Wild Animus

Wild Animus, Rich Shapero's self-published artistic effort, has sat untouched on my bookshelf for about four years. It was handed to me for free freshman year, in the space between UCLA's Northern Lights and Campbell Hall, and I finally decided to give it a go last night. I read a chapter and restarted tonight. I stopped, just now, after the first book section because I don't have to keep reading. Believe me, I wanted to. I felt like I should.

But I don't have an obligation.

Wild Animus is bad. Very bad. Some of the songs on the accompanying CDs are okay. I'm listening to them now. They're disturbingly similar, but taken as a concept album could go well with drugs. Drugs, you see, are a main theme of Wild Animus. The main character does a shit-ton of LSD and apparently goes crazy, thinks he's a Dall ram, and dies. I say apparently because I only read the first book section, which details this guy's meeting of a girlfriend, them moving to Seattle, and then visiting Alaska. The ram imagery, however, has been shoved down my throat since the third page. They have a secret ram language, Sam and Lindy, by the second time they're hanging out- which is also when they do acid together. That's stupid.

I described the prose to myself last night, when I decided I would definitely tackle it (sorry, me) as ham-handed and heavy-fisted. Really, I think that it's ham-fisted and heavy-handed, but it's incessant metaphor and blatant hippy-speak really addles the brain. It's way too much way too quickly, like every line is supposed to be some revelation about the world and nature. There's no "a-ha!" epiphany moment, just endless LSD drivel that fellow Amazon users have described as coming from someone who has never taken LSD.

But that's not the problem. I could deal with poorly written sentences, or rather overly "well-written" sentences that gag you. The problem is that I don't give a single shit about the characters. Because they are terrible, and terribly written. Their physical features are described too specifically, and their emotions are spilled out every two seconds. Their emotions change too drastically though. These aren't real people. Amazon reviewers say they are interchangeable or cardboard. I'd disagree. Cookie-cutter characters at least make sense in the stories they dwell. This girl goes from in fear to enraged to lovey-dovey. On a page, with no real explanation or build up. I don't like the protagonist. he names himself Ransom Altman at some point. What the fuck kind of a name is Ransom Altman? He wants to be surrender's ransom, he says. What? Rich Shapero has heard of metaphor, definitely, he uses it too much. Yet he completely fails on using metaphors for symbolism. Everything is spelled out.

Now, I've been writing a novel. And I've put in some blatant symbolism and written references too out-in-the-open. But not like this. It can't possibly be like this. This is bad. I had to stop reading! This got published as-is. I'd want an editor for some of the stuff I spell out. It's there as a placeholder, to take up space and keep my mind going. Shapero doesn't hide anything. He rubs your nose in it. And it's shit.

The good takeaway from this is that I can use the bad example to get better with how I write. I don't want to be anywhere close to Shapero's example. It starts with the characters. They have to be consistent. Now, Matilda is consistently useless and not a strong female character, which is a shame but that's kind of her role. And Bill grows a bit, but stays a hipster half-douche. Ava is underwritten. I know this. That's why she's cool, but injured and stolen. That way I don't have to spend too much time on her. I want her to kick major ass but that's not where my life experience lies. Joe changed probably too much in the well, and Geoffrey could be more consistent and foolish, but does relatively well as a character.

Those are my characters. They grow the story. George R.R. Martin has his gardeners and architects of writers. I half-architect after gardening, and sometimes the gardening destroys the building I've designed. My characters do the things they're supposed to. It makes sense for them to perform actions, and I just fit those actions into the story. But Rich Shapero? Rich Shapero said fuck it. He said, I've got a story and I've got some acid. These characters are going to do everything and anything to get to this plot point. Because they suck and do nothing to inspire empathy.

Or maybe not. Like I said, I couldn't finish the book. I might be able to, as a cautionary tale. But do I really need to? There's no prize for finishing bad books. It's a pride thing. No. I can't do it.

A Quick Note on "Millenials"

I do not put myself in the same "generation"as 30 year olds. That's stupid. If anything, rapidly increasing technology changes the generation timeframe by shrinking it. Would a 30 year old really identify with me? No. At least they shouldn't. And that's what everyone is getting wrong during these Millenial debates. As you age, yes, the distinction lessens. But when we're talking about the young, we have to understand that the young have small bands where they identify themselves. Remember, a 50 year old married to a 40 year old isn't weird. 40 and 30 year old? Fine. A 30 year old and a 20 year old actually starts to sound pretty iffy. A 25 year old and a 15 year old is a statutory rape case, and horrific. We're not even going to touch on 20 and 10. So when that "generation" is 30-15? We shouldn't be considering them very similar at all. Eventually, we can generalize, when that 15 year gap doesn't seem like anything, like for 50 year olds to 65 year olds. Even then though, I'd have my apprehensions. 65 year olds and 50 year olds now had similar levels of technology growing up but I'd claim they still think of themselves differently. Think about the increase in cell phone usage and smart phone access in this generation. The debate exists, and I can't for the life of me figure out why we think it's saying anything of substance.

