.monkey.movement.

Queen is King of Rock

2007-03-04T23:09:00.000-08:00

Well, dang. I have no clue what I’m doing right now.

I’m Going to Make A Citizen Out of You!: What the hell am I doing?

I have no clue as to what is going on right now, but whatever. All that is occurring is that my fingers are pounding against black squares emblazoned with symbols representing specific digital effects that translate into a visible form through internal computation and process that occur within millionths of a second. Yet some how, some way, these electronic messages translate into some form of expression that allows for intercommunication between human beings. When the previously stated signal is passed on to another receptor within another machine, they are once again processed and translated into figures that are comprehended by another form of computation that occurs within another electrical current that is separated from the home of the original activity. When the current passes around this new receptacle, it once again translates into a form that applies meaning to the said processor, and depending upon the meaning, it may cause a reaction within the processor that releases a chemical to inspire more meaning to the form. This reaction causes the processor to start another current, which once again leads to the beginning.

The previous paragraph is an attempt to describe the intimate occurance of writing, posting, and responding. Whether it was effective or not in of null importance; the fact that is was attempted shows a general interest in solving a problem. That is the argument that is put forth: Writing of any sort, literary, mathematical, farce, is done in order to answer a pondering that has come to be within the writer’s mind. The belief of ‘creating for the sake of creating’ is in its own way an answer and, as Prof. Harry G. Frankfurt may state it to be, ‘bullshit.’ It is an answer because in ‘creating for the sake,’ one is answering a desire that has become unquenched within the writer, responding to the desire, as if the reaction was a confirmation to a query place by the mind (i.e. ‘Will you make something for no reason?’), yet it is not truly an honest response because it is false to create for no reason whatsoever, for then it would not be creating, it would be replicating a process for no gain. Creation is an outlet used for the purpose of fulfillment within the individual and the prospective viewer, it is not a simple action such as scratching an irritated eyebrow.

The end. Stop reading now.

Goddamned Arms Race

2006-12-25T19:49:00.000-08:00

I'm going to take a turn from my normal ranting (in case it isn't noticible, I tend to focus on American politics) and post about something more personal, and to me, a little closer to home: myself.

I Wrote the Gospel on Giving Up: Human Rights Not Listed Under the Declaration

Every once in a while, people tend to allow themselves to become engrossed in a single thing, a certain stimuli, that they abandon all the other things in their life that they hold dear. They latch onto their chosen addiction as if it were the crux of their existance and, if they are now wary, it becomes such. If you're lucky, as I believe I was, you realize what you are doing, slap yourself to reality, and go back to your life.
Sometimes this process can go on for years, even ones whole life, or it can be as short as a few months. Luckily, I consider myself to be part of the latter. For several months, I became, allowed myself, to be overtaken by the temptation of flesh and seratonin. Despite the signs of hinderance, of danger, and threats to my life, I continued on in my predicament in hopes of a bright future. That used to be my philosophy, "Hope for a brighter tommorrow." But, unfortunately my little muffins, hope doesn't make marmalade, and after a while you have to be willing to fight for what you want. so, I fought. I ripped, I struggled, I tumbled, and I tore for what I wanted and, sadly, I came across the conclusion that the thing I was fighting for was never going to be mine. I wanted another completely and without strings attached, and that is an unfair thing to ask for, much the less demand.
So, I ended my struggle and I am on my way to going back to my life. It's painful to be certain; such is something I expect for removing myself from something that I engulfed my entire being into. In the end, I've made some enemies, I've rekindled some friendships, and I honestly have calloussed over slightly, but I'm glad that I have. I'm glad that I've gone through my experience, as painful and dangerous as it may have been, because I've learned from it, and that is the most important thing about trauma: you must be willing to learn.
I'm nineteen years old, and I was glad to have finally been in love, or at least what can be interpreted as love by a young man, a boy, who has gone through his first relationship. And after it all, after all of the things I allowed to happen to myself and, to my credit, that I did to myself, I have no remorse. I am confident in mysef when I believe that I am doing the right thing.

I believe that my vice is pride, but in all honesty, it's a damn good sin to fall prey to.

I Have Found My Place In the Road,
Adam "doublesquirrel" Ston

on the abject terror of writing in a public forum

2006-07-19T14:08:00.000-07:00

i suffer from a fear which, i am told, is fairly common in a writer; mainly, i fear that i have nothing to write worth reading. as with many other fears, the fact that i know it to be commonplace does not alleviate it any further. at most, it allows me a certain amount of comfortability with my fear. ''i am afraid, but that's okay.''

i suffer from another fear, one closely tied into the first. this is the fear that whatever i write, even if it is worth reading, will be ''too _____'': too serious, too frivilous, too short, too anything. it progresses from the fear that, if what i write is worth anything, it is not worth enough.

but who decides the worth of writing? the writer certainly does not feel that he does. the reader? what if no one reads? does that lessen the value of the piece as opposed to that of, say, a bestseller? mass production does not raise the value of the writing, small readership does not lessen it.

what is it, then? oh, there are technical terms and stylistic preferences that add to or take away from the value of a piece. there is the question of whether it fulfills a purpose, but such things are debated about works already considered great.

a worthwhile piece, based on those i myself have loved, is one that affects me. some of the worst writing i have ever read (courtesy of fanfiction.net) made me laugh until i cried. other works have moved me from hate to love in the course of a few class week, all the while provoking the most impassioned discussions amoung friends and classmates (dostoyevsky stands out strongest). some have offended me to my core, yet made me rethink how best to defend my perspective, and for that i owe them a great deal. still others reinforce in themselves rather than shove me to reinforce them myself.

so, i ascribe worth to any written work based not so much on quality or purpose or even technical skill, but on whether or not it touches me. if a work can move me to laughter, thought, or tears, i owe the work something, and i find in myself a strengthened desire to write in spite of all my own petty fears. i read, and i long to write.

now personally, i write for one of about three reasons. the two simplest--and perhaps most base--are for the joy of writing and because words bleed out of me. both are a release, and both serve me well, however the third is the hardest, and involves the most doubt: i write with the intention of touching other people. i want to make others laugh, and cry. i want to invoke thought, anger, hope, anything beyond stagnation (death is an ending of sorts, stagnation is the decay of life, but that is an arguement for another essay). i want them to share in my joy and suffer with me in my pain all in a small hope that they might understand that they are not alone.

do you, can you understand what drives that? drives me beyond the fear of being too open, too vulnerable, too personal, beyond the fear of knowing pain, beyond the fear of rejection, beyond the fears about the worth of my writing? i can't save the world! but i can share in the sufferings and joys of those in it.

so here i am. may what i write be worth the reading.

