Monday, December 27, 2004

... miscellanery...

There's a graying old man in a white jogging suit passing by outside...
Ambers, yellow greens and beiges bounce across from adjacent buildings...
The wind is lifting the weary limbs of slumbering pines...
And I'm listening to "Consent" by the Devlins... Thanks, Sabi. :)

Sunday, December 26, 2004


Oh yes... I forgot. My father took us to see "The Nutcracker," which is, according to my sister, an honored tradition for the Houston Ballet.

If any of you know me, (which I will assume w/o hesitation) none yet do, er... unless God is reading this, you'll understand that I would fain forego a football game or other sporting event to see something of this kind.

What can I say? For one brief cosmic moment, I got to sink into that welcoming bosom of dreams "amidst great midnight chandeliers" that I've only marginally scraped during my academia at BYU. Not to be cheesy, though I'm patently patterned that way, but it felt like home.

I dare not speak here of production values, knowing that I am still an all-around dilettante in comparison to the more culturally acclimated, except to say that it was extraordinary to behold through a veil of a winter's landscape a child waking from a Nutcracker dream, to see sugar-plum fairies pirouetting amidst giant falling snowflakes, and perhaps most profound, to witness the grandeur of a family gathering like it should be, but perhaps never has been---all enacted in effulgent, eloquent dance.

As I sat there, I was reminded that God, too, is an inspirer of poetry, of music, of things that drive mankind's dreams... and I once again felt close to my Creator, esteeming myself a creator also, albeit on a miniscule scale. It made my vacation, even from the cheap seats.

Well, my oratory has once again spilled over into the ostentatious... So, adieu.

Ornamental thoughts, as in adj : serving an esthetic rather than a useful purpose

---For much of the past few days I was more or less folded up in the back-cab? of my sister's pick-up truck: you know, that one-foot-square crevice that allows for the ample cramming of shabby T-shirts, old purses, notebooks, and shopping paraphernalia... and brothers, though in a manner not suiting said objects' safe transport. Once or twice I bumped my head as we hit one or two of Houston's more notorious potholes in a row, which while providing for some wicked loft likewise produced traumatizing turbulence.

---Driving in my sister's truck is no less harrowing, considering the aforementioned scabrous surface of Houston's highways and byways, and the bobbing suspension on her Nissan Kingcab XE; I felt like I was riding a speed boat across a varied wave-pattern, striking some throttling crest as I hit a poorly-paved pothole and then lilting and lulling on the descending side of the swell afterward. Today I drove myself to church in trepidation, to say the least.

---I notice that I also make with the strange Jerry Lewisness while I'm alone in the car. (Silly nonsense noise-making, high-pitched singing---Re: the funniest scene in Bruce Almighty.) Perhaps it's the general tedium of driving; maybe I'm just never as alone as when I'm barreling down an expressway in a confining metal compartment on wheels connected to a series of controlled explosions... LOL. Prozac, anyone?

---I bid my Grandma good-bye this morning... She was sad to have to journey home alone; I was sorrowful to see her go. Now that airports have become so technologically oriented she's bewildered as to how to accomplish certain tasks relegated (in the name of efficiency) to the Internet and computer terminals...

---Anyway, my Dad and I have begun (unofficially) a tradition of watching westerns---usually w/ Clint Eastwood---around the holidays. My father's family spent some time working on a ranch or the like in Colorado, and he seems to recall some of those gentler years watching Clint Eastwood pop a proverbial cap in Gene Hackman's gullet (or face?). Er, ... ahem! I'm sure it has something to do with the wild country... oh, and horses.

---Oh, and I got some 3 or so Nutcrackers amongst my holiday plunder... just FYI, Liz. :)

Tuesday, December 21, 2004

Thank you, Mr. Telford

The photography instructor for my Visual Arts core photography class, and apparently current chair of the Visual Arts department, John Telford, told us "you can't take pictures w/o a camera." I assure you, the thunderingly redundant tone of his words is misleading. Today, I stood only a few feet from the uniquely beautiful Houston temple, splashed by sunset, both because of its luna pearl granite exterior and the now rosy golden rays streaming through lingering cumulonimbus and nimbostratus clouds whizzing round me and the temple environs---and I had NO camera. I could only pray that w/ my meager mind's eye I could take a snapshot to be seen on Judgment Day, a flicker of serenity amidst less lofty remembrances.

On a sunnier note, a comb-over man clad in a Santa Claus tie and brown? blazer approached me thinking that I was a non-member from the adjacent neighborhood (which ludicrous presumption would have been rudely dispelled by the disparity between my beggar-yuppie attire and the hulking mansions overlooking the near-by golf course) struck by curiosity regarding the lovely edifice and its purposes. He intended to be of some help, no doubt in an evangelical capacity. I, not prone to pulling someone's leg so near and so touched by the sobering surroundings, told him I was a member, and that in fact some of my brood had gone inside the distribution center to obtain some necessary somethings.

A little embarrassed, he graciously bowed out and away and I returned to my ruminating, proud to have been of some hope to a servant of God hungering and thirsting after additional proselyting opportunities.

And that, fair friends, was the bulk of my day, aside from a number of errands of small distinction on the daily, let alone life-time, level.


Monday, December 20, 2004


I'm not very adaptive, methinks. An adventurous person would have at least ventured beyond the back porch/balcony thingy and gone for a walk... I'm still figuring out how to sit down and draw in what feels very much like an alternate universe. Which reminds me: I miss my ghetto drafting table.

Sunday, December 19, 2004

The muddy mood of the "mission field."

Sunday observations:
#1---It's odd that most anywhere outside of Utah is unofficially (which term---in its common sacrament meeting application---means that even high council speakers employ it liberally) dubbed "the mission field."
#2---I've discovered that I'm just as incompetent a servant of God as I was some 10 or so years ago. I know this for a number or reasons, but in particular because I vehemently defied my father's revulsion at my having worn a shirt a second day in a row (what, am I going to be accepting the Pulitzer after leftovers?).
#3---Personal soap-boxes are detrimental to gospel doctrine.
#4---Graying/silver hair is attractive only to sweet Grandmothers and their beauty salon buddies.
#5---Women are still unnervingly alluring. (There's something WRONG with me!)
#6---Due to numbers 2 and 5, I'm still vaguely pondering shock treatment.

Saturday, December 18, 2004


So I'm afraid to complain anymore... It's really the only substantial element of my blogging, and where most of my quasi-comedic musings come from, anyway.

For instance, I find it odd that our technologically-governed society can press people into a claustrophobic metal missile w/ wings, send it aloft in the sky, rudely leave them huddled w/ the remnants of a ham and hot mustard sandwich on their lap, and then jostle their seat upright because of something called "initial descent."

Gratefully, I had the window seat, and could ruminate as to whether I was looking at mountain ranges, or bleeding earth, lakes or oil spills, and just generally peer into clouds and know visual clarity for a rare moment; in effect, I could ignore some of the inevitable unpleasantries of the plane ride.

I don't deny that even the foulest experiences are beautiful. I should remind myself of those poor individuals in "deprived" countries that may never know the experience of flying in a plane, but oh wait... I doubt it matters to them, given the prevailing lack of less luxurious accoutrements.

At times I'm just wondering why we don't find these things ludicrous. Doesn't the world seem more and more like THX 1138, or myriad other sci-fi flicks, wherein people---on a personal level---become less and less significant? Just think about the typical airport experience: one is essentially driven forward, down, left, around the elevators, down this corridor, onto this escalator, like ... well, a cow. I can't remember if I mentioned already the eerie nature of "people processors," but I think I just reiterated the ugly reasons why people will hate going to the DMV, the post office, etc. Somehow one's humanity is sublimated in so vast a machine. (Oooh, Metropolis reference!)

