Spell check is not fool-proof.

In telling me that "sensored" is not in spell check, the computer offered the following words in its stead:

Sneezewort - A plant with multiple uses, though poisonous to livestock
Xenosauridae - A genus of lizards known as "knobby lizards"
Sneezeworts - As in plural of sneezewort.

I stucked with sensored, as in "the items were sensored to prevent theft."

Testing

In discussing the Miley Cyrus/Radiohead feud -

Myself - "When she told the radio hosts it was Radiohead, they started dissing on them, but you know if Radiohead was in the studio, they would be sucking them off. Proverbially, proverbially."

Micah - with incredulity - "For realz, for realz. And you would, too and you know it! If they said they wanted to do a Racket exclusive, and that's all you had to do, you'd say 'Point the way.'"

Sometimes I can't handle Micah's sudden outbursts.

No, Mr. Sushi place worker.

No, I will NOT stop singing Styx at the top of my lungs. I am the renegade who had it made. (Breaks into face-melting (air) guitar solo!)

In what I claim to be a fair "you buy, I fly" tradeoff, I got myself an ice cream cone while getting my manager's El Pollo Loco. I don't think Mad Cow would be as good of a name for a competitor.

Agressively Mediocre in Every Single Way

"Digital Editions: The Fastest Growing Format in Magazines." Fucking DUH. With print collapsing on itself in the current model, and with DVD-based mags nearly extinct, Digital seems to be one of the only ones still around, Racket included. I don't know where I was going with this, I was just annoyed.

This weekend was productive.

FRIDAY = 

• Woke up early to work at the Cabazon store. Prank called the staff. Something about pissing off the wife and looking for chocolates big enough to put midol in.
• Got drunk with Mike and found ourselves drunkenly walking to several sushi places before settling on the party platter of super-shitty pre-made stuff at Vons. Ate that on the way to CVS where we got our standard chips and spicy bean dip. I have a bruise where Mike hit me in the elbow. I don't want to know how his nuts felt after getting kicked.
  
• Lots of Top Gear. Jeremy LOVES the Ford GT!

An actual conversation

Caitlin: What is Don't Stop Believing About anyways?

The Emperor: The Tooth Fairy

Caitlin: Figures. I thought it was about prostitutes. Gay ones.

The Emperor: It's ACTUALLY about the Cabazon Dinosaurs.

Caitlin: Gay ones?

The Emperor: Yes.

Caitlin: I knew it! You know how I know you're gay? You like gay dinosaurs.

The Emperor: I don't like them like them, but I respect their love. Do you know the divorce rate for straight dinos?

the lion's claws are sharpened for war

Oh, blog, I'm sorry to have ignored you. I try to write more to be able to, you know, write more, and I end up writing a bunch of shit for racket, but ignore you. Let's see what I have been up to:

Car was finally diagnosed as having a clogged catalytic convertor. I guess by catalysts were not being converted properly, causing high temperature exhaust gases to back up in the exhaust manifold, both cracking it and damaging the head gasket enough to allow hydro-carbons (water carbons?) to leak into the cooling system. As I know that the crack in the manifold was there two years ago when Honda "fixed" my car, I know that Honda in Victorville is going to be ass-reamed on the next business day.

- Thank you for calling ValleyHi Honda, how can I help you?

- Yes, you can start off by determining which service technician was the most substandard and ass-rape him with a splintered broom handle. Or give me $5000 that I have paid to fix this problem over the course of two years. Plus interest.

Rather than replace the parts, it was only slightly more costly to replace the entire engine to one that had 120,000 miles less on it. All over it and my car runs/sounds fantastic. Of course I didn't have nearly enough money to pay for it, so my grandpa paid for it, and I will be paying him back over the course of the next three months. Suck-tastic. To help do so, I have picked up some part time gigs with Guerilla Union flyering for/working Paid Dues on the 28th. Plus, Rock the Bells gets announced on April 7th, so I'll start flyering for that then. If anybody needs odd jobs done, lemme know.

