Making Friends and Tiki Culture

 Making Friends

Making new friends in a new city can be a challenge. It seems to be one part luck and one part skill. Maybe you stumble into a solid crew or maybe you travel from one friend island to another in search for your Wilson. To the later, there may be some simple questions to determine if you need to raise the sails. For example, asking: Do you have any food recommendations? No recommendation is a big red flag here and certain recommendations are at least a yellow. Let’s say they follow-up your questions with one of their own, “Have you ever been to a Brazilian steakhouse?” To this end, the words being produced by this person start to become mumbled and slightly incoherent while you start taking stock into other characteristics. You notice this person is secretly jacked under that oversize t-shirt and aggressively interjects “fuck” into sentences where it doesn’t belong. You notice a picture of their family on the desk behind them and that their kids are not kids but adults. This person is like 50+ years old, but looks great! You start to think maybe the secret to youth is massive piles of endless meat until you put that little flag up. You decide, I’m going to a fuckin Brazilian steakhouse tonight! You leave the conversation for a new one and the search for friendship continues.

Tiki Culture

I can’t attest to being into tiki culture since I have no white-colored goatee nor enough tropical shirts, but I fuckin love music with animal sounds. I mean, someone goes to college for four years to audio engineer perfect bird sounds and I couldn’t thank them more. And they don’t just go willie nilly placing bird sounds everywhere, they thoughtfully arrange them among other jungle sounds and instruments. Maybe there should be an alignment of the conga drums with each bird bark as if the player is playing the beat on their little bird bellies. Then there is the type of bird sound cause there’s A LOT of birds out there. Maybe they go big with a long screech or maybe it’s more appropriate to have a quick, high pitch “caw!”. The possibilities are endless, and we’ve talked about birds so far. In some songs, if you’re lucky, you’ll get some non-tropical animals like a turkey or rabbit. So next time you’re sippin’ on a Jungle Bird or a Captain’s Grog, put some tiki tunes on the stereo, sit back, and imagine a pack of turkeys running through the Amazon. It’s a magnificent, pleasant thought and hell, we need more of those these days.

Top Tens and That's It

Top Tens 

What can I say about 2018? I'm still single and my new pair of white pants didn't have a chance. Still a student at 31; bought 5 middrifts in December. Got a cat from my parents, named her Frankie. Pierced my ears and wore more gold than usual.

What's been a constant thought for 2018? --- Was my cat ever neutered or did my dad lie to me again?

Why am I looking forward to 2019? --- Dollywood season pass.

2018 has been an exceptionally good year for movies. So many interesting flicks that pushed the envelope of cinema in times when movies are being written by algorithms. Netflix and opt-out tactics from social media platforms might just kill all good ideas with distractions. Luckily, some directers/writers have used their blood money and outlets for good, making films that challenge an audience. As long as that audience is not sucked into another melodramatic television show. As for music, the shoegaze/dreampop scene was good, but not as good as last year.  So many good EPs and singles this year that I had to add four of them and pretend like I didn't make a top 12. Thus I'm expecting big things from next year's full albums like Chromatics and super group Piroshka. Pedro the Lion has already graced us with their new album. But for now, let's get back to 2018 with my top tens.

     Movies

1. Roma
2. Susperia
3. The House that Jack Built
4. Hereditary
5. The Favorite
6. Mandy
7. First Reformed
8. Creed II
9. Leave No Trace
10. A Star is Born

Disclaimer: I didn't get to see Sorry To Bother You, Shoplifter, Burning, Eighth Grade, and Spiderman

     Music

1. Adam Faucet - It Took the Shape of a Bird
2. Lavender Blush - Lavender Blush / Blushing - Weak
3. Drug Church - Cheer
4. Sobs - Telltale Signs
5. Lowtide - Southern Mind
6. Blush Response - Hearts Grow Dull
7. Hatchie - Sugar & Spice / Pure Ghost - There Is No Heaven Left in Me
8. Tanukichan - Sundays
9. Bloody Knives - White Light Black Moon
10. Ovlov - TRU

Criticism and Attention

Criticism

When someone asks you how this taste or how they look, unless they are immediate members of your family, it's hard to give the truth without pissing them off.  People are bad at taking criticism. Period.  Even if you preface criticism with a line like "Do you want to know the truth?".  People will reply in the affirmative but then get offended when you hit them with honesty.  "This tastes like shit, that makes your butt look weird." This makes the sentence "Do you want to know the truth?" an absolutely useless sentence.  *me all of a sudden on the edge of a cliff for some reason in Scotland shouting* "Why can't people handle the truth?" Maybe it's too direct.  It's too personal.  So I've been beta testing a new method.  It's simple and anybody can do it.  Instead of criticizing the person/object/whatev directly, you criticize it indirectly through storytelling.  Here's an example:

Bakery employee: How was everything?

Me: It was alright.

Bakery employee: Did you enjoy the pastry?

Me: Well it reminded me of this trip I took with my girlfriend.  The whole point of the trip was to climb this beautiful mountain the first day and then bath in our accomplishment the following days.  From the brochure, it seemed like a fun, accessible feat, but once we stood at the base, we realized we're going to have to work together to finish it.  The beginning of it was alright and typical of most hikes, but the middle was exhausting and we had to really struggle.   The cold and exhaustion started to get to us and we just started fighting and screaming at each other.  Another young, handsome hiker, named Jon, came by and gave my girlfriend solace from my anger - leaving me in the cold, completely lost.  After many hours, I somehow navigated my way back to the hotel to find her and Jon making love in our hotel room.

Attention

To enable attachments is to open yourself up for suffering, but much of this suffering can be minimized by understanding attention.  This first thing to understand is "Everything" is driven by attention, "Everything" wants your attention and without attention "Nothing" can happen. To show this on a larger, modern scale, negativity draws more attention thus typically outweighs the use of positive storytelling in general conversations or the news.  Similarly, social media platforms generalize notifications and use video over text to catch and keep your attention.   On a personal scale, we brush our hair, iron our clothes and talk confidently to draw and keep attention, and we pay attention in school and topics of interest to build skill sets for which we can give more attention.  Practice is basically sustained attention to some task.  Indeed, attention should be guarded against unwanted distractions while guided towards beneficial outcomes. 

