The Sooner They Talk, the Sooner They Talk Back

Everybody hates internet advertisements, but I think they're more tolerable than television commercials, since you can ignore most of them and just roll the mouse wheel until they're gone. They're passive, as they just kinda peer out from your monitor, hoping patiently that you'll click on them.

TV commercials aren't like that. TV commercials not only interrupt your favorite shows, they reach out and throttle you to get your attention. They're made using trendy editing techniques that thrust hundreds of images into your eyes before you even know what product is being advertised. They scream and cry at decibel levels many notches higher than the program you were just watching, so you have to either scramble for your remote to turn your TV down, or just sit and endure, gambling a percentage of your hearing in the process.

The internet doesn't treat me like that. I don't have to suffer through lengthy celebrations of asinine consumerism every few minutes while I write this blog entry. However, there are still times when I mourn the days when the World Wide Web wasn't owned by commercial juggernauts.

How did you feel the first time an internet ad spoke to you? Well, I felt a distinct sense of repugnance. Some guy, whom I'm guessing was an office worker with no acting experience, said, "Hey! Over here! I solved my debt problem, and now I'm living debt-free! Click here to see how I did it."

You know what, asshole? I solved my debt problem too, by getting a fucking job, you walking crap factory, and I didn't have to click on anything! Gah!

That was years ago, but sometimes I still encounter ads that say, in the most annoying female voice imaginable, "Congratulations. You have been selected to win two free iPod Nanos." I've been selected? By who? And what is this selection process? And why the hell would I want two Nanos instead of just one? Did Apple finally admit that they went too far in making their shit products small and fragile, and that you'll need two because odds are you'll lose or break one?

Net ads don't talk as much as they used to, and the ones that do usually have sound disabled by default, thankfully. Even the tenacious ads that crawled or spread across your monitor like locusts are approaching extinction. Now ads are mostly made with Flash, and try to look like games or contests to entice you into clicking on them. It's pretty lame, but not as lame as the ones that incorporate Flash Video. Hey! Ya want to see something scary? Want to see what happens next? Want to see some black woman pretend to be startled when she finds out someone's been secretly filming her dance, probably to crappy hip-hop music? It sucks.

You know what, though? I think the worst ads of all are the ones that promote the stupidest sites. Take College Humor. And no, I'm not going to link to the site because I hate it. I've never actually been to the site, but I just hate college humor in general, and I don't think I need to look at the site to remind myself of it. When I was in college, the humor I saw was all Kevin Smith movies and the occasional wacky perversion of messages on hall whiteboards. Huh huh, look, someone changed "Meet the Beatles" to "Beat the Meatles." And people call colleges the spawning grounds for the liberal elite? Have our standards for elitism fallen so far?

Anyway, the ads for College Humor show images from their apparently funny videos that involve "Street Fighter: The Later Years" and "Rejected Wii Games." Random parody, huh. That's never been done before. We've got some regular Family Guy writers over here. Too bad Family Guy SUCKS.

Then there are the ads for "The Next Generation of IM Smileys," a bunch of animated yellow smiley faces that I'm guessing you can install on your computer somehow, so they can be displayed while you type to your friends from church about the hickey your friend got on her ass last night. You know, why don't these ads just say, "Hey, you want to install a buttload of spyware on your machine? Obviously you're an idiot who doesn't know enough about computers to realize that these smileys will clog your system with junk and wreck its performance, so click here and bend over, bitch!"

The saddest ad I've seen, though, in that it implies a sad tale about the world and those who shop there, are the ones for True Swords. Once again, I'm not putting a link for the sake of anyone who might read this. It's True Swords, an online store for people who, for whatever reason, want to buy swords. And I'm not talking about real, antique swords forged and crafted by actual medieval blacksmiths. Nor are they swords once wielded by deadly Far Eastern warlords. No, no, these are factory-made swords that resemble those used by characters in movies and video games! Yes, now you too can have your own private Star Wars Kid moment by ordering a Buster Sword - complete with Materia slots - just like the one Cloud Strife used in Final Fantasy VII! Never you mind that Cloud Strife doesn't exist, and never existed except in your imagination! Never you mind that the Buster Sword was never actually used by Cloud in any of his battles with Sephiroth! Most importantly, never you mind that in buying this sword, you are reverting to childhood and pretending to be He-Man all over again! Only now, you're blowing a lot more money!

