Growing up I never pursued anything of the "arts" ... Partially because I thought that I was to only be interested in things like sports and video games, partially because I assigned people's (like my parents, my friends) expectations of me, as well as their resulting reactions to the things that I did.
I could have pursued whatever the fuck I wanted - however, I did not.
Time passed, as it will, and I realized that I had a desire to pursue some sort of drama, comedy, entertaining, etc.
I lived in LA for 2.5 years - Would've been a good opportunity. But oh well.
Here I am ... 26 years of age, living in Seattle and the time is right. I'm inside of an hour of showing up for the first of 8 (i believe) introduction to Improv classes.
Am I excited? You fucking betcha.
I shall try to document the whole thing. We know this wont happen.
Wednesday, April 8, 2009
Wednesday, April 1, 2009
Fuck April Fools Day.
It is not fun. Plain and simple. Not saying I fall victim often, but it happens.
Case-in-point:
http://www.thinkgeek.com/stuff/41/tauntaun.html
That's right, you can provide your child (or small adult, maybe korean, friend) with the opportunity to sleep inside their very own Tauntaun!
Or so I thought ...
Upon clicking thru, en route to actually purchasing the damn thing ... I find it is but a joke. Womp.
Naturally, I crafted the following email to the customer service team over at Think Geek:
Rat Bastards:
The wittier-than-usual product copy was the second clue I should've picked up on (#1: the product exuded cool in a way that definitely exceeds your MO)...
It wasn't until clicking thru, in hopes of buying, that I found out the TaunTaun sleeping bag was sham!
Congrats, jokesters. You broke my heart and failed to take my money.
Make this product - I'll buy it. Shit, the demand will far exceed the production (but probably not the license, eh?).
fucking hating april fools,
-n
Case-in-point:
http://www.thinkgeek.com/stuff/41/tauntaun.html
That's right, you can provide your child (or small adult, maybe korean, friend) with the opportunity to sleep inside their very own Tauntaun!
Or so I thought ...
Upon clicking thru, en route to actually purchasing the damn thing ... I find it is but a joke. Womp.
Naturally, I crafted the following email to the customer service team over at Think Geek:
Rat Bastards:
The wittier-than-usual product copy was the second clue I should've picked up on (#1: the product exuded cool in a way that definitely exceeds your MO)...
It wasn't until clicking thru, in hopes of buying, that I found out the TaunTaun sleeping bag was sham!
Congrats, jokesters. You broke my heart and failed to take my money.
Make this product - I'll buy it. Shit, the demand will far exceed the production (but probably not the license, eh?).
fucking hating april fools,
-n
Saturday, February 7, 2009
Deathbridge Rd.
Before I posted about the coffee, I wrote this story ... the first that i've written in a decent amount of time. here's to furthering my awakening.
Deathbridge Rd.
One would think that living on a windy stretch of asphalt named Deathbridge Rd. would lead to some excellent stories, some eerie shit. To think that would be wrong but presumptuous enough to not want to travel said road.
You live on Deathbridge Road?
Yes, yes I do.
Sounds dangerous. I’ll find someone to take you home.
There’s not even a bridge.
I’ve heard things…
There isn’t even a body of water – nothing to bridge.
Pauses…. No bridge.
When you live on Pumpkin Patch Ln. you have no problem finishing the bowl of punch, the rise krispie squares that your mom has put out.
When you call Oakmont Ave. home you don’t have to see that “I’m processing the name of your scary road” look that glasses over people when you ask them for a ride.
Growing up on ol’ Deathbridge Rd. has its frustrations. Who knew that the name of the road you live on would hinder your social development as a child. Less parties, fewer friends, more connotations that somehow lead people to believe your name might as well be Deathbridge Rd. Little Megan Deathbridge.
Maybe this is why “ironic” doesn’t jump to the forefront of your brain, rather “satisfaction” shines, lighting your insides forcing you to swallow your smile … when a chunk of the road inexplicably opened up and swallowed that school bus. Ironic satisfaction? Satisfying irony.
Tragedy. Awful. Horrific. Freak accident. Engineering blunder. God’s wrath. All words that were found in the headlines, on the ticker, out of Katie Couric’s mouth.
It was ruled a Level 7 Pebble Wash – the only one ever documented. The road had been built, by the county, in 1953 across an expanse of land to connect Highway 31 and Bartles Blvd. 3 winding miles that hosted 6 houses, 4 of which were occupied. Built like any other road, during that era it was a road not too unlike roads that are, somewhere, being built right now.