On a related tack... previous to now, I've flown on Southwest airlines, offering perhaps the most "ghetto" air travel experience (and yet, not surprisingly, the most HUMAN---the stewardesses/stewards have more fun w/ the pre-flight rigamarole) and had not yet witnessed the televised pre-flight message, wherein screens lower from above the seats and a cool, pretty, plastic version of a stewardess then flawlessly advises passengers about the floatation device and the emergency exits. She ceases being "human," in my feeling. It's comparable to the same disconnective powers of television and the internet, driving a wedge between flesh-and-blood human beings. It's also too "perfect," despite obvious bugs in the monitor. Give me a painted hussy, an old hag, a high-school drop-out with pink highlights, but not a perfectly-modeled icon.

Of course, I have no real intellectual authority on which to back up my theories, which is why, perhaps, my BLOG is the best and only location in which they can be registered. And here also, the most suitable receptor of my nonsense, the oblivion of cyberspace, will receive it in its glory.

I don't argue that ecumenically I'm not most likely a hypocrite, a fool, etc. for feeling this way, especially since my patent lethargy keeps me from acting on my theories, or at the very least researching and publishing them, but I can't help but make the observations anyway. My sincerest apologies for offending the academic and/or action-oriented ear at making them known here.

Until later, kiddies.

Wednesday, December 15, 2004

Re: THE LIZ FACTOR or "The Juice"

One of my numerous theories, perhaps to be someday published in a Dave Barry-type book, is that we each have varied levels of a substance called "The Juice," human pherimones, if you will.

I say this because I've noticed a patent lack in the quantity/quality of mine, and a whopping Exxon Valdez-sized load just oooooooooooooooozing from others. Allow me to cite a noteworthy example from the now infamous ex-fiancee's apartment (Courtside)

INT. APARTMENT. NIGHT... A studly, dark-eyed fellow named Colby (the name just burns w/ male soap-opera hubba-hubba) on a fateful evening stopped by to say "Hello." Since things were ever up-and-down w/ this would-have-been-lover, I was not yet sure as to what kind of feelings she had for me. I was either trying to play it cool or thinking that, romantically "All was Well in Zion." At any rate, Mr. Beefcake didn't even cross the threshold, and all eyes were fixed on his masculine frame. Not one female eye in the room dared dart away for a second, lest they miss perhaps some mischievous flicker of a grin, an involuntary flex of a bicep, or other assorted evidences of a Tom Cruise swagger.

I remained, of course, perplexed by the power this newfound personal idol had on these college gals: typically aloof, studious, serious, etc. but now beyond hope of self-mastery. My own love-interest lingered at the door, drinking-lounge-style draped over the door like how a butcher hangs meat in the window. She was clearly advertising.

At this point, I could feel the disparity between my male "umph" and this hunk's estimable potency. As he bid them good-bye, all four girls' eyes pierced sheet rock, wood and paint and followed this virile figure with a hormonal radar as he passed through the outer door and down the few stairs leading in front of their window. Naturally, I had to clear the way so each of them could pry open the blinds and giggle at his "wiggle" as he walked away.

I was amazed. I felt like the pup in the old---was it MGM?---cartoon where the biggger dog is circled by an excitable pup, eager to be apprentice to an apparent master of "doghood." Clearly I needed schooling... or scrubbing? He was well-groomed.

Alas, such as it was, I entered it into my lengthy list of humorous anecdotes and there it remains... proof positive that some guys got it, some guys don't.

Super 8 mm film splicing: torture for perfectionists

I cannot adequately address the torment I suffered for some 9 hours editing my final project for my Super 8 class; what's more, I cannot speak of the final moments, splicing the film pieces together, w/o employing expletives, such as I did bountifully as I attempted to place pieces of tape small enough to merit tweezers (which I was not wise enough to use) onto an equally miniscule reel of film w/o obscuring the apertures in the film itself. This requires matching the holes in the specially-designed tape to those in the film. Madness ensued. I'm only all to gratified to suppose that only the creaking wood frame of the Villa and its assorted vermin residents heard my cackling, my curses, and my raising an angry fist or two to the gods of motion pictures.

Still, that much is over, and even though I've yet to complete a vital project (another kind of fastidious torment) for another film class, I feel my anxiety subsiding, and hope rising as the prospect of parting w/ Happy Valley, if only for a brief sabbatical, looms closer.

Praised be the holiday that encourages just a little sloth...

Monday, December 06, 2004

THE LIZ FACTOR or The Origins of Redguy

That's right. My apartment was bombarded by a feminine force of nature; apparently men can't help but flock in Liz's direction. She has but to smile, utter some of that trademark witty banter and toss around those long blonde locks and my roomie Stuart does his best schtick; Chris actually emerges from the Chris Cave to sneak a peek(yes, he's a super-hero; we're still working on the name and where to put the big red button); and I stutter like a broken-record machine on rocket fuel. What could overpower the considerable self-control of three studious college students? I give you: THE LIZ FACTOR. (Okay, so I exaggerate, but the attention was impressive. Way to represent, roomies!)

For Sabi: Redguy is well, a red guy. He's a Korvaxian from the Treiz galaxy. LOL. Okay, so he's a space alien-type character I made up, but some of the details are still pending. Lest some plagarist punk rob me of my glory I'll only say that I want to do some computer animation movie w/ his story... Hey, I can dream, dangit!!!

Wednesday, December 01, 2004


It was a blissful holiday, and no offense to my fellow denizens of Happy Valley, but I didn't want to come back...
Furthermore, excepting the future enjoyment of video games (the Fates willing), what past-times I once enjoyed seem empty or pointless...
Truth be told, I guess I'm sick of the way I usually am, especially on this BLOG, and until I feel I can say something original/exceptionally witty I doubt I'll be posting much.
Y'see, I don't have epiphanic moments unless I'm wowed by an unusually dispiriting dilemma. I become sullen, sardonic, and so forth: an energy-sucker. Allow me to explain the energy-sucker concept as one highly-animated (and tall) religion instructor (and business professor) at BYU implied it. There are two kinds of people in this world: energy suckers and energy suppliers. I, as I understood his insinuation, have ever been the former, and well, I was tired of it then... now I'm near-postal down-spiraling.
So, until I feel like I do more than whimper and radiate my self-absorbed sulking, I'll avoid posting.
On more than one occasion I'll come to my Blogger dashboard, bring up the create a post window and then leave because I don't have anything to say...
That being said I'll skedaddle.

Saturday, November 20, 2004


I'm thankful for noses . . .
for cherubic children who seem content with next to nothing . . .
for the slightly cold feeling that makes being tucked away inside a blanket enchilada that much more inviting . . .
for my angel mother, whose tenderness was such that she taught kindness many times w/o trying . . .
for my patient father, who, despite having difficulty understanding my penchant for procrastination plods on prodding me nonetheless . . .
for my grandma, who has a seemingly perpetual haven of silence awaiting me in Idaho . . .
for my brother, for being the good-looking, go-getting half of our twin-ship . . .
for my sis, Ebie, whose heart is so big, so soft, so golden it can't help but get marred sometimes . . .
for the reality of modern-day revelation, prophets and apostles . . .
for our Savior and associated entities, whose graciousness and grandeur I dare not mock w/ my "much speaking" . . .
and last, but not least, for the very, very few that I conjecture to call friends, even though you're all so much cooler!

Friday, November 19, 2004

So I'm mouldy/moldy/stinky cheese . . .