Poetry

2006-03-31T21:23:00.000-08:00

I’ve decided, after careful deliberation, that not all poetry is swill after all.

I had a class this year, a creative writing class. I loved it. My brother had had the teacher, Mr. Rabaut, eight years earlier. I can see why he loved that guy so much. Until I had walked into that room, I had despised poetry. It took me a while to begin to appreciate some poetry, most notably “Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening”, which I hold quite dear. I began to realize that it wasn’t the poetry itself that I disliked, but the people who read it. I should have known that people were stupid. I tell myself this. It’s one of my favorite mantras. But it keeps coming back to me like a reoccurring character in the sitcom that my life wishes it was.

People need to realize that if one person does not enjoy poetry, that does not make him uncultured. It is simply a preference. They need to understand that if a person does not look as deep as they do into the inner meanings of a work of literature; that they are not barbarians, they are people who would rather appreciate the words for what they are, as opposed to what they are pretending to be. Yes, I understand that most good poetry has multiple layers of meaning. But does every single piece of poetry need such a technique? Does every single piece of poetry need to be analyzed line by line, like works of Hawthorne? And if so, should it be analyzed so in the first place?

Personally, I say no.

It’s taken me time to realize that poetry is about each individual person. What one person believes to be a work of art, another can believe it is complete horse manure. Just because somebody does not enjoy the works of Shakespeare, does not give other people the right to ridicule him for being uncultured.

I don’t know if you can tell by now, but I absolutely hate that word. Uncultured. Bleh.

Anyway, back to my original intent: I’ve compiled some of my poetry, and if any of you care to read it, go ahead. Think of it what you will, but understand this: It’s me. It’s not “humanistic”, it’s not “emo”, its not “life changing”. These are my words. Not the byproduct of marketing or the influence of mass media. Enjoy. Or don’t. Whatever floats your boat.

This first piece was one of the first assignments we had in Mr. Rabaut’s class. He told us to compile a list of things that we were. Here is mine:

I am the ocean. Vast, in more ways than one, and mysterious. Very few truly know me, and their knowledge came at a great price indeed.

I am a rock. Rough and hard, I can bludgeon you on the head, or be stricken to make fire. It takes a hammer and chisel to open me up.

I am a pig. Bloated, contorting in my own excrement, yet through and through, a skilled problem solver. An underestimated opponent in any battle of the psyche.

I am a kitten. Warm and caring, I can hear any problem, see any atrocity, and still purr under the tender hands of anyone. I am oblivious. I give love blindly.

I am the type-writer. Cold metal and logical equations comprise my core. Methodical, ruthless, and efficient, I leave no task undone, or done incorrectly.

I am a rabid dog. Foaming at the mouth, I am irrational, illogical. Fury is held within me like fire in a gas tank, calm like sand through a sieve. I will lose my head, and yours too.

I am the pawn. I am moved across the board by forces unbeknownst to me. Seeing my enemy across the way, rage broils within me. My death will serve a greater purpose. Hope is all I have left.

I am fire. Consuming without discrimination, I burn all around me. Wood falls like flesh, flesh like cloth, cloth like gasoline. I am a chemical reaction, waiting to die out.

The next one I really liked writing. It was when I started to realize that writing about difficulty while writing can be hilarious, if not only for the fact that it tends to help the situation. We were told to write sonnets; either Shakespearian style, or Italian. I’ve always been partial to the old school Italian format:

As I sit here fighting with my diction,
Pounding the keys end upon their end, hoping,
Palms hard against my eyes, screaming, moping,
Damn! I would rather be writing fiction.

What words fit here? I search with no avail.
Words are bounding around my cranium,
What rhymes with cranium? Uranium?
I must finish! Or I will surely fail.

Suddenly, a flash of inspiration!
Words roaring around within my mind!
All words that I could never hope to find!
And now I’ll complete this stanza: Haitian.

I have no quarrel now with these sonnets,
Tricky and difficult, numbing your brain,
Yet grand and wonderful in the end to gain,
It's easy to rhyme! Check it out: Bonnets!

These next few are Haikus, which happen to be my favorite form of poetry. Most of them are light hearted; some of them have semi-serious meanings. Not all of them strictly follow the seasonal theme of Haikus either, which I’m not too proud of. WARNING: some of these are intended as jokes for my friends, and as a result, are excruciatingly corny:

High speed aqua-bomb,
Sailing through summer air,
Splash, I am wet.

Robot sees, he does,
The Monkey scratches his head,
Slowly walks away.

Goop hides in darkness,
Nerf gun cold from winter’s chill,
I’ll shoot your face, Chris.

The woman is screaming,
Her eyes burn like summer glare,
“Fuck Windows M.E.!”

Steve rolls all the crits’,
His luck makes him mighty, so,
Eat him to gain it.

Well, if you’ve made it this far, I’m happy. I hope you enjoyed what you read. I’ve been trying to write more recently, and if I feel bold enough, I’ll try to post some kind of link to the writing, so I don’t take too much space up here.

Peace,

Matt Myers AKA The Goop

Léon

2006-02-27T14:05:00.000-08:00

It’s been a while since my last post, and I’m starting to feel guilty. Ston tells me ‘the movement’ won’t write itself, and in that I agree. My only complaint is that I actually have to write something. Not that I don’t enjoy writing, or reading for that matter. But quite frankly writing is difficult when you have nothing to really write about.

Every week me and my friends get together and play Dungeons and Dragons (amongst other systems, more on that later). Lately my friend, (and proprietor of this site) Adam Ston, has been on a Jean Reno binge, and as such has lent me a few of his movies. If you are unfamiliar with whom Jean Reno is, I suggest you either go out rent a couple of the following mentioned movies, or simply uninstall life. I would suggest a pipe wrench, or for the affluent, a Black and Decker.