Seriously, can't you just grab a stick and go prancing around the park if you want to play swordsman? Whatever happened to imagination?

I can't take this shit. Even though net ads are relatively low-key, they're nonetheless becoming difficult to ignore. But ignore them I must, because it's really the only way to cope with rampant consumerism.

I just hope they don't start talking again.

I Want to Kill Myself!

Oh God! Oh God! Oh Jesus, what am I gonna do now?

I had my first review at Liggett this past Friday. I was so excited. I thought they were going to build me up. I thought they were going to encourage me. I thought they were going to tell me they were proud to have me aboard. You know what they did instead? They fuckin' FIRED me!

Yes! That's right! My boss Dennis was there, and so was Ms. Toad Lady, and they told me that because of my poor performance over these last few months, my services would no longer be needed. That's right, no warnings, no reprimands, just a review filled with checks in the "unsatisfactory" column. There were problems listed on that paper that I didn't even know about. They marked me for poor and inappropriate communication. They marked me for requiring proper directions to do my work correctly. They marked me for not having the office experience necessary to handle my work. Then they told me they felt bad about letting me go, but I don't believe that. Who could believe that? They didn't work with me, or try to help me improve, they just threw my pasty ass out!

How could they do this to me? What kind of people are they? How do they sleep at night knowing that they've shit in my mouth like this?

Jesus Christ almighty, I have no income! I'm going to lose my apartment! God help me, I don't want to move back with my mama because of these two-faced snakes in the grass! I was going to get a new car with the money from this job, so I wouldn't have to ride the bus anymore. I was going to get a new computer, and maybe a place with a separate bedroom. Now I'm going to lose everything! Don't they know how hard it is for a young person to get a job he can survive on in this town? Don't they realize what they've done to my future?

I was given the choice of accepting my fate as having been fired, or to write a letter of resignation and rewrite history that way. I chose to stick to the truth, in case I need the unemployment. I don't know what else I can count on.

Oh God, what am I going to do now?

Beat the Ballena

The cables that feed Earth's television broadcasts into my nervous system must originate from Northern California, because all I've been hearing about for the last week are these two dumbass humpback whales who stupidly took a wrong turn into the Sacramento river, and who are too dumb to find their way back to the ocean. Heroic, selfless people from across the state are flocking to the area in an effort to shove the things back to where they belong. Meanwhile, throngs of losers with no lives of their own have clogged the banks, so they can watch these creatures get prodded all day.

Meanwhile, poisonous, infectious chemicals have been found in ordinary contact lens solution. Governments are in turmoil as leaders face death of both the political and the literal varieties. The war in Iraq has been given a financial shot in the arm, proving that there really are none who can stop it from draining the world's greatest power of its youth and its dollars for years to come. And all the proles care about are these two stupid whales. Well, them and that other whale who had a fight on TV with some blonde bimbo about the war. So, three whales then.

O, are these interesting times! Mankind has overexposed itself to violence and corruption, and now he is practically blind to them. I interpret this as the call whose sounding we Evil Ones have been listening for, as these are the days when our deeds will not be noticed until it is too late.

Destiny, You Cannot Destroy My Destiny

Every nerd and his second cousin is prepping to write an extensive blog entry comparing and contrasting the forthcoming live-action Transformers movie with the classic animated one from the 80s. Personally, I don't think such a comparison is worthwhile, because this new movie is pulling a Batman Begins. It's a Ctrl-Alt-Delete reboot of the Transformers mythology, and as such, it can't possibly have the enormous effect that the original movie did. The reason for this is that the original saw the culmination and ultimate tying-up of plot threads that its viewers were already intimate with after years of cartoon-watching.

We finally found out who'd be left standing after a battle to the death between the two great rivals, Optimus Prime and Megatron. The winner? Megatron, who was injured but did not die after his earth-shaking clash with Prime.

