It's been a few days since my last blog. There's no specific reason. There's no covert Chinese operation to shut down my blog. Unfortunately. Nope, everything's been pretty stagnant of late, and I don't want to bore you all with the imaginary whims of my mind. Frankly, it just seems that people talk too much. If there's one thing that stands out, it's when people talk too much. Not only do they make themselves look incredibly ignorant, but they just annoy the hell out of me. I know, I can't be a hypocrite, I do it sometimes - I think we all do. It just irritates me more than other things. It's the fact that I talk to people who could be lying through their teeth - but do it so much as to the point where everyone else is just used to it, so it almost becomes truth. I doubt if that makes sense. I'm not even sure I want to begin and explain it. You'll just have to listen for the person who does it to you. If there's one thing that I can't stand (except opening the fridge four times in succession and finding nothing new to eat) it's people who I can't trust. I'll give some elbow room for the people who are honest, and then tell blatant lies to cover up something important. I'm sure as hell not condoning it, but it's a little easier to live with. What really erks me are the people lie when there's absolutely no reason to lie. I'm sure everyone single of you readers knowsone like that. Hell, you could be one yourself.

Everyone lies. Lying is good - some of the time. But when people use lies in normal conversation, when the person they're talking to wouldn't know if they're lying or not as it is, it just bothers me. Eventually, however, lies like that tend to lap each other, and trip over themselves in the process. When this happens, I start to disbelieve every single word that person says. Every single word. It's not worth the risk, personally, of believing something and having it thrown back in your face because it was a lie. Why would anyone want that?

Well, I've rambled on long enough.

I'm a little hungry, and of course there's no food.

But I'm going to open the fridge a few times and wait for my lucky day.

I'll Tell You Something

It's been a few days since my last blog. There's no specific reason. There's no covert Chinese operation to shut down my blog. Unfortunately. Nope, everything's been pretty stagnant of late, and I don't want to bore you all with the imaginary whims of my mind. Frankly, it just seems that people talk too much. If there's one thing that stands out, it's when people talk too much. Not only do they make themselves look incredibly ignorant, but they just annoy the hell out of me. I know, I can't be a hypocrite, I do it sometimes - I think we all do. It just irritates me more than other things. It's the fact that I talk to people who could be lying through their teeth - but do it so much as to the point where everyone else is just used to it, so it almost becomes truth. I doubt if that makes sense. I'm not even sure I want to begin and explain it. You'll just have to listen for the person who does it to you. If there's one thing that I can't stand (except opening the fridge four times in succession and finding nothing new to eat) it's people who I can't trust. I'll give some elbow room for the people who are honest, and then tell blatant lies to cover up something important. I'm sure as hell not condoning it, but it's a little easier to live with. What really erks me are the people lie when there's absolutely no reason to lie. I'm sure everyone single of you readers knowsone like that. Hell, you could be one yourself.

Everyone lies. Lying is good - some of the time. But when people use lies in normal conversation, when the person they're talking to wouldn't know if they're lying or not as it is, it just bothers me. Eventually, however, lies like that tend to lap each other, and trip over themselves in the process. When this happens, I start to disbelieve every single word that person says. Every single word. It's not worth the risk, personally, of believing something and having it thrown back in your face because it was a lie. Why would anyone want that?

Well, I've rambled on long enough.

I'm a little hungry, and of course there's no food.

But I'm going to open the fridge a few times and wait for my lucky day.

The Cellular Telephone Craze

Alright, let's face it. I'm not exactly up to date with the latest fads and fashions. In fact, I can truly admit that I'm just now starting to wear an old seat-belt as a belt for my pants. I can also admit that I'm just now starting to get into pokemon! Hell, I'm also discovering the sensation known as pogs! Ok, no need to shout - I'll get on with it. To move towards some semblance of a point (and not to waste the precious seconds of your life, much like I'm doing now. It's rather funny, but you really have no choice but to keep reading if you wish to know what my direction is. Although, I suppose you could just click the welcoming 'x' at the top-right of your screen, and then be done with this, but why would you do that?) I'm just now being slapped in the face by the fact that EVERYONE has a cell phone. Yeah, I know, maybe I'm not Mr. Up-to-the-Minute, but look around! It's worse than ever! QUICK ANECDOTE TO AID THE POINT: As my appropriate disclaimer just announced, this is a quick little bit to aid me in relaying my point. As I was standing in line at CVS, perhaps a week or so ago, I found myself placed behind a mother and 6 month old baby. It just so happens that I looked down at my belongings, flipped through my wallet for fiscal adequacy, and looked up again to view the most hideous of all sights. The sixth month old kid, had reached into his small, diaper-stuffed shorts and pulled out a nice Cingular Wireless phone. On this nice Cingular Wireless Phone, he dialed his mommy's number to let her know that he had done the bad-baby-deed in his Huggies. Let me tell you, he sure as hell didn't need a cell phone to tell me that he crapped his pants. Anyone with a nostril could figure that one out - but that's the beside the point. I was in complete awe of what I had just witnessed. My arms went numb, dropping my $0.99 PowerAde all over the nicely carpeted floor, and I just stood there - stupefied. Needless to say, as events unfolded, I reacted in the usual manner whenever chaos is the ruling mindset. I ran for dear life, occasionally I unleashed the odd bellow or two. But I ran and ran and ran and ran and ran and ran and ran and ran and ran and ran and ran and ran. Until I was finally outside CVS. Then I walked to my car and drove home.

