Wizards suck.
Not all wizards. There are a few bitchen wizards. Example: Gandalf.
A friend of mine, he's making a spud gun. It'll shoot a potato through just about anything. I'm sure you've seen the videos. Spud guns are fun.
I don't have a video. Sorry. I might soon though.
It feels great to shoot a wizard with a spud gun. Especially a king wizard. There's not much you can do to block a potato that's flying at you 156 feet per second.
Not even much a wizard can do.
Tuesday, November 25, 2008
Tuesday, November 18, 2008
What it Feels Like a Few Hours Before Major Surgery
Hungry as all sin.
There are about a trillion things that you want to do before you're rendered useless for the next six to eight weeks.
You want to hike up that mountain you've hiked up every weekend since you were in college, you want to nail that trick you'd been trying at the skate park for the last few months and you want everyone to leave you alone.
Most importantly, you feel worried. You feel worried that the world is going to pass you by again–of course you've done this before so you can reflect a little bit–and that you're going to miss a whole swath of life because you can't walk.
You dread it. You feel sorry for yourself, and you don't tell too many people. You just tell them that you're having surgery.
You think about what used to happen to folks who had surgery years ago. How much longer they spent recovering. You read stories about John Elway and how he can barley climb stairs without wincing and you kiss your knees because you know that they can still be fixed.
You think about a major world event that, conditionally, could happen. You think about how you can't be there to see it, to write about it, to talk about it in the same context as all the people you know are able too.
You think about all the movies with hospital accidents and the people in there who were just trying to recover from an injury they never asked for.
Then, again, you think about yourself. You start to think about all of the details that you never recognized before. You want to call out all the people who double space after periods because of some flaw in their educational upbringing.
You think about all the details with your diet. You don't want to eat any of the same crap that you've been cramming. You're going to be immobile. You're going to get soft. Not fat. Soft. You accept that. You accept it, and you know you have to take it lying down, but you don't let that hunker you.
You buy the good food, like you always have, and figure out how you're going to portion it. You've always eaten well; but you've always eaten a lot. When you get your once a month junk food this time, you'll probably only have one slice of that ginormous pizza.
You think about the books you're going to read and how you'll be willing to give them your undivided attention. You're not going anywhere for awhile.
You think about the people that have it a lot worse than you do, and you wonder why you need to do all of this reflecting.
You think about the people who the world rushes by everyday you're rushing with the world. You think about how you're sort of joining those ranks.
You're not going anywhere for awhile.
There are about a trillion things that you want to do before you're rendered useless for the next six to eight weeks.
You want to hike up that mountain you've hiked up every weekend since you were in college, you want to nail that trick you'd been trying at the skate park for the last few months and you want everyone to leave you alone.
Most importantly, you feel worried. You feel worried that the world is going to pass you by again–of course you've done this before so you can reflect a little bit–and that you're going to miss a whole swath of life because you can't walk.
You dread it. You feel sorry for yourself, and you don't tell too many people. You just tell them that you're having surgery.
You think about what used to happen to folks who had surgery years ago. How much longer they spent recovering. You read stories about John Elway and how he can barley climb stairs without wincing and you kiss your knees because you know that they can still be fixed.
You think about a major world event that, conditionally, could happen. You think about how you can't be there to see it, to write about it, to talk about it in the same context as all the people you know are able too.
You think about all the movies with hospital accidents and the people in there who were just trying to recover from an injury they never asked for.
Then, again, you think about yourself. You start to think about all of the details that you never recognized before. You want to call out all the people who double space after periods because of some flaw in their educational upbringing.
You think about all the details with your diet. You don't want to eat any of the same crap that you've been cramming. You're going to be immobile. You're going to get soft. Not fat. Soft. You accept that. You accept it, and you know you have to take it lying down, but you don't let that hunker you.
You buy the good food, like you always have, and figure out how you're going to portion it. You've always eaten well; but you've always eaten a lot. When you get your once a month junk food this time, you'll probably only have one slice of that ginormous pizza.
You think about the books you're going to read and how you'll be willing to give them your undivided attention. You're not going anywhere for awhile.
You think about the people that have it a lot worse than you do, and you wonder why you need to do all of this reflecting.
You think about the people who the world rushes by everyday you're rushing with the world. You think about how you're sort of joining those ranks.
You're not going anywhere for awhile.
Thursday, November 13, 2008
What it Feels Like to Not Find What You're Looking For
I have a simple request: I want to write on the wall in the shower.
Why is that so hard?
Anyway, I figured out how. This is America. I can buy it somewhere. But that's not what this is about.