-Jimmy

Sorry about the convoluted method of thought if you find it so. I had to get that off my chest.

A Joke

A clown comes in to a classic barbershop, straight razors and all, because the circus is in town and he needs a clip.
The barber asks how the circus has been going as he preps the chair.
"Not good," replies the clown, "one of our tumbling midgets tried to commit suicide yesterday by jumping off the circus tent."
The barber says, "Just a little off the top?"

At the end of the haircut, the barber asks the clown, "Close shave?"
"No," the clown says, "he just broke both his ankles."

Poems IV, Nature

These three come from my trip to Oregon's southern coast, Humbug Mountain State Park and its hike and beach. They're more serious, and I guess traditional. Inspiration drawn from where I was.

Untitled (Beach)
King of the two black burrens, I,
On a seat of stone on the Western coast.
I jump from rock to rock as the fleas,
And sail a white driftwood cross to my transfixtion.
I could walk to you, o poor man's isles,
Or you could come crumble to me
But the surf bends his knee to no poor lord,
No vagrant of airs, unworthy.

Untitled (Trail)
Running roughshod,
unclod,
as tiny little pebbles,
giving me the devil's
share of pain
on that membrane
separating body and ground
as still I bound
just starting
and yet a new beginning,
winning
back to barefoot
on the switch back trail
of Humbug,
up and up.

Untitled (Peak)
A rainforest doesn't have to be warm-
The moisture on your clothes. Sticky of sweat from the air's heat?
or just too many layers?
The fog can roll in, not the mist.
A hundred tribes, undiscovered.
A single Bigfoot, "discovered."
Redwoods tall or canopies thick
The sound of macaws on Highway 101?
We frown at the Cars' muffled cacophony,
But Tractors buzz barbarous.
Redwood becomes lumber but more take its place.
Slash and burn fills Amazon greed.
So I have a coast
And they have a river
But the Earth owns both and holds them dear.
Pristine isn't the only serene,
But quiet swirls in with the chill-
And I am sitting contented.

Peruvian Literary Battles and Monkeys on Planes

I just read a really cool article about literary battling in Peru. Writers square off and are given three words with which and five minutes in which to write a short story. Winner goes on, loser goes home (and must unmask themselves). I decided to time myself and give it a go with the three words given in the article, which I read at:

http://www.pri.org/stories/2013-09-30/peru-makes-book-writing-spectator-sport-and-invites-desperate-writers-combat

I’d like to point out that five minutes went by way too quickly. It’s actually pretty nerve-wracking and I’m sure in front of a crowd it’s worse. I thrive under pressure on a stage, but for some reason I feel like I’d lose every possible match-up due to the fact that I can’t write in Spanish. The story couldn’t be titled in five minutes, but just right now I’ve dubbed it: 

“Monkey Miscommunication”

“I’m sorry sir, but you can’t bring that on the plane at this time.”

Haleel looked up from his plane ticket. “But ma’am, it say here I boarding group number two. You just call boarding group number two.”

The flight attendant was unfazed. “That may be true, Mr. Haleel, but you can’t board with a monkey.”

“I can’t board with monkey? But guide book say I can go with my monkey to America.”

“I don’t know what guide book you’re looking at, sir, but no, you can’t bring a monkey to America. Not without the proper documentation and vaccination. It’ll need quarantine, too.”

“No! No, no, no! This not right! Look here at guide book.”

Haleel shoved the guide book in the flight attendant’s face. She sighed. The airline was not paying her enough for this. “Security,” she called over the intercom.

Haleel was escorted out of the airport with his monkey. At home, he discovered the problem. His English dictionary had the words next to each other: “monkey” was “hakab” and “suitcase” was “hakann.” He could bring a suitcase, yes. Not a monkey.

"Sugar" Cain Vedlogge's Top Five Fitness Tips

This is a guest post from Cain Vedlogge, founder of fitnessissocoolilovefitness.vedlogge.com, the premier fitness site. Claims have not been verified.