As a child, I was horrified to see Prime, a familiar and paternal figure, pass away, seemingly never to return. Watching the movie now, I bang my head on the wall and wonder, "How the hell did the writers get away with this?" I mean, come on, this whole deathbed scene is a farce! First of all, Prime's a robot. He doesn't have vital signs, and if he did, they'd be measured digitally, not in the organic, analog signals the movie shows! And this whole death thing goes against everything we fans had learned from watching the show. Think about the pilot alone. That showed Prime and all the other Transformers reduced to a pile of junk after the Ark crashed on Earth four million years ago, and then Teletraan I, the ship's onboard computer, automatically patched them all up! Then, later, a bomb is detonated beneath Prime while he's driving up a mountain road, causing him to tumble all the way down the slope. Guess what? Not only does he survive, but he is able to function normally! Prime's the toughest badass around! But now, in this movie here, we're expected to believe that a few shots to the gut are all it takes to bring him down for good? It's ridiculous!

It's painfully obvious that Hasbro was distressed by falling toy sales, and had to introduce a new Transformers lineup while eliminating the old one. Hence the sweeping character changes in the movie. Anyway, let's continue.

We finally saw Starscream assume leadership of the Decepticons, a position he'd publicly coveted since the series pilot. Unfortunately, he didn't even get to issue a single order, as the newly-revived Megatron, now named Galvatron, interrupted Starscream's coronation and blasted the usurper to bits.

This scene was startling, of course, but it always made me wonder: just what the hell kind of beam does Galvatron's cannon fire? It must contain some horrible alien energy, as it didn't just pierce and leave a wound. It enveloped Starscream and superheated him. Then, Starscream's metal body didn't just melt, it collapsed into dust faster than Kirsten Dunst in Interview with the Vampire. That's some pretty heavy weaponry, Galvatron! It's too bad you can't hit anyone else with it in this movie!

So a lot of narrative arcs were brought to a close, sometimes with unpopular results. This stuff wasn't happening in a vacuum, though. This was all before a backdrop of brand new, super-colossal, mega-confuso-storylines!

Gape in terror at the Quintessons, who keep an endless kangaroo court and execute people for being innocent rather than guilty! See the mighty, world-devouring Unicron, as he floats through space and gobbles planets like they were bonbons! All with a ridiculous "chomping" sound effect lifted straight from the Hanna-Barbera sound libraries! He fears the Autobot Matrix of Leadership, which is apparently some kind of bomb that Prime keeps in his chest, and which has never before been seen or referenced in the cartoon mythos!

Scratch your head at the Junkions, Transformers obsessed with advertising and "Weird Al" Yankovic, and who are led by Eric Idle! Cover your ears in shock as Spike and Ultra Magnus utter "shit" and "dammit" respectively! Hate and hate some more on that fucking shrimp Wheelie! Wail with sadness as you realize that you'll have to shell out more money for all these cool new toys! 'Til all are broke!

...

You know, I'm probably being too harsh on this movie. It really was an influential and emotional experience for us kids. It has terrific voice acting, as the cartoon series always did, and some breathtaking animation, which the series often lacked. When I first saw Unicron transform, I couldn't even speak. Bad though it is, it's a movie I'll never forget, simply because it served to end a years-long saga that was so valid to my childhood.

Now there's a new movie coming, one that intends to start a new saga with a likely string of sequels. It's going to take a lot of them, though, to build the momentum that the original film had behind it. But you never know; with Peter Cullen reprising the Prime role, this film just might earn the fanboy love it needs to be a success. Decepticons, retreat.

Spider-Man 3 and the Obsolescence of the Alpha Male

The credits have just rolled on Sam Raimi's latest comic-book epic, and although I was supposed to turn my brain off for its duration, I couldn't help but do a little bit of critiquing. And no, this article is not about the miscasting of Thomas Haden Church, who, in this film, is the spitting image of Marvel's Eddie Brock, but ends up becoming The Sandman instead. Nor is it about the heinous plot twist that saw Church's character exposed as Ben Parker's murderer in order to throw more dramatic weight to his confrontations with Peter. It's also not about the disappointing displacement of the symbiote story, which was hyped heavily in the trailers, to the film's second hour. Hell, it's not even about the hasty, taped-up third act that forced us to see only the results of a supervillain crime spree and not the process. This is a movie based on a comic-book; I'd have been a real dingus to expect decent writing here.