When you have something in your head–you know it exist, you know you've seen it before–and you decide to begin the search for it, you really put your mind to it.
When your mind is on it, you feel great. You feel so focused. You feel like you've never been more resourceful and successful in your entire life, no matter how many times you've dreamed of something and then looked for that something.
All of your energy is pounding ideas through your brain; creative, insightful ways to execute your goal that you can't fathom in day-to-day life.
Your spirits build. You look forward to your triumphant assent to attainment and the gratification that you'll feel having gotten your prize.
You've even invented new ways of doing things that you didn't use before; that you may not use again. You picked up a phone book. You visited the one Asian imports store at the mall that no one ever visits except for rich neardy kids with money to blow on ninja weapons. You finally went into an antique store. You found a way to organize your resourcefulness with better email accounts or simple software.
You found out that other people are doing the same thing you are. They're looking for something.
But you don't find it.
It feels like the time your significant other told you they're going to leave you because they want to. It feels like that because you liken it to that.
You feel lost, hopeless and try to forget about it. You can't remember why you were looking for it in the first place. You just know that it would be a cool thing to have. You got obsessed with finding it and you forgot about the purpose of finding it.
You feel effort without a purpose. And it hurts, maybe not as much as it did when you gave in, but it hurts.
Then, you get in the shower the next morning. You look at the blank walls and you want to fill them up with words.
You invent a new way to look for that magic item. You find it.
You forget about the arc of feelings you had in your un-focused research and you feel better about yourself and your reflection.
Why is that so hard?
Anyway, I figured out how. This is America. I can buy it somewhere. But that's not what this is about.
When you have something in your head–you know it exist, you know you've seen it before–and you decide to begin the search for it, you really put your mind to it.
When your mind is on it, you feel great. You feel so focused. You feel like you've never been more resourceful and successful in your entire life, no matter how many times you've dreamed of something and then looked for that something.
All of your energy is pounding ideas through your brain; creative, insightful ways to execute your goal that you can't fathom in day-to-day life.
Your spirits build. You look forward to your triumphant assent to attainment and the gratification that you'll feel having gotten your prize.
You've even invented new ways of doing things that you didn't use before; that you may not use again. You picked up a phone book. You visited the one Asian imports store at the mall that no one ever visits except for rich neardy kids with money to blow on ninja weapons. You finally went into an antique store. You found a way to organize your resourcefulness with better email accounts or simple software.
You found out that other people are doing the same thing you are. They're looking for something.
But you don't find it.
It feels like the time your significant other told you they're going to leave you because they want to. It feels like that because you liken it to that.
You feel lost, hopeless and try to forget about it. You can't remember why you were looking for it in the first place. You just know that it would be a cool thing to have. You got obsessed with finding it and you forgot about the purpose of finding it.
You feel effort without a purpose. And it hurts, maybe not as much as it did when you gave in, but it hurts.
Then, you get in the shower the next morning. You look at the blank walls and you want to fill them up with words.
You invent a new way to look for that magic item. You find it.
You forget about the arc of feelings you had in your un-focused research and you feel better about yourself and your reflection.
Tuesday, November 11, 2008
What it means to hear someone lie
When I hear someone say that, "I've been up since 7 a.m. yesterday and I haven't eaten anything and I've cried 1,000 times since then," I feel cheated.
I've never done anything like that in my life. I don't think I've tried.
Sometimes I think about what it would be like to be so stressed out that I can't see straight, but then I think about how much I like life when I get something done the minute I think of it.
How do you put things off?
I think, to hear someone lie means to hear someone tell you exactly what they think of you.
I lie too. I don't lie to my friends or family or anyone really. Not that much. I try to lie. They usually catch me. Usually.
I think to hear someone lie makes you feel like you're better than them. In a small way. The smallest of small ways.
The way that you feel you should be in front of them in the line at the bank, or the way that you feel you have to power to tell them, "shut the fuck up!" in a crowded theater and they're talking on their cell-phone after the million dollar ad plays that asked you politely to turn off your cell phone.
It makes me feel like that person really hasn't done much to lie about. It means that I can feel better about utilizing my schedule and getting things done in a manner that doesn't require me to lie.
Or does it. Does it really make me feel like I'm better, no. It just means that I know a lie when I hear it. It means I know I'm better.
I'm sure that we all hear people lie and brush it off because, well, we're better than that.
When I lie, I make the mistake of not thinking over how I'm going to lie. I think that other, better, more seasoned liers spend a lot of their time thinking about how they're going to lie and all the ins and outs of their lie to make their lie the best lie of all the lies they've ever told.
