TRANSFORMERS---more than meets the eye!

Much to my chagrin I was wooed alongside nine year old boys and thirtysomething video gamers (ahem! er, uh *cough cough*) by some really bracing pacing in the latest Transformers trailer---I think it was when I saw Fantastic Four 2 (ahem! mrrrm *cough cough*)---and I came to see yet another Jerry Bruckheimer/ Michaeal Bay effort, a CGI-glutted, rock 'em sock 'em, adrenaline packed, testerone-laden excuse for two plus hours of my day. Surprisingly, I wasn't as disappointed as I thought I would be! (How's that for the cup is half-full?)

I won't bother with summary, etc. but will say that fans of the cartoon will feel a renewed sense of manly security when they hear Optimus Prime's booming, pseudo-synthesizer radiating in voice over and reminding we measly humans that all will be well. The voice (done by Peter Cullen, who, incidentally, is also the voice of Eeyore) silences the noise of terrorism (a la rumors of war), government and corporate corruption, or even the daily mundanities of trying to muck out a living. It's downright therapeutic. I may just get the movie only to replay those moments when I'm stressed.

It was the above, however, that caught me off guard. While the Transformers are in fact souped up courtesy of legions of computer artists, they're still very much the ones we remember in the 80's, (well, except in one scene where Bumblebee "lubricates" on a covert agent). Furthermore, Shia LaBeouf is the saving grace of the movie. He's unavoidably likeable, of course, but he also plays the awkward teen wanting a car to impress the girl like a pro. That journey, which lasts maybe one third of the film (or so it seems) is the one that ingratiates, even inures me into thinking I might just give a ---well, you know.

However, this is, after all, a Michael Bay film, and what would any summer blockbuster be without a whole lotta destruction? Trust me, if you're looking for CGI wonder, you'll find it, but you may get more than you wished for... Maybe I'm getting old, but action for the sake of action annoys my inner being. I'm much more interested in how any story element (action included) affects the characters. In other words, the stakes for the characters are what make the action important. Mere survival or even victory (even against giant robots) isn't enough for me to shout "wahoo!" In Transformers, I stopped caring so early that by the thousandth explosion or rolling robot, I could no longer take anything on screen seriously.

But then, what did I expect from Bay and Bruckheimer?

A few random items:

• There's some random wacky robot doing an acid-tripped Johnny 5 impression throughout the film--- I can't be scared by that, but am I supposed to be?
• Why did the female lead have to be like something out of FHM? (Fact is, I wonder if she hasn't been in FHM.) The largely male demographic of this particular movie will unlikely not need any help augmenting their drool capacity, nor their penchant for dreaming foolishly that they're perfectaly capable of dating such a person by any means save an extraterrestrial car. I feel to say to my fellow geeks, abandon such an enterprise! Find a real woman, these pin-ups aren't for you.
• More than a few human beings get annihilated in terrifically gory and or excruciating ways in this movie, including a scene where MegaTron actually flicks a human being away like a bug. Such reminds me of a film instructor who despised Paul Verhoeven for a scene in Total Recall, wherein Ahnold uses a human body for a shield. Is this the nature of blockbuster according to Bruckheimer? The film employs the line "Without sacrifice there can be no victory" throughout, but I wonder if it shouldn't be "Without attrition there can be no box office success"?

Pieces of radioactive evil...

Brace yourselves.
I have the answer to one of life's greatest mysteries. You ready? I can't tell but I think some of you are standing up. That's right, you're STANDING UP while reading my blog!!! Siddown, dangit! I know the fundamental reason why we grow old: bills. Yep. That's right. You heard it here first, folks.

Granted, the bills themselves are innocuous pieces of paper to the physical senses, just ink and shredded, pulpified, dehydrated tree--(the butchers!)--- but to the emotional mind, they're caustic pieces of radioactive evil, the parchment equivalent of hordes of zombies hungry for human brains!! I'm suggesting in my not-so-subtle yet inimitable style that it is the fear of bills that is the root of all suffering, gray hairs, tomato-eye, and the generally stuffy malaise of adulthood.