Hi there folks! My name is “Sugar” Cain Vedlogge, and just like you, I used to be a slovenly pig. That’s all changed thanks to my time spent in-between employment. Technically I don’t have any new employment yet, but that’ll change thanks to the physical changes I’ve undergone, too. See, before I “lost” my job, I was working too hard to please my boss and not working hard enough on my physique. Apparently that meant I couldn’t please my girlfriend enough, but it’s her loss. These days I’m lean, I’m mean, and I’m willing to share what it takes to go from zero to hero! After I gained around 12 pounds of beer and depression weight after Clarissa left, I’ve lost it all and more, and I can actually see two of my abs. If I did it after moving back in with my parents, so can you!

“Sugar” Cain Vedlogge’s Top Five Fitness Tips

1. A) Be inefficient.

This one’s easy. Every single thing you do should take up WAY more time and effort than what’s reasonable. In this way, you’ll burn more calories and increase your metabolism, through mundane and boring tasks. If I go get the mail, I bring it upstairs. But if I want a drink of water after that, I need to go downstairs again to grab my glass! In an office setting, if you have to staple some papers and give them to someone, then don’t have a stapler with you. Don’t bring your papers to the stapler, either. Find a stapler, take the stapler to your desk, staple, and then return the stapler back to its proper place. Now go back to your desk and grab the stapled papers, and finally you can go get rid of them. Don't you feel like you burned more fat than the usual? It's because you did!

1. B) Use the farthest bathroom.

This is doubly useful in the workplace in that it avoids time spent working. It takes time and energy to go use the farthest bathroom. Having two stories really helped my weight loss goal.

2. Lose your car keys.

Nothing crushes the hopes of a truly tight bod like mechanical locomotion, am I right? Listen, if you drive everywhere, you’ll be sedentary that much longer. Think driving to the gym and getting a good parking space ensure a good workout? WRONG! You should be walking to the gym and back, cutting into your meal times but not your pump. You can’t carry unnecessary groceries from the store, either. Just one hand for a gallon of milk, one hand for a gallon of chocolate milk, and eggs in between. Your diet is awesome, just like you! You can even remove all temptation by having the car belong to your girlfriend so that she takes off with it when she leaves you.

3. Don’t just be fit- pretend to be fit!

Let’s talk about what it means to be fit. Should you get six-pack abs if you’re never going to show them off? Should you maintain a healthy level of fat so you can keep your energy up? Should you do weight lifting that emphasizes strength over size? No to every single one of those! Your muscles should be as beefy as possible with as minimal strength as you can afford. Try artificial methods of fitness, like creatine. I take three 5-Hour energies a day, and wake up with a cup of coffee. Girls like Clarissa think synthol injections are a little overboard, so don’t try that. Definitely wear skintight fitness shirts though, and bicycle shorts to really show that you’re here to get in shape. Talk about fitness with everyone you meet. They’ll love it, and go home thinking “Wow, what a cool guy. He’s in so much better shape than me, I don’t know how I’m dating his ex-girlfriend. She’ll probably leave me to get back together with him really soon.”

4. Don’t get really drunk every night.

Apparently most people already know this? This was news to me. After I got serious about weight loss, I only drank myself to sleep once, on our anniversary while staring at that photo. You know, the one where the guy taking the photo kept putting his thumb in front of the lens and we laughed the rest of the night? New Orleans was fun. I miss you.

5. Masturbate sensually.

We’ve saved the best for last. When you’re ready to jerk it (which you should be doing daily for the cardio), don’t just sit there limpwristedly and crank it out halfheartedly while sobbing. Get into it. Breathe hot and heavy. Sex is better exercise, but you can’t be bothered to find a woman! That doesn’t fit with your fitness goals, which are designed to get your ex to take you back! Instead, turn your masturbation into virtual sex. Thrust into things. Put some hip into it. Practice your stroke, which you will put to good use once you’re in great shape and the ladies come running. If you’re going to cry, really shout out the name, something like, I don’t know, “Clarissa.” In the meantime though, buy a fleshlight. Name it. That’s the best two hundred dollars you’ll spend on your fitness journey.


I hope these tips have set you straight. As I always say, “Fitness is cool! I love Fitness!”

Porcupyros

"Porcupyros"- Let It Be Known I Don't Back Down From Outlandish Ideas

Being inside bothered Morgan. Morgan stepped outside and breathed deeply in the crisp autumn air. A wisp of smoke floated by. Morgan hurried on. Morgan didn’t want to be late for the fire. Morgan had been yelled at by the fire chief for being late once already, and it was only Morgan’s second week on the job as a fireman. Morgan grabbed fire quickly and hustled on, legs waddling fast.