Let the BLOG match the rotted, stinking shell of a soul inside of me. I say, let the fungus fly!

What you apparently creative wonders don't understand is that more often than not I'm beset by feelings I either don't care to divulge in the stark nudity of cyberspace, or that almost make breathing, let alone producing any writing worthy of wonderment excruciating.

And if I can't amaze at the very least myself (w/ the low standards for which I'm famous, at least to my professors) then I don't care to "embark."

Was it Goethe? No, couldn't be . . . Eh . . . Well, anyway I THINK it was Goethe that said, "Anything you can do or dream you can . . . begin it."

I'm done with the loftiest dreaming for now, and perhaps for a while. I'll settle for the whimsy of the worlds I've got made up in my head.

So if I don't write, my sincerest apologies to those for whom it matters sufficient to call my BLOG "mouldy."


Sunday, November 14, 2004

My not-so-humble apology . . . (since I'm not very humble)

However, I hope this to be understood as heartfelt. I thought about just adding a comment onto my previous post, but I wanted to publicly apologize for either inadequately expressing my true sentiments or stating them too harshly in my comments. I'm terribly sorry, Samantha. You're hands down one of my favorite people next to my mother. :) I'm loathe to think that I hurt you at all.

Wednesday, November 10, 2004

The bliss of Tony Bennett

I know most everyone loves punk, alternative, or pop, but criminy . . . THIS IS MUSIC, the kind that lets you exhale, takes you on a rolling dolly shot past scenic cityscapes, tea-drinkers at cute little urban cafes, and dancing at midnight. Punk can't do that. Couldn't dream of it. So there.

EDIT: For aficionados of punk/alternative, etc. offended by the above please read my comment in reply to Sam, thank you.

Just a few lyrical morsels:

Because of You

Because of you there's a song in my heart
Because of you my romance had its start
Because of you the sun will shine
The moon and stars will say you're mine
Forever and never to part

I only live for your love and your kiss
It's paradise to be near you like this
Because of you my life is now worthwhile
And I can smile
Because of you

I only live for your love and your kiss
It's paradise to be near you like this
Because of you my life is now worthwhile
And I can smile
Because of you


This is All I Ask

As I approach the prime of my life
I find I have the time of my life
Learning to enjoy at my leisure
All the simple pleasures
And so I happily concede
That this is all I ask
This is all I need

Beautiful girls, walk a little slower when you walk by me
Lingering sunsets, stay a little longer with the lonely sea
Children everywhere, when you shoot at bad men, shoot at me
Take me to that strange, enchanted land grown-ups seldom understand

Wandering rainbows, leave a bit of color for my heart to own
Stars in the sky, make my wish come true before the night has flown
And let the music play as long as there's a song to sing
And I will stay younger than Spring

Tuesday, November 09, 2004

Moldy? It is to laugh . . .

I scoff. I only do not write because I have little to say. My days lately have consisted of me suffering prostrate on the couch or slumping in my chair attempting to elude the dull ache in my back, the searing pain in my skull, or the lingering sense of guilt for my numerous frailties.

I'm also experiencing a lull in creative aspiration, if only because so much of my pinings seem pointless. So, rather than diminish, I disappear. :)

Anyway, this is the most I can come up with currently. I must begin to grind, grind, grind, at that grindstone . . . (for time it slips, like sand through a sieve; and all at once they're up and grown and then they've flown and it's too late for you to give.)

Friday, November 05, 2004


Woooo-hoooooooooooooooooo! Could there be a film more made for moi? Computer animation, super heroes, and nuclear family values?? Hahahahahahah! I LOVE THIS MOVIE! In fact, I'm going to see it AGAIN tomorrow, bright and early (eh--11:00 a.m., that is). That's it. No flashy alliteration. No blah blah blah, puke puke puke Taylorisms. It's just hands down the kind of movie I go to the movies for . . . it's energizing, even exhilarating, so enjoy. (Crap! Alliteration! Gah!)

Anyway, I highly recommend it.

Thursday, November 04, 2004

Some recent poetry . . .

As per the request of a pair of friends, I wrote some poetry:

Impassioned by the roguish brands of harvest clime
Enraptured, poked, and slit by feral nature,
Tossed and turned ‘midst color nomenclature,
I, maddened, lost, can scarce concoct this rhyme.

As haughty crimson, orange, brown and gold
In wanton fury storm amongst the fray,
And marching down their own along the way,
A global war is waged, a world waxed cold.

Yet death in chilling rest affords short peace,
A tender wrap for nature’s angry
Such tranquil bliss that through thy image sews,
A questing soul’s row pacified in fleece.

‘Tis but stark mercy to the cosmic lot,
That after grief thy wintry sleep be wrought.
A wanton air that once flowed soft in sheltered
Skies beyond,
Strolled across the meadow still that secrets
Did abscond
And blissful still the potent scent that sweltered
In the breeze,
Flowered in the mountains, over rivers,
Through the trees.

What rumors of the ages swooned amidst
The mossy rows
Of grasses slumping stalwart in the dreamer’s
What magic tales resounded as the moon-light
Lit its eye,
Within the hoary ether twixt the pavement
And the sky?

So still, so faint, so fragile was the murmur
In the wind,
That scarcely could I mark it ‘fore the zephyr
Did rescind,
Yet on the cusp of breathing, the whisper
of the night,
Came issuing like honey in thine eyes
And of thy sight.

Drifting like a specter, upon some
gentle flow
The myst’ries of the heavens in thyself did
Themselves show
Though restless are my patterns and selfish
Are my ways
In thee, oh night-time maiden my feral
Self allays.

Meeeeeeeh! Bleh, . . . ptooey! :)

So I'm at the point now where I'm shoving tissue paper pellets up my nose to stop the irritating flow and to reduce the chafing of the delicate nasal formation. I wonder if that's what really happened to Michael Jackson. He just got the worst cold in the world and ran out of Puffs Lotion--- Ooooh, and he had to use paper towels instead. So now he's got nothing left but a nub and two nostril passages flattened next to his face. It also explains why he's as pale as he is . . .

Anyway, I didn't go to class yesterday and did really nothing else. I'm at Defcon 5, energy-level speaking, so I can only scratch my head and do the comfort wiggle as I bury my face in a pillow. Usually I just go up to campus and blow people flu-saturated kisses--- (Devilish grin) ---although I'm not certain what it is I've got. My roomie Jared suggested that he'd been sick before. He must have taken the tail of the beast and I've received the jaws and abdomen---I'm being eaten alive!!!

I'll stop complaining and wish all of you healthy souls a hopeful reprieve from flu season sickness. Adieu.

Wednesday, November 03, 2004

Dumb Internet

I lost a brilliant post to the oblivion of cyberspace . . . AGAIN!!!! (Cue slurs, slander, and depraved vulgarities here.)

Since it's impossible to conjure said masterpiece, I'm limited to what miserly and miserable cocktail I can concoct from my newfound frustration and the yummy chicken-noodle soup (spruced up w/ some garlic seasoning) swirling in my contented stomach.

I DID say some marvelous things about the pointlessness of our political system, especially w/ regards to electoral results, but I cannot bear to revisit them; "my grief is still too near." I'm also fighting off a current of mucous threatening to exit my nasal passage in unseemly slow-motion.

My only good news is that I have used an entire section of dryers to get my laundry done, plus two. That makes 11 dryers. That's right. I'm doing laundry for a small island nation.

Tuesday, November 02, 2004

*Sniffle, sniffle . . . cough . . .*

I'm dyyyying. I hate, I hate, I hate Peter Pan!---er, or being sick; oh, and brussel sprouts, and slow or laggy web connections . . . and getting behind in classwork. Phooey.