I don't say that work isn't good for the soul, but doing custodial work just to keep the health insurance industry er... healthy, is not my cup of tea.

Oh, and forthcoming, but not right soon, is my rant of all rants on the plight of the humble custodial worker! CUSTODIANS UNITE!!! Now is the winter of our discontent...

Why oh why???

A few gripes---

• Why oh why didn't they let Genndy Tartakovsky take care of the live action versions of Star Wars Eps 1-3? The Clone Wars vols 1 & 2 are so expertly paced, so deliciously attentive to character development, in short, so incredibly competent that it begs the question: who let George Lucas do Star Wars anyway? When an animator can outshine the live-action version by intergalactic leaps and bounds, why would we accept anything less? I say this realizing that it's a dead horse, but beating the thing just never gets old, and the conundrum proves no less mystifying. I also realize that's a run-on. Sue me.


• This may be old news, too, so brace yourself. Batman Begins is one d*** good movie. I had to say d***... ---okay, I had to say "d" because I haven't the vocabulary required to render my exuberance adequately any other way. I suppose I'm a latecomer to the Christopher Nolan fan club, but I'm ready to graduate to full-on disciple. Of course, if he wrecks The Dark Knight, as have other recent directors and their sequels... ahem!---I'll pour acid on his effigy. My opinion of Nolan is that he's honest. Barring any arguments about the inherent dishonesty of cinema as a whole, he manages to please without pandering, treat and tease at the same time. He respects his audience by not bludgeoning them over the head. (Contrastingly, watch Spiderman 3 for conspicuous plot disclosure given by cartoony newscasters, no less.)

So I've got more... boy do I, but those are just a couple of items I needed to get off my chest.

Up at 5 a.m.

Recently I finished "On Writing" by Stephen King. I learned that 1) Stephen King is just as good a writer as I remember and 2) I need to pull my proverbial head out of my butt. Mr. King writes four to six hours a day, as I recall; did even when he was teaching English and raising kids. So it's up at 5 a.m. I guess... Oh, and I'll be reading instead of checking out Smallville from the library and trying to recall my glory days of online video gaming. By the way, I highly recommend it to anyone who wants a healthy primer and a kick in the pants on "the craft."

A perplexing murk...

I'm weary. Deeply. I can't imagine what it is to be drunk or doing drugs; as it is I'm staggering without standing up. Part of it is no doubt a mild depression, the sulken scurvy of the custodial worker; the other part(s) remain a perplexing murk. Trust me, it's not that I'm scouring toilets for a living, but that I'm doing so over and over and yes, over again.

Some high-falutin' CEO might stoop down from a lofty pile of money and tell me that it's my fault. I made poor choices, lived recklessly in opposition to my own internal wisdom: I've made my toilet, and now I have to bury my face in it.

Yes, yes, I know I'm going to SUU soon. Yes, I understand I'll likely have a shot at a much better job, but the plodding will go on, as it does in most jobs given the notorious label of "stable."

Ah well, here's to the liquor that is stale air.

Spaces between my teeth

There's no better blog fodder than a visit to the dentist, or in this case, the dental hygienist. Alas, I have no cavities, but suffer from gum disease, or so they say---conspiracies galore!---and needed some brutal oral cleansing. Perchance this debilitating tooth barnacle stems from my love of pastas? No! No... I dare not blaspheme against such celestial starches.

Whatever the cause, the hygienist took great delight in impaling, scuffing, stabbing, scraping, and out-and-out gouging away my gum decay, er... or something less rhyme-ey. I vaguely recall having a remote control in my hand and CNN International reviewing over and over myriad terrorist actions abroad, and yet, were a bomb to explode on the floor above us I would only know it if the ceiling collapsed on my face. Such is the fearsome intimidative powers of dentistry. I say (facetiously, of course) in order to combat "terror"ism, we must employ a greater dread. Send armies of orthodontists to the Middle East, and a bomb would be a smidgen less excruciating. Well, not really.