This is not only true for external stimuli, but also for internal responses that create outward behaviors.  For instance, think of the last time you were focusing on some task and another, unrelated thought popped into your mind.  Let's say a conversation you had last night at the bar.  This thought and the thought engaged in the task are now in competition for your attention. Here, you have to decide which thought will win, and this choice will have consequences for later, similar choices until little conscious awareness is needed to decide. You are practicing how your attention will be allocated for this type of situation.  In this example, you could get better or worse as keeping focus on the task at hand depending on your attentional choice.   Over time, simple and more complex competitions have been exercised, in which we practice some preference to lessen the cognitive load needed so we can focus on more pressing matters needing our attention. Some practices has been rooted in us over time, especially those tied to emotions, and may not make sense.  Therefore, it is important to uncondition initial responses deemed inappropriate with careful examination with "yes, you guessed it", your attention.

Top Tens and Sustained Happiness

Top Tens

This year I moved to another state, another city and another food science department.  I turned 30 and still making mistakes - sorry mom and dad.  It's been eventful and scary, but the stress shits have gradually decreased as the year has progressed.  December: no stress shits, but one pants party foul.  This year was pretty decent for cinema, but even more decent was my beloved shoegaze genre on the music front.  The later was so great, you should really consider my list as completely biased to the 'scene that celebrates itself' and sigh with a little mutter like "bob, you sad, stupid piece of shit".  With all caveats in place, here's my top tens.

     Movies:

1. Sacred Killing of a Deer
2. Blade Runner 2049
3. Call Me By Your Name
4. Lady Macbeth
5. Baby Driver
6. Phantom Thread
7. Lady Bird
8. Three Billboards Outside Ebbing, Missouri
9. Dunkirk
10. The Shape of Water


I did not get to see Florida Project, Good Time, The Square, A Ghost Story.

Music

1. Slowdive - Slowdive
2. Iron Chic - You Can't Stay Here
3. Fazerdaze - Morningside
4. Tigers Jaw - spin
5. Deafcult - Auras
6. Airial - Molten Young Lovers
7. Miniatures - Jessamine
8. Radiogaze - Blankenberge
9. EP Daily Double: Big Nothing - Big Nothing | Kindling/Kestrals - Split
10. Drab Majesty - Demonstration


Runner-ups: Pia Fraus - Field Ceremony, Images - You'll Never Get to Heaven, Cigarettes after Sex (self-titled), Gleemer - Anymore, Japanese Breakfast - Soft Sounds from Another Planet, Kelly Lee Owens (self-titled), Panda Riot - Infinity Maps.


Sustained Happiness

The use of "I" in this post is intentional.  Everybody looks and deals with problems faced throughout life differently, and below is how "I" viewed and dealt with them. Sometimes another's perspective is helpful so here is mine.

Recently someone asked me how I was so calm about some situations while still being involved and caring about others.  If asked this before turning 26, my answers would be ones not based on experience, but on observation.  But I'm 30 now, and in the last 4 years I have experienced many the situations/feelings that I had only once observed and now realize these past answers to things were disillusioned at best.  My solutions to most problems up to age 26 were temporary and I still did not have answers to two very important questions: What is happiness? and How do you sustain happiness?.  Reading the questions, any one can see that one question came before the other, with the first recognized while I was young and the other manifesting only in the last 4 years.  Going back to the first sentence of this passage, I was asked about how to handle situations/feelings.  My answer to this was with the acknowledgment of these questions and their solutions.  Funny enough, the solutions to both questions are very simplistic with the first involving a binary balance based off a binary choice of the second; however, maintenance of the first question based off the choice of the second takes practice. To achieve happiness, you must have a balance of connectedness and pursuit.  In other words, you need mutual love with people while having goals worthwhile of achieving.  It's a very simple truth that works for me, but to maintain that balance the second question must be addressed.  For each object which fits within these counterbalanced categories, connectedness and pursuit, you must decide to either have an attachment or a non-attachment.  Preached heavily by Buddhist teachings, attachment equals suffering, but unlike the Buddha and his followers,  I don't think total non-attachment is a good idea if you want a life worth living.  To this extent, I agree total non-attachment removes the balance equation and can keep you in a constant state of happiness, but you lose out on a truly enjoyable life.  You lose out on a the occasional imbalance that can lead to extreme happiness (and sometimes extreme sadness). Once you decide which things are worthy enough to make an attachment (e.g. career, a lover), you must learn how to regulate the emotions that come with that attachment (and they will come).  To this point, I've been heavily practicing a version of mindfulness. A somewhat shortcut to reduce the harmful, nonsensical emotions (or at least reduce the time they spend in consciousness) while enjoying the beneficial ones.  I'm not going to explain it all here, but it's a way to look at each emotion objectively to determine if they are real or an illusion, if they warrant attention or not. Together, by regulating the emotions that accompany the attachments you choose and restoring balance across connectedness and pursuit, you can sustain happiness.

Condiments and Back to Punk

Condiments

As you may know, I'm a condimaniac. Love me some condiments.  It's a land of many rulers and regions divided by many nationalities. You've got your basic western condiments: ketchup, mustard, mayonnaise, and hot sauce.  Then you've got your eastern condiments: soy sauce, hoisin, ponzu, and fish sauce.  In between these prominent regions lies several towns and cities of equally amazing oozes.  Some are larger metropolitans like BBQ sauce while others are only quaint towns in small packages like fire sauce at Taco Bell or Chick-fil-A’s Polynesian sauce.  To explore this world has always been a goal of mine where my fridge displays the trophies from my travels.  A ceramic jar of French mustard with stone seeds and slightest hint of vinegar pushed in the front next to a hot sauce that destroys your palate for a day.  When guests come over, I direct them to my pantry with a spoon. Oh you haven't tried real Mexican hot sauce, no worries, I've smuggled some Tapatios into Germany from my last visit to the States.  So you like hot things, try this Harissa I found in the oriental bazar last month.  Give me topic and I'll give you a sauce.  Follow my lead to fish sauce town and nobody will want to talk to you for a couple of days.  Just trust me and I'll lead you through this beautiful world called condiments.