I feel like I've been shot in the derriere w/ a tranquilizer dart better suited for a wooly mammoth. Ah, sweet tranquilized surrender . . . It would be grand if I was nine again and had little else to do other than to watch TV or bury my head under the blanket and make goofy noises. Maybe the fake NyQuil's still working its magic.

Oh, and Cowboy Bebop. Very cool 'toon.


Saturday, October 30, 2004

It's a Mad, Mad, Mad, Mad Masquerade! or FASHION LEPER

Er . . . or thereabouts. I shouldn't be invited to a formal function. I end up wearing a psycho Blues Brothers "half head" and a suede green jacket, and then circling around the walls aimlessly like a fly trying to find an exit to an open window.
There were some very stunning ensembles, Darth Maul face-paint included, so I felt outdone artistically which is something I loathe, since art is all I'm good at anyway. Kudos to Kyle on being so inventive (a black and red feather "headress" with black angel wings and matching shirt, tie, and slacks!) and props to the rest for looking so posh. Brenda was a butterfly fairy? Or at least she painted what looked to be a butterfly trimmed w/ bagettes on her face, and wore a baby blue evening gown w/ sheer sleeves. Sound like a fashion show? It was! I made a better wallflower with what Sam terms my "Utah" stylings, and was very comfortable finding a plush armchair away from the more fashionable.
So, I suppose my greatest lament is that I'm not really "me" around anyone. Er, or not that I know of . . . So I'm not really comfy unless I'm all by my lonesome.
Anyway, it was fun, and I got to pester Sam for HOURS on end afterward. (I'm sorry!) It was a good time chatting/discussing/arguing . . . :) (I'm sorry!) So anyway, I've got too much to do, and little motivation to do it.
. . . Au revoir

Thursday, October 28, 2004

Split in two

Ugh. This is a common Taylor emission, though it's often internal; as my outside sags so goes my chest cavity. I get so tangled: infuriated and morose, lugubrious and loony, befuddled and ugly clear---I just can't seem to divide those sensations. I've also found that I want to be neat, but I'm just this side of far-gone slovenly; I'm extremely sensitive and intermittently callous; I'm a fence-sitter. I'm the lukewarm victual that is doomed to be spewed. Haha! I'm spewed. Nevermind.

I both detest and aggrandize myself. I have whimsically plotted (without fussing over details) to take over the world, complete w/ totalitarian propaganda, a slick veneer, and a huddle of yes-men to complete the package. And yet, I don't look in the mirror and see much. Oh, God gave me eyes---remarkable eyes, not so much for their sky-blue shimmer, but for the beauty I can see beneath the surface. I have legs to take me where I want to go, frail but capable fingers, etc. but I don't think I've used them as much. Persons devoid of my lackluster umph! would protest, and say "Well, why not start now?! Why not change? You're not dead yet! Why, you're only 27!" I would reply, "I've been trying. Twenty or so years---as soon as I knew something was wrong."

Yet, I realize there are so many problems within that I scarce have the energy to muster a smile unless I'm being all too jovial. I cannot, as Elizabeth magically does, summon a smile. It's as if whatever core hope existed within me has died. I can resurrect it temporarily on the Sabbath, but it wanes even as the day progresses. And there is no surer way to stifle its Phoenix flight than for me to attempt to be social. I'm sorry, btw, Sam for leaving. It was a nice party.

Ugh. I need to stop.

Smarmy or smokin' . . .?

So, I was perusing one of those Cosmo mag-like articles at MSN about flirtation ---(don't ask), and once again cycled through the series of epiphanies that I experienced when I used to be an even bigger "MAN ABOUT TOWN," which revelations caused me to subsequently scurry into my "cave" and discover the joy of "3-d" polygonal video games---(8 bit Nintendo . . . ancient clockworks as far as I'm concerned). I know I'm a flirt, and I'd say terrible except that "terrible flirt" connotes a charming one. I doubt I can claim any real successes as a result of my "lines," etc.

However, I'm usually fishing for a reciprocal reaction, not making a booty call. I don't want ACTION, I just want to mitigate the crushing blow of rejection; I think it's fair to say that rejection is something that most women don't relish, either. (I know a number of Mormon ladies who are very comfortable NOT being expected to make the first move.) My hope is that someone will return my volley, respond in the pseudo-affirmative, etc.

However, I've come to a romantic ceiling, and frankly don't see that any "volleys" will pass. I'm getting more slouchy and dowdy by the second, and I cannot spy any interested parties across the embankment in this eternal battle of the sexes. Since I seem incapable of the fraternization that Kissinger mentioned, I'll try my hand at the hobby of video gaming, er . . . or alchemy. I know taxidermy goes well w/ psychosis . . .

At any rate, I also wonder if happiness doesn't come w/ a beagle . . . they're so cuuuuuute!

Monday, October 25, 2004

Emotional exhibitionism or MOULDY BERFDAY BLOG

Well, my birthday was grand; granted, there were no jack-o-lantern cakes and neighborhood children posing as friends long enough to snag some cake and ice cream, but then that was one of those rare reasons I never liked being little. People were less likely to take my diatribes seriously. (Of course, most of them were about the foul taste of broccoli or how one of my siblings had taken up more than their fairly meted share of the backseat.)

Aside from running around the bulk of Saturday on random errands for snow pants and tennis shoes, we went to a couple of places to eat, which will probably mean larger lovehandles, less love. :) Anyway, last night we went to have dinner w/ my Uncle J.D. and a few of his "crew" at Mandarin, a popular chinese place in Bountiful.

And I suppose I'm not truly capable of expressing how the evening went, because I frankly don't know. I have a casual good time w/ my family, but I'm inept at informing the public about "how my evening was." I'm sure I'll perturb any future friends, fiancee, etc. with my apparent constipation, but I'm only good at discussing things that seem emotionally eventful. I could write a novel about the various oddities that I witness just being around flesh and blood relatives, but then I worry that I might ruin familial reputation doing so . . .

What I realize, though, is that too much goes unsaid.

Anyway, I wonder if for all of my boasting about my being raised by my mother and sis, and my wondrous sensitivity, if I'm not just as emotionally boxed in . . . or emotionally dead. I could easily relate that to the scriptural "hearts waxing cold," since I consider myself the very "vilest of sinners," but I want to believe there's some societal catalyst that causes it.

All I know is that I respect those persons who honestly display their emotions, "emotional exhibitionists" if you will. I don't know that I term anger or lust as true emotions, since when I experience them they kill off the clarity that drives my happiness, my concern, my love, my sorrow for others' grief, etc. In other words I applaud those who, having kept themselves pure, know true emotion, even passion.

That's all for now . . . no more complaints about MOULDY BLOGS, lest I curse you w/ a siege of enchanted cats . . .

Friday, October 22, 2004

Sigh . . . blondes

So I must be a ravenous wolf in really bad sheep's clothing---(are my sequins showing? Hehe. I always pictured the Big Bad wolf wearing a red sequin suit; go figure)---because women always have something else to do. This girl from my first block storyboarding class is an animator, which is more or less up my alley; she can be goofy, which I excel at, and she's got a good nose. Who could ask for anything more? (I'm still waiting on my Toyota.)