Why I chose to leave news of renewed hostilities in Algiers and continued troubles in Pakistan on the television while the lady hygienist did her professional best on my gums I don't know. Naturally I couldn't even enjoy Stargate: SG-1 while someone was spraying my own salivary goo into my eye, and then shoveling out spaces between my teeth I didn't know I had (but probably should).

What was strangely more excruciating is that this particular hygienist was an art major at BYU years ago, had dated one of my painting professors, and knew the faculty. She seemed eager to discuss my experiences, goals, etc. (and her frustrated hopes of marriage) and I, drowning in my own spit and trying not to lacerate my swollen tongue on the hook dangling ominously next to it couldn't say my own name intelligibly, let alone have an engaging conversation. Picture someone at the dinner table trying to communicate with numerous random dental utensils protruding from their yap and the bottom half of their face the relative consistency of soggy pizza. Humorous, no? Suffice it to say I emitted something like, "Vischewow Arrrh... Kasshsandwa Baweee... Gwawik De-ahn... etc." At times, I border on Kelsey Grammer-like (Frasier) erudition and vocabularied sophistication, evincing at least the facade of intelligence, perhaps here and there sprinkled with lofty wit---(I've never been brief, so wit ever eludes me). At the dentist's I am reduced to Cro-Magnon buffoonery, and herein the chuckle Bill Cosby refers to rears its ugly head. I have no doubts that this hygienist couldn't help herself. She HAD to continue asking questions because she delighted in seeing me struggle to press sound past my water-logged vocal chords without showering the room in a foul elixir of blood, phlegm and at least one-year-old victuals.

Well, I've survived, dearest readers, and it's on to the next challenge: how to ingest anything before work when my mouth is as good as cotton?

Cobwebbed corners and thinning crowds...

I wonder how the "real" bloggers do it. How is it they can invest so much time into their corner of webverse and sound witty or wise on a regular basis? I, for one, am now just coming to the stupid realization that I'm not witty---well, specifically, that I'm not witty every day; furthermore, that my dalliance with Internet dominance (having still to flourish and provide me with a mutant zombie army or any similarly gruesome symbol of might) was fostered mostly by vainglorious notions of my capacity to entertain or enthrall. Yet, my corner shows more than a few cobwebs and an even thinner crowd of enthusiastic onlookers. (Cue tumbleweed.) Does anyone read this, er, besides my mother-in-law? (Props, etc. to you, "L," and your brood).

After having asked that question two too many times, I should know the answer.

Nonetheless, I feel reluctant to shed this little appendage, be it quaint and shabby or resplendent. I'll still probably check-in, if only to fumigate. Ciao! (Cue dreary echo.)

Good background noise

Charles in Charge: perhaps the most ridiculous show that television has ever produced. It's loaded with wacky moments, winsome smiles, and a bodacious blonde girlfriend (in every season, methinks). It's also almost NEVER funny, but when one laughs, one does so embarrassed for the 1980s and Scott Baio. Tragically, I remember the day when I thought it was "cool."

Are we watching anyway? You betcha! I find that when a program requires no brain cells, it makes for good background noise. Still, some questions arise: Who hires a college-age male to babysit their children? At what point did those hairdos make sense, and to whom would they be alluring, save perhaps a wild bison? These and more mysteries await the intrepid viewer of creepy Charles in Charge.

Tears have been shed... pajamas donned.

So our cat, the Queen, the Lovely, the Chub-chub, the inimitable crazy, the Mona, has been extradited --(we hope temporarily)-- and we're flying our flag at half mast. We've emptied a little tin of cookies from work and broken into a Christmas basket of junk food from the Plaza Hotel management. Tears have been shed. Pajamas donned. Oh, and we're watching the X-files. This truly is the day the music died.