Back to Punk

I'm a 28 year old punk again: lost, confused, and angry by the actions of my past.  I tried to be an adult, tried to live a responsible life. Worked hard to fight my attempts at flight, and fought hardest at being content with the idea of being a good husband, father, and friend cause I found somebody worth a damn – someone to grow old with.  I got pretty far, but went about it all wrong. I went at it alone.  I now know that happiness is not real unless it is shared.  So simple a concept, so easy a plan, but acknowledged too late and not expressed soon enough. Now I'm back at square something.  I won't lose what I've learned and still learning, keeping it in a bag to pull out for someone special, even if that person may not come around for some time.  Because the fact is I’m not good at casual dating.  It's just not for me. I don't need a body to grab onto, I need a personality and future to hold onto.  So I'll live my old way; a punk way. Strong, passionate, and pushing forward alone until I can rest in someone's loving arms or six feet underground.


Note: These posts were written in May 2016.

Analogy Whore and Ringmaster

Analogy Whore 

This title is an analogy; fuck me. I tend to dislike too many analogies in writing, but damn do I like making them myself [see passage below, and this whole rant]. I’m so bad at it - like I was going to name the passage below Lord of the Love, but realized I’d have to kill myself for doing something like that. But I love them because what better way to describe a shitty day than comparing it to the watching Grown Ups 2 on repeat for five years straight or saying “it was like smashing my dick between two bricks.” What’s a nicer way to tell your Mom her cat exploded? Letting her know the gory details or comparing it to a flower blossoming. I’d go with the later and maybe talk more about the happy flower shit than the mess of cat hair and guts all over the carport.

Ringmaster 

I miss companionship, embrace and ultimately love, but I have a problem of dealing with its presence too. Love’s warming touch comes with anxiety that its potency may fade or embrace may be shared with others. To love unconditionally: that’s my quest. However, in this pursuit, I've only drove myself and those willing to take the journey with me completely crazy. I’ve garnered trust, wholeheartedness, and pure love from others, but have not been able to return the favor. I doubt and behave outlandishly, making claims on irrational futuristic thoughts. Sitting on the fence waiting for it to break. I’m now officially a member of the circus I shied away from so long. But I guess knowing is power, and I plan to get better at this. Maybe one day I’ll be the ringmaster and not the hungry lion.

Personal Fashion and Vices

Personal Fashion

I'm not a fashion buff obviously. Most of my shirts and pants are wrinkled, stained (mostly mustard and coffee stains), covered in cat hair, missing zippers or buttons, and are probably home to undiscovered biological life while my shoes have many holes to prominently show everyone that my socks don't match. This slop fest is then enclosed in a giant black tortilla called a trench coat. In general, I pretty much have had the same wardrobe since high school with a few tweaks. For instance, I wear less shirts with funny phases on it like "Don't let me get my flying monkeys", and I've also thrown away most of my iconic fast food branded t-shirts after realizing that nobody goes to bed with someone labeled Taco Bell. Furthermore, I completely removed myself from the Crocs line of shoes which might be one of the smartest decisions in my life. Not that I don't think they are comfortable, but the fact that no style of that shoe is attractive - yeah, definitely not the ones with fur on it. Actually, if I ever discover a volcano, I'm dedicating it to all the UGG boots and Crocs of the world. It will have a sign on the bottom that reads "Step up to the volcano edge, take off your shoes, throw them in and start increasing your chances of getting laid." The volcano would also be named Helga and have a Dippin Dots ice cream stand because your future life without those feet dwellers should start with futuristic ice cream.

Vices

I got to start remembering that a glass of wine is not a bottle. There's something to this; everything seems simple and usually leads to something more complex. A heartbeat leads to a stroke, or more simply life leads to death. A perfect example of chaos. Vices temporarily remove us from this conclusion or maybe guides us to some kind of compromise. Its job is two-fold: to keep us from fully understanding the fucked up situations we take on or maybe make sense of them. But how many cigarettes do we have to smoke till life comes into full focus? How many drugs are needed to produce something we can accept? Everything manifests into a form that is unique to us and it is our job to interpret it. Narcotics, alcohol, and promiscuous sex can only take us down so many paths, with each road engaging new ideas or fables while truth slowly reveals itself, whispering around every bend. Consequently, you know deep-down that a fire starts from a spark, burns with a hot heat, and ends in embers. Each story a drawing board that illustrates nothing significant and is easily erasable. Divination might be the answer. Knowing that the feelings or words we want to say have no future. Maybe, it's drowning thoughts that make the most sense sometimes, and it's vices that keeps them from floating to the surface.

The Worst DJ and The Result of Too Many Rom-Coms

The Worst DJ

It’s easy to be a good DJ, but it’s even easier to be a bad one. I’m talking about playing all the right songs at all the wrong times. Spinnin’ the Thong Song at Little Timmy’s communion or droppin’ the 1998 hit single from Will Smith, Miami in Miami. This is the road to being a bad DJ, but why stop there when you can be so much worse. Yep, it’s finally time to bust out that wolf coat and dad cologne to dress the part. Maybe become a dread head or get a perm; hair-do or don’t. It’s all part of your funk and it smells so bad. Similarly, it’s time to work on those moves. Yeah, you’ve got the wave, but what about the tsunami? Take a splash with a quick dip and plug your nose, or throw callbacks to all your favorite movie bust-a-moves (Pee Wee tequila dance ya’ll). Don’t spin records, spin CDs and hit on every girl you see. You're doing great, but don’t forget to keep asking the crowd to bring you a jagerbomb.