What Spider-Man 3 made me think about was the ascension of the geek as a genetically attractive human specimen. Big, buffed guys with Marine Corps sensibilities just aren't in anymore. Sensitivity rules in the 21st century, and Spider-Man 3 proves it. Verily, this movie could have been subtitled "Peter Parker's Preposterous Pilgrimage from Pussy to Prick Through Perilous Possession."

Let's take a look at Peter. The guy is held up as a champion of man's singular qualities. As Parker, he is socially awkward, but he's also gentle, respectful, and studious. As Spider-Man, he is witty, nimble, and quick-thinking, and he never kills, he only subdues. And the women adore him.

Now let's look at Peter's antithesis, the burly Sandman. He's an unstable, violent fugitive who's too dumb to realize that keeping a steady job, and not stealing cars, might be the key to saving his sick daughter. The Sandman can't even seek sanctuary in his own home, as his scorned wife throws his ass right back out.

As many Marvel readers know, this is the theme that Stan Lee had in mind when he created Spider-Man: that the intelligence mankind was graced with will inevitably win out over primal brutality. Spider-Man was Lee's appeal to the dorky, repressed comic-book lovers who furtively fantasized about beating up their bullies.

Now that political correctness has seeped into the hairline cracks of American society, these messages aren't as easily spotted in Spider-Man 3, but they are present. The Sandman isn't just robbing banks for kicks, after all, he's doing it to help his cute little daughter. Harry Osborn isn't necessarily a bad guy, he's just ignorant of the circumstances of his father's death. And Eddie...well, okay, Eddie's a real prick, but he certainly looks effeminate.

Even the scene-stealing Bruce Campbell, a man's man if there ever was one, has been reduced to a haughty, romantic maítre d'. Here he stands as a testament to the fall of the alpha male, with his excessive jaw, his cocky grin, and his arched brow all stuffed into the suit of a faux-French waiter. Ash would have ripped this sissy a new one, and then proceeded to fuck all the chicks in the restaurant. Hail to the King, baby.

Peter almost turns into Ash when the symbiote takes hold of him, and it's interesting to see how the women he gestures to on the street recoil in horror. It's also funny to watch him pulp the colon of a bar bouncer, only to frighten his woman, not impress her. The point is clear: people don't want a man's man anymore. They're yesterday's news. They're tomorrow's chum. Sorry, Mr. Eastwood, you're not welcome in this town.

Perhaps it's fitting that after an explosive and visually arresting whirlwind of climactic carnage, the film closes with a tender display of men crying and opening up and forgiving each other. It's an effective enough palate-cleanser, I guess: these guys will tear your spine out and skip rope with it, but they'll feel bad about it in the morning. Isn't that nice? It's nice.

I know I sound like I'm knocking Spider-Man 3 for seeming like yet another sequel to Revenge of the Nerds (one of which also stars James Cromwell, incidentally), but I'm really not. The movie has flaws, but its syrupy lack of manliness isn't one of them. I am merely making an observation, a scratch note, a comment on the development of humanity. If I were to fault a film for accurately reflecting life, that film would have to be Irreversible, a depressing tale that showcases facial bludgeoning, anal rape, and a naked Vincent Cassel. Ironically, the film is French. Trés viril!

Hi Huny Lis

Loneliness can, on occasion, push a man to activities that he might not indulge in when he's socially healthy. My dating calendar has lately been as flat as Kate Moss, while my libido has been surging faster and more futilely than the American army, so I've found myself...well, let's say "straying" from my regular web-surfing routines. Two months ago I might have slew my internet time with a game of Bookworm over at PopCap, but during these last few nights, I've felt the need for a more technologically advanced type of personal entertainment.

O, what webcams can do!

Behold: the vast field of camwhore cages. Each one contains a woman who will do your bidding for as long as your credit card balance holds out. Well, she'll do your bidding so long as it's something you can only watch. And you may want to keep your demands simple, as most of these models are broadcasting from remote regions of the former Soviet Union, Mongolia, or the Philippines, so they'll likely have difficulty comprehending your requests when they're made in that wonky Western-speak.