Having your patience slammed repeatedly produces dramatic tension...

We went to see Eragon ---spoilers follow--- last night, and despite my usual attempts to expect next to nothing of a film I got my hopes up. I only wish I could say I wasn't disappointed. To the credit of the film-makers, (most likely the CGI wizards) the dragon, Sephira? was nothing shy of adorable at first and then alternately austere, menacing, coolly majestic, and convincingly scaly and serpentine. I even liked her voice (Rachel Weisz). There are even a few moments where due to my inherent geekdom I thrill at the thought of having a dragon for a soul mate. What Eragon primarily suffers from is the Harry Potter syndrome, that is, the movie translation of the books is hurried, stilted, and therefore embarrassingly undramatic. With so much plot to cram into the typical two hours, there are few moments where we can "absorb" the rustic charm of the token village, brood alongside a villain, or become truly elated at the "pinnacle" (intended or not) of the film.

The grand champion of fantasy films at this point, Lord of the Rings, manages to choose character-building moments at crucial points in the film. We see very little of Boromir in terms of actual screen time and yet he dies in quite a serene and stirring crescendo toward the end of the film. Though I've seen it now at least ten times I can't help but tear up. Conversely, the titular character of Eragon almost expires in a stunningly overplayed aerial duel with a hammy (and unsurprisingly creepy) "shade" sorceror, and yet I really didn't blink an eye.

No doubt some would say I'm being unfair. After all, Lord of the Rings took a much longer time to conceive and by an accomplished philologist, instructor, and well, a highly intelligent Brit. Eragon was conceived by a 15 year-old (or so I'm told) and as seems likely an American. One story had a touch of history, of legend, of poetry to it. The other has easily recognizable conventions and sometimes silly names. Naturally the film-makers couldn't be blamed for the tremendous differences in dramatic quality their films would produce. Yet, Peter Jackson's insistence that the production design for the Lord of the Rings be conceived with a pseudo-documentary realism, (that is, Elves really did exist, Sauron and the ring, etc. were more than just the wondrous products of a refined intellect) seems to have produced a conceivably "real" style of dress and architechture. In Eragon only the dragon seems "real."

Likewise the performances in the latter are less moving, more plastic. Numerous times in the movie I'm reminded that I'm actually watching a movie. No fantasy film worth its salt can really survive unless it's inured me into the emotional reality of its characters, enchanted my senses, enthralled my sensibility into believing in dragons, etc. Few tears are shed; however, numerous grimaces, growls and grunts issue forth. In this film as in many of its peers the villains are tragically more convincing (or at the very least "moving") than its heroes. Sad to say, despite a roster of at least a couple of noteworthy actors the aforementioned immersion never took place. Most disappointingly, John Malkovich is incredibly goofball. His slow drawl took me back to Mice and Men, and I was more worried he was going to headlock someone and love them to death than to wreak havoc and darkness on some poorly outfitted resistance. Not threatening, certainly not intense, unless you think having your patience slammed repeatedly produces dramatic tension.

Likewise, if you're looking for the delicious dialogue of LOTR, you'll have to go home and watch the DVD. This movie has some moments of charm, even charisma, but they are few and far between. The rest is more often than not derivative ("there were... complications") and vapid.

However, if you're looking for a musical score that attempts to cue every emotional moment (perhaps desperately trying to buttress weaker moments) you'll get one. I expect a perfect musical score (especially one that will invariably become domineering) to mesh with the cinematic visuals. I shouldn't notice it trying to elevate my emotional resonance. Not so here. The score (as with a number of other elements of the film) tends to sound cheap: overdone here, under-finessed there---something one expects of a "B" movie. Truthfully, it's a waste to have spent this much time writing about it.