Jean Reno is a phenomenal actor, and one of the few (in my opinion) truly badass Frenchman to have ever walked this Earth. He’s been in movies such as Wasabi, Godzilla (-_-), Mission Impossible, Ronin, or simply, the other guy from Onimusha 3. For those of you obsessed as with IMDB as I am, you can simply do this too. His most stunning performance yet however, is in the movie I will shortly mention to you. It’s a little flick by Luc Besson, and it’s named Léon. In the USA, it was named ‘The Professional’.

Honestly, nothing I say here can even come close to the experience I had, or you will have (possibly) upon watching that movie. Some people said it was creepy. Some people said it was sick. Some people, like Ston and I, loved it. I found myself amazed at the change in tone throughout the movie, how its odd music carried you through the film and it’s characters.

I have a deep love for gangster movies of almost any kind. Anything where they are breaking the law, and ‘whacking’ people, for money. Also little known to some people, I immensely enjoy love stories. I say this without shame. Though this movie had elements of the first, it was more of the second that drew me, and the complexities that love made. Why some people felt it was sick, was because this love was between a middle aged man and a twelve year old girl. Granted, pedophilia is wrong. But understanding the movie involves a certain want of acceptance: These people are not in love because Jean Reno’s character, Leon, is a pedophile. He loves this little girl because she gave him a reason to live. It’s not a sexual love, unlike most of the love in media today. It is a love of the heart and soul.

This movie isn’t for everyone. Hell, most people probably won't even like it. But for those that would, it’s worth a shot presenting the opportunity to them. Bear in mind though; the movie has funny parts, but it is by no means a comedy, nor is it light hearted. People die. People fall in love. It has the not so unique elements of both, but the very unique technique of making them fantastic together. Because, honestly people, what would life be without love and death?

Writing…stuff,
Matt Myers AKA The Goop

I Own a Rocket Can

2006-02-13T22:17:00.000-08:00

     I miss the Peanuts™ strips.

     Ever since the coincided final comic and passing of Charles M. Shultz I just haven’t felt the same.  It’s almost as if I am incapable of getting through the day without my Snoopy, unable to rise from my nighttime slumber without muttering, “You blockhead.”  The below-surface angst of the Sunday comic has now been replaced in my heart by my own personal torment.

     My sarcasm can sometimes get the best of me: there’s still plenty of drama surrounding comics today, whether it’s in the newspaper or, strangely, the internet.

India Ink to Powder: The Politics Behind Cartoons

     In response to recent cartoon depictions of the Muslim Prophet, Mohammed, the Iranian newspaper, Hamshahri (http://www.hamshahri.net/), has announced a contest for cartoonists to depict the Holocaust in cartoon form (http://www.foxnews.com/story/0,2933,184672,00.html).  Many believe this contest to be a test of Western Free Speech, while others see it as a pine for respect of a country’s religious practices.
     In an unrelated point, the webcomic industry is a breeding ground for personal rivalries and debate, normally in the form of mockery or straight-out insult.  It is a quickly growing media that is far more open with its expression of Free Speech, sometimes to the point of insulting/threatening other media figures (http://www.ctrlaltdel-online.com/comic.php?d=20051012).

     Before anyone thinks of sending me angry hate mail/letters of praise/ homosexual pornography, please note that I am not trying to compare and contrast the comics themselves; I am only trying to show the use of freedom of speech in effective and, occasionally, non effective ways.

     When I first heard about the cartoon ‘controversy,’ I almost laughed out of my computer chair: it was such a silly notion that people would be insulted over a political cartoons of such minute importance.  I didn’t give it another thought as I began surfing through my usual webcomics.  It wasn’t until a few hours later that I read about the riots that were occurring.  It was also at this point that Fanny the melodramatic, psychopathic angel appeared on my shoulder once more.  Once again he had the familiar look of wrath and vengeance in his eyes.  As he began to drop his flowing white toga of heavenly bliss I turned my head to him, to look into his malicious, beady eyes.  What I saw in Fanny was something I had never witnessed before; fear swept across his small, hateful face, and his harsh blue eyes widened in absolute horror.  I did not realize it at the time, but apparently Fanny was unfamiliar with another one of my psychological personas, one of such pure disgust and rage that not even the divine emissary could stand to remain within his stare for any elongated time for fear of strangulation: I like to call him Bill.
     I don’t usually have a problem with people who express their opinions, in fact I usually enjoy it.  I did, however, find myself cringing in horror and embarrassment when I read a webcomic called Ctrl+Alt+Del, more specifically one under the name of “An Open Letter to Jack Thompson.”  In the link provided above, you can read about Tim Buckley’s (the writer, artist, and creator of the webcomic) feelings about a proposal made by Floridian Lawyer Jack Thompson in which he stated that he would donate ten-thousand dollars to the charity of the Take-Two Company’s Chairman if he made his premise for a videogame.  The idea was abnormally violent and nonsensical in its plot, obviously meant as a hoax of sorts.  The gaming community, however, did not take Thompson’s jest so well.
     Many websites began making their own offers to mock Jack; a few even made their own games off of Thompson’s premise, however altered to make Thompson seem the villain.  There were others that went beyond the realm of stating their opinions and began to threaten the aged Thompson with death threats via e-mail, some stating that they stalk him and survey him when he is at his home.  Buckley’s comic also threatened him, reminding him of the massive amount of gamers as opposed to him.  He did not threaten Thompson through any direct means, however the intent of the strip can be seen quite easily.

     Throughout my life I have learned two things about people and the freedom of speech: the first is that they [people] misinterpret the meaning of ‘freedom of speech’ quite often, and second is that they don’t figure out number one until they are sentenced for harassment.  My generation was taught explicitly that we had the ‘right’ to freedom of speech, when we in actuality we have the ‘liberty,’ which has a distinct difference from the other.  A right means that we can do something without having to worry about any consequences, which is not something that can be applied to speech when we place such powerful meaning behind certain words and phrases.  If a white man walks up to a black child and starts screaming racial obscenities at the child it isn’t fair to that child that child if he is able to walk to work and continue on with his life after insulting her and her ethnic background like he did.  However, say that white man said the same thing to a black man.  It would be illegal for the black man to assault the white man, due to laws against physical assault, not to mention setting a negative example to the community that one may kill over a word.