While all of the models present themselves in streaming video, only a select few of them provide full audio as well. This might seem attractive to those who desire a close simulation of true, face-to-face sexual contact, but the effect is ruined when you hear the loud cash register sound that plays whenever a John with money enters the cage. Apparently these models are using a special bit of software that informs them when they have a chance to fill their quotas. They are trained to respond to this with the following set of standard greetings from The Book of Conversational Camwhore:

1.) "hi honey lis"
NOTE: "honey" may be interchanged with "bb," which I presume to be a chatroom contraction for the word "baby."
2.) "hru"
3.) "i'm [camwhore], what's your name?"
4.) "nice name"
5.) "where u from bb lis?"
6.) "i'm from philippines"
NOTE: This is where the majority of cams.com's asian models are from
7.) "i'm hot and horny bb lis"
NOTE: They say this even when they are clearly bored or sick.
8.) "how old r u bb lis?"
9.) "nice age"
10.) "you want to take me prvt bb lis?"
NOTE: "Prvt" is short for "private chat" (and not "pervert" as I initially thought). Private chat is a mode that kicks all other visitors out of the room and gives the model permission to show off her goodies. You pay for this with several dollars per minute.

Many times I felt so sad for these women, seeing them confined to tiny rooms, with the odd stuffed animal a sole symbol of their innocence and individuality, sitting behind computers with dispassionate cameras, armed with software that tells them when a money-carrying customer is present, that my sexual urges all but abandoned me. I found that I just wanted to share my emotions with these desperate souls who appeared to share my lonesomeness. Sometimes a stranger's compassion is more potent than that of a loved one, and with time, as the models recognized my name and talked with me about familiar subjects, I began to feel almost special.

A few of the models asked for my Yahoo Messenger screen name so they could talk to me outside of their cages. I was so flattered. I almost felt like a true friend. I felt that I might have brought some light into the dark lives of these women. I know their lives were dark because they told me about them. Many of them were working for cams.com because their families needed the financial boost. Others had parents who were ill or needed operations. These issues could not have been easy to discuss, and I felt privileged to be the one they opened up to. A few of them were even humble enough to plead with me for money to help them out. Now, I barely have enough money to take care of myself, so I couldn't do this charitable deed, but I still felt no less like a friend.

...

Very well, very well. I'm not stupid. I know the plan, and I know that I'm the patsy. These women wanted my cash, and they were determined to take it in whatever ways they knew. I learned this lesson when I watched the episode of South Park known as "Raisins." It was quite an effective episode for a show that is generally considered puerile.

Anyway, I won't say that these women were lying about their tribulations, as it must take some mighty straits to force a woman to strip for money that she can't even see. And I can't blame them for pretending to show interest in my drab existence just so they can get a paycheck. It's the same bullshit principle of "fabled service" that Wal-Mart and Hart-Ransom Charter School rely on so they can keep taking your money. The idea works like this: if they treat a random schmo like yourself as if you were a wealthy Saudi Arabian dignitary, then you'll keep giving them your business so you can continue to believe that you're a rare and precious flower and feel good about yourself. It's a simple idea that happens to work, so long as you let it.

What probably annoys me most about the models at cams.com is that a majority of them will express a sensual addiction to anal beads, strap-ons, and hot wax that rivals the love of Ganesha, but they cringe in dismay at the mere mentioning of foot fetishism, the most common non-sexual bodily fixation among men.

I won't abide such discrimination. It only depresses me further. In fact, this whole scenario with the camwhores is saddening. Perhaps it's time for a road trip. I hear the ladies are nice at the Moonlight Bunnyranch outside Reno....

Paper Cu(n)t

Hello again! Just dropping in during my lunch hour to say hi to y'all and see how you're doin'. It's been a pretty busy day, and I need a little time to recharge my battery. With so many emails comin' in, it's hard to keep track of all the things people want me to do, and it sure doesn't help when Ms. Toad Lady is mad at me.

One of our agents came in today and asked for some blue paper to use in making copies of a report she's givin' out at a meeting. I went straight to our supply room and gave her a big ol' stack of it. We recently received a whole bunch of blue paper from one of our neighbors who didn't need it anymore, so I was happy to give it to her. She sure seemed happy, too.