Problem is, she had some unexplained plans tonight so I'll be flying solo. Let's see: yogurt pretzels, chocolate Silk and homemade nachos. Check. Homework? Check. Laundry? Check. So I got "stuff to do" (mafia accent). And maybe, though its callous, I'm missing a good lip-lock; don't get me wrong, while I don't deny an exaggerated quantity of hormonal vigor I also connect a kiss more w/ a person's perception of how attractive I am, and since I'm working on a new virgin pair of lips, I'm almost certain---NOT VERY. (Cue retaliatory rebuttal here.)Most of you probably think it's lunacy to so contemplate a kiss. I don't want a make-out session, either. Just a ... $%&*$%@ Nevermind. Bah.

I most likely am not sounding as misogynistic/cantankerous as I should, being a troglodytic curmudgeon, but I'm working on it. Just got to git summa that bitternass back. That's right, I said bitternass! We doin' it west coast style, g! LOL. Nevermind. Don't . . . ah . . . no. I'm too white and uninformed, too suburban and happily so to start pretending I'm a gangsta. I'll let the white rappers of America handle that task. Although I wouldn't mind having a linguist's guide to South Compton . . .

Alas, the various tendrils of my ugly inner self are protruding. Talk about showing one's sequins!!! I'd better go and scour around for sheep.

Wednesday, October 20, 2004

Princess Mononoke

To quote an admired quote of a fond friend, "WOW. I TELL YOU WHAT, WOW!" This movie made me want to rush out to the local Suncoast and delve into the anime archives. Never did I think I could watch animals talking and truly take it seriously. I'm one who finds the animal "love scenes" in Disney films laughable. Of course, Princess Mononoke has none of that; it shows animal kind (in a more regal form) at war. While the animation is fluid, even frighteningly fast in parts (you've never seen wolves move so quickly) it never feels as if the movie is trying to impress. It's just telling a spectacular narrative.

Not only that, but whatever preconceived cultural demarcations may have delineated an "Asian" film for me in the past were completely dissolved here. The movie touts a strong and even spiritual telling of the very universal and fairly old struggle between technology and nature, without stooping to the same manipulative tricks of other "nature-friendly" movies. (My bile is still churning thanks to Fern Gully.)

It was said that perhaps the ending was "de-assuring," as opposed to what one experiences in a Western film, especially an American one. *SPOILER AHEAD* I don't think Princess Mononoke's decision to remain with the wolves instead of humans was anything but satisfying, but then I'm ever aching toward the end of a typical American movie to see the token man and woman combo part ways or remain just friends. Instead, there HAS to be a sexual chemistry, and it inevitably HAS to be fulfilled, if only by a kiss. Just test the theory next time you go to a traditional movie. In some combination that American movie ending remains the same.

At any rate, to those who haven't seen it, do. It's just too cool for words! And from someone as verbose as myself, that's saying a lot!


I thought I'd just make mention of the movie I saw in my Super 8 class last night. Our instructor is required by the department to show us movies and have us write on them, so he decided to show us strictly documentaries, which are his preferred stock and trade.

Trekkies made me glad that though I appreciate some of the inter-character chemistry of the Next Generation series I do not attend conventions, collect memorabilia, or subscribe to any fanzines. However, it also seemed very much like the lunacy that affects any hard-core football fan who has the audacity to paint his/her face (and in some instances a rotund belly) in the favored team's colors and scream like a drunkard at the referee, all of which is in many instances is considered societally acceptable. However, when a person dresses like a Klingon and cheers a cast of characters from a show that originated more than 30 years ago, they're considered freaks.

Obviously, in either case there are extremes, and moderation in all things is a wise practice w/ any passion. Still, I find it ludicrous that I should be esteemed as odd because I celebrate comic books, mythology, and random acts of poetry and the super-jock should be exonerated despite numerous accounts of barbaric hazing, vandalism, and assorted pseudo-criminal insanity being a sports aficionado.

Go figure.

Tuesday, October 19, 2004

One of my favorite tunes . . .

U2 - Love Is Blindness
Love is blindness
I don't want to see
Won't you wrap the night
Around me
Oh my heart
Love is blindness

In a parked car
In a crowded street
You see your love
Made complete
Thread is ripping
The knot is slipping
Love is blindness

Love is clockworks
And cold steel
Fingers too numb to feel
Squeeze the handle
Blow out the candle
Love is blindness

Love is blindness
I don't want to see
Won't you wrap the night
Around me
Oh my love

A little death
Without mourning
No call
And no warning
Baby...a dangerous idea
That almost makes sense

Love is drowning
In a deep well
All the secrets
And no one to tell
Take the money

Love is blindness
I don't want to see
Won't you wrap the night
Around me
Oh my love

I know I'm violating a number of Latter-day Saint taboos by loving this song, if only for its insinuating tempo, lyrics and mood in general but it's very close to some of the cavernous reaches of my broken inside . . .

Sunday, October 17, 2004

aaaaaaaaaaaaaaand cut! That's a wrap!

So, I have some closure. I am freed at last from the fear of never finishing, and thanks be to a patient cast, (thank you Sam, especially, for putting up w/ moi) and the good graces of a benevolent God (the weather was kind), it's done, or as done as it will ever be.

I only wish I had invested in a camera years ago. I would have shot a thousand stories before now, and hopefully somewhat better than what I've done today. My sincerest apologies to all the student film-makers of past through future for having so sloppily concocted a premise. I'm sure it's not the first historically; it won't be the last personally---haha! but I will resolve not to be so shoddy A.S.A.P.

At any rate, I'm beat, and still have some 30 storyboards to do . . .


Saturday, October 16, 2004

SLC blues . . .

Yesterday . . . all my troubles seemed so faaaaaaar awaaaay, now . . .ahem! Yesterday I journeyed as far as Salt Lake City in search of a viable video camera, and instead of renting, made a purchase. For $25 I acquired an ancient Magnavox VHS, and I'm hoping it lasts the weekend. It doesn't have a working battery, only runs on AC; so I also got an extension cord . . . but that's just the rank-and-file rigamarole. I had an epiphane! (Cue mind-boggled facial expression here.)

Just pacing to and fro between the Salt Lake Arts Center and Crossroads Plaza (there was a snafu in payment and I needed to snag some simoleans--(I wonder if that's the right spelling?)) I witnessed the vacuous cacophony, the seething synergy of the inner city. Frankly, having been to Houston and San Fran I know that SLC isn't the most bustling of towns, but in terms of Utah's center of civilization, the capitol city is IT. I felt that muddled melancholy that washes over me when I feel as if some cosmic calamity's afoot, just crossing the crosswalk and seeing people marching determinedly to lunch or a job and yet moving aimlessly. It reminded me of Thoreau's cautionary observation, "the mass of men lead lives of quiet desperation." In the city, whether loud or timid their desperation is blanketed by daily business.

Though in the past I've worried a great deal about being a movie maker---especially when it comes to financial peril, I can only say that at the very least I would choose near-poverty rather than subject myself to a monotonous routine. Alexander Pope's peasant humbly declares, after having received the kindness of a king, if I remember right:
"An't please Your Honour," quoth the peasant,
"This same dessert is not so pleasant:
Give me again my hollow tree,
A crust of bread and Liberty."
(that's in The Sixth Satire of the Second Book of Horace, lines 218-21)

I dare not mock the effort of business persons, the cubicle worker, or the dutiful secretary; rather, I have to say that staring up at the skyscrapers I had more desire to film them than to crawl inside their confines and muck out a living as a faceless number, another passer-by in a corporate machine.

There. I said it. Now begins the mocking! :) (I know I'm a cheesehead, but I know you love it!)

Friday, October 15, 2004

How Little We Know . . .