The fact is this: any and everybody has a cell phone. I can see the usefulness, of course. I'm addicted to it, and who isn't. It just seems that all of us cell phone users are over-grown children nursing on our mom's breast - it's a little harder to wean us. Besides, there's no replacement to a good cell phone. When you stop nursing, you get to taste the divine formula, and later than that, all sorts of nice milks. I personally don't prefer any of them. Rather odd.

Am I alone in the observation that cell phones are like omni-potent magnets for other cell phones? Yeah, I had the inkling feeling that I was, but that will not hamper my explanation. Wherever I am, of course accompanied by my trusty sidekick, Cell Phone, it always seems that someone else takes their cell phone out, looks at, and puts it back. On occasion, someone might take it out and call someone, or receive a call, or check the voicemail, or play a game, or this, or that, or this, or something else. But whenever! someone whips it out, everyone else in the room, who has a phone, follows suit. I fall prey to this epidemic every time it occurs. There's just something elusive and desirable about taking out the cell phone whenever someone else does first. Can I begin to explain it? Maybe. To me, it's the fact the person who takes out the cell phone is being cool. Of course, when it comes down to coolness, who wants to be outdone? So this leads to everyone else taking out their cell phones, and even if they're not turned on, putting it to their ears and mumbling some random jargon. However, a word to the wise, if you find yourself in one such experience, and your phone bears a striking resemblance to a VHS tape, just say no.

You must not be up with the times either.

Christmas Over Already?

No feeling in the vast array of human emotion compares to disappointment. Yeah, ok, anger, rage, delight, those are all good, but pure disappointment (mixed with a pinch of hopelessness) has zero competition. Every reader, and I will stake the very breath in my lungs on this claim, feels some disappointment at the conclusion of any given thing. Take me, for instance. I'm the sort of bloke of feels bummed on the last day of school. Who knows, something great could've been concluding. Your best academic year could be winding to an abrupt end. Ok, ok, so I'm crazy. Hell, I know you can't leave school fast enough on the last day, but I'd rather linger, much like some musty odor that seems to escape the clutches of Febreeze. For the sake of entertaining you faithful bloggies, I'll reluctantly bring up a holiday more accessible to normal folks. Christmas. Christmas Eve, the zenith of anticipation, preparation, and perspiration for the following day, usually finds me with soaked undies, just dying to unleash my fury on the wrapping paper in the morning. After a few fresh change-ups, and a snack to ease my mind, I head to bed. It's not uncommon for me to struggle through the entire night. Hell, I'm sure it was easier for Mohammed Ali to last eight rounds with George Foreman than it was for me to catch a damn wink of sleep that whole night. And thus the morning comes, shining sweet light on my bloodshot eyes, and creeping over the snow into the living room. Needless to say, after just coming off a collective rest of 27 seconds, I'm a little tired. But come on! It's Christmas Day! Show me those presents! Wake those parents up! I've got boxes to see and papers to rip! And then it's over. Quicker than Al Roker can drop the heavy hundred, Christmas has come and gone. And there I am, in my cold bed, but lacking the dreams of anticipation that came in tow the night before. Heck, I'd gladly wet my britches for another day of Christmas...well, maybe. Regardless, it's that disappointment that seeps deeper than any pain can normally seep. Like a thick sap that sticks to every conceivable object, this disappointment is only healed with time. Sadly enough, it's usually 364 days worth of time.

To lead into the point of this blog (just in case some of you already decided that I was focusing entirely on Christmas), the performance of my short play, Irreconcilable Differences, was carried out tonight. After weeks of breath-taking anticipation, anxiety, and hordes of migrating Monarch butterflies, it was completed. To be completely honest, I've been more proud of anything I've ever done. And not only that, I shouldn't receive any credit for the success of the night's show. My cast, who astounded me with their level of verisimilitude on the stage, took my creation and molded it into something with a little piece of all of us. There was my vision, but the elements that Mr. Bullaro and Lauren brought to the table are just as indispensable as the script itself. Simply amazing - they were unbelievable.