The Result of Too Many Rom-Coms

How does it happen? A random bump, some snuggling, and then living with the ones we think are right. Is it trial and error or just giving up? Finally settling and giving into mediocrity with the mindset that it’s better than being alone. We stitch the patterns we hate. It could be better, but we compromise on the one thing that we have all the say in - love. It doesn't have to be like that. Romance is not dead; it’s still breathing. It’s reaching out for your hand with its trembling one, but it’s exhausted and tired. Not from waiting, but from trying.

Cleaning and The Reuben

Cleaning

Cleaning is less about sanitation, and more about self education. Everybody has doubts; everybody has that existential moment at the tail end of a wine glass where they ask themselves “who am I” or “what have I become.” Don’t answer these questions with a thumb up your ass and a self-delusional fantasy; get up and start cleaning. It’s opening a dusty drawer and finding that sad, expired box of condoms that really capitalizes on your state of loneliness. It’s locating a pack of unopened, thawed corn dogs wedged between a broadsword and a spare tire which truly emphasizes your laziness and love of nerd culture. Rummage through old love letters to understand your incompetence at dating or calculate your manliness by counting the number of hot sauces in your fridge. The evidence of your life is sprawled out in an unorganized fashion, hiding among clothes, camouflaged as a bookmark, or lost in a shoebox. It’s time to start playing your own, personal game of Clue where each character is another one of your characteristics and each item or setting adding support for why you portray it. It’s time to put on your detective hat, start picking up the pieces you’ve left behind and cracking the case of who you really are.

The Reuben

I don’t think it’s a secret, I love reuben sandwiches. In my opinion, they are up there with the Mona Lisa and Egyptian Pyramids as one of man’s greatest achievements with the additional advantage of being edible. In a city of sandwiches, they are a castle among clay houses. For this reason, it is tattooed to my body and eating them has become part of my lifestyle. The reuben is a simple, but complex sandwich containing an awesome combination of bitter, sour, and sweet with a huge hint of salty beef. These features are placed between two slices of lightly toasted rye bread and served hot and kinda sloppy where the cross-section resembles a Mike Myers’ victim after several months of decomposing. Sadly, the description I entail to you now is one rarely seen in the wild. Restaurants today have gotten the gall to place this darling on their menu only to deliver something that wouldn't even be accepted in a small-town beauty pageant. It’s disgusting with many faults including not enough beef, sogginess, and the worse, complete dryness. This monstrous act not only discourages the average reuben-goer from ordering them anymore, but also gives a false impression to newcomers. If you’re going to represent, represent the real deal dawg. If not, don’t half-ass it and stick to hot dogs.

Top Tens and Winter

Top Tens

This year has been a pretty busy one with the first half being a juggling act of four jobs and the second half getting knee deep into some fairly new science.   It's been a great, challenging year with a lot of long-term goals finally being realized, but not without the sacrifice of some closely held loves (e.g. music festivals, cinema, traveling, and late-night karaoke).  I'm ready to embrace the new year and replay some of the mistakes from last year.  Yes, I believe that you can learn from past mistakes, but I'd hate to go through life without them. Cheers.

Top Ten Albums

1. The National: Trouble Will Find Me
2. My Bloody Valentine: mbv
3. RVIVR: The Beauty Between
4. Flyying Colours: Flyying Colours EP
5. Disclosure: Settle
6. Iron Chic: The Constant One
7. Daft Punk: Random Access Memories
8. Postiljonen: Skyler
9. No Joy: Wait To Pleasure
10. Let it Go: Modern Atlas

Top Nine Movies (I could probably make a better Top Ten Worst Movies list)

1. Before Midnight
2. Spring Breakers
3. Gravity
4. Wolf of Wall Street
5. Blue Jasmine
6. The Way Way Back
7. Upstream Color
8. Much Ado About Nothing (Whedon)
9. This is the End

Haven't seen a lot this year (these all have potential): Her, 12 Years of Slave, The Spectacular Now, American Hussle, Nymphomaniac: Volume 1, Nebraska, Blue is the warmest color, the great beauty, Francis Ha, Monsters University, Inside Llewyn Davis, About Time, Rush, The Lone Ranger.

Winter

Winter has struck with summer love's residual heat quickly fading, leading to warmth and comfort presenting itself with the bold, helpless word WANTED.  This may come in the form of food, whisky, movies or a warm body.  If winter fantasies exist, mine would be under the cover sharing a handle of bourbon or watching The Twilight Zone with a french dip sandwich.  It's strange; winter brings the worst out of me.  I get so lost in its solace or lack of that I start thinking dating might be a good idea.  That spending some quality time with someone who is not a cat might be worthwhile.  I imagine making pillow talk about subjects with short answers or long stories with no purpose but to keep talking.  Like popping bubbles, these thoughts materialize as quickly as they fall apart, and I'm back to thinking its near-sighted and stupid.  Sitting alone in my apartment, I fight back winter's cool breeze by forecasting a storm.  It's an annual battle in an ongoing war where both sides deserve to win.

Subway and Planes

Subway

I survived the subway.  A loud, slithering tremor under the city streets that transports urban dwellers from the best parts of town to the worst, or visa-versa.  Each person a puzzle piece of an inconceivable landscape, and maybe one that no one wants finished.  From two girls blabbering about their experiences with bad relationships and how one even lost her favorite cookbook in such ordeals to another quiet girl sitting nearby drawing me the entire trip.  I knew and she didn't.  Setting her eyes, positioning her knee as a easel, she drew the homeless-looking hipster picking his wedgie and talking to himself.  Still the wheels on the subway keep turning, with each person, each in their unique get-ups and styles, playing a different part of the city sprawl.  Climbing the city ladder or falling off; Diving deep, but making little splash or worse, drowning.  You can only guess their suffering or happiness - and play their story as you see fit.

Late one night, after multiple drinks and a comedy routine, my friend (Mikey), his wife and I were in transit back home - the R train to be exact.  I sat rolling a fresh cigarette while his wife and him talked about the night’s events.  Standing up to join them, I dropped the cigarette and proceeded to pick it back up.  “Don’t smoke that please, Bob” Mikey touted.  “I've seen men smear shit all over this place, and not with their feet.  I've seen men hand-paint this place with their shit, or we can only hope it was their shit.  Even worse, there’s a lady who carries bottles of vomit and another that chases and sneezes on you.  I've seen her move train cart to train cart making sure her sneeze connects.”  This is the subway, and I love it.  It’s a place where you realize no matter how crazy you might think you are, there is always someone crazier.