If they've spent time telling lots of lies, I can't imagine how good next lie will be.
To hear a lie means to think about all the lies that you've ever told and all the lies that you're every going to tell. It means to think about every possible exageration that you can think of–every exaggeration that could be logically possible–and how you would implement that into a part of your life.
"I'm late as all fuck," doesn't count yet.
However, I could say that I'm late because there were, like, 20 billion dogs outside my house, all of which were taking a dump at the same time, and it stunk so bad, and I only had my $500 dollar shoes to walk through it all, and then, there were, like, 1,000 things wrong with my car, and, oh my god, I just wanted a sandwich.
That's all possilbe. That's whitty. Someone would buy that. I'm sure that I could pull that one on a girlfriend or random in a room and get a funny look.
That's what it means to hear a lie.
I've never done anything like that in my life. I don't think I've tried.
Sometimes I think about what it would be like to be so stressed out that I can't see straight, but then I think about how much I like life when I get something done the minute I think of it.
How do you put things off?
I think, to hear someone lie means to hear someone tell you exactly what they think of you.
I lie too. I don't lie to my friends or family or anyone really. Not that much. I try to lie. They usually catch me. Usually.
I think to hear someone lie makes you feel like you're better than them. In a small way. The smallest of small ways.
The way that you feel you should be in front of them in the line at the bank, or the way that you feel you have to power to tell them, "shut the fuck up!" in a crowded theater and they're talking on their cell-phone after the million dollar ad plays that asked you politely to turn off your cell phone.
It makes me feel like that person really hasn't done much to lie about. It means that I can feel better about utilizing my schedule and getting things done in a manner that doesn't require me to lie.
Or does it. Does it really make me feel like I'm better, no. It just means that I know a lie when I hear it. It means I know I'm better.
I'm sure that we all hear people lie and brush it off because, well, we're better than that.
When I lie, I make the mistake of not thinking over how I'm going to lie. I think that other, better, more seasoned liers spend a lot of their time thinking about how they're going to lie and all the ins and outs of their lie to make their lie the best lie of all the lies they've ever told.
If they've spent time telling lots of lies, I can't imagine how good next lie will be.
To hear a lie means to think about all the lies that you've ever told and all the lies that you're every going to tell. It means to think about every possible exageration that you can think of–every exaggeration that could be logically possible–and how you would implement that into a part of your life.
"I'm late as all fuck," doesn't count yet.
However, I could say that I'm late because there were, like, 20 billion dogs outside my house, all of which were taking a dump at the same time, and it stunk so bad, and I only had my $500 dollar shoes to walk through it all, and then, there were, like, 1,000 things wrong with my car, and, oh my god, I just wanted a sandwich.
That's all possilbe. That's whitty. Someone would buy that. I'm sure that I could pull that one on a girlfriend or random in a room and get a funny look.
That's what it means to hear a lie.
Saturday, November 8, 2008
A motorcycle solving climate change
How cool are motorcycles?
They're so fast, sleek, sexy, sav-y on gas, cheap and fun.
How bad do you want one?
Well, I really want one. Here's the thing. All that hypocrisy about "hybrid cars being the way of the future," is such a huge load of I don't even know what.
Why can't we all just buy motorcycles?
1. Traffic–alleviated. The wide roads already allow motorcycles to fit three to one lane. That's three commuters that could have been in three different diesel trucks, taking up at least 100 feet.
2. Fun–fixed. So many people don't like driving. It's boring. It's easy. It's passive–almost. Put them on a bike where they always have to be thinking.
3. Bad drivers–gone. You can't be an idiot and be on a bike. It's impossible. If you are, your chances of being killed are are so much worse. You actually get to be human on a bike. You get to use your brain.
Oh, the best part: no cell phones.
But, even if every person had a bike, there is still a big safety issue. You might be out of your cage, but now your out of your cage doing 90 on the free-way and could fly off.
Where a helmet. Where long sleeves. Where big shoes. And gloves.
Instead of that Toyota shit box, buy a motorcycle and learn how to ride it.
Part of climate change: in the works of being solved.
They're so fast, sleek, sexy, sav-y on gas, cheap and fun.
How bad do you want one?
Well, I really want one. Here's the thing. All that hypocrisy about "hybrid cars being the way of the future," is such a huge load of I don't even know what.
Why can't we all just buy motorcycles?
1. Traffic–alleviated. The wide roads already allow motorcycles to fit three to one lane. That's three commuters that could have been in three different diesel trucks, taking up at least 100 feet.