That's a swell Frank Sinatra ditty, btw. And considering my constant befuddlement w/ the opposite sex, ---(frankly, I don't understand my own gender, either)--- I was wondering if anyone could inform me as to their own personal "signals." I don't want a textbook response, I'm certain that no one woman is exactly the same and thus my difficulty. (I used to think fudge and flowers were magic . . . ) So if you have any signals, especially those suggesting you're "interested," (and in a romantic way, as opposed to wondering what keeps a persons hideous face from exploding into an alien plant) please spell them out here. Maybe we'll compile an anthology. Each of you ladies have qualities I appreciate, so I'd appreciate your input. Tanks!

Thursday, October 14, 2004

Want to be a star? ;) trek . . .

So, any and all innuendo associated w/ the casting couch aside, I can safely say that this weekend will task me, in an oh-so-Wrath-of-Khan-but=without-the-fake-chest kind of way. I'm supposed to miraculously conjure a video camera scouring Happy Valley. This ain't New York or L.A., mah peeps; I can't just jaunt down to the local convenience store and rent some 1Ks, sandbags, and a Digital 8. So I'll have to trek to Salt Lake and beam into the Utah Film and Video Center, whose customer service ranks from 1 to a devil's handshake.

I've phoned a couple times now sheepishly seeking aforesaid video camera, and the disgruntled guy at the other end MUST have been rolling his eyes so far back he could have scanned his inner skull. Okay, so I exaggerate, sue me! Let's just say his tone of voice was no Wal-mart greeter. And if a jittery senior citizen can offer a warm welcome, why not a no doubt middle-aged malcontent? I don't need him to bake me cookies; just pretend like he doesn't think I'm an idiot.

Then I have to shoot 9 close-up scenes and an exposition shot w/ a car, people, and water; then I have to do a simple expo shot that I managed to make irritably complex in my storyboard . . . ugh. I imagined a girl clad in white holding a billowing sheet of sheer fabric in the wind, atop the mountains, etc. Crazy? No, it's art. :P
Oh, and I have some 36 drawings to do on top of that. Oh, and a Super 8 project. (Cue Mission: Impossible soundtrack here.)

So I'm off, to explore strange new people, to seek out new humiliations and new ideas, to boldly go where no real man should . . .


Tuesday, October 12, 2004

Me and Roger

Well, I'm officially unsettled. It's not like I didn't have a storm cloud or two lingering over my clunking cranium, but thanks to Michael Moore's freshman film I'm now inundated with thoughts of socio-economic doom. Ugh. So I'm going to seem much like the pastel-clad blue-haired ladies teeing off at the private club in the movie, but I'd like every now and then to smile, and I just can't when I'm made aware of the tragic moral incongruities that prevail thanks to money-grubbing corporate-types all over the world and not just in Flint, Michigan. I still don't understand how Michael Moore can fake a smile unless he's being smug or mischievous at the expense of the "establishment." (I put that in quotations, or as they appear when gestured, "bunny foo-foos," because I think the establishment is almost as much the anti-establishment as anything else nowadays. I mean, seriously. I feel like a rebel being religious in today's climate. That's right, bring the "man" down! . . . that he may humble.) :)

Anyway, I ate a Jell-O cup and some Triscuits so I'm cool. Er, except for that seething sensation in my stomach . . . (Don't I end most every post w/ some kind of bowel dysfunction? Patterns are our friends!)

Bringing ghetto to the grocery store

If I look like a mangy, albeit sexy conformist monkey when I'm clean-shaved, normally clothed, and so on I look like the missing link in a cholo T-shirt when I'm not. As is usually the case on laundry day, I run to the store to buy some quick nothing and use my debit card to get enough change to wash clothes for a small army of orangutangs. Usually I'm in pajama pants, which waft like tufts of textile smoke around my chimney pipe legs. This I can endure long enough to breeze in for a bag o' chips and skedaddle.

Today, however, I was clad in shorts, which as anyone who knows me and my legs can attest, make me look like a top-heavy sailboat. Not only that, I'm wearing a freakishly large Rollin' Hard T-shirt that, due to some demonic possession, apparently does NOT shrink as my others do after repeated washing. So, as pseudo-gangsta/middle-aged "Dad" I saunder into the grocery store feeling as if I could just as well be nude. (Don't linger too long on that; I'm still trying to wash the two seconds of its awkwardness from my mind.) Unfortunately, I must now traverse the ENTIRE store looking, as I promised Liz, for some "spider" spray. I know I've seen it somewhere; however, as my imagination conjures imps, gremlins, and floating heads of doom out of my everyday existence, it was probably a figment of the ol' cerebrum's awesome might, or just a bad Fig Newton.

So anyway, I smartly asked for bug spray and avoided a fastidious conversation w/ the middle-age Macey's woman who showed me to the aisle. There I saw flying insect spray, ant spray, ant and cockroach spray, and cockroach spray. No spider spray. So I bought some latex gloves for cleaning and escaped.

Oh, and right now I'm listening to some wicked weird tune by Fatboy Slim wherein some voice repeatedly says, muddled, "Druggie." Don't get me wrong. Me likey Fatboy Slim. I just don't know how I feel about being besieged by cries of druggie for around five minutes. Now when I look in the mirror I'll have to check to see if my pupils are dilated. Where are my oldies? I need to listen to The Lion Sleeps Tonight. The worst image it conjures is an elaborate puppet show. Nevermind. Don't ask. Well, okay, ask, just wear a plastic sheet. LOL. NEVERMIND.

All Hallow's Eve

This post could prove perilously long, since I love Halloween so much. I say that understanding that many a Mormon may not look forward, as I do and have since I was eight or so, to a time of year when people dress up as ghouls, witches, vampires, pirates and so forth, and pull pranks, get sick on candy, etc. Granted, I'm a middle-of-the-road monster, and don't like to celebrate Halloween by making anyone else miserable, so I avoid the more dastardly and destructive pranks ---(the best kind are harmless, even helpful)---but I solemnize the mythological milieu of a holiday that began w/ a belief in the rising of the dead.

As a boy, I would look forward to the book fair but only because I wanted to get books like Daniel Cohen's Famous Ghosts or juvenile anthologies like Southern-Fried Rat and other Gruesome Tales. When Ghostbusters came out, though I was but a wee one,---(I love the word wee!) I would incessantly draw (poorly) pictures of phantoms, fiends, etc. and hand them to my mother in the hopes that we would go. And my obsession w/ the macabre, at least in its most innocent incarnation, still thrives, especially at this time of year.

I only recently learned that it was an innate interest in mythology that had spurned interests I would later have in comic books, science fiction, and most movies.

So, it is with a particular zeal that I dream of completely decorating my house someday in the terror-filled trappings of All Hallow's Eve. A fabulously abbreviated history of the holiday by the History Channel, no less, can be found here: (You'll have to cut & paste because the "Insert Link" item doesn't work w/ me---accursed technology!)

Anyway, I'm not feeling witty or whimsy, so I'd better stop writing.

Monday, October 11, 2004

Oldies but dirties

Okay, so if you've ever listened to "Under the Boardwalk," you'll understand the above title. Every time I crack into my Time/Life oldies collection, I discover anew the reasons why so many felt that rock n' roll was evil. Of course, "to the pure all things are pure," and it really requires someone as devllish as myself to accurately pinpoint all of the innuendo. (However, in some songs it's just blatant---Under the Boardwalk is basically a song lyrically describing hanky-panky where? You guessed it: under the boardwalk, which brings to my obsessive mind concerns about sand in one's swimming trunks, chafing, or at the very least the presence of various aquatic animalia looking on.)
And if that's not just . . . well, weird, I should mention that Elvis, Jerry Lee Lewis, and numerous others weren't talking as much about the social revolution of the rising generation as they were serenading for sex. Scandalous? Oh yeah. So word to the wise, you impressionable youth out there. :)

From the original public menace to you . . .