To tie in that element of disappointment, I just realized it as I was sitting at this computer. It came to me. The work that I've done for the past two months has paid off. What do I do now? Countless weeks of zero hour rehearsals, cooperative meetings, and plain old great times have wound down to a successful end. What do I do now? I've held witness as my first stage vision was carried out in brilliant form. What do I do now? Well, I suppose I just think about it. Be proud of it. I look forward to doing something, anything, like this again. It was an absolute thrill. But somewhere, deep down in my heart, I can feel the sap stick. It clings and slides its way around, smothering mostly everything.

The 364 day wait for Christmas is barely tolerable.

Reliving what we accomplished tonight is impossible.

The Sparrow

Down the river gold and straight,
The Sparrow floats with upright gait,
And sings her song with voice of weight,
To ease the storm, to meditate.
The Sparrow floats to make her home.
And there she sings a song forlorn,
With all intention not to scorn,
But more or less of which to warn
That Sparrow floats to make her home.

The skies above turn cloudy, grey,
The sun is hiding, dimming day,
Above the Sparrow making way
Along the river's path to stay,
The Sparrow swims to make her home.
Tears of rain now touch the river.
Sparrow shakes, a gentle quiver,
And river's grasses pass a shiver
As Sparrow swims to make her home.

Thunder shouts and lightning cracks,
The torrent on the river smacks,
And river banks and running wax.
While mud and grime are slipping lax,
The Sparrow speeds to make her home.
Under the waves of speedy suction,
With Sparrow's breath in swift reduction,
She passes then her final notion.
The Sparrow fails to make her home.

Yet on the land the people cry,
While throwing praises unto high,
For just before the land's to die
The water floods from opened sky.
The family now can make their home.
The fields of barley and of grain,
So close and wary to be slain,
Have found salvation in the rain;
The family now can make their home.

With child's belly satisfied,
A deep reproach, once known inside,
Is thrown out by the riverside,
Unlocking times that once denied
The family chance to make their home.
By falling down in sweet excess,
Upon their fields it comes to bless
And sooth the land with soft caress,
The rain, it falls to make a home.

Down the river, gold and straight,
The people dance with jocund gait,
And sing their songs with voice of weight
To home and stead, to celebrate.
The people now have made their home.
But once she sang a song forlorn,
With all intention not to scorn,
But more or less of which to warn
That now, forever, Sparrow's home.

A Little Update

Since I know that there are so many daily viewers of this blog, I thought I might take advantage of the web space. What the hell, a little tactless advertising never killed anyone. With that said, I want to inform you all of the Short-Play Festival (proudly presented by Divine Child High School) known as "10 AT 7". Not only does this magical evening feature plays written and directed by Kori B-something-or-other, Rachel Damron-Hissong, Emily Dobbs, Joe Janeski, Mary Pritchard, and Mike Sandoval, but it features my play "Irreconcilable Differences" as the lead off hitter. I know you're all dying of anticipation, so I'll fill you in as to the whenabouts and whereabouts of the evening.

WHEN: Wednesday, May 19, 2004; 7:00pm
WHERE: Divine Child High School Auditorium
1001 N. Silvery Lane
Dearborn, MI 48128
COST: Absolutely nothing.


Please, please, please, please, please, please come. Not to beg or anything, but it would be the highest of all disappointments to find an empty house for the evening. I mean, come on, it's a Wednesday night, what could you possibly be doing!? My point exactly. So come on down for a night of laughs and drama, if you aren't satisfied, you'll receive a complete refund. Oh wait, the admission is free. Well, if you aren't satisfied, then tough luck. Hope to see you all there!