I am still particularly over my day job, and have expanded my job search to Southern California from within 25 miles of San Dimas. If by the end of summer I am still dissatisfied, I expand it to the whole country, as I am not loyal to the West coast as much as I am to Southern California. If I betray her, I might as well go big. This was partially inspired by Josh Sullivan and his Fifty Two Friends project. Seeing someone my own age, and in a very similar position as I am in go balls to the wall on scoping out the country, I can suck it up and move away to something new. We'll see if I have the balls to do it.

I picked up Josh for week 9 of Fifty Two Friends, from Amanda of all people. I was definitely stressing out on the drive there trying to imagine how that would go down, as the last thing she said to me was that she was happier without me in her life and to not try to talk to her again. So, imagine my surprise when, upon meeting at the Mira Mesa In N Out, we all sat down and had a delicious meal with a side of pleasant and civil conversation! Patrick and I agreed, In N Out is hallowed ground, no arguements are to be had! She's doing well, which was nice to hear, and it was nice to talk to her, as even during heated arguements, we would get sidetracked telling of adventures, misadventures and inane details of mundane events. Though it did sting a bit when, after saying goodbye to Josh, she didn't even make eye contact with me or say goodbye. I expected less than what i got, so whatever. It made me feel a bit less like San Diego was her turf, so I may head down more often again.

I had an amazing time with Josh, as it's always nice to spend a week being absolutely ridiculous while getting drunk and walking to the bowling alley, bowling itself, Los Angeles for an interview with Amber Benson of Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Hollywood for Pink's and Amoeba and random mountain hikes.

I went and visited Shannon in Sacramento taking Josh to the tenth leg of his 52-part adventure, and it was solid. The light rail seemed legit and on time, smog free, and the "ghetto peeps" were not particularly ghetto. I could bring all types of Pomona street cred with me! Shannon's always a blast to hang out with and is one of the few veggies that doesn't give me shit for being an omnivore. Josh was kind enough to let me have the couch for two nights and The Watchmen was standard. I was pleased with it, even if I did have to pee most of the time.

I may very well take the CBEST and try to become a substitute teacher, solid way to make some extra cash, Wes has been doing it for a while now, and enjoys it. There's tons more going on, but the more I think about it, the more overwhelming it is. I will try to chip away at anything that's eating me while still attempting to simply practice writing on a more regular basis.

Some have the bomb lyrics, my lyrics just bomb.

I burn through music like a molotov in a fireworks stand. I listen to the melodies, the harmonies, the rhythms, the lyrics and everything that weaves itself throughout. I don't have the power to attach words to notes that can cause lovers to intertwine their fingers a bit harder, nor do I have the power to help someone move past the misguided attempts at "staying strong" and just letting out the pain in a flood of tears. Not only do I desire to wield such powers, I find myself horribly susceptible to them. Whether it's a young troubadour crooning about lost love or a group of musicians forming a tapestry of emotions that wraps around you. There are songs that, in the message of being all alone, console you and there are songs that make you laugh and dance uncontrollably. 

There are songs in which I pump my fists and scream and there are songs which cause me to shut down my perceptions and face the mistakes and regrets I have, wondering what I could have done differently, and there are songs which make me feel stupid for having ever second guessing myself. Can I one day take the reigns of language and direct it towards my purpose? What is my purpose. I write and write and write, and yet, I don't feel like I have anything to say anymore. Did I ever? 

What a weird effing dream

I just woke up from a dream where I was working in a record store that was on a school's campus with Tara, who is an online friend. We were getting a visit from some people who were some kind of accreditation types. One looked like Pierce Brosnan and the other like Tina Fey. The Tina Fey look a like was a bitch, quizzing students about classes left and right in the music shop. While she looked around, some other of my co-workers would pass by, including a dude who looked like Jax from Mortal Kombat II, but no cybernetic arms. 

Tina Fey chick started asking me about Against Me! lyrics, and I was utterly confused. 

I asked her what the hell she was talking about, and she said she wanted to hear them. I was stoked, so I ran over to one of the registers and got open a copy of As The Eternal Cowboy. Tara and I started rocking it as students would come and go, including two Asian dudes dressed as Romans (I had assumed it was Greek Week) and two Hispanic chicks who looked lost and scared. 