I went back to the usual stuff I do all day, cutting things and clipping things and filing things, when Ms. Toad Lady came up to me from the copy room and told me that our agent was very upset. When I asked her why, Ms. Toad Lady told me that it was because I'd given her two different shades of blue paper, and now the pamphlets wouldn't all look the same. Ms. Toad Lady said we can't have our copies comin' out in different colors, so she told me to go through all the blue paper we have and separate it by shade so this never happens again.

I sure felt bad about this mishap of mine, so I went right up to the agent and apologized. She said, "Oh, it's no big deal, I just happened to notice. Doesn't mean anyone else will! Don't you worry about it, sweetie."

Boy, was I surprised! I was expecting a tremendous tongue-lashin' like what Ms. Toad Lady gave me, and it turns out the agent, the one who should have been angriest, wasn't mad at all! Sure is funny, isn't it?

I sure am glad everything worked out okay. I'm still going to sort out that blue paper, though, 'cause Ms. Toad Lady's right: we can't have our copies comin' out in the wrong colors. I'm going to get right on it after lunch, but first I have to go back to the copy room and clean out the shredder. Ms. Toad Lady says I'm not emptying it often enough, and she's sick of cleaning up after me.

Why Literary Scholars Are Full of Shit

As some old friends of mine could tell you, certain...well, let's call them "incidents," caused me to have to leave university early. However, I can't truthfully say that my days before said...er, "incidents," were particularly pleasant.

There was one class that I was enrolled in, "Masterpieces of the Russian Short Story," taught by the always-flustered Professor Zholkovsky. Decent enough fellow. Well, at least, he was once the barrel was up against his head. But that's neither here nor there.

For those of you who didn't already know, Russian literature is pretty damn depressing, even if you aren't a teenager. Gogol, Dostoevsky, and their confounded contemporaries apparently loved to write about weak, dull, and unlovable people. In their writing, someone's always shooting himself in the heart, shooting someone else in the heart, or breaking someone's heart.

The thing to remember about these stories is that everything in them, from a character's clothing to the color of his wallpaper, is symbolic of something else. That Zholkovsky character loved symbols, and he found them everywhere, right down to the structure of the stories' sentences. That's right, even though the stories had been translated from Mother Russian to The President's English and edited for readability, Zholkovsky insisted that the choice of words was relevant to a particular point the original author intended to make.

Zholkovsky talked about the great and hidden meaning of things such as suicide by drowning, the visual impression of a slipper falling off of a corpse's foot, the image of a horse-drawn cart fleeing from a pursuing lover, and the significance of having a "hunk of meat" for dinner.

Only the bravest or most arrogant of students ever involved themselves in class discussions because no one could see through the dense layers of meaning as Zholkovsky did. When it came to literature, only the professor's viewpoint counted, and the artful preconceptions that led the wayward student to some kind of personal conclusion were promptly squashed by the authority. Individual reasoning was not allowed.

So, in search of a good grade, we students bit. We hunted for symbolism in every paragraph, and then we tried to twist our perceptions so that they might match those of our professor. I'll never forget the efforts of one intrepid soul, who read "The Idiot," and ventured to ask Zholkovsky a question about it.

You see, the book makes a big deal about the fact that a murdered woman leaks no more than "half a tablespoon of blood" onto her chemise after being skewered with a knife. It's an odd value, this "half tablespoon," and it sounds like a term that would be used in a recipe rather than in the description of a grisly murder. It's just a weird choice of words, which makes it seem like a prime target for the kind of ludicrous analysis that Zholkovsky incessantly prescribed.

So our young hero raises his hand in class and, with carefully chosen words, and possibly rehearsed phrasing, risks his scholarly reputation by detailing his concerns to Zholkovsky about the importance of the bloody half-tablespoon. His classmates hush, swivel from student to professor, and await the response. Zholkovsky frowns, strokes his chin for a few seconds, then speaks.

"I don't see it," says Zholkovsky. "Why would you think that means anything?"

You see, THIS is the reason why literary scholars are full of shit. They appoint themselves as the ultimate judges of what is "great" and "poor" literature, and dismiss those who don't share their almighty opinions. I wasted a entire YEAR trying to make sense of James Joyce's "Ulysses," a critical "masterpiece" that teases readers with the scent of a coherent, dramatic plot, and then dissolves into a thick and choking stream of verbal ejaculate. Did you know that some asshole scholar became so engrossed in studying the network of nonexistent symbols in Ulysses, that he wrote an entire thesis analyzing the book's use of the word "no?" I nearly ordered the immolation of all libraries when I read about that!