Planes

To sum up my plane ride from New York: I got caught picking my nose by the prettiest passenger and the stewardess slipped me free vodka drinks.  I also learned white grown-ups love the movie Grown Ups.  Keven James is their God, Adam Sandler their Jester, and Chris Rock makes them feel less racist.  Which leads me to my next point: I’m not sure how it happens?  You know, turning old - not by age, but by attitude.  The jump from cliff-diving a situation to looking at life as a chess board, each move precise and efficient.  I know, I talk about this a lot, and yes, it’s always on my mind with a trailing response of “Ruunnnnnn!”.  But it is scary and always near, like a disease for which the only continual acts of irresponsibility and stupidity can cure.  Maybe it’s this fear that draws me to dick jokes.  One more cock reference and I’m in the clear. Like those old cootie rhymes, Dick Dick Fart Fart, now I’ve had my adulthood shot.

Regrets and Eggs

Regrets
I don't see the point in regrets.  Yes, we all make bad decisions, some more stupid than others, but you shouldn't look back in anger.  Reflect, don't regret.  Everything is a gamble and nothing is for certain.  Our worse idea could be our best.  And if it's not, learn why?  Ask questions instead of creating answers.  Chaos can lead to stability and conclusions.  The universe didn't start out perfect; it began with a big bang, followed by billions of years of unrest.  I really believe our biggest mistakes are our saving grace and the driver behind the wheel.  Applying a little rationality and checking our rear-view mirror can keep us moving forward and ready us for the road ahead.

Eggs
One of the hardest food movements to understand and support is Veganism, in particular, the absence of eggs and the reasons for that absence.  The egg is one of the most versatile, succulent, and healthy items in the kitchen, and is designed as a food.  This last point is something I want to capitalize on.  The egg is the result of a series of events that describes life as we know it.  First, the sun shines down on the plants, leading to photosynthesis.  These plants are then digested by animals for energy and nutrition.  Energy is fantastic cause it leads to sex.  Also some of this energy and nutrition will be used to create eggs.  Eggs are like the Golden Coral of the body, providing an delicious buffet for any incoming guests called sperm.  And like any individual at an endless chow fest will begin to swell and become larger with time.  But unlike them, something beautiful is born.  Now most of the eggs we eat don't get fertilized.  And it would be a shame to waste such a feast and worldly spectacle.  An atmosphere entrapped within the earth, or silvery shell.  And behind this mountain, a sky of vibrant whites with a centered, golden sun as the yolk.

Underwear and Politics

Underwear

When I was thinking of what to pair politics with, it seemed only fitting to talk about underwear.  For me, both are very confusing subjects and tend to get shit in often. So this story branches back several years ago when I was let loose from mommy's arms to run among the adults. During this time, I was struck with several dilemmas and obstacles but probably one of the biggest one was underwear.  Honestly, growing up I never really gave them too much thought - they were just another stocking stuffer along with random shit my folks found at the local dollar store (Yeah, I'll make good use of these fifteen key chains Mom) . And their appearance never struck me as something important. It's not like I was getting laid a whole bunch, I was a fat kid. So when I went to go purchase some new ones I was amazed by the variety.  So many colors and so many designs. Some very classy and some down-right weird. And so it began, a trivial pursuit for the perfect match of trunk and junk. There are several questions and a whole checklist of what needs need to be fulfilled by a good pair of long johns  but in summary, it comes down to "what's going to make my dick look awesome?" and "what's going to make my booty go pop?".  Watching too much Revenge of the Nerds growing up and wanting to stray from bedroom rejection, I opted out of whitey tighties and moved directly to briefs. Looking at the package that portrayed some super hot dude with a goddamn banana in his pants, your first thoughts are these are going to look amazing on me.  But reality quickly sinks in as you dip in and realize you are suffocating your entire lower hemisphere and at irregular times of the day half your ass just slips out.  Now, I will say I might have judged this style too harshly and maybe even unfairly. You see, at the time, I was in a donut phase and there's a possibility I bought the briefs one size too small. Next, I wiggled through a variety of thongs and bikinis, settling on a sports cut. Surprisingly, they were really comfortable and answered the previously mentioned questions to a T. But there was a problem, and I didn't know of it until I was smack dab in the middle of it. As mentioned earlier, I was a fat kid.  Not super fat, but fat enough where people would tell me to go titty-fuck myself and winter jackets weren't needed.  So to combat this problem, I was working out and avoiding buffets. Working out became the issue. The one thing I didn't think about was how someone looks when they strip down from business suit to a bright turquoise bikini in the locker room full of muscular dudes. The gazing the eyes, the chit-chat/giggles and the impossibility of getting someone to spot you ever again when using free weights.  So that was the end of the bikini. Boxers were an obvious next choice, but were a big disappointment.  Cotton caused rashes and silk ripped every time I bent over as my ass crack quickly shifted from a creek to the Mississippi.  Boxer briefs were the next run and became the all-around winner.  They make things looks good, they adapt to quickly expanding butt cheeks, and allow me to get away without trimming for a long time by hiding that oh-so-scary jungle bush.

Politics

I'm always politically incorrect and for the most part, politically ignorant. I just don't have the time nor interest to get involved - to be that radical or voice of my generation.  But I find the people involved fascinating and support their ambition for change and fighting for something better than a compromise. Their stories inspire me and I suck them down like energy drinks. Yet every time I get a political jolt from this juice, as my attention shifts from dick jokes to hard facts and headlines, I get dreary and tired.  My eyes get heavy and it's hard for me to focus.  So I move from newspaper to people, thinking their expressions will be more entertaining than print, but the tales of truth they spin are nominal at best and blur the lines of a broken record and a late night talk show.  I don't know why people can't stick to the facts rather then subjugate them to their opinions.  Opinions are fine, it's how new ideas form and movements begin, but when it comes to informing, it is better to play historian rather than fortune teller.  Also why do people keep harping on the same stuff over and over.  Get one point across and move to another, that's how conversation work and actions happen.  If a wave never crests, then it never makes an impact.  All and all, I guess I'm just more interested in people than politics.  It's a trend.  My favorite documentaries are about individuals, and my punk is about relationships.

