Just because I
-Like musical theatre
-Can sing
-Enjoy Dancing
-Have Abba/Cher/The Village People in my iTunes
-Have a rainbow bumper sticker on my car that says "I like it when balls are in my face"
-Insert my penis into other men's assholes
doesn't make me gay.
I think
I'm not sure
Wednesday, August 29, 2007
Can't write this shit
I was going to write something to amuse you reader, but this is much simpler.
That's all I've got to say about that
That's all I've got to say about that
Tuesday, August 28, 2007
iTunes
Let's be honest people. Your music is an adequate representation of who you are as a person. And as for me. In my case my soul seems to be 20% japanese, 45% rock and roll, 31.5% rap, and 5.2% Mongolian throat singing.
Also my soul is 142% not good at math.
Also my soul is 142% not good at math.
Lies
Reader, it is my duty to inform you that in addition to writing a professional writer must engage in a number of other duties, several of which do not involve writing. It is a prerequisite of the writing profession that one must be a recluse. Indeed, there are several professions that require this from the hermit to the hermit crab, but only in the writer is the case for some solitude truly unique. Though it is not immediately apparant, being a writer also requires a unique art of the internet, television, movies, videogames, and numerous other entertainment medium. Knowledge of these alternative mediums of entertainment are essential because they all distract from the actual physical act of writing, which is the writer's bane. Indeed, in any given day a writer can only dedicate at most one to four hours to writing. Other hours of the day are given to other scholarly pursuits such as Guitar Hero, perusing the internet, and the obligatory solitary sexual act which is the writer's only outlet for sexual tension.
It is ironic then, that the very people who are supposed to be writing about life are so very often the people who experience so little of it. Confined to tiny rooms, writers are supposed to take in the world around them and express on paper their interpretation of the world. Hopefully their expressions are well-written and may someday be chosen to be placed in an anthology of some kind, a book deal or a writing part in a magazine. Most likely though, the writer will continue working at Kohls or Ralphs or waiting tables at the local Bubba Gump Shrimp Co. , watching as his friends and family move onto bigger and better things. In the meantime, in his insular bubble for one to four hours the writer sits, in between sessions of masturbation, waiting for the muses to come.
When the muses do come, they invariably come in the form of something other than the classical greek portrayals of young lithe, nubile nymphs, for while one can only assume that at some point in human history inspiration did actually come forth in the form of these nymphs, the modern writer in his sexual deprivation would simply just be more moved to perform more solitary sexual acts rather than to write. This is why, now in modern times, there are very few references to the muses appearing in the forms of women, but rather in alternative forms. What in ancient times would have been referred to as the coming of the muses today would simply only be called coming in a wet dream.
Obscenities aside, this is truly the existence of a writer. It is also the reason why it is so difficult to make good writing. For the writer must hang in the delicate balance between experiencing life and translating that life onto paper. The writer's stock and trade in life is expression. Many of the best have lived little outside the confines of their rooms and yet have expressed multitudes and fantastic works within their confines. Expression and the quality of expression is the only thing that matters in the profession that is the writer. It is not glamorous, the hours are shoddy, the payoffs often nonexistent. But it is the life of a writer nonetheless.
I thank you for your time reader
It is ironic then, that the very people who are supposed to be writing about life are so very often the people who experience so little of it. Confined to tiny rooms, writers are supposed to take in the world around them and express on paper their interpretation of the world. Hopefully their expressions are well-written and may someday be chosen to be placed in an anthology of some kind, a book deal or a writing part in a magazine. Most likely though, the writer will continue working at Kohls or Ralphs or waiting tables at the local Bubba Gump Shrimp Co. , watching as his friends and family move onto bigger and better things. In the meantime, in his insular bubble for one to four hours the writer sits, in between sessions of masturbation, waiting for the muses to come.
When the muses do come, they invariably come in the form of something other than the classical greek portrayals of young lithe, nubile nymphs, for while one can only assume that at some point in human history inspiration did actually come forth in the form of these nymphs, the modern writer in his sexual deprivation would simply just be more moved to perform more solitary sexual acts rather than to write. This is why, now in modern times, there are very few references to the muses appearing in the forms of women, but rather in alternative forms. What in ancient times would have been referred to as the coming of the muses today would simply only be called coming in a wet dream.
Obscenities aside, this is truly the existence of a writer. It is also the reason why it is so difficult to make good writing. For the writer must hang in the delicate balance between experiencing life and translating that life onto paper. The writer's stock and trade in life is expression. Many of the best have lived little outside the confines of their rooms and yet have expressed multitudes and fantastic works within their confines. Expression and the quality of expression is the only thing that matters in the profession that is the writer. It is not glamorous, the hours are shoddy, the payoffs often nonexistent. But it is the life of a writer nonetheless.