In conclusion (though I'm far from done) I'd say that the film-makers should have backed up, closed the author's eyes and reduced the plot and savored the high points, (er... or point), like Sephira. I would have attempted to find actors who had at least a meager love for the book, though I doubt anyone on THIS movie reads Eragon once a year, or is part of the fan club. If they were, they would have tried to make a film that honored the book, instead of a flick that fitted the book inside of it, regardless of how it mangled the pages.

At one point during this awkward movie, I actually whispered to my wife, "When is this movie going to be over?" As such, using my usual standards for the quality of a movie, I'd say wait for the dollar theater, but not for the rental (unless you have a large group). Waiting to rent the DVD may be too much money.

A room full of silk flowers

It's been ages since I wrote anything, and for once I have good reason: I'm busy. I do not mean to say that I have no time to write, only that once I've crossed our lil' apartment's threshold after a long day of walking through tunnels, sweeping a perpetually dirty floor and organizing a room full of silk flowers--(try doing that and still feeling macho at the end of the day! hah!) I don't feel inclined to put my weakened fingers through further punishment. (The carpal tunnel I was gifted with through video gaming exacerbates the fun of operating a broom, perhaps the simplest of tools). Nonetheless, I feel I owe it to moi, sole proprietor and visitor to this, the last serenely isolated corner of cyberspace, to keep on 'a keepin' on.

Honestly, I admit I look forward (faintly) to the random reply of a stranger and the even still more unlikely comment from a friend/acquaintance/pseudo-relative, etc. So, if you're out there, say something!!! :)

In addendum, I should explain the foregoing reference to silk flowers via update. Since August of this year I've been working for LDS Floral Services (a la Temple Square) as a materials handler. 1) I do not design the floral arrangements, and if I were to try, several women of various sizes and athleticism would turn into martial arts warriors with pink hair and pummel me. 2) Floral Services is an indoors operation. We put lights and decorations galore on those towering Christmas trees that exist in a climate-controlled environment. The most we fear from nature on a regular basis is spiders and gravity.

One of the abnormalities arising from said position is that we're sometimes obliged to organize a malevolent quotient of silk flowers from time to time, and must venture deep into a crevice of the LDS Conference Center known only as 4M. Cue the "bwah bwah bwaaaaaaaaaaaaah!" and violin accompaniment here. It is a room designed with the sole purpose of dulling the senses, diminishing will, and instigating rubber-band volleys into its grey gloom. Time has no meaning, color no bounds. What is a peach lily in one spot turns red-orange in another; all variety of hues of every color imaginable (even those you dare not consider) exist in one warped rainbow mass of shelved silk flowers. If you linger too long... they stare back at you. Furthermore, the ruling class in Floral Services is despicably right-brained, so the flowers ebb and flow, radiating from one grouping to another. In short, the place is sheer madness, and we're lucky we made it out alive. Going back is always, ALWAYS a last resort.

Here's to hoping I won't be a "flower boy" forever.

Captain Redguy, signing off.

The Miseducation of... well, every kid in the U.S.

I love John Stossel. I'm coming to despise our country's slow improvement:

Innovative self-cheerleading

In response to the not-so-anonymous :) I wish to clarify that the higher being with which I am familiar doesn't desire anyone to be in a state of denial but on a course of aspiration and progression, and while I am one who questions the dubious outcome of "fake it till you make it" I realize that the road to "perfection" requires some innovative self-cheerleading, even self-hypnosis in a case as self-aware as mine.

And artist or no, I'm concerned that I not even begin to set my self apart so as to justify my considerable penchant for selfish languor or cantankerous ruin. Having different challenges I find myself resorting to unusual strategems in order to conquer and even momentary victories only reveal a new (and simultaneously old) series of trenches.

Naturally, the cycle will only end once I assume my right to choose my path instead of allowing the wind to toss me to and fro (James 1:6).

Nonetheless, a whopping thanks for your ever kind and generous commentary.

Melancholy and other forms of madness...