     I value my civil liberties as an American more than anything, even my life, but I also respect the laws and mores of my society because I feel that most of them are made and enforced to protect me.  It is because of this that I find myself at a loss when people begin to kill over a mostly unimportant cartoon or when it is used for the specific intent of vengeance or insult: such things are taking the easy way out, and nothing good ever comes from a quick solution.
     As I close, I should state that the Islam newspapers do have the right to be offended if the cartoons were meant to insult their religion, but it is childish and irresponsible for them to physically harm people and building whose only affiliation may be through a shared nationality, especially with the turmoil that is currently gripping the middle-eastern countries at the moment.
     As for Tim Buckley, I should state that I am a fan of his work with Ctrl+Alt+Del but I am severely disappointed with his reaction to Jack Thompson’s faux proposal.  I feel that as an artist and an implied representative of the gaming community he has only hurt us in our pursuit to be free to partake in our entertainment endeavors without being persecuted by nonsensical legislation.

     Tim, you have the right to state that you disagree with Thompson, even that you are angry at him, but please leave the rest of us out of it.  We are not a swarm of insects waiting to attack an approaching predator, we’re a demographic of people who enjoy video games, and I believe the last thing we want is to have to fight against a bunch of old fogies who wouldn’t get their anti-video game policies passed if we didn’t threaten to form our own militia.

Oranges and Squirrels
Adam “doublesquirrel” Stone

(P.S.- That miltia thing was a joke.)

(P.S.S.- I don’t agree with Jack Thompson either.)

Trying to Find His Way Home

2006-01-14T00:12:00.000-08:00

I think now is as good as a time as any for me to admit this:

I know who let the dogs out.

I know this, because I have under-the-counter, back-alley, true-life, hardcore, undeniable testimony from the second-cousin of the guy who once met Reagan at an IHOP. I’m sure that you are curious of who, in actuality, had the ability and resources, not to mention the motives, to commit such a diabolical plan:

It was me.

It is true; I committed the crime. I’m the guilty man, the criminal, the metaphorical ‘evil-doer.’

So blame me. Please. Send me angry e-mails, crowd around my house shaking your fists angrily, screaming, “Shame, young man, oh the unbearable shame you have placed upon yourself.” And shame I have placed, not only upon myself and my family, but upon the .monkey.movement. itself. As someone who preaches and drones on endlessly on how ‘the informed are the ones who will lead,” and how “withholding the truth to escape embarrassment shows true lack of individuality and character,” it is terrifyingly disturbing that I have been allowed to trick the public and twist them with my falsified ideals. I should die a slow, angry, painful death.

…

I’m just kidding. Sorry, readers: I can’t take credit for the solution to the question that has plagued the late 90’s (and early ’00 on some occasions). Such things are enigmas within themselves: unanswerable, due to lack of existing evidence. Such things can not be said, however, for other things that have occurred more recently, such as the falsification of stem-cell research by a famous (now infamous) Korean doctor, or even the faulty party behind the ‘preventable disasters’ that occurred during hurricane Katrina.

I mean, weren’t they? Oh no, here it comes!

Man vs Nature: ‘The Blame Game’

On January 10, 2006, the Korean scientist Hwang Woo-Suk who was working on the possibility of stem-cell treatment was discovered to have been falsifying evidence of the success of stem cell testing (http://news.com.com/Stem+cell+scientist+apologizes+in+South+Korea/2100-11390_3-6026447.html?tag=nl). His once ravishing fame was brought to a miserable end when he admitted to the data falsifications, seeking forgiveness. He has officially lost his state-given rank of ‘supreme scientist,’ which gave him millions of dollars for further research each year. He is, as of now, considered nothing more than a miserable liar.

Now, for those of you who have not heard about hurricane Katrina, a terrible natural disaster that desecrated several southern states in the United States surrounding the Gulf of Mexico, allow me to supply a quick, well-thought summary of the occurrences within the government and the media: OH MY FUCKING CHRIST! WHAT THE FUCKING-FUCK-FUCK-FUCKITY-FUCK-SNAUSAGE HAPPENED HERE? For further explanation, go to your favored search engine (I prefer Google myself), type in ‘Katrina’, and watching in gleeful amazement as your processor hisses and explodes due to the sheer amount of websites that erupt from the mighty bowels of the Google database.

I should state right now that when I first located the information/news/pudding skin that stated the horrific news of the falsified data, I for one was astonished: to think that a public figure of great renown such as [Insert South Korean name that I am utterly incapable of pronouncing without shoving a metal spring through my tongue] would actually lie about information such as the actual effects of stem cells on living tissue was truly quite insulting. So, as I approached the data source/webpage/chocolatey-delight, the small, vicious angel that often resides on my left shoulder popped back into existence. I prefer to call him Fanny. I looked to him, expecting him to commit some sort of perverse, unnecessary act of a grotesque, sexual nature to my olfactory organs, but he did not. He instead looked at me: his angry, beady, ocean-blue eyes fixated upon me like a robotic hawk scoping its prey with a times-forty zoom lens, preparing to strike at my soft, large forehead with talons of titanium that have been previously coated with the blood and eye-lids of other small woodland creatures.
I attempted to flee from his diabolical wrath, but it was of no use as he remained upon my shoulder now matter how far or fast I ran, and he angrily proceeded to defecate in my nasal cavity. That made my night very peculiar, for whilst there were feces in my nose, it did have the refreshing scent of boysenberry.
After the festivities, I read the article which has been linked above and will be linked once again (http://news.com.com/Stem+cell+scientist+apologizes+in+South+Korea/2100-11390_3-6026447.html?tag=nl). Apparently, Hwang did admit to falsifying evidence that supported the beneficial effects of stem cells. He was quoted by the New York Times as ‘seeking forgiveness.’ Suffice to say, he is not receiving it in any form of abundance: he has been disgraced in the eyes of his colleagues and his fellow country-men, he is the main suspect for other cases of fraud dealing with stem cell research, and has even had his likeness removed from a commemorative stamp (not to mention his name being removed from all school textbooks nationwide).
Now, whilst Hwang did take some of the blame, he did not take all of it. In fact, he places a majority of the blame of the falsified information upon the institution with which he partnered in his research, the Miz Medi Hospital in Seoul. They, however, have not commented. In fact, to my knowledge, they haven’t even been investigated.

