suffer the egregious slings and arrows of the Twlight quote-unquote saga. It's crap in a hat, but worth it to expose someone who would have otherwise never touched the works of Douglas Adams to his inspiring brilliance. The man knows how to turn a phrase. Stephanie Meyers, on the other hand, reads so poorly that it impinges upon the freedom of the mind and the ephemeral nature of the soul to consume it. The very fact that she is now wealthy beyond all need by nature of what passes for her talent is a thing that chafes my very existence.

Back to the reviews, though:

- Ip Man is an entertaining romp through wing chun.

- The Star Wars prequels are still pretty, and still shitty.

- The first season of Fringe is spellbinding.

- True Blood is better than The Vampire Diaries, but that's not saying much; HBO/showtime's penchant for tits and ass mitigates much sub-par writing.

- Futurama is excellent in all of its forms; the new season being no exception.

- The Rockband Network has added much needed popular songs to the genre; the music nerds who choose the tunes need to face the fact that they're forcing people to kareoke obscure music, and that that makes it harder to introduce new people to the game. Seriously, one popular song for every great-but-unheard-of song. What are you, "differently abled"? Anywho, Rockband is still Rockband. Can't wait for v3.0 Keytar? Yes, please.

- DeathSpank is literally nothing but hack and slash fetch quests tied together by amazing dialogue and yet is completely worth your time.

- Earthworm Jim HD doesn't quite play like the SNES version of the game, but is close enough for crotch-based appreciation.

- Heroman is fun, yet.. still anime, which means that it bears little resemblance to North American culture, let alone reality. I still like it. It's no Cowboy Bebop, but hell, what is?

Oh hey, books!

- Hood is a great take on Robin Hood; much better than the new Russel Crowe flick.

- Battle Royale will leave you enraptured (which is worthy of awe, for a translation).

- Crooked Little Vein, like all Warren Ellis material, is perverted and dirty, disgusting yet facinating, full of cynically worthwhile appraisals of government and culture, and utterly spellbinding.

- Jesus or the Non-Religious is spiritually affirming, yet at the same time reassuring to the rational minded that not all dedicated Christians have their cranial space lodged up the nearest fecal-oriented orifice.

- Pygmy takes getting used to, but entertains on many levels, as does Rant, Snuff, Survivor and, of course, Fight Club. I like Chuck Pahlaniuk. His brand of dark-yet-informative lights my fire.

- Hitler's Scientists is dry, yet full of cool tidbits about the science of the 3rd reich.

- Shi Long Pang is an amazing webcomic, and the 1st hardcover volume is well worth your money.

- The NSFW crowd should check out Oglaf.com.

There is literally too much music to properly discuss. I must utterly recommend everything by Vampire Weekend. Just go, you'll thank me.

Twilight really is crap in a hat, though. I mean, I get the appeal: the books are written for any woman who has ever felt like an outcast, or at least not entirely accepted, for any reason whatsoever - and then several of the HOTTEST PEOPLE EVER fall head heels over for you, waiting for you to make a choice. The fact that Bella, the main character, is utterly unlikeable, coupled with the obviously high-school-abusive-relationship-you-put-up-with-because-you-don't-know-any-better nature of her romance with the male lead is irrelevant in the face of the fact that all the pretty people love her whiny ass because she is literally crack for their senses. Frankly, it fails on every level except consistent, lengthy narrative; which has led me to read shittier stuff. It is terrible, though.

Menh, I've been bored for four months in many ways, despite the company I've had and the work done on my motorcycle. School and tea/coffee will prompt many more updates. Stay Tuned.

Just Hook it to my Veins!

Hello little fishies.

I must apologize for my absence. And maybe for my last couple of entries. I've been sick, you see. The motivation just wasn't there while I wasn't well. But now I've got the words in me. They wiggle. It feels neat.

Moo hoo ha ha.

I have been reading entirely too many graphic novels. At first I really liked it, then I was worried that they were making me stupid, and now I think I've come full circle. I'm stupid and I like it.

I'm on crutches. There was a complication that in no way has given me a cool story. Mostly I get to look sad and say, in my best hangdog-defeated expression, "It's not a cool story. I had a cut on my foot. It got infected. That's it." Because people ask what happened to you when you crutch by them. They also ask what happened to you when you have a devilishly stylish medical grade blue stretchy thing on your foot instead of a cast. The stylish stretchy blue thing goes over the bandage. It keeps me clean. Pure. We wouldn't want to be unclean. Impure. IMPURE.