Since I have no reputation there's little to stop these mini-diatribes from turning lunatic, lewd, malicious, etc. except that I wonder if there's not some record being made in heaven. My thoughts are already sometimes black, and if I were to double their darkness by loosing them here it would be catastrophic to my dwindling spiritual ego and reverse any residual accolades remaining were I to repent.

It's funny that I'd always had a peripheral understanding of agency, of right vs. wrong and yet never discerned the devilish grins swimming in my melancholy and other forms of madness.

I keep wishing both that I had never gotten myself so mired and that I had some uniquely sympathetic earthly soul who could share in the comprehension of my utter stupidity. :) Lest I become too much like the adversary, who wishes that all become miserable like unto himself I'll forego furthering the aforementioned.

Le sigh. Let's hope I find better days.

Ka-ching!

Are there any other retail workers out there? Specifically, are there any other sufferers of retail labor? Sad but true the blogosphere probably has a host of whiners, rant-and-ravers, etc. but I have to say my whimsical piece about the absurdity of being a cog in the machine.

Such absurdity emerges in its most banal when for the hundredth time I've recommended the M&M two for a dollar special to a diabetic; as I'm unfazed by a monolithic wall of cigarettes peering back at me with cancerous fatality; when I can't end a conversation without saying, "Thank you! Have a nice day!" and so on.

Customer service wouldn't irk me if I could while away more than a few minutes conversing with the talky spinsters, the charming college-goers, the winsome moms and spit-fire fathers instead of scuttling them the moment they have their receipt. Lines in retail/grocery shouldn't be divided based on the number of items but more on the mood of the individuals. Doubtless the conversationalist line would have fewer patrons, but that's as it should be since we'll have to talk longer anyway. You'd have a robotic high-speed register clerk at your "I left the iron on, water boiling, my teenage daughter and a mangy, tattooed guitarist together on the couch" line, so they could hear "Hello. Receipt. Thanks for coming!" and rocket to put out whatever fires were plaguing them in due time. There's also the line for cigarette buyers, which would boil down to little more than a dispenser that would require them to show their I.D.--here the receipt, a bag, and perhaps even "Hello" would be moot considerations--more intrusion than adequate customer service.

I suppose retail in general is aggravating because it, like the DMV, the post office, the airport, etc. is little more than a people processor: managers tend to think more in numbers than faces (customer service anymore boils down to "Ka-ching!" instead of courtesy and community--call me a cynic) and the store's geography itself is meant to induce superfluous purchases rather than to provoke warmth or to foster happiness.

Granted, this may be more of my malcontented bile issuing like a deluge onto the already encrusted sickness of cyberspace, but I've reached my ceiling of empty courtesy. I'm taking back humanity, one Walgreens at a time. LOL.

Seriously, it seems to me that like our politicians--thank you, George Carlin--Walgreens, if indeed it is a grey hulking machine sucking people in and spewing them out minus a prescription and a few 4x6s worth of money, is only symptomatic of us as a whole, both collectively and individually. I can't blame the corporate machine; whether acting as a component or penniless opponent I still have to take action. No one robs us of our agency, our fresh air, our love, or our enduring happiness but us. Doubtless I have yet to fully embrace that lesson, simple though it is.

Now, lest I lose the inertia momentarily granted by thoughts not entirely my own, I'll tear myself away from parasitic technology and try doing something truly productive. Adieu.

Devilish carrots

I've come to realize the reasons why sin is so attractive (at least from a personal perspective)--or at the very least, why it is so addictive in contrast with righteousness. I say so at great personal cost because I may betray my deepest inadequacies to the discerning reader. Thankfully, this is one of the last unvisited bastions of the internet.

Sinful behavior (and for the non-religious this would best be labeled "dumb" behavior, since to the believer that's really what sin boils down to anyway) creates a vacuum hollowed out by regret, shame, sorrow, misery, etc. The individual thus suffering from such will then desire some kind of reprieve, and due to the harrowing nature of the aforementioned conditions will typically not have the patience needed for more enduring relief.

