Don't eat expired Easy Mac (tm). Trust me.

For the vast majority of this epic blogging exploration I have concentrated my efforts to having at least something that remotely resembles a focus. However, tonight will be entirely different. There's a tiny liberating feeling in swaying on the cusp of a literary roller-coaster of glory. So tonight I will spend 500 plus words without a topic in mind or arugment to convey, tonight... will be phenomenal.

Dinner was fantastic. Eating almost every day in a giant Dining Commons really got me pondering the possibility of mass embarassment. Really, I've just been waiting for it to happen and with barely 3 weeks left I'm not sure if my visions will peep into reality before the conclusion of the year. I figure there are two scenarios. I can either spill my food all over the ground/person, or someone can spill their food all over the ground/me. I would definitely choose the later. And I would sieze the moment just to stand there and sulk in my pitiful Orange-Chicken-Vegan-Sunflower-Cutlet-Basil-Marinara drenched self to look the world in the eyes and say, "Worst day ever..."

Yeah, spoiled Easy-Mac (tm) not cool at all. Possibly most not cool entity ever created ever. I had a hankering for some munchies post 3am on a 5am work-night which consequently led to a 6:30am stomach grinding whirlwind of doom.

Remind me to write a blog about the perfect team members for a hoodlum posse.

I finally washed my laundry after 3 plus weeks. Yeah, probably too much information, but I stayed relatively clean. It just comes to a point when you see me wearing dress shirts and under-armor, remind me that washing my clothes is most definitely worth the effort.

I reminisced about Jean-Claude Van Damme in "Blood Sport" tonight (another awesomely bad movie that I've seen on TNT superstation eleventy thousand times). There's that sick part where Van Damme has his hands around Chung-Li's neck at the very end and screams at him, "SAY IT!" attempting to forcibly coerce the antagonist into surrendering in the fight. And of course Van Damme has his eyes sickly-wide-open because that villainous cheating bastard threw blinding powder in his freaking eyes.

Twiggy, the hippy on Telegraph Ave. right in front of T-Shirt-Orgy (tm) made me a custom pair of Rasta juggling sticks (also referred to as Devil Sticks, or Mystix). After a friday of class I proceeded to "stick" with Twiggy for about an hour trading moves, chatting about stick construction preferences, and he said he'd make me a custom pair of whatever I wanted. Obviously, I asked for an 18inch Wood Core Black tape with red, yellow, and green leather flares and two bi-symmetrical 18inch fiberglass wands without hand padding and roll direction grip tape. Basically, their sick, and I feel seventy times cooler wielding those custom made bad-boys. Childhood fantasy, maybe 3 people in this world would agree with me.

Vivian made a sick Psychology Informational Booklet of fluffy child-saving joy. No, seriously. The thing is probably sevent one times more well crafted than any Adolescent Psychological Analysis Handbook that I could have ever made.

A friend of mine just tried to Google Map the driving time from here to Columbia.

Well friends, the Academic Services Center dictators just whipped out the bullhorn to inform me that my computer lab time is running to an end. Before I sign off I'd just like to thank you for accompanying me on this wonderful poetic journey. And to be perfectly honest, with how amazing this just felt I may be utilizing this writing style many more times over. God help us all.

Sleep well, if you can't--sip some Nyquil, and dream easy.

Dream of me.

Labels: easy mac, juggling sticks, random

Courtesy of ridiculous friends:




Group Info:
Name: If I was a dinosaur, I'd be a wrecking-ballosaurus
Type: Common Interest - Pets & Animals
Description: This is for people who--if they had to be a dinosaur--would make the obvious choice and be an anklyosaurus (commonly known as wrecking-ballosauri). It's a very simple choice for several reasons, the most obvious being that there is a giant fucking ball attached to your tail that you can rampaged through the jungle with hitting shit. Other uses include: child discipline, "monkey wrench gang" style environmentalism, leveling people who laugh at their own jokes, and being able to do whatever the hell you want because no one can stop you. Essentially, this group is designed for everyone who isn't a complete idiot.

Labels: dinosaurs, facebook, group

So it’s a little bit late on a Thursday night. And by Thursday night I mean Friday at 4AM. The hours have lent themselves to sifting through 200 pages of Foundation Profiles for quality Berkeley Group research.

And to be honest, all I’ve been doing for the past 10 minutes involves blasting Jay Z and Beyonce at full blast off of my laptop jamming out and dancing by myself in my floor lounge.

Oh, the life.

This post was really meant for the 30^th of March but copious blogging procrastination and fiery passions for other stimulating topics delayed its maiden voyage.

Nonetheless, over Sping Break, a good friend and ridiculous individual, Sean, and I embarked on a cinematic adventure known as “Hammerhead: Half Man, Half Shark, Total Terror.” After raiding King Soopers (it’s a freaking supermarket silly Californians) for FunFetti Frosting, Chocolate Chip Teddy Grahams, and an economy size jug of Sunny Delight we destroyed our health feeding ourselves these glorious munchies and nestled in for 2 hours and 15 minutes of the named previewed Blockbuster DVD. It was easily the worst movie I have ever seen. Ever.

Honestly, did I expect anything different? Nope, not one bit. Apart from the cruddy CGI of the man-shark-beast-swimming-thing and chubby office man turned mother fucking Rambo, “Hammerhead” hosted a Credits listing with all Russian names (every single one)—which basically means this overseas sensation had most likely been seen by more people that just Sean and me. (I had believed differently up to that point).