At the blaze, Morgan nodded to the others already there. Morgan Watmaugh, Morgan Morrison, and Morgan Kelsey were tossing flames from their backs on the books piled up in the clearing. Morgan joined in, getting as close as possible to the blaze without getting seared. No Morgan could read a book. It had been that way for as long as Morgan could remember. If they had kept history books, Morgan could probably get a timeframe on how long illiteracy had been the norm. Morgan disagreed with the very concept of writing. Books were alien. Books were wrong.

Chief Morgan showed up. The chief looked on with a signature frown. That frown said the firemen were doing a good enough job, but that even the sight of books was unwelcome. The chief hated books the most of any of them. The chief tried to eat a book once, just to see if it had any use. Though it had pictures of edible goods all inside, it tasted bland and didn’t chew properly. The chief didn’t carry any fire tonight, but was there to supervise. Many new recruits, including Morgan and Morgan Kelsey, had joined the fire crew this season. The chief wanted to weed out the weaklings and possible book-lovers. No book-lover had ever made it on the team to sabotage the firemen’s burnings. No book-lover had ever tried, as far as Morgan knew. The possibility nonetheless remained, so the chief stayed vigilant, and grouchy.

“Morgan!” The chief was glaring at Morgan. “Would you mind telling me where these books came from?”

“An old shed, over by the beaver dam.” Morgan had made the discovery with Morgan Kelsey in the afternoon. Morgan Kelsey went to get the others at the fire station while Morgan pulled the tomes to the clearing and grabbed fire from home. Morgan enjoyed being with Morgan Kelsey. Those eyes had a way of looking right through Morgan. Morgan Kelsey looked over to where the conversation was taking place. Again, those eyes pierced Morgan and Morgan shuddered wonderfully.

“Did you check the perimeter like we went over in training?”

“No, chief,” Morgan said, straightening up and remembering the fireman technical manual, “but it was just me and Morgan Kelsey. Not enough to check for 'associations of structure' in relation to the shed placement either. I remember the location perfectly and wanted to scout tomorrow after meeting.”

“Harrumph.” The chief didn’t look disappointed, meaning the chief was as pleased as possible. “Don’t you squander this opportunity, rookie. You’ve got potential, and the passion for the job. But this job is as volatile as the fire we harness. You make one mental screw-up, and you’re gone, ya hear me? Did you leave the shed standing, or burn it?”

“I left it standing so we could find it again without hassle, and cross-reference its building style. Also, I wanted you to check for any hidden books.”

“Hidden books? In a shed? Now you’re being too damn cautious, rookie. I ain’t going out there for this bullshit of a burn. Burn this mess and go home tonight, crew. I’ll see you in the morning.” The chief did an awkward about-face and grunted as he left, “Morgan Kelsey! You’re doing that all wrong.”

Morgan Kelsey’s face fell. The light from the fire illuminated all the lines Morgan was so interested in knowing. Morgan moved up next to Morgan Kelsey.

“The chief only yells because book burning is so important,” Morgan said.

“I know,”Morgan Kelsey said. “It’s just hard to take the personal sting out of the words.”

“Let me make it up to you. Come over to my place tonight. We’ll have a nice meal.”

Morgan Kelsey looked over with a sly grin. “Nothing wrong with my place either. It’s closer.”

“Alright, then. After this fire. Your place.”

The firemen turned their attention to the blaze. Books burned and crackled after the firemen turned the fire on their backs into a giant conflagration. Smoke billowed up between the trees around the clearing. Morgan Morrison laughed. Fire was fun, and pyromania gripped them all for another hour.

The embers died down and they used their many feet to kick ashes and dirt around, so the fire wouldn’t spread to the forest. Morgan Morrison and Morgan Watmaugh shuffled away, joking about the way the heat overwhelmed them like the chief’s bad morning breath. Morgan lay belly-down looking at the fire until Morgan Kelsey came and lay down also.

“Shall we go?”

“Oh, let’s.”

They got to their feet and headed back to Morgan Kelsey’s. Sexual tension hummed heavily in the night air. As soon as they ducked into the doorway, they embraced. They began kissing, careful not to go too fast. Morgan had been hurt before. They both had. Morgan found Morgan, and their bodies became as entangled as their emotions. A sway of passion commenced, the rhythmic motions forming the beast with two backs. Eyes closed, Morgan wandered his lips over Morgan’s neck, and Morgan gave a deep sigh of contentment. Morgan broke away to look Morgan in the eye. Ten seconds passed, wordless, as their eyes delved into places no hands could go. They returned to locking lips, with Morgan touching Morgan even as she touched herself. Morgan moaned. Morgan reached his hands up to her face and gently rubbed her, breathing her scent in deep. Morgan's nipples became erect, and Morgan felt a swelling in the genitals.

“I’m ready,” Morgan whispered in a husky voice.