And here is where it gets weird: my dream cuts to a side shot of some reptilian-humanoid shouting shit like "Earth! We have come and we will win. (Whatever he called his people)! Do not worry about your landings (I got a vision of a ship landing) or your mannings (an image of a transformation from lion-esque to humanoid)! Tear all the creatures apart! (Back to the side shot of the leader) From the bears (a black and white, very stylized image of a creature taking a chunk out of a bear's shoulder) to the humans (The Jax-looking dude getting backhanded). Do not let anyone live, for we shall conquer!"

Now, he was reptilian, but it looked as if most of his muscles on his face were exposed, having a few patches of scales on his cheeks that would slide back so he could open his mouth wider. Looked similar to the scaly dude from The Last Starfighter, but a bit darker and the entire exposed muscles thing.  

Having pulled a shotgun from underneath the counter, I was ready to kill the creature that attacked pseudo-Jax, but the dude grabbed the creature's head and smashed it into the counter. He said something like "If destroying the brain works for zombies, it'll work for these fucks." Pierce Brosnan dude, who just kind of smiled at how much of a bitch Tina Fey was the entire time took off his coat to show that he had several guns on him. He and Fey informed us that they had an idea that these schmucks would be landing around the school, and that it was saturated with special agents. 

Then I woke up to my phone, and my immediate need to pee. Bust. 

There's no need to pretend

Hector gave me the following to write a story in ten minutes:

Three names: Lucy, Jane, Steve. Location: Golden Gate Bridge. Sitch: Taxi gets held up.

I came up with this: 

"Taxi!”

Steve pulls up to the curb. “Chicks are hot” he thought. “Where to?”

“Oakland.” Steves knows which one is the butch.

“You sure you don’t want to wait? The bridge is going to be pure shit right now.”

“Is this because we’re queer?!” Her voice was piercing.

“No, ma’am, you can put your clit against as many clits as you want. This is because the bridge is going to be pure shit.”

“It’s OK, Jane and I will find a way to pass the time.” The femme’s voice is far more tolerable. They clamor into the cab and Steve pulls away. He’s been driving long enough to know when to make small talk, and when to warn about the fees associated with bodily fluids. This was the latter.

“Any clean-ups cost extra!”
“Then I better not get Lucy too worked up, she’s a squirter.”
“Well, good for Lucy, but bad for my upholstery.”

Ten minutes went by of sloppy lips and the stale scent of fruity wine coolers from the back seat and Steve barely noticed. He had the Da Vinci Code on.

At the last light before the bridge, he notices a scraper pull up. If you aren’t familiar with a scraper, it’s what happens when you put 23” tires in a wheel well made for 17” tires. Usually on a land yacht and usually blaring some kind of rap about weed. Next, Steve notices the gun tapping on his back window. “Heh.”

The girls scream, Steve tries not to be too ecstatic that the girls are getting held up and not him. Jane, the butch, gives him a purse. The kid in a black hoodie jumps back in the scraper and they take off towards the bridge.

“I will give you $200 bucks if you catch up with him.”
“With what wallet?”
Jane pulls a wallet out of her back pocket. She’s totally the butch.

Steve drives towards the bridge in no big rush.
“Hurry the fuck up, why are you going so slow?!”
“The bridge is going to be pure shit.”

And with that, Steve pulls up next to the scraper, which was now sitting in a quarter mile of stopped cars. He sees Jane pop out of the back seat, run up to the scraper, which, of course has the windows down, blaring weed-rap, and unleashes with her entire bottle of pepper spray.

She sits back in the car, with Lucy’s purse and an extra gun.

“You’re right, the bridge is pure shit.”

You motherfucks.

Tonight's big news in California is that our state legislature can not agree to a state budget. With the budget one Republican vote shy of the votes needed to pass. All because they don't want ANY tax increases on a state that makes more money than dozens of countries. As they can not pull their heads out of their collective asses, TENS OF THOUSANDS of people are going to get notices that they will more than likely be laid off. I will pay an extra cent on the dollar for sales and 12 cents on the gallon of gas for TENS OF THOUSANDS of my fellow Californians to keep their jobs. 