Science-based Cooking and Seasons

Science-based Cooking

It's hard for the average cook to grasp the idea of food chemistry or looking at the molecular level of food because recipes are not setup that way.  Recipes are designed with ingredients, and ingredients are proportions, or ratios, of components that make up the dish. But within each component are even more components, or new ratios. These come in the form of proteins, lipids, carbohydrates, and other minerals and vitamins   Each of these components and their interaction, give ingredients different properties - properties that contribute to texture, taste, and smell.  For example, cookie dough as a set of ingredients, minus the liquid, is flour, sugar, and butter. Each of these ingredients can further be broken down as a protein, carbohydrate, and lipid, respectively.  And these categorical elements can be further broken down into their individual constituents.  Take the protein in flour for example, which has a large molecule, and the driving force in breads, gluten.  Gluten, as a large chain of proteins, can be further broken down as a set of gliadin and glutenin.  Each of these play major roles in the properties of baked goods. Gliadin allows the dough to stretch (and rise) while glutenin springs it back into place. Now at this level, towards the bottom of the rabbit hole, we can learn the magic behind the mystery.  We might never know why our fish died when we were young or why we have a strange fixation towards midget porn, but we can know why our food behaves the way it does.  And we can start to micro-manage its flavor-soldiers so they are more prepared for their next battle into Mordor (the oven).


Seasons


I'm seasonal with seasons. Spring brings joy, summer brings more joy, fall makes me a goddamn poet, and winter just pisses me off.  I vote, we just kind of get rid of winter.  It's a horrible time of the year.  It's cold, it raises my bills, and my dick is constantly smaller than normal.  Seriously, winter only has two perks: More hot chocolate and less stinky people.  I'm so excited it's ending and my good ol' friend, Mr. Sun, is poppin his face back into my life.  The smell of sunscreen, chicks in bikinis, a bigger dick, and all the vitamin D I need. I'm ready for a change. I'm ready to sit outside with a beer and eat lot of ice cream.  I'm ready to hike and climb a fucking mountain just to prove to Mother Nature that I'm not her bitch.  I'm done pouring my thoughts into whiskey, and ready to take an outdoor challenge and flex my arms in front of bear.

Film and Expectations

Film
I don't understand how people interested in art, particularly paintings, can just write off movies as a trivial venture.  Yeah right. A film is, in every way on the same level, and can actually be thought of as a series of paintings, or picturesque slideshow.  Each scene is scrutinously laid out to the finest detail, from lighting to outfits to colors.  If anything, crafting a good scene in cinema is much more difficult than manifesting a still. It's a collaboration of everybody working together at the same tempo - a dance where everything must be in place and synchronized   And this idea of collaboration takes me to another point, film is a group effort. It's a community while painting is usually a solo act.  Many of the early playwrights used the stage to get across a message.  To visually and audibly reverberate an idea that makes sense to the common people.  Cinema is no different, it's a language that expresses an idea in a way that makes sense.  If anything, painting should be ridiculed for being a very selfish act. In most cases, the painter is painting for himself, portraying inner emotions or his own view of the world. Now this being said, I really like painting and stills, but I'm sick of people separating it as some superior form of art.  Get over yourself.


Expectations
I got to stop hyping shit up and come back down to earth.  Every time - be it a job, a relationship, a gift - I morph its reality into a fantasy.  In my mind, every mystery plays out like a Sherlock Holmes story or Hitchcock masterpiece, full of suspense, excitement, and glory.  Every present becomes a pony, every conversation an epiphany.  Then the truth steps up and bitch slaps me in a the face and I realize there are no naked people in this porn and I'm about to get penetrated by a horse.  Each event, one after the next, is like another merry-go-round breaking. But whatever, I'll just keep chugging along with my head up high, shoe-laces tied, and walk to another park wondering if searching for the best is any different than not searching at all.

Complaints and Blackouts

Complaints

Some of my best times have come from long strolls through the store on a Sunday morning where I don't plan on buying anything, and just want to chitchat with vendors and eat their free samples.  Or late at night when I'm a little drunk and realize I'm the oldest, or worse, the last person at the party. It's simple moments like this that allow you to reflect on your self, not the image you act out. It's a timeout from the hustle and bustle of everyday life. But life doesn't have to be so bad, so busy, so meh. Change is just a left turn away. I'm sick of seeing people butthurt over things they can change.  Hey you, complainer, you're an adult and have a big boy car, go get yourself some god damn cheesy fries.  Or leave that terrible boyfriend, there are BILLIONS of people in the world, don't fret for sec.  Life ends eventually, don't wade around in floaters at the local pool, go find yourself a board and hit the big waves.  In summary, remember what the Snickers guy said:
"Happy peanuts soar
Over chocolate covered mountaintops
And waterfalls of caramel.
Prancing nougat in the meadow
Sings a song of satisfaction
To the world."


Blackouts

Every year has its trends.  Some trends are good, others are slightly disastrous   It's all part of growing up, I guess. Making bad decisions, and realizing you probably shouldn't do that again. Anyways, one weird phase I went through a couple of years ago was blacking out. And within that phase there were other phases of activities.  These ranged from wrestling strangers to sleeping in weird locations (which might still happen).  One particular favorite blackout activity was a collaboration of philosophy, booze and digital ink.  Basically, every morning I would wake up to a new notepad text saved on my desktop with a singular title, usually in all caps.  Titles varied depending on what I was drinking.  Tequila featured "REALITY SHOWS" while vodka starred "DIAMONDS". Here is a pretty good one entitled "MONEY".  I can't exactly recall a specific sustenance during the night, but it seems like a combination of gin and lots deep-fried food.  Enjoy, and beware, a lot of this does not make any sense and is very repetitive.