Morgan almost shrieked with pleasure, moving himself behind Morgan, and penetrated her, leaving his hands at his sides. She gasped in wonder, keeping her tail up.

“Oh, Morgan!”

His penis, with its tiny conical spikes, made many erotic motions into her willing vagina, because she had put her quills down now and Morgan wasn’t going to get stabbed. Morgan was happy Morgan didn’t have to soak Morgan in urine, which often happens in this kind of erotically sexual erotic sex. They procreated for six minutes, on the long side for porcupines such as Morgan and Morgan.

This is why they all hated books so much; porcupines are completely illiterate, and total jerks when they have fire on their quills.

THE END


My two sources, who would obviously be completely thrilled about this if they found out:

http://www.slate.com/articles/health_and_science/science/2012/11/porcupine_sex_mating_behaviors_involve_quills_musk_penis_spikes_fights_and.html

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_Zta4W5noiM

Total Recall

1990 Schwarzenegger Version- Real or Dream?

Much of the debate around the 1990 film Total Recall is whether or not it's all a dream at the end, and if Arnold's character Quaid suffered a schizoid embolism, lobotomizing himself, or truly saved Mars.

On the side of it being a dream, we can point towards the lab tech remarking that "Blue Sky on Mars" is new, or the man with the red pill describing the truth of Quaid's situation. Of course, that man's sweat drop betrays him in Quaid's mind, and he gets killed for it. The Rekall scientist says the alien artifacts Quaid requests are a million years old- but it's only half a million years for the reactor, repeated twice. I'm inclined to think a scientist would know the correct dates for her procedure, but be off on the exact archaeological estimates from a planet away.

I'm here to say that I think Total Recall is Quaid's real journey.

I think this because the whole point of Rekall is that it implants false memories. You get a full experience, yes- but those are implanted memories. You don't go around living on Mars for two weeks. An accurate description of how fake memories should work is Quaid at the beginning of the movie. He doesn't get how he could not be who he is, and has memories of a marriage that never existed. During the film, we see Quaid running around, actively experiencing. It's a present situation. If Quaid got lobotomized, he would just be in stasis, turned off. The "memories" being implanted wouldn't be being interpreted by his future/current mind. That mind would have shut down, so the memories wouldn't be accessible, and therefore livable.

I may have taken the fun out of speculation by appealing to logic outside the constraints of the movie, removing the cinematic aspect of storytelling. How else would memories be shown on film if not chronologically? The little bits of narrative that occur when Quaid is knocked out also are either explained away by an appeal to narrative structure or explained as having happened independently of Quaid's mental processing, a.k.a. real.

I'm going with real because that is what I'd like to believe.

Why the Original is Better Than the Remake- SPOILERS

There isn't really a debate about the legitimacy of Quaid's experiences in the remake; it's pretty easy to tell it's all real. But the remake makes a huge mistake in its story. They don't make Hauser a double-agent working for Cohaagen all along. The remake tried to be "grittier" and "realer," more attached to Earth and reality. With this one error, they made it a loss less plausible, which is a component of real-ness.

All throughout the 1990 version, Quaid gets away because Cohaagen WANTS him to. In the remake, not only does Quaid go to his own apartment, which isn't being monitored for some reason, he escapes there in a flying car chase. His girlfriend just finds him, and is successful. Meanwhile, this Cohaagen bad guy is the Chancellor of an entire country. He wants a mandate to go to war, which he does. Yet somehow he doesn't have the manpower to just get Quaid? The infiltration to Kuato makes a hell of a lot more sense than using a fake kill code in Quaid's head to get to Matthias. They could have killed Hauser, as a traitor, and used someone else to get to Matthias. In the 1990 film Cohaagen knows at least part of his agent is loyal, even if it's not the active personality. The remake doesn't make a strong case for Quaid being alive. The Chancellor just goes to war with synthetics anyway! Why couldn't he just do that?

Colin Farrell's fight with Kate Beckinsale is also unrealistic for how jacked he is and how normal-lady-sized she is. In Arnold's fight with Sharon Stone she hits him in the balls a lot, as that is the only way to make that fight fair.

Poems III- Little Mary's OJ

This is the first poem I'm printing from my Oregon trip. It's in the vein of a Shel Silverstein children's poem, with a nice little moral to it.

"Little Mary's OJ"

"Aw, shucks."
Little Mary said.
"I didn't refrigerate my orange juice."

"Bad luck!"
Her little brother said.
And he ran to Mum to tattle the news.

But Little Mary was clever,
And Little Mary was bright.
So she poured a big glass of the OJ,
And pinched her nose with all of her might.