The Magic Stuff To Make All Things Better

I don't mean to open old wounds, but let's make a quick dash into the nostalgic sectors of our minds. Yes, pass through the thoughts of wetting the bed, and/or pants, and dart past the image of the boogie man. Alright, here we are. What you're looking at, in case you weren't sure, is a box of cereal. Now, this just isn't any ordinary box of cereal, for inside these cardboard confines is a treasure trove of small, delightful toys. Yes, my friends, the prize at the bottom of the box. I'll have to ask you to curb your enthusiasm for the time being (no matter how difficult it may be), and a focused, level-headed mind, think back to a Saturday morning. You wake up around 9:30 or so (remember, little kids had no worries to hide from by sleeping until noon), and scramble to the bathroom. You do that thing. You then travel from the bathroom to kitchen, and discover the newest box of cereal in the cabinet. Hell, who cares about the cereal?! You just want the flippin' prize! With fingers of fury, you tear the cheap cardboard and plastic bag to smithereens. With cereal strewn in every conceivable direction, you savagely dig through the small, delicious, sugar-coated whole-grain oat balls until the prize is yours. And there it is. There it sits, in a miserable heap of its own parts, covered in the dust of the cereal you raped the kitchen with. Needless to say, you might be a tad disappointed. Oh hell, who's kidding who, you've just been shot by a howizter from across the sink. God might as well strike you down with a bolt of holy lightning, for there is no use to life. But God shows no such mercy unto your poor and broken soul. He lets you live, staring with passion at the miserable wreck of cheapness that litters your kitchen floor. Mommy. There's the answer. Scrambling from room to room, screaming with a noise to cure the deaf, you search for mommy. She has the magic stuff to make all things better (we as adults call it super-glue). As you fumble around with the worthless pile of plastic, your mom gets the magical elixir of toys. The finished product. Alright, it's safe to say that your Spiderman doesn't look quite as menacing with a ginormous bulge of glue protruding from his face. Well, you take the bad with the good, I suppose. At least Spiderman can still move -- sort of. Ok, who the f*ck are you kidding. This worthless piece of Singapore crap isn't worth a fruity pebble.

That seems to be the general mindset of those bottom-of-the-box cereal toys. Bottom of the barrel would be the more appropriate phrase. Alright, flash to the next scenario. You wake up, again on a Saturday, with the taste of last week's defeat still ripe in your mouth. You go to the bathroom, do your thing, and travel to the cabinet. Rather than going spastic over the anticipation of a new piece of trash, you carefully examine the box. You notice the brand-new set of hot wheels being advertised on the front. Uh oh. Everyone in the world knows how much you love hot wheels. The fury begins. Again, mounds of cereal crowd the floor. They crunch beneath your feet. Hmm, you actually enjoy that sensation. But anyway, there's no prize to be found. You pick up the box, and notice the phrase below the ad "three proof of purchase required". Instantly you think, what the hell does O.J. have to do with this? Yet time passes, you've sent your proof to the corresponding address, and you spend each afternoon crammed into the mailbox. Following 6-8 weeks of extreme discomfort, the mailman finally arrives with an unusually small package. Slithering out of the mailbox, you immediately confront the postal worker. That can't be mine, mister, I ordered a set of brand new hot wheels! The mailman obviously doesn't hear your words, and he hands you the package regardless. You trot into the living room, and meticuloulsy open the package. Wonderful. Unless hot wheels now come with the "some assembly required" label, then something must be wrong. There has to be a reason why that wheel is sitting over there, and the hood to that car is just laying in the corner. There has to be a reason why these things JUST SUCK!

Unfortunately, there isn't. Again, sorry to open old wounds -- but take the bad with the good.

Just Like a Prune

I'd like to take a moment to let everyone know that today is my cousin Eric's 30TH BIRTHDAY!! Trust me, not only is this cousin a great guy to know, but he's also a great cousin. Believe it or not. I know, I know, he's a reader of my blog (perhaps my only), and I can just picture him sitting there, reading this. I can't imagine that he'd be shocked to see something of this sort on my page, he has done a lot for me (even if he's cheap and won't take me to see Dave, but I'm slow to anger). I must admit, you'll be hard pressed to find a funnier, more sincere person than Eric, besides me of course. But in all seriousness, one's thirtieth birthday is no shoulder shrug. Heck, you're halfway to sixty. Hell, you're almost over the hill. But look at the bright side, not only is the privilege of living off social security just around the corner, but soon you'll be making bi-weekly visits to the doctor's office for arthritis shots. Yes, Eric, the future is bright. Your future, in fact, resembles a masterfully constructed cruise ship. Trust me, not only is this ship TOP-of-the-line, but it's takes people places to uncharted territories. Yes, places you've never been. On this ship, which I've coined as the SS Future, oh...wait. Your future isn't the SS Future! Let me get my glasses...oh no! Your future is the RMS Titanic! Damn. Isn't that a bitch.

Well, Eric, bon voyage.

Oh yeah, keep an eye on those icebergs. They tend to sneak up on ya.