Money
Money is a bitch.  It's a rightious notion of sophistication.  Life is not happy making money.  It involves a job that takes long hours and a waste of time.  Some people make it easy.  Some people are born with that silver spoon.  A life of endless pleasures without any steps or procedure of securing a spot in time.  I would like a life like that. Where i don't have to produce the time nor fabrication of life.  Ideas are all part of the mind.  It's a object that enjoys itself in your mind.  A counterpart to reality;  a concept of what could be.  Most ideas are those constructed in your mind and hold no real truth.  But there is still those ideas that could make profit.  If you pursue it, you could make a wealthy living or forever be in debt.  It's the risk of following a passion.  A life assessment that not only follows a continuation of possibilities  but also attributes to your own belief of life after the next.  Don't follow money.  Don't hold it as an asset.  Let it be as itself.  Let it progress with time with no dependency.  With a job it will grow and appreciate.  Without one it will stand the test of time.  Don't worry about.  It will grow in time just like life.  It will shrink and it will bulge.  If you worry, you will know nothing but misery.  Money has a way of blockading your life.  It shows itself at times of need and hides during times of relaxation.  Money is a bitch and shouldn't be perpetuated with the philosophy of happiness.  Happiness is the key to life.  It's what we strive for in life.  To be happy and not care about the monetary or greedy things in life.  Once a week I get a statement from my bank.  It's a accumulation of spontaneous spending and the usual utility bills.  I don't look at it.  I see it in the mail box; standing on it's own next to other bills and common discount pamphlets   I walk into my house and greet my roommates.  Then I proceed to my room, sit in rolling chair and find the nearest pair of scissors.  I take the scissors and start cutting the statment without indulging on my curiosity.  Why bother?  I know the statement has a number.  I know these number will concern me.  I know I have enough money to cover it.  I don't front.  I just rip it, or in most cases, cut it up into pieces.  Numbers have a way of complicating things.  It creates the illusion called reality.  It fills life with propagation if responsibility and responsibility   Who needs that shit?  It only complicates life and create a burden of weight on your back. I'm sure there is morw dire measures that need attendance   Why add money to your list?  Yes, money allows you to fulfill most of your desires.  Traveling, luxurious items, and the random freemason messages, but worrying about it does not make it progress.  Worrying about money only creates censured consciousness.  I'd rather be thinking about random shit than worrying about number.  Pandas, space ships, and tolken elves are more important and more predictable than the propagation of money.  Spend your attention on something more concrete.  Find time to enjoy yourself.  Buy a sandwich and beer and head to your favorite park.  Take a stroll outside your neighborhood and enjoy the outdoors.  You only live once;  find time to enjoy that life.  Money is a bitch that only distracts you from the limited time of life.  Don't be worried about things outside your controls; enjoy things that you can actually make an impact on yourself.   A reasonable perception is one that digs through the dirt and finds that gem.  It can be a diamond or a quart. The value is dependent on yourself.  You create the valuee thus creating the adventure.  Live free without responsibility, and take a walk on the side you've never ventured.

Top Tens and A Twist of Fate

Top Tens
I know I'm a little late to this party, but here's my top tens.  If it makes you feel better, I wrote them up several weeks ago and have been carrying them around in my right coat pocket along side an eye-patch, chapstick, and loose coffee beans.

Movies
1. The Master
2. Silver Linings Playbook
3. Anna Karenina
4. Beast of the Southern Wild
5. Skyfall
6. Looper
7. Life of Pie
8.Project X
9. Prometheus
10. Moonrise Kingdom
Still need to see: Les Miserables, The Session, Holy Motors, Beyond the Black Rainbow, To The Wonder

Music
1. Mixtapes
2. Wild Nothing
3. Hot Chip
4. Eternal Summers
5. Japandroids
6. Ravonettes EP + Dum Dum Girls EP (I know this is cheating, but go fuck yourself)
7. Chairlift
8. Ice Choir
9. Teenage Botttlerocket
10. Title Fight

Honerable Mention: Gaslight Anthem, Menzingers, Cheap Girls, Titus Adronicus, Fidler, Tamaryn, Frankie Rose

Favorite song playlist:
http://open.spotify.com/user/kingfunk/playlist/7r3JhMimgXhW6fygEuKltP


A Twist of Fate

I've never understood it, but one word can completely change a situation (or warp it).  For some, one word makes outcomes become switchable, actions seem tangible, and motives logical.  Maybe cinema is the one to blame, where hours are stressed to come up with that one heart-throbbing phrase.  I think people blur the line between fantasy and reality.  I think people expect too much.  Not all humans are created equal. Our differences are what make our species unique.  Some stay focus, while some digress.  Some talk fast and on-queue, and other's best ideas are moments behind their time.  It's the total package that should matter, not the wrapping paper.  Don’t fall in love with someone by the twist of their tongue; fall in love with someone by the sum of their parts.

Booze Clues and Ballet

Booze Clues
I'm working on a new short called Booze Clues.   Here's a small sample of it transcribed into a narrative.

It's Sunday morning, Anthony wakes up on a couch half his size and a head throbbing something awful.  First thoughts are a series of questions: what time is it, where am I and what happened last night.  It's time to play a game of booze clues.  First clue, the phone.  Now, where the hell is the phone?  Back pocket, no.  Front pocket, no.  Anthony scans the room, only to be paralyzed by the shock that he's lost his vision, and then moments later realizes his glasses are not on.  Finding them stuck to the side of his hip, he rescans the room.  Nope, no phone in sight.  Sitting up, he realizes the vacuum-like presence of the couch. Tearing it part, removing one overstuffed cushion after the next, the black hole nature of the couch starts to reveal all the poor saps it's consumed over the years.  Toys, monopoly money, real money, lots of hair, and yes, his phone.  Now he's got the evidence for the next set of questions: who did he call and what kind of crazy shit did he text.  Jane, Judy, Rosie, yep,  he had a typical liquored up, horndog agenda.  Wait, those are all characters off the The Jetsons, maybe he had two agendas.  Regretting a lot of stuff, he decides it's time to get up and find out where the fuck he is.  Clue two, the house.