Why can't scholars let writing be? Why must they try and excavate meaning from the darkest and barest corners of every tale they read? If they do find some theme or concept beneath the story's surface, why is it held up as the absolute truth of what the author really meant to say? How can anyone be sure at all? Why can't we allow ourselves to take what we want from a story without some authority holding their ideas over ours?

I can't tell you what Zholkovsky is doing these days, because, to be blunt, I'm not sure if he's still alive. He may not have made it through that one difficult day, after all. I was in hiding and couldn't find any newspapers to read up on it at the time, and the internet is surprisingly tight-lipped about those events.

The student, on the other hand, is just fine. In fact, he was recently promoted to the rank of lieutenant. In which army, I cannot say at this moment, as that's none of your business really. Rest assured that he is going places, and will find himself involved in powerful events one day. Remember this!

Until that time, immerse yourself in a good book. Lemony Snicket's output has been interesting to me, as has the work of Douglas Adams.

The Incident With the (Gold) Fish

You know, I think I can say, without worryin' that I'm braggin', that I'm a pretty decent guy. I'm a team player, and I'm a friendly sort of person. I like to try and fit in with my co-workers, and make 'em feel all happy. There shouldn't be any harm in that, right?

Well, now I know better, because somethin' happened the other day that made me all oogy inside, and I'll never forget it.

See, there are a lot of people comin' and goin' in my office all the time. Sometimes they like to go in the little break room we have there for a little snack and a chat. A lot of folks like to bring in their own snacks from home so everyone can share 'em and be happy. When I saw that someone brought a big plate of caramel cookies in one day, well, I thought that was just a real nice gesture, so I decided to bring in one of my favorite snacks, so I could share with everybody too.

I brought in a big ol' box of cheddar Goldfish crackers for everybody, and I put a big ol' label on it that said "COMMUNITY! For everyone to enjoy. Love, Travis." I felt pretty good about myself that day, let me tell ya.

We have a few clients who visit in the afternoon and bring their kids with 'em, and I know how kids can get bored in office buildings, so I made sure to tell them that there were some snacks in the break room they could have. They sure were grateful for it, boy howdy. They got some paper cups and filled 'em to the brim with Goldfish. I was so happy.

Later, after all the clients had left, that lady who looks like a toad came over to me and said she wanted to talk to me. She took me over to the break room and she pointed at the floor. She asked me what I could see down there. I told her, "I don't know, all I see is carpeting. It's nice carpeting, but that's all I see."

That's when she said that there were crumbs everywhere. She said that the kids who ate the Goldfish walked all over the office with 'em and left a trail of crumbs all over the place, and now she had to take the ol' Swivel Sweeper and clean 'em all up. She sure was mad, let me tell ya. After that, I couldn't help but look at the floor, I was so humiliated.

I felt so rotten the rest of the day that I could barely talk. I really had to force myself to sound peppy when I answered the phone, when it usually comes all natural to me. When I got home, I didn't even change out of my work clothes or nothin'. I just dropped right into my bed and slept the whole night. The next morning, I went to the break room and threw those Goldfish straight in the garbage, so they'd never cause anyone any trouble again. I also sent a very nice email to Mrs. Toad Lady to apologize for my screw-up there. I've sure learned my lesson; I'll never bring those nasty ol' Goldfish to work again.

So now I'm feeling a little better, not just because of all the nice things I did, but because I got some good news. My boss told me today that it's almost time for my first evaluation! I can't wait to see all the good things he has to say about me. I've been working so hard and learning so much, and everyone's been so nice, that I just know my review's gonna be a good one. Heck, I'm so excited, I just feel like dancin' right here on my desk. I'll be sure to tell you all about it as soon as I hear! Well, gotta go, talk to you later, bye bye!

"Artificial Phenomenon" is a Pretentious Oxymoron

I've been getting a lot of forwarded emails lately about Sunday's impending "phenomenon." Yes, this Sunday marks the one and only moment that the date and time will read 2:03:04 5/6/07. That's six numbers arranged in their natural sequence! Ooh!