I make $16 an hour. That ain't shit. Even with me stressing paying to fix my car so it doesn't overheat and upcoming dental bills, I will do that, because it will cost us so much more money we don't have NOT to do it. Republicans currently have a persecution complex because the Republican Party has never even come close to the coolness factor that the Democrats have. Obama gets a painting that says "Hope." from the dude who does OBEY GIANT, and Bush gets "Not My President" from Fat Wreck Chords. 

They lost and they lost hard, and now, taking a cue from the Democrats party icon, are being as stubborn as a mule. Whether it's the Congressional Republicans in Washington or the state yuppies representing Irvine, Republicans today are fighting what they may or may not believe to be the good fight. Crips vs. Bloods, Republicans vs. Democrats, it's all gang fights over turf and street cred. Instead of a stray bullet taking out a five year old, however, when we ge caught in the cross fire. lives are RUINED. Ten thousand layoffs equals ten thousand foreclosed homes, ten thousand repossessed homes and ten thousand more people on our already bucking unemployment system. 

With the economy reeling all across the country, this is not the kind of shit simply can't be allowed. NO TAXES is not an acceptable stance in the world of compromise and doing what's best for as many people as possible. While I understand that wanton spending will do us as much harm as spending nothing, this weird level of stinginess needs to knock it off.  Republicans: knock it off. 

My words splinter upon contact

Ugh, after my last teen-angsty post, I need a more lively one, yea? Well, here goes. 

I have an inexplicable love of lemon scent. I mean, don't get me wrong, lemonade is delish, but lemon candles, lemon candy, even lemon soap all smell goddamn amazing. I even made the mistake of assuming the Burt's Bees lemon-scented cuticle cream would taste exactly as it smelled. This was not the case. While smelling like a citrus nirvana, it tasted like earwax and drywall. Not the sharpest move on my part, but then again, I have not been known for my smooth moves and grand decision making skills. 

I also really love the smell and taste of fake banana flavoring, but absolutely hate real bananas. There is a combination of texture and taste that don't seem natural nor harmonious. Instead, I feel like maybe that's what an albino's crap looks like. Ignorant, I know, but that is a theory I held until at least fourth grade. 

I think fourth grade is the one I remember least. Kindergarten I remember a few things: my introduction to nachos, paper mache planets, and the goddamned luau. Some song about a hookie-lau or some shit. First grade was Mrs. Lemoine's class. I remember for a show and tell, one of the girls brought a huge effing snake. Also, this is when a young puppy followed Jay and I to school, where I just told people he was my dog. My teacher told me to take him home, which now-a-days would just scream "KIDNAP ME!!" But, in Redlands in 1987, I was safe as could be. Took the dog to my mom, and somehow she named it Kima. Stupid name. Then again, Kima was a stupid dog. 

Second grade was when I first started getting into writing. Chocolate ice cream raining from the sky, a giant war-turtle with missiles in his shell and of course, the story with "the bastard rhinos." See, I once stayed home sick and watched Days of Our Lives with my mom. Marlena called Stefano a bastard, I asked my mom what that meant. She told me it meant "very bad man," so of course, I used it in a story in which I read out loud to my classmates. This did not go well.

Third grade I was in a class with both third and fourth graders. I remember making a model of the San Juan Capistrano mission out of sugarcubes. I also remember eating a bell tower, glue and all. Fourth grade was a ripoff. All I remember is that instead of being 3rd and 4th grade, it became 4th and 5th. I also remember Casey Curry ratting me out after I threw a stink bomb because he's a narc.

Fifth grade started me at Kingsbury Elementary instead of McKinley. Both had a bear as a mascot, but Kinsgbury was a year-round school. I thought one of the schedules, "D-track," had the best set of times off, but as I was a "gifted" student, I was put on B-track. Rip. However, we did have no shortage of cute girls in my class. There was the twins, Amy and Amanda Lopez. Amy was cute, her sister... not so much. Jen Dahlin was cute, too, but far more upscale than I ever would be. Sixth grade found me reading and being generally anti-social. I did, however, make a lucrative business out of the comic book market. If you bought the entire collection, you could sell it for more in pieces. Nice. I suppose sixth grade is where I learned all I needed to about economics. 

The world has turned and left me here.