Crutches. Right. Still on those, after roughly a month's time. That's not changing any time soon. The cut was on the sole of the foot, see. And then the heel became crusty bits. Crusty bits are bad. There was a neat thing called a shunt in my arm. Well, I called it a shunt. Shunt, shunt, shunt, shunty-shunt, shunt. Try it. Fun.

Shunty-McShuntShunt was in my arm-bits for the express purpose of delivering antibiotic goodies from the nice nurse people. That was an interesting experience. I could feel the juices spreading out through my blood pipes. It was handy during the unseasonable ambient thermal energy, since the goodies had to be kept in the re-fridge-er-ate-TOR, right next the mustard and the leftover pork. No, not bacon. I've never, ever, ever, had leftover bacon. What is wrong with you? Okay, one time, but I had specifically cooked more than I needed so that there would be bacon later when I was drunk. Alcohol and furious, spattering grease are best left uncombined. Praise my foresight. PRAISE IT.

Back to the goodies. The goodies were chilled. I was supposed to let them warm up, but it was much nicer to shoot up some vein-centric A/C.

Wish me luck, fish sticks. I'm going to cram my headspace into the modern literary sensation known as Twilight. I do this to properly understand a pop-culture phenomenon, not because I am sympathetic to the struggle of one pampered middle-class girl to choose between necrophilia and bestiality. I am also not an adolescent human with ovaries. I distinctly lack ovaries.

See you soon.

GET IN DE CHOPPA

I've been reading the Vertigo Comics series DMZ, which is about a photojournalist who is documenting the effects of a modern American civil war on Manhattan Island. The Island is caught in the middle of a stand off between the two factions fighting the war, and still has a population of about a half-million people. There is a protracted and uneasy cease-fire in place, that is broken occasionally. It's been like this for years. The city has changed. I felt like writing like I was a resident there, so I did. Here it is:

Staccato bursts of automatic weapon fire echoes faint and hollow in the distance. I barely look up from my salad. What? You're surprised? After ten years of this shit, you stop perking up to listen to every conversation held with chattering M16s. They never have anything worthwhile to say, just hate with a direction.

This war is whatever it is, and the people who are still on Manhattan Island and still passing for some sort of sane, we live our lives as best as we can. I like my life better like this, actually. I've always hated the illusion of the nine-to-five and here, it no longer exists. Oh, sure, on the days the war is happening, you learn how much humanity there is packed around you by the smell of people shitting their pants; but mostly, the war is in different neighbourhoods and so is the smell of shit. My days are spent tending my gardens and trading for what I need. My nights are spent with people, making and taking in our own culture. With half a million people still on the island, believe me, we have our own culture.

Music, art, fashion, writing, it's all here. Me? I'm a writer. Pre-war, I'd been struggling with a terminal case of writer's block. But now? The zest I feel for life, the gift that each day feels like? The words come easily. Even better, is the way that no one is trying to make any money with anything. We're all just putting our best work out there for people to appreciate and maybe argue with a little. Pure, it's pure.

I know this can't last forever. I know that at any time, decisions beyond my control may send bombs and bullets into my life. I know that people are hurt and dying here every day. I know that there is a black market supplied by thieves and protected by violence. I know all of this, but I tell you that I am more alive that I have ever been, here and now.

Another Suffering Bastard, Please, Bartender.

It is a beautiful, sunny and warm Saturday afternoon.

I am laid up, somewhat, and am sitting in a big easy chair with my foot up, as per my doctors' instructions. There was an incident with some Staph A bacteria and I now have an IV in my arm that I periodically pump antibiotics through.

Sitting here, I can hear several children playing outside, and I noticed something interesting. When kids are shouting over each other, trying to get their interpretation of the rules of a game heard, they sound just like drunk people. They sound like hammered adults, stammering and repeating themselves and getting louder and louder until the group acknowledges their input.

The idea that kids are tiny drunk people amuses me mightily.

deja view askew

Had an interesting idea last night while half asleep.

In my late teens and early twenties, I had deja vu at least once a day. These days it happens perhaps once every few months, and it got me thinking:

Suppose deja vu is a quantum tunneling phenomenon, happening when our future selves are remembering the events we are currently experiencing.

Hey, I know what you're thinking, and no, I was not tripping balls. You shut your mouth when you're talking to me.

Tales From the Offsale - April 16th, 2010

My first friday at the offsale in quite some time has come and gone.

People were cheerful, I was friendly and funny, and the tips were good.

I didn't see a single fight or even a punch thrown, and on my side of the building nobody was too drunk to walk themselves out.

I did, however, see a couple break up rather noisily in the offsale. A tall, pretty, stylish brunette came in, a little upset, and talked to me for a few minutes. During this time, she made several disparaging remarks about my gender, the character of her soon-to-be ex-boyfriend, accused him of trying to leave with another girl and accused this other girl of having a sexually transmitted disease. Sorry, a sexually transmitted infection, or STI. When did herpes become a Subaru?