Clear some dirt, level the surface and lay some asphalt. No special instructions – the land had been assessed, surveyed and classified fit for a road. What the engineers didn’t find, what they couldn’t have found (without necessary equipment and millions to fund such a dig and geological study) was the fact that the 100 yard chunk of the road sat 300 feet atop a geological anomaly – a pit of limestone sand that over millions of years gradually ate the soil above and around it creating a pit that was deep enough to hide a 4 story building. A pit that gobbled what was left between it and the sky – Deathbridge Rd. with a lightening quick culmination of eons of isolated progress. A pit that became the final resting place of 23 children aged 7-14 and Carrie the busdriver.
The bodies were eventually recovered. The geologist did their multi-million dollar study. The cameras went away.
And Horton Bridge was built to connect the separate sides of Deathbridge Rd.
Deathbridge Rd.
One would think that living on a windy stretch of asphalt named Deathbridge Rd. would lead to some excellent stories, some eerie shit. To think that would be wrong but presumptuous enough to not want to travel said road.
You live on Deathbridge Road?
Yes, yes I do.
Sounds dangerous. I’ll find someone to take you home.
There’s not even a bridge.
I’ve heard things…
There isn’t even a body of water – nothing to bridge.
Pauses…. No bridge.
When you live on Pumpkin Patch Ln. you have no problem finishing the bowl of punch, the rise krispie squares that your mom has put out.
When you call Oakmont Ave. home you don’t have to see that “I’m processing the name of your scary road” look that glasses over people when you ask them for a ride.
Growing up on ol’ Deathbridge Rd. has its frustrations. Who knew that the name of the road you live on would hinder your social development as a child. Less parties, fewer friends, more connotations that somehow lead people to believe your name might as well be Deathbridge Rd. Little Megan Deathbridge.
Maybe this is why “ironic” doesn’t jump to the forefront of your brain, rather “satisfaction” shines, lighting your insides forcing you to swallow your smile … when a chunk of the road inexplicably opened up and swallowed that school bus. Ironic satisfaction? Satisfying irony.
Tragedy. Awful. Horrific. Freak accident. Engineering blunder. God’s wrath. All words that were found in the headlines, on the ticker, out of Katie Couric’s mouth.
It was ruled a Level 7 Pebble Wash – the only one ever documented. The road had been built, by the county, in 1953 across an expanse of land to connect Highway 31 and Bartles Blvd. 3 winding miles that hosted 6 houses, 4 of which were occupied. Built like any other road, during that era it was a road not too unlike roads that are, somewhere, being built right now.
Clear some dirt, level the surface and lay some asphalt. No special instructions – the land had been assessed, surveyed and classified fit for a road. What the engineers didn’t find, what they couldn’t have found (without necessary equipment and millions to fund such a dig and geological study) was the fact that the 100 yard chunk of the road sat 300 feet atop a geological anomaly – a pit of limestone sand that over millions of years gradually ate the soil above and around it creating a pit that was deep enough to hide a 4 story building. A pit that gobbled what was left between it and the sky – Deathbridge Rd. with a lightening quick culmination of eons of isolated progress. A pit that became the final resting place of 23 children aged 7-14 and Carrie the busdriver.
The bodies were eventually recovered. The geologist did their multi-million dollar study. The cameras went away.
And Horton Bridge was built to connect the separate sides of Deathbridge Rd.
Fun with coffee.
When you stop drinking coffee on a regular basis, halting the dosing of caffeine your metabolism increases as you process legitimate energy.
When you then have an occasional cup of joe ... you are slapped around and shot up with some jittery fucking nerves.
Bouncing around, a hint of paranoia. Legitimately cracked out - but in a mostly manageable-outward facing way.
I'm sitting at the table littered with newspapers, an older man munching on putrid smelling, stale popcorn standing to read the sports page on the opposite side. Looking around I can't find a clock but feel that I am now in my second hour of writing for my car @ Les Schwab.
Have they even looked at my car? I ... don't think so. How much longer can this go? I'm over caffeinated and waiting. Fuck-oh-dear I hate waiting.
It's my turn, my car is now visible in the um ... tire working bay.
When you then have an occasional cup of joe ... you are slapped around and shot up with some jittery fucking nerves.
Bouncing around, a hint of paranoia. Legitimately cracked out - but in a mostly manageable-outward facing way.
I'm sitting at the table littered with newspapers, an older man munching on putrid smelling, stale popcorn standing to read the sports page on the opposite side. Looking around I can't find a clock but feel that I am now in my second hour of writing for my car @ Les Schwab.
Have they even looked at my car? I ... don't think so. How much longer can this go? I'm over caffeinated and waiting. Fuck-oh-dear I hate waiting.