Ballet
Everybody has got something that just works for them.  For me, it's ballet. I love ballet.  It opens up new doors and speaks directly to me.  It defines love, and it's the closest thing to perfection I've ever known. Ballet is a language that transcends the delinquency of reality by creating an isolated alternative between the dancer and its viewer.  For the dancer, each move, from grand-plie' to demi-pointe, visualize brush strokes of color on a canvas of sound.  And for each viewer, a different image is painted.  That's the beauty of it all.  There is no wrong; there is no right.  There is just the truth that unfolds for each individual.  As one act takes place on stage, another takes place in the mind.  Every detail, from cosmetics to choreography, intermingle with thoughts already present and adapts accordingly to each of their needs.  Each step, each note, mold into answers to solve riddles once neglected.  It's magically wonderful.

Here's one of my favorites, a scene from The Red Shoes.  It's a performance of the play The Red Shoes, which is an adaptation of a fairy tale by Hans Christian Andersen.

And here's the opening scene of Pina Bausch take on Stravinky's Rite of Spring.

Writing and Sanity

Writing
I'm definitely better on paper than I am in person. With a pen and some paper, ideas are easily transcribed into flowing text.  The intangible becomes tangible, with abstract thoughts becoming clear, detailed paragraphs with a punch.  It amazes me, how I can write something with power and emotion, but when telling somebody similar thoughts, my mouth becomes an idiot box oozing out nothing but gobbledygook.  I bet Bill Cosby is an excellent writer.  Maybe it's the benefit of time.  Time to think, time to explore new words.  Maybe it's the time given to reflect on the first thought, which for me, usually makes absolutely no sense.  I enjoy writing a lot, and I've been spending more time translating my bad ideas into words. It's not only fun, and sometimes very amusing, but also extremely cathartic.  It's nice to just vomit out my thoughts rather then let them manifest into some crazy Japanese creature, like Godzilla or even worse, Mechagodzilla.  Some wild beast that is continually biting at my heels and haunting me with sequel after sequel.   It's like stepping on an ant before your Dad accidentally makes you and your friends tiny with a shrink ray.  You know what I mean.  It feels good.

Sanity
The real difference between a sane and insane person is the insane person shows it.  In truth, we're off our fucking rockers. Instead of focusing on what's on hand, the present, our mind distractedly take us back to the past or unreliably predicts the future.  Bored and in search of a challenge, our minds ignore the controllable and explore the deceptive nature of our shadows. Reminiscing on old conversations, a habit that won't die young, by replaying and rehashing actions taken and words spoken at different times to different people.  Like re-questioning oneself open-ended riddles where the answer doesn't matter.  Time after time, we ignore the ability to forget, rather than remember.  We need to let time be time and allow it take part in resolving issues past due, and what it doesn't heal, we need to grow up and be a fucking adult.


One of my new favorites

Short Story and Hidden Evolution

Short Story
A boy walks down an abandoned trail.  It's quiet, only his foot steps and the wind can be heard.  Fall time is here, and the trees and the ground are vibrant in hues of orange and amber.  Once plump in for the summer, the trees now shed pounds to fatten the ground.  Walking along this scene, the boy keeps hearing sounds in the distance.  A snapping twig on his right, a wounded animal on his left.  One after the other, he turns his head towards the source, only to just miss their presence.  The wind begins to pick up.  The trees begin to wheeze, their leaves start to dance and twirl.  Twisting and turning, forming, the leaves shift from random to sequential, and move around the boy as a troupe of cyclones.  Clanking and clonking, they rise up and down along the path like a bunch of bullies.  The leaves soon begin to form patterns.  The boy recognizes this at once and begins calling out their outlines in his head.  It's a game of "I spy" with nature as the narrator.  First, he spots a large lion's head, then a flock of of birds.  The cyclones merge together to form a wall, or a canvas as the boy would like to think.  Shapes immediately begin to appear in the thick brush.  A tire swing, a car, the grand canyon, and maybe a house.  The images go away and multiple types of clocks appear.  Two wall clocks on the left, two pocket watches on the right, and a large grandfathers clock in the middle.  The grandfathers clock belches a violent chime and the leaves cave over each other forming a waterfall.  Out of the center of the waterfall walks out a leaf doppelganger of the boy.  The boy stares at this makeshift mannequin and it stares back.  They acknowledge they are the same.  Moments later, an adult leaf-man walks out of the same foliage waterfall and places his hand on the boy's head. The leaves blow off the adult to reveal a flesh-toned young man in his thirties.  The makeshift boy explodes into a random assortment of leaves, and the waterfall ceases to be.  The young man walks towards the boy.

Hidden Evolution
Contradictions.  Everyday, I change my mind on how I should act, what I should do, and how I should do it.  The day I stop contradicting myself, is the day I die. Life is a perpetual equation of ideas of the past and experiences that might change current pretenses or solidify its undertaking. Evolution does not stop at the physical, it only began there. I once read that "we've limited ourselves as the top of food chain, and thus, stopped evolution in its tracks."  I don't believe this.  Everybody is constantly evolving, be it their physical persona or mental state.  We continually stride to understand our surroundings and adapt ourselves to its will. Yesterday, I might have toast after reading an article about the benefits of wheat, but today I eat beets for its defensive ability against cancer. The material we digest results in the behavioral changes we proclaim and encompass. Reading a book might change one's mind about drugs, or open a door way to a more sustainable life. Ideas are power, and the better presented, the better used. Evolution hasn't stopped, it's just taking different channels.  Through literature, film, and stills, ideas can be presented in multiple mediums that can speak to the masses.  One by one, we find what works for us, and use it like a medicine. Prescribing daily to its doctrine.  We take information and evolve it to fit our own understanding. Our minds then disseminate its meaning to further its own agenda. We use analogies for comparisons to complete the sentences we once started. Evolution has not stopped. It's only buried, and wrapped up in our brains.