I have tried fourteen different ways of starting this blog, each comes off as more pompous than the one before. Jesus. I don't know how I want to tackle this. I can't help but dwell and be bitter about where I am in my life in comparison to where I wanted to be in my life at this time five years ago. I have been out of school for over a year now, and am nowhere closer to a job in the industry I studied for, I have had nothing resembling a meaningful romantic relationship in over two years, and even with the housing market crash, I am no where nearer to owning my own home. 

I am, however, improving myself, if not my predicament. I have controlled what used to be a bloodlust for Dr. Pepper, having had 6 since October 12th, 2008. I drink iced tea with lemon like Courtney Love does drugs, though. Unsweetened, so whatever. I am, at last count, 16 pounds lighter than I have been in several years. I have a cat that, though pretty stupid, is very loving and cuddly. By pretty stupid, I mean he's dumb as hell. Really really dumb. I live with 4 of the raddest rommates I could ask for. While we have gone through several house line-up changes, we are definitely at the best yet. Fucking Elder. Fuck that dude. 

I was recently in my best friend's wedding, and it makes me feel like shit to know that it was one of the few times in recent years that A) I agreed with a friend's decision to get married and B) I was happy for someone else being happy. Jesus. What an asshole. With the onslaught of updates from Facebook, MySpace and god knows what other data streams feeding my images of happiness from those who I know to be complete wastes of time, I can't help but feel that there is a pheromone I emit that causes a flight response from others. 

I know that's not true, but it's hard to see a light at the end of the tunnel when you've been in a fucking tunnel for two years. How Columbus didn't off himself is beyond me. I was doing better a couple days ago, but I was set off again by the following bits at work. 

1 - 9% of the company's staff was laid off, including my Regional Manager, the Corporate Head of Investigations, and two other corporate people from my department.

2 - A 90-day review was administered to me this month. I have been with the company since April. Seven months later and I get "At Target". OK, I have some things to work on, and most things I'm OK at. Fine. 

3 - Less than two weeks later I am given a "Formal Action Plan" - a step down from a warning. It's a Shape Up or Else form. Everything on it was based not on my performance compared to previous employees, or a standard, but what is EXPECTED at a high-loss store. In the six months I have been at the store, I have stopped or helped stop nearly $50K in loss, which is 20% of the loss for the prior year. Fuck that. 

4 - My boss who gave it to me said that it was prepared by the guy who was laid off, but he had to administer it. Because of the lay-offs, everyone's freaking out and trying to cover their own ass. 

5 - I came back from lunch when my boss was at my store and found that he had spent the hour I was away looking up different jobs and/or schools. This did not bode well for me, and I immediately started stressing out. 

6 - I was not paid for two days, causing me to be $250 short from where I thought I would be, or $250 worth of being fucked in the ass.

Jesus. I am a college-educated, experienced young man, and the best I can do is making sure purses have a fucking security sensor on them? Dammit. No wonder I feel like a failure. I try to pass the time with smiles and jokes, and try not to go crazy on the eating. This bit is tricky because cooking is great stress relief for me, but eating while depressed is what got me into this damned predicament in the first place.  I have a couple times now made food I planned on putting away until I needed it, only to have my roommates devour my chilli. Granted, I usually give them a bunch, but this was the first time I was genuinely irritated that they ate it all. 

I had to go and do dishes to calm myself down, as I really like my roommates and don't need to lash out them because I'm having a rough time. My only real anchor to the world of calm is my friend Laura, who is as analytical as you can get and can decipher and translate vague descriptions of raw emotions into something useful and can help guide me to a slightly more practical resolution. However, when you have someone that you can turn to for emotional support, you can easily add too much burden on them, and use them as either a crutch, or a space-saver for a romantic relationship, neither of which would be either appropriate or deserving to her. 

Thus, I often feign comfort, not just around her, but at work, around friends and family. I stress and stress, trying to reach out and grab something tangible and solid. The best I can do is hold on to delicate strings of friendship, which, in combination with others slows me down, but none of which I believe are strong enough to pull myself up by. 