This, readers, is what has been more lovingly refered to in the states as ‘The Blame Game.’ The Bush administration began using this catchy little doo-hicky after the Katrina incident (or, as I like to refer to it, Global-warming spittle), usually referring to the local government and media organizations who were trying to blame the lack of efficient, and for that matter sufficient, aid from the national government. Here’s a little fact that many people don’t seem to compute through their immaculate grey-spaces: the United States federal government loves to play games. They do it all the time, what with the confusing haze of unreliable and misleading information dealing with the war in Iraq (I like to call it ‘Simon Says’), their focus on the ‘issue’ of illegalization of homosexual marriage (I call this one ‘Red Rover’), and, their favorite by far, the Electoral College (I call this one ‘Drawing Straws’). So, when they heard that the local government of New Orleans, Alabama, was blaming their silly little problems on the Feds, they jumped right in the middle of the hop-scotch ring, screaming “LET’S PLAY, HOBO!”
It was an invigorating game: the liberal-democrat news media was blaming the federal government, the conservative-republican news blaming the local government, and Sean Penn walking through Main Street with a camera crew, so that the whole world could see how ‘kind-hearted’ and ‘caring’ he really was. Hell, he was a retard in 'I Am Sam,' so he knows what it’s like to be ‘down on your luck.’

I will admit, when this first occurred, I wanted to blame someone too, because that’s what always occurs first when something inexplicable like this happens: blame. Eventually though, I came across an epiphany that I feel I should share with you, seeing as you all are rather deserving of the truth of my personal opinions: maybe we should have worried about the people who were in need of help instead of the people who caused this. Sure, we sent in the Red Cross/Blue Shield, and yes, even FEMA was down there, and I believe most of us are aware that even that became another integral part of the ‘Blame Game,’ but there really wasn’t any immediate help. From my count, it actually took them several weeks, even months to evacuate all of the people willing to leave (yes, some people decided to remain with their water-logged homes so that they could protect their belongings from the water gremlins that came during the night and stole their 20' Colored Television sets to sell on the Tijuanan black market). And all of that could have been done in less than a week if people just concentrated on human problems rather than political problems.

When it comes to my feelings on these issues, I think there is always more than one party to blame: I don’t believe that Hwang actually was capable of falsifying all of the evidence without the Mezi Medi either helping or thinking ‘that’s not right.’ And when it comes to what occurred during Katrina, I think it was both on the fault of local and Federal government: the local government should have quickly and efficiently prepared for the hurricane, due to their past history with multiple hurricanes, and the Federal government should have had more reserves and preparations for something such as what occurred in Katrina.
I believe, as of late, that a lot of the world is stuck in a strange virtual reality: it’s as if many human beings have a helmet strapped over their heads that are only capable of viewing the world as black and white, right and wrong, yes and no. To some people, what may be a black subject is actually a white one, and the same goes in reverse, and that’s not how life really is. In my opinion, the world is not black and white, not many shades of gray, but millions upon billions of endless colors. Yes and no are impossibilities, and impossibilities is severely improbable, and that scares some people. We all want stability in our lives, even to the extent that we lock out reality and emotion to do so. We place ourselves in little groups, proudly stating that we are Republican, or that we are Liberals, or even that we are ‘warriors of god, sent to protect the innocent from the wicked impurities of the fallen.’ (Yes, there have been people who have claimed that they are Liberal Republicans.) When we do that, however, we peg ourselves into a very precise and defined existence, one that no person can truly exist within unless they lack a minimally functioning brain.

As this entry comes to a close, I want to state that I’m not trying to say that having a title is necessarily bad: there is some pride to be had with names such as MVP, or Mr. Universe, even the President. I believe that the problem is when we define ourselves by these titles, for that implies that that is all we are, and none of us are paragons of the Democratic Party, or of the Christian religion, and especially not of the human race. Sorry KKK, too bad Black Panthers, tough break PADD (Parents Against Dungeons and Dragons); none of you are right all of the time (in fact, I think the only time any of you have been right was when you decided to put use to your right of freedom of speech, but that’s just my opinion).

What If God Was a Koala
doublesquirrel

P.S. I think the atmosphere might have had something to do with the hurricane. Just throwing it out there.

A brief glimpse of Hell, or something quite like it: An introduction for The Goop.

2006-01-10T18:10:00.000-08:00

You know, this is my first post. I’ve never actually written on a Blog before, and honestly I never thought I would. That is, until I sat down and started thinking about it.

See, I was under the impression that “Blogging” in general was simply an unorganized bastard-child of forums. And to an extent, this is not a false assumption. Many sites that I have gone to with Blogs attached onto posts have tried this feat, and failed. That whole scenario and reality kind of put me off of “Blogging” for quite some time. It wasn’t until my friend Adam started this Blog that I started realizing the fundamentals behind the concept. Blogging in of itself, like many virgin concepts and brain-children, is not evil. What is evil are the purposes that individuals put it up to; suicide posts, angsty rants, and a more than fair number of mind numbingly, agonizingly illegible, grammatically homicidally pointless posts. Wow. That’s a big ass connotation. See, I’m a modest kind of guy; but when I can sit here at my computer, sipping Mountain Dew and listening to Radiohead, while just hammering the fuck out of my keyboard, and somehow coming away with an angry derogative like that, that actually sounds half-way decent…well that, sports fans, just makes me feel good.

I mean, really good.

Ah well, moving on. What I’m really trying to say here is: This is my first Blog, and I hope you little nublets’ out there enjoy it. Hopefully, I will in time refine my style, and be able to post Blogs that flow better and do not read like nails on a chalk board, to speak figuratively. Oh, and one warning: I love commas, colons, and run-on sentences. Enjoy.

Last night while I was sitting on my futon, and reading as I usually do before I go to sleep, I detected a slight movement out of the corner of my eye. I looked up, and noticed that a spider roughly the size of a basketball had crawled down the wall from the deepest, darkest corners of my room. Apparently, he was trying to read over my shoulder, because the little guy was about seven inches from my head.

Naturally, I was not amused. And when I say, not amused, what I really mean is, having super psychotic, robotrippin’, ‘back in Nam’ style flashbacks.