Righteousness, on the other hand, is deeply fulfilling and while not always immediately (nor intensely) gratifying, doesn't create a vacuum but new substance/sustinence--new challenges and horizons, (even revelations?). To clarify, much of righteous behavior involves ritual immersion and patient, concentrated effort, and more often than not, little to no adrenaline. (This is not to say that there is no chemical emission involved in spiritual transcendence, only that the experience promotes peace as opposed to aggression.) Therefore, a person isn't compelled to continue doing righteous deeds as they are with sinful practice, since righteousness is the only course that offers true satisfaction as opposed to a piecemeal gratification, the proverbial devilish carrot on the primrose path.

I say all of this not because it is new to the religiously educated or spiritually discerning, but because it is new to me, a person of spiritually meager intelligence. Over and over again I'm reminded of how little I know.

Back from hiatus...

Hiatus sounds too Hollywood; or maybe I wish it did. A lingering part of me wishes I was hob-knobbing with the big studio moguls, hopeful starlets, and otherwise fulfilling lifelong aspirations of having my imagination finally mean something financially important. Well, whether it's self-imposed reprieve or slothful negligence I've repented and returned to you, welcoming oblivion of cyberspace.

Sad but true, my motivations for writing here ---I've come to realize--- were primarily because I thought someone was paying attention. Now that I'm almost certain no one does, I should just really say things like I mean them. I'm not suggesting that anything I've said previously was remotely untrue. Rather, I won't have to mince the spicier elements for the benefit of persons for whom my respect demands a modicum of delicacy.

Granted, since this is still a "public" venue, I'll not share my deepest sentiments, but I'll feel less obliged to spare people's feelings about punk music. :)

The up-sell of mediocre employment...

There's something debilitating about a "job." Note that a job might be distinguished from a career because a job is typically a means to an end, at least for those of us inured into the dredges of higher education. In particular a job, though promising a moderate to negligible stipend come the end of a two-week or one-week period, rewards little. Much of the work feels purposeless 1) because it is routine, which means it will necessarily have to be repeated again and again and again and 2) there's only a faint hint that anyone's life will have been graced by one's efforts; it is doubtful, after all, that a memorization of corporate up-sell technique will have brightened a beleaguered individual's perspective, or that a nimble ring-up at the cash register will shatter the gray wall between people and change the community for the better. At the very least, were I able to make a movie, it could, even for a moment, affect someone. A job is more or less devoid of those opportunities on a regular basis. I don't deny that here and there one may produce the kind of profound changes that lead to elusive "fulfillment," but as a cog in the machine, the glitter of individual spark typically erodes under the dimming tide of commercial grease.

My pessimism no doubt is part and parcel of my problem. Still, I hold onto the hope that I can be both a caregiver (of sorts) and a corporate lackey at the same time.

Marred

One of my wittiest friends says "marred" instead of married; humorous as that conversion is marriage does have a way of making its mark, oftentimes in brutal awakening. Honestly, though, I have no complaints... it's my spouse that suffers. No doubt she's perplexed my ease (as am I) or perturbed by my goofball behavior. Surely I'm not THAT prone to playing video games, am I? But anyway, I thought I'd drop another note into my negligible corner of cyberspace and say unequivocally that marriage, while challenging, is as sweet as it was formerly cracked up to be.

Internet acrimony

I'm not a fan of relationships; mind you, I'm really excited about the one I'll be forming in little more than a month's time and all that it implies, but I don't enjoy those awkward, half-formed devils that usually emerge from an acidic pool of emotional constipation or lack of communication in general. Furthermore I don't like them when I'm made to feel guilty when they end/subside though I have only a vague idea as to what kind of ludicrously obscure or unspoken code I've overlooked.

Anyway, I just don't like internet acrimony, though I'm hypocritically wont to retaliate once the hammer comes down.

So... nevermind.