I still bitch about spinning my wheels at work, I still don't understand why I am attracted to weirdos and eccentrics, I still fear making big changes in my life and I still fear that I am going to be miserable for a long time coming. Will I still be working an entry level job in three years with a boss who is working towards his online AA degree? Will I still be second guessing myself that maybe a reformed cokehead deserves a second chance? Will I be the last one renting a house with 4 college students while everyone else has gone on? Fuck. Will I ever be on solid ground? 

I used to be a pillar of strength, now I am a gelatinous mess of a person. How the fuck did I get here? How the fuck do I get out?

Facism is Fashion Forward -or- the Preferences of Pedophiliac Priests

Anyone who knows me knows I am pretty cheap when it comes to clothing items. I wince when I fork over $20 for a band's shirt at their show, but I know that it's helping them out and I'm repping a band or artist who I think is the shit. Also, it serves as an advertisement to others: "Hey, I like this band, and if you do, too, let's be friends." It's a very easy way to filter through people. If I see someone wearing an Insane Clown Posse shirt, I can compare the stereotypical thoughts that spring to mind when I think of ICP fans, to what kind of person I want to associate with and immediately know that I want nothing to do with this person. It's a sort of personal risk management assessment. 

Anyways, I'm getting sidetracked. I work in an outlet for a high-end clothing retailer, you know, one of the ones that uses phrases like "fashion-forward" and "couture" and where Prada and Gucci are purchased as impulse buys like they are a pack of Juicy Fruit. I was walking through the store, passing the same clothes I have passed hundreds of times when I realized that what I had originally mistaken for a chain link pattern on a hoodie meant for 6 year olds was NOT a chain link pattern, but in fact, an array of nooses. Or is it neese? Is noose the plural of noose? Either way, that's the pattern on a hooded sweatshirt made for CHILDREN by the Ed Hardy line by Christian Audigier (pronounced awd-ee-gee-air, try to sound as condescending as possible when you say it.) 

Don "Ed" Hardy is a tattoo artist known for his "classic" style or work. If you think of the tattoos associated with the navy during WWII, that's the style. However, he licenses tons of stuff to Audigier, who slaps them on t-shirts, sweaters, hats and pajamas and sells them for a pretty fucking penny. Our cheapest shirt is $41.99, with most running in the $65-99 range for a t-shirt, and at least a hundred dollars for a hoodie. You don't even want to know the price range when they BeDazzle them. Seriously. They have sequins and shit, and it ups the price another 20-25%. 

Well, I actually looked at it and felt that it wasn't appropriate. Me, the guy who thinks kids getting hurt is the funniest thing ever and cusses like the dickens. I breathe in air and exhale the word "fuck," and I think it's inappropriate. What's this world coming to? 

I just feel that each and every parent that shops for their children here, who spends $100 on a pair of jeans for their 5 year old, thinks of their child as an accessory. How Paris Hilton walks around with a rat dog in a pink, diamond-encrusted pink Juicy Couture bag, that's how parents here see their children. How can they use them to accentuate their L.A.M.B. bags and Micheal Kors purse. Here is an ACTUAL conversation I heard at our Orange County location:

Mom: We should get Kaylee these jeans!
Dad: Which ones are they?
Mom: Seven For All Minkind.
Dad: Oh, yea, they're supposed to make her butt look better.

At this point, I turned to see them holding jeans meant for a FUCKING THREE YEAR OLD! I mean, honestly. Here's what I expect a future conversation has in store for young Kaylee.

Mom: Honey, what do you want for your sweet sixteen?
Kaylee: An abortion!
Mom: Another one? OK, but just this once.
Dad: Damn, Kaylee, your ass looks great in those jeans!

Gah. It's fucking disgusting. And, as I need money to support myself, and this job provides said money, I had to bite my tongue and go on with my day. Honestly, though, who buys $100 jeans that not only will your child outgrow in a matter of months, but buys them with the understanding, and even the desire, to make their 3 year old's ass desirable. Jesus.  I can't believe this kind of shit. And people wonder why there's pedophiles out there. 