Sean, my older brother, and I have this sick sick obsession with viewing what I like to refer to as “Awesomely Bad Movies.” The quintessential example would have to be Vin Diesel’s sci-fi thriller “Pitch Black” or basically any Vin Diesel movie for that matter. There’s just something about those fist-pumping-screaming-for-no-good-reason juvenile feelings we derive from utterly ridonkulous (I said it again) films. My brother recently provided us with a cinematic epic starring L.L. Cool J entitled “Mindhunters” where Christian Slater is sprayed with liquid Nitrogen and falls on the ground only to have his body crack into a million pieces. Unbelievably glorious? I think yes.

So what was going through Sean and my head as we forked over $9.95 to purchase “Hammerhead?” Basically we had this mutual image in our mind of a Hammerhead shark with beefy legs chasing some unsuspecting swimmers in the water and as the poor souls believed they had found safety on dry land the freaking shark would run straight out of the wave to chomp straight into some sorry woman in a polka dot swim suit.

So it’s true, a little pitiful, but most definitely true that I have no qualms with the Straight-To-DVD flick. Anything with LL, Jean Claude, or good ol’ Vin will do just fine for my fellow movie-watchers and me.

By the way did I tell you about the part where the Shark jumps out of the jungle onto the careening Jeep to try to mate with the hot secretary?

Labels: bad movies, hammerhead, vin diesel

“A man walks into a Laundromat with a dog named Jesus…”

Miguel’s stirring words at the opening of today’s blogging decal sparked an old questioned I used to ask myself in those deep, reflective times where it was just me… and me.

“If I could be any object found in a Laundromat what would I be and why?”

A brilliant man back home once replied to my inquiry in split seconds, “A quarter so I would be worth something.” My answer always seemed to take longer to construe in my brain. The first thought that comes to mind would be laundry detergent. Preferably Tide (tm), with some type of vibrant scent—not lavender though, something more citrus oriented, like “Spring Melon Breeze.” But the fear hits me, what happens when I am used up? When all of my luscious stain removing airy aroma inducing cleaning particles are utilized, will I be nothing more than an empty good for nothing orange receptacle used for nothing more than to disappoint individuals actually looking for soap?

So still en route on my personal expedition I arrive at my final conclusion: I’d be a never ending bottle of “Spring Melon Breeze.”

Either that or a dog named Jesus. Whatever’s chill.

Labels: jesus, laundromat, tide

So I’m going to the esteemed “Boat Dance” – an inter-unit Hall Association soiree on a floating mass of musical awesomeness.

Word on the street is that the event is one of those “make your own fun by dancing like an idiot” functions which is right up my alley. Practically, my life. However, with only 2 weeks to put together my outfit I’m thinking something involving a purple shirt, bow tie, suspenders, and a fedora. Of course.

There’s something about hats from the Berkeley Hat Company on Telegraph (where I plan to shop for my godly dome accessory.) In all honesty, I haven’t always been a hat man. I always was under the impression that my head was too round to adequately adorn a baseball cap and in some ways I still believe that fact to be true. But lately, I’ve experienced a fond affinity for the right head ornament.

A few baseball caps (I wear them barely on my head flipped up to create the illusion that my face isn’t chubbily circular), a beanie with a brim that my aunt bought me in the 7^th grade, another rasta winter hat, a white fedora, a leprechaun Target brand One-Spot $1 special, an Israeli Blue and Gold Jester hat, a fur hat with earflaps, an authentic Russian Mig fight pilot hat… You know, the usual.

I even came to a new tradition that after each set of midterms I take a well-anticipated journey to the Berkeley Hat Co. with Fatty to purchase a new topper. The right chapeau can make you. The wrong lid can break you. The right hat can distinguish you as the most bad ass individual to walk the face of the Earth and demand even the ground’s respect.

But enough rambling, the search for the right purple… or green… or both… fedora to adorn at the Boat Dance to look like a complete idiot, and by complete idiot I mean most gapingly beautiful bag of man candy, begins. I have faith, as with much of the things in my life, no worries there. But making sure my date’s dress can even attempt to match whatever ridonkulous (tm) getup I put together is another story…

Labels: boat, dance, hats

It’s been a little while, a hiatus you could say. No need for pansy apologies for lost time.

However, I did return to the faithful blogging DeCal on Monday which brought a short creative writing exercise. Asked to depict a scene on paper, I naturally began to ramble on about Jean Claude Van-Damme, but after realizing my brief piece sounded exactly like every other blog I’ve written, I scratched out my previous lines and produced this literary masterpiece.

Don’t judge. It was a long day.

"Light breaks as rays of light tear the gloomy sky. Colors bleed into daybreak as a sharp neigh echoes from the opening dawn. It is the mystical, it is the beautiful, it is the powerful, it is the unicorn.

It is my unicorn.

My eyes shudder as the pure aura of this untouchable figure overwhelms my gaze. My heart races my breath just as it has countless times before. Some things just do not change.

Bartholomew has been my solemn steed of glory for 14 years. Bred from the Cerulean Unicorns of upper Mazatlan, his immaculate white coat slides effortlessly across my war-torn armor as I mount him. In our land, souls of past lives, of past sacrifices seem to reunite in life. I gaze out from atop Bartholomew upon the beating Earth, the calm before the storm for today we hold our ground on the cusp of war.

The battle for Lower, Upper, and Middle Earth inches forward. In barely one day’s time the hearts of man will be pitted against the rage of beast, cold steel will clang as the screams of merciless soldiers will resonate through our land. From the snow dressed mountain tops to the dark jungles below, our cries will echo in life and in death.

My unicorn and I stand, without a single quiver, prepared to die."

I’m back.

Labels: creative writing, unicorns