What Dreams are Made Of

I remember a few years ago sitting at my kitchen table with an old friend. It was vaguely midnight, and we were engorging in the finest Carter's gourmet hamburgers. Simply delightful. As the conversation progressed (and we became increasingly tired) he brought up one of more profound things I'd ever heard. What if the real world, the one that you and I are in right now, is actually a dream? And, with that being said, what if the dreams that we go to every night are actually true representation of the actual REAL life? Do you follow? I sat there, thinking that over, and a few seconds later quickly retorted with the normal brush off. The typical, "you insane mother f*cker". It's important for me to tell you that my friend didn't actually give up the argument as easily as I'd hoped.

He kept coming, and soon enough, the abusrd logic that I (just minutes prior) had just shot down began to make sense. I suppose I should share it with you. Perhaps the world which we know right now isn't real at all. Who's to tell us otherwise? That would make the dream state the ultimate state, rather than the opposite. How bizarre it would be to go to bed at night, and when we find ourselves in some field of magical talking shot glasses, we call it reality. That was basically the jist of it. Now, I know exactly how you're reacting the proposition that our dreams are real, and our reality is dreaming. I can see, sitting at the computer, probably in your underwear, staring at the screen. I'm at least half right, so it's a start. Well, there you sit, telling yourself that you've just read the most implausible thing, but hear this. You and I both know that there is no chance of our dreams being real. But what if? What if the world that I'm in right now, this realistic, sensual world, is actually random interjection of dreamland. I do know that everyone of us wakes up occasionaly in the middle of the night. Either we're returning from some nightmare, or just startled after some tossing and turning. Consider if we were, instead, "waking" into a dream rather than out of one. Just sit there and turn it over and over in your mind (not too hard, I know some of you can't handle the stress, but give some effort). It's one of those thoughts that kind of sticks in the back of your mind, and occasionaly freaks you out before you fall asleep. Ok, no freaking-out occurs, but how about an overwhelmed feeling? Better? The only thing I can rightly compare it to is finding myself lying in bed and thinking about death. Death is endless, another journey with the only rest-stops coming 5,000 miles apart. But hey, you learn to hold it. Just imagining the magnitude of eternity makes my brain want to seep out of my nose and hide in a hole somewhere. Trust me on that, it's not a nice thought. I suppose it comes down to faith. I have faith enough in death to know that I can conquer it. Of course not by myself, but with a little divine intervention. However, the catalyst is faith. It seems that faith makes all things real, and as long as I have faith in the world I live in now - the real world - who needs dreams.

Even with talking shot glasses.

Eh, What's a Minute Anyway

Last Saturday found me in Ann Arbor. Pioneer High School to be specific. More or less, I was there, sitting on my brains for three hours as I muddled through the SAT. What a picnic - if your idea of a picnic consists of NASA quality math problems and extraterrestrial formulas. Needless to say, it was just dandy. As I wandered my way through one of the seven sections, I "chose" to read two small articles on different perceptions of time, other than the chronological. You know, like February after January, 1954 after 1953. That sort of thing. It spoke of perceptions of time in various cultures, like Native American. One of the main things I picked up was that some people see no use for chronological succession of events. I could see this turning into a intellectual struggle. It's one of the questions, much like the presence of God, that people can never answer. I know, God is real and can be proven so, but thinking of the sheer magnitude is enough to send any brain in a reeling headache. Time could have that potential. What are seconds, really? Is it a made-up figure to give us some sense of purpose and control? Perhaps. I really can't see any ground being gained on this discussion, but it's something to think about.

After pondering the unsolvable for a while, it came to my attention that I had spent three of my fifteen minutes just thinking. Thinking is never bad, but try to curb the thought process when rushed - it helps. Soon enough, it became clear this issue wasn't going to leave me. I began to think of living in a culture where time was not of the essence. We've been living in a society where people base their lives around the precious ticks of an intangible clock. Quite frankly, it's truly a universal battle. Us versus Time. Unfortunately, that old Geezer known as Father Time kicks our asses. Sort of reminds me Apollo Creed getting walloped by the Russian fellow. All in all, I'd say that this small mental struggle of mine produced only benevolent thoughts, or at least inspiration. It's pointless for us to count the seconds of every day. What do we gain? A sense of security? If that's the case, then my nextdoor neighbor's poodle makes me feel safer than time ever will. Don't get me wrong, I'm not worried about time, and I don't necessarily fear it (unless the wings are down with 2 minutes to go, but that's a whole 'nother story), it's more so a sense of "who needs it". I'd say it's pretty obvious that we're going die. That's a rather fair assumption. So where's the need to count down? That's just depressing. Besides, we never know when we're going make our great last stand, so whatever clock we do keep could be off by mere seconds, or entire decades.

I say we borrow a page from the Native Americans. And no, I don't mean slap on some war paint and shoot some bison. Like I said before, time is not always of the essence.