It's my turn, my car is now visible in the um ... tire working bay.
Just another idiom?
You know that I enjoy, in terms of sayings, idioms?
"Dripping with Sunshine."
Perhaps it is because it is a state of mind, a moment of existence / being that I've perceived as oft-unattainable for myself.
My fascination may also be contributed to the fact that those deemed "dripping with sunshine," with the energy the emit, are undeniable. (Please keep in mind that "bubbly" is not a complementary trait to these warmth providers. There's something suspicious about bubbly. Dripping with sunshine on the other hand, is firmly rooted in genuine soil.) Despite your current disposition, the energy wafts off these people, licking and incluencing (maybe in just the slightest way) whatever the temperature of your shell, core or soul.
To me and my judgment one can reach this state / level for an amount of time no less than 48 hours and certainly never frequently maintain. Prolonged and frequent occurrences stab the integrity and genuiness that is the essence.
Do we need more people like this?
Naturally, duh, yes. In the current state of shit, we need as much as many as we can get.
Can this wonderful level be accessed by me?
On one hand, I'd like to say:" yes, of course. As long as you are able to meld compassion with legitimate and sound happiness ... sustaining and growing them together.
On the other hand - most would like to think they can achieve it only resulting in a nasty facade / veneer appreciated by no one. This is mainly attributed to the fact that you can't be happy for others until you're happy for yourself. Rare.
How about creating is synthetically?
Yes, but not for long and it's only in your head and those emulating your actions.
... Whereas "dripping" has a connotation of excessive, you must keep in mind that we're talking about some zen shit here. I'm no expert but in my definition it is something that is pure, concentrated and short lived in its most honest interpretation.
"Dripping with Sunshine."
Perhaps it is because it is a state of mind, a moment of existence / being that I've perceived as oft-unattainable for myself.
My fascination may also be contributed to the fact that those deemed "dripping with sunshine," with the energy the emit, are undeniable. (Please keep in mind that "bubbly" is not a complementary trait to these warmth providers. There's something suspicious about bubbly. Dripping with sunshine on the other hand, is firmly rooted in genuine soil.) Despite your current disposition, the energy wafts off these people, licking and incluencing (maybe in just the slightest way) whatever the temperature of your shell, core or soul.
To me and my judgment one can reach this state / level for an amount of time no less than 48 hours and certainly never frequently maintain. Prolonged and frequent occurrences stab the integrity and genuiness that is the essence.
Do we need more people like this?
Naturally, duh, yes. In the current state of shit, we need as much as many as we can get.
Can this wonderful level be accessed by me?
On one hand, I'd like to say:" yes, of course. As long as you are able to meld compassion with legitimate and sound happiness ... sustaining and growing them together.
On the other hand - most would like to think they can achieve it only resulting in a nasty facade / veneer appreciated by no one. This is mainly attributed to the fact that you can't be happy for others until you're happy for yourself. Rare.
How about creating is synthetically?
Yes, but not for long and it's only in your head and those emulating your actions.
... Whereas "dripping" has a connotation of excessive, you must keep in mind that we're talking about some zen shit here. I'm no expert but in my definition it is something that is pure, concentrated and short lived in its most honest interpretation.
Tuesday, January 27, 2009
Oh christ... save me from the Super Bowl.
I decided that instead of writing a post (seeing as how frequently I've been successful in that arena), I'd film one:
About the Super Bowl, of course. MEDIA WEEK, woot.
About the Super Bowl, of course. MEDIA WEEK, woot.
Monday, January 26, 2009
My pets, they love me.
Hitler had his dog, Blondi, who loved him. Dearly.
Dr. Claw had his maniacal furry companion, MAD cat.
Somewhere, at this very moment, there is a dog / cat eagerly waiting for their master to walk through the door, toss his keys in the tray (with that familiar clink-klank), reach down and give an affectionate pat on the head … after a long day of child-rapin’.
Whereas we would like to think that our pets are aware and appreciative of the people we are … they could care less if we were a selfless, compassionate veteran school teacher or someone that commits heinous crimes of the sickest nature. As long as they are fed, receive a steady diet of attention and are given a warm bed … your pet will love you back – the center of their world.
Of course, with deeper analysis you can draw the conclusion that pet owners who also happen to be deviants of humanity are far less likely / capable of providing their four legged pal with the items of care listed previously.
That doesn’t mean I’m any less disturbed by the image of a man who happens to enjoy the world of asphyxiophilia to the point that his property is littered with the bones of ill-fated playmates … sitting on his couch, engaged in a loving exchange of affection with his cat, Doodlebear. Pausing only to sip some tea.
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