I went directly into kill mode: A tissue teleported itself into my awaiting finger tips as I flawlessly executed the “Five Point Palm Exploding Heart Technique” on his furry little arachnid ass. Miniscule guts exploded across the walls with gusto and unfathomable inertia as my attack connected with his soft, lightly haired abdomen. All told, it was quite the epic battle, leaving me both tired and frightened in the end. Frightened, even after I had dispatched of mine enemy, and removed his body along with evidence into a nearby trash receptacle.

Now, I know that a miniscule number out of the people who have actually ever read this Blog, and an even smaller portion of the dismal few who read this Blog on a regular basis, may be thinking to themselves right about now: Matt, (or Goop, if you prefer) why would a skilled combatant such as yourself fear said dispatched spider, who even in his or her peak physical condition, can do no more than make a web in the corner of your room? Why fear as you do? And to answer that? I give you a question:

What is more frightening than a spider? Why, sports fans, that would be an Undead Spider. Yes, I said it. Undead Spiders.

Since I was but a wee lass, (Huh?) I have always feared that the insects that I’ve smote in my various campaigns and charges would come back to haunt me. Sitting on the toilet, you see a centipede. You crush it. And suddenly, a festering, hulking, dreadnaught of the undead legions, rises up from the toilet and sucks you down into your own, personal abyss. And what does this ass sucking brute look like? Why, that would be a centipede. Maybe the cousin, or other assorted distant relative of your latest insectile murder victim? Could be. The one and the same? More than likely.

See, I know I have problems. In fact, I’m quite capable of dealing with them. But only a few really get to me, and one of them has to be assaults whilst in the lavatory. Maybe its from all those time’s that I’ve watched Jurassic Park as a kid, or maybe that one scene I saw from tremors where the guy sitting in the tire gets sucked down into his own personal Graboid infested hell. Regardless, getting ass sucked into untold levels of damnation is one of my greatest fears.

I’m kind of pressed for time, so I’ll leave it there for now. More to come later...that is…if I don’t get sacked.

Hugs and kisses,
Goop

Turn Pretty, You Bastard!

2006-01-10T18:03:00.000-08:00

I know, I know: I'm like the father who left you and your mother and only comes back around Christmas to give you a Nerf football and expect it all to be OK.

Well, I guess it really isn't. I just can't keep up with myself sometimes. I started this site to spread the metaphorical 'word,' yet I create no word to spread. I set the bar too high for myself, and I barely made the jump this time.

But this doesn't mean I'm giving up. Oh no, silly Mc-Fuzzy fart. Not by a longshot.

See, whilst I understand the difficulty of running a project, I'm one of the types that really dislikes giving up, thus I've discovered another way: Have other people help me. Not only does it subtract from my work, it also gives the reader (that's you, beautiful) the chance to read the literary achievements of others!

OH YIPPIE!

So far I have found one soldier who accepts the charge of running onto thew field of battle for the 'movement,' my intelligent and equally opinionated friend Matt Myers, or known more affectionately as 'the goop.' I warn you now, despite his masterful, ninja-like mastery of the English language, he is still a bear of a man. He scales higher than the tallest tree, capable of beheading the arrogant and ignorant with one fell swing of his trunk-like genitals (Serious! 'can take a head clean off!)

But seriously, Matt is someone who I trust and respect beyond many bounds: I view him as the brother I've never had. I believe he's very intelligent and although we do disagree on many topics, he has always been able to disagree with me intelligently, which I admire conciderably.

So, sit back, smile wide, and welcome 'the goop' with open arms, if capable.

Just don't mention anything about nipples. Remember, head clean off.

With Sensual Love
doublesquirrel

And When I'm Gone, Please Carry On

2005-12-08T17:59:00.000-08:00

You guys should just punch me in the face right now.  How long has it been since my last update?  A month?

Ah well.  I’m sure you can find it in your hearts to forgive me.  But how hard can it be to forgive me for something so small, right?  Some things are far more devious, far darker than a weekly update to a blog.  Murder is one of those things.

Why Can’t We Be Friends? – The Clemency Trial of Stanley Tookie Williams

     I’m going to make a clear assumption right now: most of you don’t know who Tookie Williams is.  I make this assumption because, before today, I didn’t know either.  See, I’m human, I don’t know everything despite some of my younger, more abstract wishes.  Let me get to the point:  Tookie Williams is a renown peace maker that became popular during the mid-nineties.
     When I read this I thought, “Wow.  America is a goddamn joke.  Why would they put a peacemaker on death row?”  I continued reading, and the reason popped off my monitor and proceeded to smack me in the face till I cried in frustration: Tookie Williams, along with Raymond Washington, started the Crips gang.
     I think mostly everyone in North America knows who the Crips are, but incase you were wondering, here’s a short, shiney, bite-sized description: The Crips are one of the Los Angeles, California gangs. The Crips are mostly identified by the blue color worn by their members and the gang is largely composed of African Americans but is multiracial in other cities where there is a Crip gang presence such as New York City. The gang has an intense rivalry with the Bloods. What was once a single gang is now a loose network of "franchises" around the United States. They are also known to feud with Chicano gangs (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Crips).   Suffice to say, they ain’t the nicest folks.  Hundred of murders, robberies, rapes, and many other fun, happy-go-lucky crimes against humanity have been collectively committed by this rag-tag group of wide-eyed youths.
     Enough about the Crips however: I’m more interested in Tookie.  This man just warms me right to my Caucasian, suburbanite bones.  Tookie was convicted of four murder charges in 1981.  Tookie committed both of these ‘hits’ within a month of each other.  The first was February 28, 1979, in Pomona, California.  Tookie and a few of his good fellows (Alfred Coward, A.K.A. “Blackie”, an unidentified man named Daryl, and Tony Sims) pulled up to a Seven-Eleven convenience store.  Albert Lewis Owens, the man who was running the store at that time, was sweeping the parking lot, unaware that they had just come from a Stop-N-Go where Daryl and Sims failed to execute a robbery that Williams had planned.  That didn’t make Tookie very happy.  So, when Daryl and Sims entered the store, Albert went in as well, probably in hopes of helping them out … then again, he was a white man: he was probably just going in to make sure the black men weren’t robbing the store.  Imagine his chagrin when he entered only to find that both of the men were trying to rob the store, and to top it off, Tookster was behind him with a twelve gauge in his back.  It was at this point I became rather turned off, as the documents that I read stated that Williams took Owens into the back room, made Owens lie down on his stomach, loaded a shell, shot the security monitor, then proceeded to reload his shotgun, fire it close range into Owens back, then reloaded it and did it again.  All together they stole $120.00.  That’s not even enough to feed a person for two days.
     Days later, on March 11, Williams went into Brookhaven Motel, broke down the door to the private office where he found three people, the two elderly owners, Yen-I Yang and Tsai-Shai Yang, and their forty-three year old daughter Yee-Chen Yin, and proceeded to shoot the three, open the cash register and leave.  None of his shots killed them immediately: their deaths were slow and drawn out.  Their last moments were in utter and undeniable pain (http://da.co.la.ca.us/pdf/swilliams.pdf).