2. Fun–fixed. So many people don't like driving. It's boring. It's easy. It's passive–almost. Put them on a bike where they always have to be thinking.
3. Bad drivers–gone. You can't be an idiot and be on a bike. It's impossible. If you are, your chances of being killed are are so much worse. You actually get to be human on a bike. You get to use your brain.
Oh, the best part: no cell phones.
But, even if every person had a bike, there is still a big safety issue. You might be out of your cage, but now your out of your cage doing 90 on the free-way and could fly off.
Where a helmet. Where long sleeves. Where big shoes. And gloves.
Instead of that Toyota shit box, buy a motorcycle and learn how to ride it.
Part of climate change: in the works of being solved.
Friday, November 7, 2008
You know what? Fine. If you don't like doing... Things, then don't.
Today, a project was due.
An easy one. One that even hippies can understand. I won't tell you exactly what it was, because when you have a month to do anything, you're pretty likely to get it done early.
That's why you need to do things.
If you're staying at home making bongs out of apples and spitting into your shit-locks, I suggest you find a way to make a living out of that.
I don't get it.
How far have we come? Kids, about 18-20 years old, can make it. They have resources, they have parents who love them and they choose to grow their hair long and pay $20 for organic granola from some well-to-do mountain dweller on the mall.
Cool. I'm into that too. I like granola, fair-trade, organical whole food band-wagons.
But, holy hell, do you live in a bubble.
How many Rage Against the Machine albums will you buy before you realize that you're not a revolutionary? You're just some douche-fart with an extra cool MacBook who never really wants to admit that you're from the mid-west. To bad you're not Kanye West.
He's got it right. Hate him all you want; he bought everything he could, but he still banks on his cocky attitude and tells everyone exactly where he's from. Oh, and he's good at making music, even if it is mixed.
I know that I sound like some kind of Rush Limbagh listener, but dread-locked college dwellers get to everyone. I know they do. Andy from SNL knows they do.
So, if you lived in Europe for a summer, tell everyone that you like the way they think and then come back home because, as you know, you're going to change the world with your open mind.
An easy one. One that even hippies can understand. I won't tell you exactly what it was, because when you have a month to do anything, you're pretty likely to get it done early.
That's why you need to do things.
If you're staying at home making bongs out of apples and spitting into your shit-locks, I suggest you find a way to make a living out of that.
I don't get it.
How far have we come? Kids, about 18-20 years old, can make it. They have resources, they have parents who love them and they choose to grow their hair long and pay $20 for organic granola from some well-to-do mountain dweller on the mall.
Cool. I'm into that too. I like granola, fair-trade, organical whole food band-wagons.
But, holy hell, do you live in a bubble.
How many Rage Against the Machine albums will you buy before you realize that you're not a revolutionary? You're just some douche-fart with an extra cool MacBook who never really wants to admit that you're from the mid-west. To bad you're not Kanye West.
He's got it right. Hate him all you want; he bought everything he could, but he still banks on his cocky attitude and tells everyone exactly where he's from. Oh, and he's good at making music, even if it is mixed.
I know that I sound like some kind of Rush Limbagh listener, but dread-locked college dwellers get to everyone. I know they do. Andy from SNL knows they do.
So, if you lived in Europe for a summer, tell everyone that you like the way they think and then come back home because, as you know, you're going to change the world with your open mind.
Thursday, November 6, 2008
This guy is making realograms
There are a few things that still work on the internet.
You might not understand it all. I don't. But you can make your own magazine pretty soon.
CNN might have a hologram, but what good is it when you use it to interview wil.i.am. Not that wil.i.am isn't cool, he's just not hologram cool yet.
You know who should be a hologram? You.
Why not? Why not make it a realogram. In a magazine. A magazine that you made. That you make.
That's still real, and readers can touch it. You can't touch a hologram. You can certainly make fun of it.
I want my own magazine and I'm going to think about how to make it. I'm going to have it. You're going to read it.
I want to read your magazine too.
You might not understand it all. I don't. But you can make your own magazine pretty soon.
CNN might have a hologram, but what good is it when you use it to interview wil.i.am. Not that wil.i.am isn't cool, he's just not hologram cool yet.
You know who should be a hologram? You.
Why not? Why not make it a realogram. In a magazine. A magazine that you made. That you make.
That's still real, and readers can touch it. You can't touch a hologram. You can certainly make fun of it.
I want my own magazine and I'm going to think about how to make it. I'm going to have it. You're going to read it.
I want to read your magazine too.
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