She drank that glass in one big gulp,
And then she poured another.
She glugged it all til the carton was done,
And in came her dear, sweet, old mother.

"What's this I hear about spoiled juice?"
But Little Mary had been quick as a flash,
"Little brother must be fibbing again."
(For the juice was already in the trash.)

So Little Mary's brother got punished,
And Little Mary got off scot-free.

If you make a mistake, always fix it yourself.
And never a tattler be.

Stranger In A Strange Land Review

I want to focus on the oddities of Stranger In A Strange Land. I don't mean the oddities that Robert Heinlein took as outlandish ideas for a future utopia, but rather the things that Heinlein took for granted that are particularly off to a modern audience. Heinlein sets out to expand the mind, to bring to the front our idiosyncrasies as humans. He takes down religion's hypocrisies while embracing spirituality, explains free love beyond what any hippy commune ever accomplished, and lets the world know the crooks are in government, not behind bars.

For wrong technology, Heinlein's got "stereovision" on the brain instead of television. Why should it have changed its name? It's quite baffling. He predicts video calls, yes, but affixes them solely to land lines and there is a nary a cell phone in sight. Flying cars exist, and even the electronic news tickers stop when the reader looks away. Computers, though, are nonexistent and there is no Internet. I'm not going to fault a writer in 1961 for not predicting the Internet, but Heinlein's future gets us to Mars and back, with colonies on the moon, and yet so much we DO have now isn't even in production.

That's not what has me in a tizzy, though. We're in an age where marijuana legalization is a large issue, and gay marriage is even larger. The debate about equality for sexualities and not just sexes is at the forefront of our national consciousness. And yet, even with Mike's Nest's partner sharing and the mental connections of everyone during coitus, no man-man or woman-woman sex is explicit. The whole point is that sex is not obscene, and is in fact lovely, unless it's made to be obscene, which is "wrongness." Still, only women are ever mentioned kissing men in the novel, even in passing. If it's all about growing together, Heinlein, just have some dudes kiss at some point. Homosexual sex is unnecessary with all the implied orgies. Instead, we get a mention or two of kisses between others being felt metaphysically. In my opinion, it's a lot stranger to have another man inside your mind than simply your mouth.

Jubal Harshaw, the old codger, even gets a taste of the times out of his own mouth. He states that he'd rather have Mike smoking marijuana than becoming a preacher of ill repute. Nowhere else does cannabis get a mention. It just comes out as a horrible outcome, that would still be a better alternative than preaching, which Jubal disagrees with. For a novel touting honest reevaluation of cultural norms and taboos, why doesn't Heinlein take a look at this one? Jubal Harshaw is my favorite character, and in a sense the one I identify with most. He espouses truth and love in a much different way, a way built by experience and a healthy amount of doubt. He judges. It's wonderful, since he knows he's right so he just doesn't give a damn. And here he is, written with a jab at THC that doesn't fit his character. It's like Mike's usage of "ain't." Heinlein always wrote that wrong. Jubal is a realist who would never agree that he's an idealist, and he takes a look at society's arbitrary rules and only agrees to play society's games outside his personal property. He earned his enclave. If he were written today, there is no doubt in my mind he'd support legalization, taxation, and personal choice.

All in all, I did like the book and it should be read by those who are too indoctrinated to read it, or listen to some of the points. Should we use it in accordance with its reputation as the Hippy Bible? God no. It's no manifesto or way to live a life. It is an educational read in the way that certain anthropological texts make the student question the stupidities of modern life. Don't be a jerk, don't complicate things, know your rights, and it's totally A-OK to be naked in your own damn house.

Hot Dog The Movie Drinking Game

One of my favorite movies, despite and also because of its camp, is 1984's Hot Dog The Movie. Anyone born after 1990 should watch it to discover the joy that is ballet skiing. I took it upon myself to bring its appreciation to a new level with the "Hot Dog Drinking Game," so that young adults on ski trips can kill two birds with one stone. I highly recommend that Hot Dog be watched in a coed setting, since the laughter will double, and the drinking, according to these rules, will increase tenfold. Enjoy.

Hot Dog The Movie Drinking Game Rules

The regular rules:

-Drink whenever you see or hear the words “Squaw Valley”

-Drink when somebody does a flip. Doubles are double, triples triple, and a Kiss Ass Blaster is a quadruple drink

-Drink every time Rudi Garmisch is a “world-class asshole"

-That quote is from Dan O’Callaghan, who you must always drink with

-Drink every time someone bites it, eats it, hits a tree, or otherwise wipes out

-Drink every time that the skiers complain the competition is rigged or unfair

-Drink when one of the Rad Pack is super 80s, Japanese, or puts on sunscreen (Depending on how you define this, this can be quite a lot. Use discretion.)