And it's never going to happen again! Ahh!

Why do people get so excited about these things? These are man-made numerical systems that have been rebuilt, revamped, and revised several times throughout history. It's not as if this special alignment of digits signifies anything. It's not going to affect anyone in the physical world, as a volcanic eruption or a tsunami does. It's not some awesome yet terrible celestial event whose effects ripple throughout the galaxy for centuries, like a solar flare or a supernova. It's definitely not something I intend to brag to future generations about, like the disintegration of the Middle East, or a presidential election decided by the Supreme Court. The random lining up of numbers that have no meaning to anything but people with watches is really quite mundane.

This reminds me of the time when my integral calculus teacher, Dr. Olwell, taught my class about some theorem or function or expression or formula or whatever those eggheads call them, that included all the major mathematical values. It meant that pi, e, i, 0, and 1 were all related somehow. He went on about how significant this fact was, but not one person in the class was impressed. I think Dr. Olwell was a little disappointed by this lack of enthusiasm, but I was amused by it. I mean, come on. After the many obtuse and abstract theories we'd been pelted with by math teachers all our lives, we were now expected to be astonished by yet another one?

You numbers people. You've improved our lives with your inventions and your chemicals and your education, but you've got no taste when it comes to excitement. I am issuing a proclamation: from now on, I don't want to receive anymore emails about some rare scientific convergence unless it's something no less dramatic than The Great Conjunction. I have spoken.

User-Created Content has Gone Too Far

Okay. Everyone from Time to Will Wright is saluting the advent of user-created content, and I still can't understand why. It's really not that big a deal, actually. I mean, people have been making their own websites since the dawn of the internet, so what's the big fuss?

Well, the difference between then and now is that simpler and more portable software is being made, which makes uploading your crap to the internet for the world to see that much easier for you. Take this blog, for instance. Totally easy. I type some bullshit, I hit "PUBLISH," and a few seconds later I have a web page.

However, I think there's a divide between what I write here and what Ms. Laura Lookatmeeverybody is writing. People are free to write what they want, of course, but when you slap a bunch of pictures of yourself up on the net, just how many strangers do you think are going to give more than a rat's ass about it? None, that's how many.

That's right, Little Miss Ain'tIspecial. Nobody cares about your weekend trip to Bora Bora. Nobody is Googling for your story about how your boyfriend acted last night at the club. Nobody cares, nobody is going to read it, nobody is going to remember it.

What's more, nobody gives a flying frat house about what music you're listening to, or what mood you're in right now. Do you expect people to say, "Ooh, that's so wonderful, Ms. Bitchonwheels1979 is feeling loved today! How grand! Knowing this makes my day complete!"? Get over yourself!

Look at this crap right here. Go on, look at it. It's a custom Google gadget called "The Daily Me." What the fuck is going on here? Suddenly everyone is so important that they simply must share their daily habits with the whole fucking world? And look at that picture they use in the example. It's sickening. Everyone wants to be cool. Well listen up, Pink Lady, if you're using the limitless might of the internet to make worthless, self-celebrating trinkets like this, someone has to break it to you: you're NOT FUCKING COOL.

What happened to our society? It used to be that only the important people who did meaningful things that affected the lives of others were allowed to be heard. I want to see the blogs of war heroes, retired secret servicemen, killers for hire, federal investigators, South American drug lords, fugitive Nazis, rogue arms dealers, and maybe John Kricfalusi. These people are worth hearing from. Now that the microphone has been tossed in the trough for Joe F. Buttscratcher to yell into, we'll never get to hear the important things from the important people. The internet has become an indiscriminate market for worthless rabble-babble. You know, kind of like this blog.

Yes, I recognize the irony in my screed here. Bear in mind, however, that starting this blog was a prospect that was not without apprehension. My main purpose in creating it was to provide a place to discuss the progress of my art projects. It seems that I got sidetracked somewhere along the trail, and now we're here. I like to think that this site is more of a random discussion of cultural ideas than a simple "Hey! Look at me!" kind of thing, but maybe I'm just desperate for attention too.

So I can't exclude myself from this criticism. All I can do at this point is try and make myself worthy of attention, so people will want to visit this blog. Then maybe it'll seem like this whole effort was worthwhile. Journey well, all!