     When I read this, I couldn’t even move.  I felt as if my heart fell deep into my body, hiding from reality.  I’ve played video games where such things are common place, but I never imagined that it could be so real.
     To this day Williams claims innocence, despite the evidence stacked up against him (http://www.democracynow.org/article.pl?sid=05/11/30/153247). He has refused to acknowledge any other gang member who may have aided him, in effect ‘not snitching’.  But, despite everything, despite the horrible things he has done and all the years in prison, he has done good.  I was shocked to find out that the man had written several books, some of them children’s books, on the dangers of crime and gang life and how to stay away from it.

     I wanted to hate him.  I swear to every tendon, every though in my mind that I wanted to dispise this wretched beast who mocked and laughed at the death of an innocent convenience store owner (http://da.co.la.ca.us/pdf/swilliams.pdf, page 4), but I couldn’t.  He had taken four lives, lives that would have done nothing more than exist for their normal allotment and withered away, but I then realized how many he had saved.  I came across an epiphany at that moment: he’s the proof.  Stanley Tookie Williams proves that the prison system can work.  He went in a dark, depraved, violent man, and has so far been show as making a full turn around.

     I don’t like the death penalty; it’s expensive, it’s ineffective, and it is no longer necessary.  The founders of this country practiced ‘capital punishment’ because they had to: they had no prison, and to leave them in jail would mean that they would be able to easily escape the building, for it was little more than wood and stone.  If they didn’t kill murderers and psychos and such they would have never had a ‘safe and friendly environment.’

But Tookie should be punished.

I don’t care how liberal you are, nobody who shots four people at close range with a 12-gauge shot gun and enjoys it should be allowed into free society.  Those acts are vile, and as such can never be redeemed, not even by Rev. Jesse Jackson, who is one of the many famous faces to be behind saving Williams’ life.

In closing, I would like to state that I wish Tookie was reading this.  Not because I want to change his views, not because I think my blog will save the world, just so he knows this one simple truth:

You are an evil man, Stanley, but you are not a beast.  You don’t deserve death; you deserve to be tortured by your demons for the rest of your existence.  You are no longer a man, you are a lesson.  You exist only to show the future people of the world that evil should and shall be punished.

To today’s lesson, I must say thank you.
You have succeeded in teaching me.
Thank you so much.

Thunderbolts and Lightning

2005-11-16T23:50:00.001-08:00

     To those who read this: sorry I’ve been such a lazy fucker, but I was busy being show the divine light of the Flying Spaghetti Monster: may we all be cleansed by his noodly appendage.

Wow, that seems to be a darn good way to start a new topic, do you not agree?  Then, without any further stalling, here we go:

Church and State: Mothers and the Fairies Who Left Them

     I’ve been looking through some of the arguments about church and state, the most recent ones being about Intelligent Design.  For those of you unaware of what it is, or you just don’t have enough time to read up on it, Intelligent Design, from what I can comprehend, is the ‘new found’ belief that all things in existence were created by a superior being long ago, at least over 6,000 years ago.  The main purpose is to denounce the theory of evolution.  According to what I’ve found (some of which can be viewed through the hyperlinks above), they believe that there is little-to-no evolution that has ever occurred.

Wow.  I’m pretty open-minded about people’s opinions, but holy Macadamia-fuck, these people are silly!

Now, why exactly has Intelligent Design been brought up?  Why, because of education, that’s why!  And not in the good way, as in learning about it, but by parents arguing with the School Board about it. Parents have once again failed in their responsibility to be responsible adults and have attacked their school board for allowing the teaching of a small portion of Intelligent Design in their high school Biology courses.  The reason that has been given by the parents: It’s another attempt at injecting Creationism into science curriculums.

After all of this, all I have to say is: Fuck all of you.  This is an open invitation to the Kansas State school board, the parents, and to Percival Davis and Dean H. Kenyon, the co-writers of ‘Of Pandas and People,’ one of the trademark pieces of literature on the subject.

Now, one may ask, “Adam, why must you be so vulgar towards the people of Kansas and the writers of ‘Of Pandas and People,’?”

I don’t really have a good answer to that one, other than the angel on my right shoulder looked at the book, looked at me, and proceeded to have intercourse with my eardrum.  When a thing such as that occurs, vulgarity, in my opinion, is the only appropriate response.

But the true reason why I made such a statement was because I am angry: I’m angry at bad education, bad parenting, and bad people constantly ruining the lives of what could healthy, happy human beings.

I’m angry at education because it could be better.  For all intensive purposes, it should be better.  But it’s not.  I came out of high school, scraping by with a 2.4 average grade point, and at first I blamed myself, for it truly was somewhat my fault: I wasn’t very dedicated, thus I did not apply myself fully to my school work.

Note, I said somewhat my fault.  I don’t think I should have to take the burden for stupid, unqualified ‘professionals’ who, when they should have been teaching me about important things like U.S. History and Algebra, they were having me make Indian hats and asking me to bring in cookies for the class party.  There are a lot of kids who are going to be seriously screwed over because of incompetent teaching staff, and that’s somewhat surprising to me, seeing as the generation coming out of high school now is going to be the one that will be caring for all the Baby Boomers.  What do they expect us to do, wheel them around in their chairs all day while they play Canasta?  Please, most of these idiots are barely capable of holding a job at Burger King, let alone taking care of an elderly citizen, or as I refer to them, Coffin Weights. (By the way, if that was offensive to anyone, please not the disclaimer at the top of the webpage, and kindly go read ‘Why Do Men Have Nipples? Hundreds of Questions You’d Only Ask You Doctor After Your Third Martini’ by Mark Leyner and Dr. William Goldgerb: it’s a fetching title that is sure to satisfy your intellectual cravings.  I loved it!)