She asked me if she could lay in wait for him in the store and I said yes (she may not have used those exact words). There was no way I was going to miss it when, normally, drama like this only happens on television. We actually chatted a little bit, and I had her almost happy again when The Other Girl walked out of bar and through the offsale. TOG smiled at me and said a chipper goodnight on her way out. It must be said that she was quite attractive, whatever the infectious status of her vajayjay may have actually been (I'm guessing fairly clean, based on what was said later). I was not made aware of the fact that this lovely lady was TOG until she had actually left, and then it was with a harsh whisper. "That's her. She has a disease. What kind of man leaves someone as hot as me for someone with a disease? Isn't that fucked up?"

I could only make vocalizations in assent with her right in front of me, but her charm was wearing thin; crazy showing through the more threadbare patches. It must also be noted that TOG was hotter than her, say an eight to her seven. With TOG out of the picture, she looked around for a good spot to stand where she would not be seen from the bar entrance and could launch her verbal assault utilizing stealth and the element of surprise.

Her ears pricked up like those of a cat to the sound of his voice. He was being pursued by one of Her friends, who was berating him verbally all the while, and when he saw her, he exclaimed, "[a]re you fucking kidding me?" And then, my friends, It Was On.

His blond, 6'1", clearly steroid-driven muscular frame was caught in a hellish, no-fury-like-a-woman-scorned crossfire. Volleys of venomous vituperation verbally vivisected him violently. When he tried to leave, his suddenly ex-girlfriend barred his path, threatened him with assault charges and resumed lacing into him. He told her she wouldn't be able to call anyone to press charges if she was dead, and that was when I sent my co-worker to get one of the bouncers. He called her crazy, said it was over and told her to get out of his way.

By the time one of the big boys got there, they'd both left, after a protracted period in which he made as if to go back into the bar, but instead hid behind a section of wall and peeked out when he thought she was gone. She wasn't. There was more yelling, then she stormed out. A few minutes later, he left by way of the same door.

Now, I'm inclined to side with her - cheating is bullshit and should never be tolerated. But though he was leaving with another woman, conversational evidence would seem to imply that dating this girl was a roller coaster ride of stress and emotional trauma. She's nuts, and he's a cheater; I don't know who was "right" in this particular situation, but I do know that they won't be procreating with each other and that, my friends, is a clear win for the rest of us.

Public Service Announcement 01

It's 4am.

This is not in any way unusual for me, except that it's almost summer now and I can hear birds chirping.

Fuck off, winged harbingers of daylight, you're ruining the illusion of the night for me.

That is all.

BEANBEANBEANBEAN *twitch*

No matter what I may or may not have written in a poem about caffeine, I have completely and utterly caved in to it for the duration of finals. It was clearly necessary for days of mental exertion in studying calculus.

I felt the first sip of coffee in my tingly bits.

Welcome home, Juan Valdez. Let me get your coat for you. The burro will to have to wait outside, I'm afraid.

Stairs, My and Charles Xavier's One Weakness

When I was really little, my mother made a Superman cape for my older brother. He loved that cape. He wore it constantly for about a year, and then was rather suddenly required to stop doing so, for reasons upon which I shall expound. I'm going to drop some nostalgia on it, son.

Since Superman wore a cape, and could fly, one can hardly fault my bro for the logical leap that lead to local leaping. Big brother was convinced that he had acquired the power of flight. He would demonstrate this new ability by taking running leaps over chairs, bounding over ottomans, and jumping onto couches.

Credit where it's due, his hang time was rather impressive.

Now, where it gets complicated is the plane of the intersection of my older brother liking to teach me life skills and him believing he could fly. He'd met with some other successes in imparting wisdom, notably mining for nose gold and my introduction to cursing, so you can forgive him for wanting to share his mastery of the aether with me.

Draping the precious cape over my shoulders and firmly tying the strings, he set me about my lessons, hopping over furniture. After some time had passed, and I had yet to demonstrate the capacity for leaping tall chesterfields in a single bound, frustration and desperation set in, and drastic measures were undertaken.

He stood me at the top of our basement steps, and pushed.

Well, shoved, really.

Heaved, maybe.

One might argue that at this point, I did surpass his previous airborne exploits, as I cleared an entire flight of steps on the way down. Man, I'm so glad that vacuum was there to break my fall.

Mother happened to be downstairs and not far from where I landed. I recovered fine, didn't even break a bone. Toddlers are resilient that way. My sibling senior got his butt paddled pink and that cape got put away.

True story.