-If anyone in the group makes fun of ballet skiing, they have to drink until the competition is over

-Drink when either team scores in broomball

-Chug your beer while Squirrel gets a blowjob

And the rules that make coed watching a necessity:

-Chug your beer for as long as you feel sexually or emotionally aroused

-Chug your beer for as long as you feel sexually or emotionally awkward

-Drink double every time you feel both aroused and awkward


Credit where credit is due- the original rules I ascribe to "JDav and KWitts." Comments and additions appreciated.

Last Wednesday There Occurred an Event of Great Fortune

Delving into Facebook notes, I've got this gem from November, 2011. What's funny is that I've now met the girl who I mention in the note, and she's very, very nice. The internet discovered her recently after the College World Series this year, since she's a player's girlfriend. That was kind of a disgusting public sleuthing, so I'm not putting any information here. But those in the know should understand.

Last Wednesday There Occurred An Event Of Great Fortune
Unedited since November 9, 2011 at 10:14pm

Let me tell you a tale about two people.

One is a small boy whom I see every Wednesday as I walk back from linguistics class. Usually he has a look on his face like he's the saddest child in the world. He mopes through campus near the Pauley construction with a backpack that seems to have utterly quashed his dreams with its weight. One time he had a project, a volcano if I recall, and he held it sullenly like the it was the only thing he had left in this world, yet he knew it would soon desert him as well. He's probably only ten, but is the sullenest boy I've seen outside of photographs from tsunami-stricken lands.

The next is a young woman attending UCLA. I have no idea her name, who she is, or anything other than the utter conviction I have that she has the largest breasts on campus. She is a skinny blonde with fantastically flaunted legs, a preference for pink tank tops that show ample cleavage, and too much makeup on. But dear god, her breasts. Each tit dwarfs her head; there is no way they can can be natural, since they stem from such a trim frame. I can only imagine she had her ample bosom naturally and then decided to shoot the moon with augmentation as well. Or she got implants first and unknowingly was a late bloomer in the chest department. I stare more in shock than admiration when I see her on campus.

Today, I saw her again. She passed me by the Wooden Center as I talked to a friend. She continued away down the path. I started walking that way shortly after, my friend having entered the gym. And as I sauntered forward, I saw my friend the sad child, walking from the opposite direction, parallel and passing...

It was good to see him smile.

Near East M20

"Near East M20"

In a "chair"
the Droning, Droning
Monotone I know
from teachers here, and
before,
Sapping away any will
with the darkness
like a restaurant.
It's not ambiance,
It's just dim.
The students that file in late
like I did on the first day
have it better than I.
They have only
74 minutes of classtime.
Not 75.


I guess we're just going to have poetry posts for the first few posts here, but I can't fight their ease of posting. These next few are all from Near East M20, the class I took my final quarter at UCLA. The professor's name was Robert Englund, and that class could have its own Nightmare on Elm Street movie. Professor Englund was the classic absent-minded professor, and he could put you to sleep if you weren't careful. Thinking back now, we did slowly lose students over the course of the quarter in lecture. I thought at the time students realized the class was boring and stopped coming to lecture; perhaps something more sinister was going on, and Freddy was killing us all in our sleep. Since I answered one question one time, I guess I was at the back of the killing queue. One shouted answer meant an infinite class participation increase. I fell asleep yes, but also respected Englund for his vast stores of academic knowledge that meant he could tangentially lecture for ten minutes and still not know how to work a computer properly. Freddy Krueger probably has a quip for that. I can imagine a student trying to access the website and it glitching. Suddenly, Freddy pops out of the screen, clawing open the boy's chest and pulling him into the HTML. When the boy is dead and in the computer, Freddy says, "What's the matter? Gone to code?" and laughs at the double meaning.

None of these poems are gruesome, though. The first does make the connection, but not seriously.

"Robert Englund"

Freddy Krueger,
With his cracking jokes,
My professor,
With his cracked tokens.
Street smart vs. book smart,
A wiseass and a bore.
Though they might both
Put me to sleep
Wearing the same sweater.


The absolute best is about how I looked at the Periodic Table of Elements, and well, it gets weird.

"Oh Wait That Says IUPAC, NVM"

In the darkness,
at the top,
It says "TUPAC."

Remaining a mystery,
His troubled troubling death,
untimely- and yet they say
He predicted so much
in his unreleased songs.
I say they say, I do not know.
Perhaps this is why
He Graces the table
that predicted the qualities
of its unknown Contents
in the Columns and Rows
already discovered.
The speculation on Tupac Shakur
is Periodic, coming and going
except for those constant conspirators,
remaining in their agitated states
as the Nobles remain unphased,
Filled to the brim with
Valence electrons.