You know what, I have time, let me go off on the Catholic Priest scandals. You may or may not know the following background I have with religion:
- My Great Grandmother was one of the founding members and a Deaconess of Inland Christian Center, a Non-denominational church in Colton, CA. 
- I went to said church for nearly a dozen years.
- I taught 1st and 2nd grade sunday school for two years
- I was assistant teacher to the 6th grade doctrine class, the equivalent of catechism for the Catholics. 
- I have no less than four missionaries in my family, and have two people in Nairobi named after me because of how well loved my Great Grandma was. 

The first real shock I had to my religious beliefs was when I realized that one of the pastor's 17 year old daughter was pregnant. I asked my Great Grandma if she had gotten married and if she was, in fact, pregnant. I was told simply "we don't talk about it." What? Why the hell not!? Her father is supposed to be the lightning rod of good and spiritual purity, but his daughter's off sinning in the back seat of an El Dorado! 

Well, then I asked the head of the doctrine class how she explained dinosaurs, and she started going on about how the dinosaurs WERE in the bible, and said that the Leviathan was a dinosaur. Horseshit. I was also told that the bible was the ONLY religious book that had no contradictions, and thus Christianity was the only religion that had it right. Well, if that's true, and the Torah is all in the bible, then the Jews got it right, too, right? And the Muslims must have a solid idea and may be close enough to get in with the Christian heaven. 

The Bible, I was told, was the word of God, and the only right word of God. If that's true, why are there different versions? Did God go "Oh, my bad. Hey, King James, I call mulligan. Re-write that part about divorce." I don't think so. Man was flawed since the talking snake made the woman born of the rib of one man eat the one fruit that would make her realize her tits were hanging out. Thus, when God whispered his words to men who would right it down, does it not stand to reason they would mess it up or maybe even do a little editing?

Well, with constant chipping away, I decided that organized religion was full of shit. I am a huge fan of Jesus and the message he was selling, but when you add the power of persuasion and the persuasion of power, it gets tainted and diluted. Fewer things have outraged me more than hearing about case after case of Priests molesting youths around the country. It was discovered, and their punishment? Fresh meat. They were re-located. Why the FUCK aren't they in jail? Honestly. What they committed was a crime that utterly ruined the lives of hundreds of people. And as they started when these people were young, it took more years of their lives than had someone been sexually assaulted in their forties. 

How does one claim we are a "Christian Nation" who is trying to spread the message of love, peace, and of course, freedom, when we let shit like this pervert ourselves. We freak out and stage protests if there is a rat having makeup tested on it, but a kid gets raped and you don't have people lobbing molotov cocktails at the parish. I just have a feeling that the reason some of the more hardcore PETA/ALF type people are so passionate about animals is that they realize how shitty people are. 

Jesus, this is getting long and depressing, isn't it? Well, that's not my intent, but as I am tired and irritable, I assume that that is leading me down these roads. I'm going to leave you fine readers (reader?) I should probably see if anyone besides Aaron and Tara has read this. 

I am interested in seeing what other people think of me or want me to elaborate on. Next topic, as requested, will be: Why I am awesome.  Til next time.

Drinking with the Irish Girls

Ooo boy, a new blog. I wanted somewhere to record my rambling rants and raves, to log my laments and longings, to alleviate my aching for alliteration. And here we are. I'm not sure what the purpose of this really is, other than to put my thoughts down on proverbial paper so that when I am old and senile, I can look back to see that I was once young and stupid instead. 

I already look back on my life and think of the mistakes, misunderstandings and misguided decisions I have made and think "Fuck, I was retarded." I know, I know, that's not politically correct, but I stand by it. I think about where I am in my life, and where I expected to be in my life, and while it really fucked me up about a year ago, now I am just annoyed that I've let myself sit stagnant and still in the pond of life. Now, I've lost the momentum I had, and trying to start up again is such a pain in the ass. 

Hopefully this thing will allow me to see when a progression. I wish I had more of my writing from the last two years, but what I have is a collection of conversations between Amanda and I (including our grand finale blow-out. Always fun.) and a collection of bizarre haikus:

I don't think she's hot

I want to bang Karen O

Just to say I did

Or

Achilles: The Shit

Robotic apocalypse

I love Robot Jox

So, here's to a solid 2009 and beyond. I will be taking requests for diatribes and ramblings, so if you want to hear my opinions on things other than music, let me know and I'll go to town.