Just a random thought: why must women be so irritatingly irresistible?! Perhaps some clarification is in order . . . Why must women possess this mystique that drives men mad?? Furthermore, why is it that women are then surprised to find men so aggressive?

Sunday, October 10, 2004

Thus looms the portent of a deleterious backslide . . .

Every new week brings with it the worry that I'll just while away my spare hours surfing the world-wide weird, printing off impractical paraphernalia that will no doubt dominate my computer desk, and dutifully ditching my storyboarding class--- (it's been twice now! Curse my fallability!) Still, hope remains while the company proves faithful . . . (Any guesses as to the movie that's from??) I do have those plucky, bright-eyed beefcakes for roomies that manage to motivate and madden me simultaneously. Maybe they will be Sam to my fallacious Frodo?

Maybe I need to stop referencing the Lord of the Rings? I'm certain that the backlash from the Oscars and the trilogy's success in general has already saturated at least the western seaboard with a bad taste in their cinematic palate. Why? When the movies came out I heard nothing but good news except from a few stingy critics. I don't deny a person the right to their opinion, nor would I assume that any film is impervious to conscientious criticism, but I feel that, in terms of the latest batch of popular opinion, the Lord of the Rings is getting a bad shake. C'mon, it's Ian McKellen with a wig! How cool is that?! and who knew? :)

Saturday, October 09, 2004

Meet me, Mr. Psychosis

Okay, so I looked up psychosis and it's pretty much right on the money. Tonight my roomies threw some kind of uber-happy latin shindig and every cell in my epidermis (at least) revolted at the idea. Am I not a party man? I like the night-life. I like to boogie. Or could it be that I am STUBBORN, STUBBORN, STUBBORN!? Hmmm. Food for thought, not to be eaten after midnight. (It gives me the bends just thinking about it.)

If, I may, however: I should justify as I do so well by saying that I honestly feel terrified by said social gatherings with large groups of people, music, and giggly good-times. Of course, I can't clinically verify that I suffer a social anxiety disorder, but even if I did I don't really believe that disorders, especially of the social variety, are anything more than mentally painting oneself into a corner and not being able to leave w/o a good therapist paid at exorbitant rates. So there goes my talent at justification.

Seriously, though, is there anyone else out there who identifies/empathizes/gives a darn? I'm almost certain at least a few people think it's pure idiocy to be frightened of fellow human beings, especially when they're friendly, but I can't help but feel my palms ooze and my brain rattle when I realize I've got to "hang out" in a large group.

Or maybe I'm feeling like Wednesday in Addam's Family Values, stranded at a camp of psychotically chipper white people and forced to endure Care Bears movies. Spewwww!

Ahem! Anyway, as you can tell I could go on forever, if it weren't for a combination of bile and Gatorade mix circling dangerously in my esophagus.

Until later, world!

God is a nice guy . . .

Who said that nice guys finish last? (Rather, it should be that nice guys finish what they start.) Though I esteem myself as a lowly example of what not to do, I'm always happy to know there's forgiveness, especially from a higher being. It makes me want to be nicer to insects. That's right. I'm feeling guilty for hammering a couple of mosquitoes and other assorted "bitey" flying things in my apartment (imps included).

Anyway, I'm not as poetic as some of my comrades, so I haven't anything else to report.

Tune in next time . . . "Same Bat Time . . . Same Bat Channel!" Nana-nana-nana-nana-nana-na! Batman!

Lacking inspiration . . .

I want to write but I can't. I've got a giant melon on my neck that's full of methane. Light something close to it, and it will explode, like the last dirges of a dying empire.

Friday, October 08, 2004

My reviews . . . okay, Ebert, eat your heart out! Er, or don't. And by the way, next time? Get less butter on your popcorn. Seriously.

So, I saw Taxi and Shark Tale, two wacky comedies, and to be honest, I rarely laughed. Whatever happened to the good ol' Groundhog Days comedy? "Come on, all the long distance lines are down? What about a satellite? Is it snowing in space?" Aaaaaaah, that's the good stuff. Funny with sauce on it. I'm watching these, readily digesting what I understand is SUPPOSED to be funny, and yet not feeling. Maybe I need a good hard slap in the face. Maybe I'm just emotionally constipated, and need a laxative.

No matter my personal dysfunction, what is obvious to me is that in both of these movies I wasn't really given a glimpse into why I should care about what happens to any of these characters . . . er, besides them being sentient life-forms. Maybe I'm asking too much of a comedy? I know I identify w/ Phil Connors, a curmudgeon of a weather-man, "ego-centric," mean-spirited, etc. who undergoes a transformation via his supernatural experience and falls for the only woman who isn't suckered by his lackluster ploys. So, what gives?

If identifying w/ the characters is my criteria, I'll most certainly never identify with anyone played by Jimmy Fallon, because of some strange aural perception of him that weirds me out. It's the vibe. He was great on SNL, but my guess is that he should have stayed there. Metaphysics aside I appreciate Queen Latifah's stellar energy and sense of timing. Her performance was the only thing keeping me from writhing in my seat (again, Mr. Fallon), and the reason the movie is worth watching. "Buckle up for safety, mother (tires squealing as she peels out). . .?"

Using the same criteria for Shark Tale, I certainly can appreciate a desire for fame and fortune, but not so much that I would turn a blind eye to a "fish" ---(okay, so I'm a hopeless romantic, even if it is CGI!) w/ Rene Zellwegger's beauty, vulnerability and sweetness. And I certainly cannot relate to so tasty a morsel wanting me the way this er, fish wanted Will Smith's Oscar. However, on the whole it's at least worth seeing if only for the entertaining mafia mien of the shark side of the story, which brings me to an aside. Why call it Shark Tale when it's really about Oscar, not the shark? I wonder if Oscar's species name wasn't catchy enough . . . like Anthias tale? ooh, or Blenny tale?

At any rate, the gas that fuels good family entertainment is more than a couple drops low in Shark Tale, if only because it, like other copies that Dreamworks makes (remember Ants?) tries to guise kid stuff in all too adult clothing. Pixar and Disney seem to have the tried formula. David Thomas at shares my sentiments: "Ultimately, though, to blame the shortcomings of this movie on the rating is a losing battle. Finding Nemo manages to be funnier and more entertaining with a G rating. That’s not to say that Shark Tale isn’t funny, or entertaining. It’s just much more forgettable."

In not so short, may I say that if you really love to see movies in the theaters as I do, you may want to take these in at a dollar theater if you weren't really excited about them anyway. They've got both good (Latifah, foxy fish) and bad (Fallon, not so funny---they do go together!) elements, but none that makes them worth seeing them again.

Let's go to the moooooooovies!

So I'm going to go see Taxi, which looks to be a quirky funfest, and will most likely turn out to be an utter disappointment, with the exception of Queen Latifah, who can do no wrong in my feeling. It's the whole plotlessness I'm worried about. How is Fallon just going to run into this mad, speed-demon taxi driver when there are hundreds more (and even more ethnically diverse) scattered among the city? It would be grand if she sought him out for some reason. I get unnerved at a protagonist and/or subsidiary characters not having wills and minds of their own; in other words, being driven by a plot as opposed to making one on their own. Harry Potter seems like one of those, though I love the books. He's usually thrust into circumstances instead of engaging them. Plots circle around him; he doesn't create them on his own.

Of course, then we get mired in an argument of plot vs. character, and I just don't have time for that!