If He(lium) could Choose
how to respell his name,
once more, would he
Choose HePac or 2Pac
or does he not care about
the proton count?

Yellow solids,
Green liquids,
Pink gases,
and Metalloids in Grey font.
Where is all the Brown,
as all is presented
on a White background.
Each letter is in Black font,
except those Metalloids.
But the elements are placed
in blocks, I see D-Block,
just like prison cells.
F-Block, the radioactive Man-made elements,
are placed off on their own,
in a Solitary Confinement,
Their Danger too much for Nature.


Of the five remaining from that's day poetry session, involving only about ten minutes of actual notes, I'm only going to include two. They're the silliest and shortest, but the other three are in poor taste and poorly composed at the same time.

"Mole Escape"

I am going to play
Mole Escape.

"Super Mole Escape"

I didn't state the name right,
It's properly "Super"
With Megas and Ultras
To speed my Mole
On his way.
I say "his" because
I'm not playing with Matilda.
I send her on her way.

Poems II

Delving back into high school here for the first, crude one, but its heart truly belongs to the spirit of Phi Psi, where it was read as the opening act of the Fall '09 pledge class talent show. Any hate mail on this one should be directed to Vanderlei Luftwaffle, who I hear entered into a coma in late December 2012 and has yet to come out of it.

Excerpt from "Swiss Vulgarities Vol. 1"
"Takin' Home Fat Chicks Sober"

You may be lookin' super heinous,
But girl you know this average penis
Takes 'em from average all the way up to heavenly;
And on the flip side all the way down to slovenly.
I enjoy blasting off like a rocket in space
No matter what the fuck that is on your face.
Ugliness is not a factor,
I'm going to plow you like a tractor.

-Vanderlei Luftwaffle
(1937- )

The second poem is another limerick, dated October 31, 2011. This was the Halloween I wore a self-designed Captain Planet costume to class, complete with a green dye-sprayed mullet and Smurf facepaint.

"All Hallow's Limerick"

No Halloween spirit? I just couldn't stand it.
So I dressed up like ol' Captain Planet.
But when I wanted to pee,
It took ten minutes you see,
Root suit zippers are tougher than granite.

Poems I

These poems are from high school, I guess, as I recently found them in a binder.

Limerick About Poetry

Some poems are actually gems,
Whether written in pencil or pen.
If the humor is hot,
I dig the rhythm a lot,
So with poetry I make amends!

"Arkham Asylum"

Who am I supposed to be?
The answer does not lie with me.
The knowledge lies within a book,
you'll see my face, go take a look.

The gentleman in the next cell
Thinks he's got happy feet.
If it rains outside on him,
He'll waddle out into the street.

Across the hall's another crook,
He's not in Kansas anymore.
If I were a horse I'd chomp his bones
And put his clothes at the farmer's door.

Origins

Hallo.

Deciding to create a blog while watching Jean-Claude Van Damme's 1996 action flick Maximum Risk may seem like a silly endeavor. Realizing that you already created a Blogger blog 2 years ago makes it even sillier, especially when you happen upon its name- Blogota, Colombloga. Well, I've decided to go through with the blogging and to never change the name. It's awesome. I changed the URL though, since jimmydavoren.blogspot.com is a lot simpler to spell than blogotacolombloga.blogspot.com if I ever want any sort of internet traffic.

With that wonderful lead-in, I give you all the first post in Jimmy Davoren's blog. I am excited to start posting here, but even more excited to share the things I have learned from Maximum Risk:
a) Natasha Henstridge is utterly slammin' and has Grade A boobies, and
b) apparently in the 80s and 90s what constituted the female posterior started a solid foot higher up on a woman. Great butts were a joint project embarked upon by glutes, lower backs, and genetics.
c) in comparison to Carl Weathers' Action Jackson, it would seem that a badge pales in comparison to a gun for commandeering a vehicle, even for police officers.

Here some things I didn't learn from Maximum Risk:
a) JCVD is awesome
b) I wish I could be a JCVD character, kicking ass all over the place with a European accent and a karate-sculpted body.

Why did we not learn these things from Maximum Risk? It's not that they're false. It's that we already learned both lessons the first time I ever watched a Jean-Claude Van Damme movie. 80s/90s action stars and Will Smith give immediate, personal "box office" pull to any movie. Animated features do the same these days, if I understand the plot. Turbo is not something I want to ever see. And if we're listing stuff I like, Hot Dog The Movie is true tops. It's on Comcast again, for free. What a (possibly softcore) film.