I’m angry at parents because, despite what we may think, no adult knows what the hell they’re doing.  I’ve brought this up to some of my friends who are parents (most of them good, a few who will absolutely ruin their child’s life) and they’ve said things such as ‘You don’t know what it’s like,’ or ‘I take damn good care of my kid.’

Well, no, I do not know what it’s like being a parent, but I do know what it’s like being a kid. Please, trust me, no parent knows what they are doing. Ever.  I must say, however, that I am always utterly dumbfounded when someone says they are a ‘good parent.’  Most of the people who I’ve spoken to who use this air-tight line of defense are no more invulnerable than the Titanic was against Kate Winslett (Winslett rock, by the way.)  These are the people who are taking these nine-to-five jobs, hiring a nanny, going to cocktail parties (or barbeques, depending on the people), and not even having the common decency to show up to their Elementary school soccer game.  If that’s good parenting, then standards have fallen about as far as the Bush administration’s approval rating (I regret nothing).

And after all of this ‘good parenting,’ they think they can tell the schools what they can teach?  Heck, in reality, it’s the schools who are raising the kids!  Parents are just room and board for all other concerns, so how can they believe that they have the ground to try and tell these bullshit schools what morals they can instill into the children?  None, in my opinion.

Now, as I wind down, I do not intend for this to be aggressive towards any one group.

Actually, yes. Yes I do.

I meant every word written here to be a metaphorical hammer with which could be used to knock some sense into the people who are destroying what little hope we as a nation, nay, a race have left.  What I think is, without a doubt, that people are trying to separate and conform into clusters of people, instead of being what we should all strive to be: individuals.  I understand that some religious or ethical beliefs may frown upon this, but for me, my goal has always been to at least keep a small glimmer of individuality, and I believe I have succeeded in a way.

But that’s what I think.

Revelation of the Non-holy kind

2005-10-31T13:46:00.000-08:00

     It’s the third week in, and keeping this blog up-to-date is more difficult than being regular whilst in the grips of constipation.  Suffice to say, I’m having a tad bit of trouble.  I’d like to say that my lack of inspiration is from an outside source: I was at a funeral, my dog got shot, I was in a fist fight with Jacque Cousteau, but that wouldn’t make me a very honest hippo.
In all truthfulness, I just haven’t been reading the news.  It’s not like I haven’t tried, because I most certainly have.  It’s mostly due to the fact that the media news has become rather repetitive in their reports.  It’s almost as if all of the major news organizations have decided to place their faith in a giant, shimmering Xerox machine that compiles all of the shit that one organization puts together and siphons it off to another with due hence.
I was hoping that this blog would become known for originality, its thought provoking dialog, and the occasional humorous phrase. That was before I realized that, despite my previous beliefs, maintaining such a project requires discipline and drive, which I have both of.  My problem, however, may have been with my lack of desire to do such things.

Pardon my rant; it’s very LiveJournal of me.

I’ll begin working harder at this, even though I severely doubt anyone (even some of my closest friends) is currently reading this.  But that will soon change.

How It All Falls Apart

2005-10-24T19:01:00.000-07:00

In a failed attempt to keep this blog regular, here’s a poem.

Whoops! Looks like I’m done
Went to fast, and now there’s none
All the paint is gone

Seven Days and no Coffee Breaks

2005-10-17T22:13:00.000-07:00

First posts are strange to me.  It’s like writing your first letter to your grandma; you know you should (or, in my particular case, want to) do it, but you can’t for the life of you figure out what the flippity-doo-duck to say.

Allow me to start with a line of dialog:

     “Do teddy bears like honey?”

Adorable?  Yes
Confusing?  Possibly.
Meaningless?  Not a friggin’ chance, my friend.

     If read in the literal tense, this statement is a simple question; does an inanimate object that represents a dangerous omnivore show or exhibit feelings of euphoria for refined nectar?  And to that, the obvious answer would be, “No.  Teddy bears don’t have taste buds!”  Well for one, even if they did have taste buds, they aren’t alive, so har-har!  And two, the answer is unimaginative.  It seems that we, humans, as a race of highly-intelligent beings are slowly losing our imagination.

     Some of us are told that imagination is something one must grow out of in order to successfully function and succeed in the ‘real world,’ or that it is inevitably destroyed under the guise of ‘innocence.’  When I hear that, I usually turn towards the speaker’s direction and imagine a flying purple elephant made of Trinotrilyte-AXL sitting directly on their face.  It seems to me that these people who have lost their ‘innocence’ are really just jealous.  Yes, my literate amigo, jealous.  Think of the days when you would run around your neighborhood with the local kids, playing ‘cops and robbers’ or ‘spies’, even ‘house’ (Honestly, I was quite exceptional at the latter)!  No matter what happened; your mother yelled at you, you failed a quiz, you had a fight with your best friend, you would always have your imagination to cheer you up.  Being a kid was horrible, mostly due to adults not knowing what the hell they’re doing, but there was always your own creativity to fall back on.

     For a long time I remember being told how ‘innocent’ I was, and I would get angry.  Now, I just look at these people, these poor, unfortunate people who have forgotten how to believe and have been sucked into their horrid ‘real world’ and I just smile.  I, for certain, am very, very far from what could be defined as innocent.  I am, however, usually very capable at coping with stress in a positive matter, which can understandably be confused with innocence, for our concept of innocence has been skewed.  From my gatherings, many view innocence as a genuine feeling of lighthearted joy, unfettered by tragedy of day-to-day life:

That is not innocence.  That is an incorrect exaggeration.

     I don’t think there is such a thing as innocence.  How can there be, when civilization innately brings about stress upon all of its inhabitants?  I think that there are a few, proud people who when asked if teddy bears like honey, they say, “Yes! And marshmallows too!”

How it Began
Adam Ston