I thank you for your time reader
Begin at the beginning: A Blog (alternate titles considered: Hogarth, the Hungry Hobo Hungarian)
Reader if I may , I must inform you that throughout my childhood, I was unique among many other children in that I was able to claim that I had attended no less than 5 different schools in a meager 8 years of education. It was not, of course, a function of necessity rather than a consequence of circumstances. In 1st grade my parents got divorced. At the time, within the Vietnamese community this was a significant and horrible taboo. Though I did not notice it at the time, I was later informed by my mother that in those years so strong was the taboo against divorce that strangers would call our house to place curses on us, my mother's children, condemning us to futures of unavoidable suffering and misery.
While I did not yet notice the phone (too preoccupied was I with the wonders of the electric keyboard that played hits from the early 90s such as Rick Astley's "Together Forever") What I did notice were the consequences of the communal rejection my mother suffered at the hands of the larger Vietnamese community (of which I henceforth ascribe the name "The Vmob", a portmonteau of "V" the first letter of the ethnic designation "Vietnamese" and "mob" as in, a mob). The first noticeable thing that I can recall is often my mother would stay up late at night crying, sometimes hugging me close to her while I wondered quietly what was going on, why she was crying, and why was I up at the godawful hour of 10 PM (I tired earlier then).
The second thing that I shall recall for the purposes of this story, which for all sakes and purposes shall be called "A Story", is that in the transfer between 2nd and 3rd grade, there was a shift in the administration at Northwood Elementary School in Irvine, CA 92620 (I feel no need to protect the anonymity of that institution which - though they are just rumors - is purported to have placed lead in the paint of the poor black children) from the previous principal (I've forgotten her name, let us just call her Mrs. White) to a more stringent, more moral, more disciplined sort of administration in the form of a single individual (as i've also forgotten her name, let us call her Mrs. Shit). Suffice to say, Mrs. Shit represented to me, and to the greater of Northwood Elementary School, a cold pall over the (well, let us be frank reader, nothing changed at the school in the first year except for the icy aura that emanated from the new principal. Individuals who have been within 500 metres of Dick Cheney can testify that a human being can in fact emanate such an aura) previously lighter tone of the campus.
While some might point to this description as hyperbolic (in fact the case might be made that the entirety of this blog is hyperbolic), I assure you that at the time, as a 9 year old boy I often took great efforts to crawl beneath the sideboard, out of sight of the principal as to not stare directly into her eyes and be turned to stone. Jokes aside, I did try my best to make like a ninja and be unseen by the principal. She regarded me with such a look of utter disgust and venom that it removed what little warmth there was in my soul and spit it into my face where it burned and metaphorically seared the soft fleshy parts of my eyes. Later, I discovered that this look was informed by bigotry, but we shall return to that point later reader.
As for the principal herself, she - and my 3rd grade teacher - provided the catalyst for my first in medias rex transfer from one school to the next. At the behest of my 3rd grade teacher (who seemingly found a 3rd grade asian child with a vibrant imagination and aspirations of becoming a cowboy as infuriating as red would be to a bull in a bullfighting ring) my mother and I met in the principal's office to discuss certain techniques that could be used to reign in my clear and distinct lack of respect for authority (I was not good at PE, I much rather preferred sitting in the shade thinking about the episodes of Ghostwriter and Wishbone i'd seen the day earlier). The principal suggested that perhaps I was acting out as a direct consequence of my mother's divorce from my father and that a possible solution, for the good of the child was for my mother and father to be rejoined. After all, statistically speaking, single mothers are unfit to raise their own children and their offspring grow up to be delinquents, drug addicts, or worse yet: Democrats.
If this sentiment that was expressed to my mother seems at all harsh and unprovoked, reader, let me inform you of a previous incident that could have, and probably did inform the principal's attitude towards my mother and I.
See earlier that same year I'd been called into the principal's office for some entirely innocent reason. See, somebody had informed me that the F-word rhymed with "duck", and being the super genius that I was, I had run down the alphabet until I'd struck gold with the word. That is why I was in the principal's office. The other thing you must know, reader, is that I was very fond of Calvin and Hobbes. In 3rd grade it was a major pastime of my mother, myself, and my siblings to drive down to the wooded end of Irvine in the appropriately named Woodbridge, by the artificial lake and peruse the Barnes and Nobles, my mother reading the jokes from Calvin and Hobbes to a 9, 7, and 5-year old. One of these jokes involved a punchline where Calvin called his mother a communist. I, attempting the lighten the situation, asked the principal if she was a Communist.
Mrs. Shit, a Reaganite, immediately called my mother in from work to demand to know where her son got the giant cajones to insinuate that the principal was a communist. So, as it was, this previous incident now informed the injustice that was being inflicted against my mother. Suffice to say, it was more than a straw that broke the camel's back, and by the end of 3rd grade plans had already been put in motion to transfer my enrollment from Northwood Elementary School to Westwood Basics Plus, further away from the house. I believe my 3rd grade year was best summarized by my single exclamation at its conclusion. I only had one exuberant sentence for my mother as she came to pick me up from Northwood Elementary School for the last time.
"Mom! I passed third grade!!!!"