P.S. I may end up seeing Shark Tale (ugh!) either today or tomorrow also. Oh, and maybe Shaun of the Dead.

Thursday, October 07, 2004

Morning gremlins

So I have a problem getting up before 10ish. Which to some will sound like laziness (and for all intents and purposes I agree), but I wonder . . .
If my happily fictional universe was as corporeal as the abominable mess floating around my computer, then I'd say it was gremlins. Pale things with giant, orange eyes. Oh, and sleepies just flaking off of them. That's right. They're insomnia gremlins. I realize, of course, that it's habit that keeps me up at night (dreaming of giant spiders attacking my . .. er, spaceship?---it's actually pretty cool because I have like a double-mini gun resting on this turret and I just eviscerate them. Hahah! That's your last scurrying, you scurvy vermin!) and in bed until such a terrible hour. Of course, I used to stay up until 5 a.m. and sleep until 1 p.m. back in my draggy summer days a couple of years ago, but I've been trying to improve. Thanks to a not-so-healthy dread of early classes, though, it's been slow-going. (Now I can't take any day classes, anyway, so I don't feel as bad).

Well, at least I'm up! Now to proceed to the 'at 'em stage!!! (Which usually terminates around 3 :))

Wednesday, October 06, 2004

So in my asian cinema class we watched Kaidan (1965), a series of ghost story vignettes from Japan, all of which were so deliciously devoid of "special effects" (i.e., C.G.) and yet still more potent than any recent horror film I've seen. Although admittedly I usually avoid them because they're so predictable, puerile, and overdone.

I suppose that's my beef against C.G.I., because instead of subtly supplementing an engaging story in ebbs and flows it smashes in torrents like a shattering tsunami onto a skeletal plotline. Of course, I'm not so big on plot as I am on character development, but that's gone to the dogs nowadays also. When was the last time you saw a so-called blockbuster and cared about the protagonist, or for that matter, any of the characters? Of course, if you felt that Britney Spears did a bang-up job in Crossroads I'm probably preaching to the wrong choir. . . Let me just say in a conclusion of sorts that I relish those movies, many of them typically Asian, that are visually stunning without being sensory shockers.

Oh, and my usual disdain for human company is once again rearing its ugly head. I've come to despise "normal" people. And with the exception of one quiet fellow who rarely shows himself, I don't know how to enjoy my roommates' company or prodding questions, like: "Are you caught up with homework?" or "Are you coming to prayer?" :) I know as I'm being irritated by those questions that I'm clearly in need of therapy. Any takers?

Tuesday, October 05, 2004

Corn cakes or O'Reilly

I just wolfed down some six or so corn cakes, which are really just like rice cakes. Dry, frustratingly light monstrosities that have no business being referred to as snack food. I want something that will fill the emptiness inside, and I get glorified air. The pathetic downside is that I feel pudgy, like if I had eaten 10 Nutter Butters. So there's the guilt and no gratification, which doesn't make sense to me. And does every grain become a low fat snack alternative? I mean, I don't see white cheddar "wheat" cakes on the shelf at Wal-Mart. And I thought Wal-Mart had well . . . everything, but super cheap and flimsy.

Anyway, I also realize that the only reason I appreciate Republicans, if you can appreciate the irony, is that they don't sound as full of malarky as do Democrats. I mean, I can't help but chuckle along with O' Reilly when he talks about his detractors, or to nod in the affirmative when he questions a Democratic ploy. Does that make me a Republican? I shudder to give in to the bi-partisan buffoonery. Anyway, to anyone who cares, this is me, signing off.

Ugh, oof, aaagh, and other vague bodily emanations

A question: What is the trick w/ reality that makes it so perilously unpredictable? I mean, I haven't had a ninja burst throw my window tossing shurikens, and I haven't won the lottery (which would really be a shocker since I've never bought a ticket ---EVER), so it's nothing dramatic. It's just that gnawing feeling you experience as you're waiting: a telling tick-tock in the brain that makes you feel as if you what you know you have to do you don't want to; or the slow hum of a long, balmy afternoon that makes you feel as if you have too much time on your hands; or just that feeling of you, no noise, no accoutrements, just ---vacuousness. Anyway, I'm probably thinking too much about the strange nuanced sensations that are all so everyday, but I wonder, what does it mean? I mean, besides that I need to get out more?

Old poetry . . .

A grand facade, in gaudy summers dressed,
Sly damsels dipped in bold Diana’s cup
As puckish nymphs will, sporting, make a jest
Of pang├Ęd hearts, and while destroying, sup.

Betrayed by such disguise as nymphets brave:
Defeating downy crowns and azure eyes,
They still enchant the pauper and the knave
Who so deceived do welcome their demise.

So I bereft of means to hie away,
Do clamor like a babe ‘twixt knaves and fools
And thus approve thy visage fair display;
What self-made sight amazes, passion schools.

Though rapt with wan delusion, I adore
The torture of thy beauty all the more.


I’ll make my venue under stars
And dream of places off afar
I’ll rest my head by crystal spheres
Amidst great midnight chandeliers
Afoot brass pearls of porcelain
Asleep in swaths of white
I’ll sing to my sweet chambermaid in silent, crystal night

New leaves . . . a camping necessity

LOL! New leaves!! I was thinking more of the turning over of . . . not so much wildnerness survival, but there you have it! My brain. Enjoy. At any rate, I'm trying to be more of a mover and a shaker, so I thought I'd get an early start and be showered by . . . 1:00! Wow. I'm actually progressing. :) So, I'm a sloth, or maybe an incipient truck driver. Who knows. Anyway, I'd best be off doing, or pretending to . . .

Monday, October 04, 2004

People . . . sassafrassin'@#%%@%@#$%^

Ah, so it is. I might as well be out with it. I'm insane. Certifiable, bona fide, what have you. I say this, dear reader, because people depress me. No, no one disappointed me as such. This malaise did not emerge due to some vulgar experience with druggies, hookers, or pedophiles. Rather, I have the priviledge of basking in the bright glow of Mormonism at its most manic. Concourses of clean, intelligent, thoughtful, witty, well-achieved college kids surround me. Instead of relishing the uber-spiritual surroundings and clamoring to be equally impressive, my lagging heart lulls, even lowers in my chest cavity, and I'm reminded that I either do not belong or may never feel that I do, if only for a shady past and a questionable present. Of course, I'm just brimming with potential, like my mother's old run-down pioneer-age home in Brigham City. The problem? Who will undertake the daunting task of renovation if not me?

So, eh . . . time for a game?

Well, I've gone and done it again: I ditched class. Instead of using my newfound time wisely I instead feel myself leaning towards a good bout of video gaming. Why? Because there's no quicker way to feel better about one's self than to pummel virtual opponents into man-punch. Anyone for a drink?

Oh, and by the by, I've noticed that nary a soul has commented on my blogs (few though they be) and that the only person adding ticks to my hit counter is me. Ah well! I suppose at the very least I can relish the thought of entertaining myself. Now where did I put that kerosene?

The sweet agony of procrastination . . .

Okay, so I realize it's the same day---sue me! I'm putting off completing an assignment that is already a week late, and I'm thinking I'll end up missing the class anyway. Alas, I had hoped to turn over a new leaf as a graduate student. >sigh< C'est la vie! Onward and upward, if only in a diagonal.

Hurrah! hurrah!

Alas, the world waiting breathless can now exhale as I put my superior cerebrum to work on the world wide web ---Haha! But seriously, my good buddy Sam began a blog, and I can't respond to her stuff unless I've got one, too. So there it is! Avocado!