While I did not yet notice the phone (too preoccupied was I with the wonders of the electric keyboard that played hits from the early 90s such as Rick Astley's "Together Forever") What I did notice were the consequences of the communal rejection my mother suffered at the hands of the larger Vietnamese community (of which I henceforth ascribe the name "The Vmob", a portmonteau of "V" the first letter of the ethnic designation "Vietnamese" and "mob" as in, a mob). The first noticeable thing that I can recall is often my mother would stay up late at night crying, sometimes hugging me close to her while I wondered quietly what was going on, why she was crying, and why was I up at the godawful hour of 10 PM (I tired earlier then).
The second thing that I shall recall for the purposes of this story, which for all sakes and purposes shall be called "A Story", is that in the transfer between 2nd and 3rd grade, there was a shift in the administration at Northwood Elementary School in Irvine, CA 92620 (I feel no need to protect the anonymity of that institution which - though they are just rumors - is purported to have placed lead in the paint of the poor black children) from the previous principal (I've forgotten her name, let us just call her Mrs. White) to a more stringent, more moral, more disciplined sort of administration in the form of a single individual (as i've also forgotten her name, let us call her Mrs. Shit). Suffice to say, Mrs. Shit represented to me, and to the greater of Northwood Elementary School, a cold pall over the (well, let us be frank reader, nothing changed at the school in the first year except for the icy aura that emanated from the new principal. Individuals who have been within 500 metres of Dick Cheney can testify that a human being can in fact emanate such an aura) previously lighter tone of the campus.
While some might point to this description as hyperbolic (in fact the case might be made that the entirety of this blog is hyperbolic), I assure you that at the time, as a 9 year old boy I often took great efforts to crawl beneath the sideboard, out of sight of the principal as to not stare directly into her eyes and be turned to stone. Jokes aside, I did try my best to make like a ninja and be unseen by the principal. She regarded me with such a look of utter disgust and venom that it removed what little warmth there was in my soul and spit it into my face where it burned and metaphorically seared the soft fleshy parts of my eyes. Later, I discovered that this look was informed by bigotry, but we shall return to that point later reader.
As for the principal herself, she - and my 3rd grade teacher - provided the catalyst for my first in medias rex transfer from one school to the next. At the behest of my 3rd grade teacher (who seemingly found a 3rd grade asian child with a vibrant imagination and aspirations of becoming a cowboy as infuriating as red would be to a bull in a bullfighting ring) my mother and I met in the principal's office to discuss certain techniques that could be used to reign in my clear and distinct lack of respect for authority (I was not good at PE, I much rather preferred sitting in the shade thinking about the episodes of Ghostwriter and Wishbone i'd seen the day earlier). The principal suggested that perhaps I was acting out as a direct consequence of my mother's divorce from my father and that a possible solution, for the good of the child was for my mother and father to be rejoined. After all, statistically speaking, single mothers are unfit to raise their own children and their offspring grow up to be delinquents, drug addicts, or worse yet: Democrats.
If this sentiment that was expressed to my mother seems at all harsh and unprovoked, reader, let me inform you of a previous incident that could have, and probably did inform the principal's attitude towards my mother and I.
See earlier that same year I'd been called into the principal's office for some entirely innocent reason. See, somebody had informed me that the F-word rhymed with "duck", and being the super genius that I was, I had run down the alphabet until I'd struck gold with the word. That is why I was in the principal's office. The other thing you must know, reader, is that I was very fond of Calvin and Hobbes. In 3rd grade it was a major pastime of my mother, myself, and my siblings to drive down to the wooded end of Irvine in the appropriately named Woodbridge, by the artificial lake and peruse the Barnes and Nobles, my mother reading the jokes from Calvin and Hobbes to a 9, 7, and 5-year old. One of these jokes involved a punchline where Calvin called his mother a communist. I, attempting the lighten the situation, asked the principal if she was a Communist.
Mrs. Shit, a Reaganite, immediately called my mother in from work to demand to know where her son got the giant cajones to insinuate that the principal was a communist. So, as it was, this previous incident now informed the injustice that was being inflicted against my mother. Suffice to say, it was more than a straw that broke the camel's back, and by the end of 3rd grade plans had already been put in motion to transfer my enrollment from Northwood Elementary School to Westwood Basics Plus, further away from the house. I believe my 3rd grade year was best summarized by my single exclamation at its conclusion. I only had one exuberant sentence for my mother as she came to pick me up from Northwood Elementary School for the last time.
"Mom! I passed third grade!!!!"
It's been a while, friends
I've not been entirely honest with everyone, 'tis true. In fact for the last few months i've not been updating this damnable thing because frankly there has been so much else to worry about and think about and do. Still, it seems only natural that as a writer (or at least a purported one, speculated but never verified) I would return indoubitably to the source of the writo-nomical-necro-monicon, and write.
But unlike few months prior I now have a story to tell you dear reader.
And a beard.
Prepare dear reader, for this is a beard that will fill and enthrall you, lift, and elate you. And the story's pretty good too, so please, at your leisure, tune into the beard and the story
But unlike few months prior I now have a story to tell you dear reader.
And a beard.
Prepare dear reader, for this is a beard that will fill and enthrall you, lift, and elate you. And the story's pretty good too, so please, at your leisure, tune into the beard and the story
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