Just over a week ago, I participated in the 3-Day Novel Contest. This contest is very appropriately named, as it requires its contestants to write a novel in three days, over the Labor Day weekend.
Perhaps "novel" isn't the right word. They state that the average entry is 100 double-spaced pages. My 92 page entry clocked in at just over 24,000 words; a far cry from novel length these days, maybe even insatisfactory for a novella. But, forgetting for a minute the juxtaposition of people reading less, and books getting longer and less approachable, I am still very proud of my entry into this contest and consider its length sufficient. After all, it's not how big it is, but how you use it that matters.
The whole thing started, for me, just after the stroke of midnight and I wrote until about 4am. "Wrote" meaning that I redid the first three pages six times, mostly coming out the same, and hitting myself for it being shitty, until I finally went to sleep.
The theme of knowing what I was writing was shitty would continue through the whole process. To this minute, I still consider the whole thing to be a disaster as far as readability, character development, and plot are concerned. This concerns me, as I usually consider my stories to be the best thing since sliced bread, and they often turn out pretty alright.
Time did a funny thing while I was writing. Time just seemed to disappear. I would look up after finishing an almost-page-long scene and an entire hour had passed. It did not feel as though an hour had passed, it felt more like ten minutes had, but I trusted my clock enough to believe that, in fact, an hour had passed. It was as though I had entered a separate place in time, aging at one-sixth the normal rate.
Hunger operated along those same lines. Over the entire weekend, I ate two plates of nachos, a can of salt and vinegar Pringles, and a beef stick. I drank almost constantly, whether it be water, coke, or grapefruit juice.
And that's it. Not half as elegant as I wanted to describe the process, but whatever. More to come when I feel comfortable letting folks read it.
Wednesday, September 16, 2009
Thursday, August 27, 2009
They still call him "The Elephant"
"See that?" General Maximillion Johanasson asked.
His troops replied with a unanimously, and hearty, "Sir, yes, sir!"
"Know what it is?" was the follow-up question.
A less hearty, "Sir, no, sir."
The general did not smile and began pacing, "That, my boys, is a live satellite image of the most fortified bunker in the entire world. It's got fences made of linked razor wire topped with barbed wire; triple thick doublesteel walls; a camera grid with redundant coverage of every area within a quarter mile; automated defense turrets with machineguns powerful enough to blow a sunroof in a tank."
Now the general smiled, but it was clearly an ironic smile, "And boys, we need to get inside."
Just then the image of the bunker on the satellite exploded. The troops at the base were in an obvious panic and they fled wildly. The troops watching this began cheering, thankful they didn't have to go in there.
One impetuous young lad asked his general, who now carried a mad grin, "Sir, how did this happen?"
"Just watch the image carefully boys, you'll see him any—ah ha! There!" He pointed to a giant silhouette the size of a car lumbering through the smoke and fire.
The impetuous soldier asked another question, "Uhh, but, sir, who, or what, was that?"
"I can answer both of those. He's The Elephant, he's an elephant, and the best damn mammal I have under my command, no offense, soldier."
His troops replied with a unanimously, and hearty, "Sir, yes, sir!"
"Know what it is?" was the follow-up question.
A less hearty, "Sir, no, sir."
The general did not smile and began pacing, "That, my boys, is a live satellite image of the most fortified bunker in the entire world. It's got fences made of linked razor wire topped with barbed wire; triple thick doublesteel walls; a camera grid with redundant coverage of every area within a quarter mile; automated defense turrets with machineguns powerful enough to blow a sunroof in a tank."
Now the general smiled, but it was clearly an ironic smile, "And boys, we need to get inside."
Just then the image of the bunker on the satellite exploded. The troops at the base were in an obvious panic and they fled wildly. The troops watching this began cheering, thankful they didn't have to go in there.
One impetuous young lad asked his general, who now carried a mad grin, "Sir, how did this happen?"
"Just watch the image carefully boys, you'll see him any—ah ha! There!" He pointed to a giant silhouette the size of a car lumbering through the smoke and fire.
The impetuous soldier asked another question, "Uhh, but, sir, who, or what, was that?"
"I can answer both of those. He's The Elephant, he's an elephant, and the best damn mammal I have under my command, no offense, soldier."
Sunday, August 23, 2009
A Positive Benefit From Hangovers
These last couple of days I've been sick. Really sick. Probably not fatally sick, but sick enough to realize that being sick sucks.
It was cool when I was a kid and being sick enough to skirt responsibilities meant having a particularly nasty cough; but now that I am distinctly less kid-like, it means taking enough medication to kill a horse. This is because, like so many others, I am a wage-slave and unless I physically am incapable of moving, I am going to work that morning.
Take this morning, for instance: my entire head was, quite literally, full of snot. That is as gross to me as it sounds to you, and then when you add in some pressure headache and a lack of sleep after a ten-hour shift at work, you just know you're going to enjoy that next ten-hour shift.
But, getting up and getting what needs to get done done, in spite of feeling adverse is no stranger to me. This is because of the wonderful character-building provided by alcohol. Liquor has a two-pronged attack; first, it makes it so you both don't want to sleep and then can't; second, it leaves you hung-over and in pain many hours later. What's more is that you can't jolly well not show up to work after a night drinking because, in spite of the fact that you feel far worse than you did when you skipped a day of seventh grade, you inflicted this upon yourself and no one will accept the excuse: not even yourself.
So, thanks primarily to alcohol, I have developed a robust character for showing up to work feeling less than 100%. One might also pin this on stupid and unlikely shit such as work ethic.
It was cool when I was a kid and being sick enough to skirt responsibilities meant having a particularly nasty cough; but now that I am distinctly less kid-like, it means taking enough medication to kill a horse. This is because, like so many others, I am a wage-slave and unless I physically am incapable of moving, I am going to work that morning.
Take this morning, for instance: my entire head was, quite literally, full of snot. That is as gross to me as it sounds to you, and then when you add in some pressure headache and a lack of sleep after a ten-hour shift at work, you just know you're going to enjoy that next ten-hour shift.
But, getting up and getting what needs to get done done, in spite of feeling adverse is no stranger to me. This is because of the wonderful character-building provided by alcohol. Liquor has a two-pronged attack; first, it makes it so you both don't want to sleep and then can't; second, it leaves you hung-over and in pain many hours later. What's more is that you can't jolly well not show up to work after a night drinking because, in spite of the fact that you feel far worse than you did when you skipped a day of seventh grade, you inflicted this upon yourself and no one will accept the excuse: not even yourself.
So, thanks primarily to alcohol, I have developed a robust character for showing up to work feeling less than 100%. One might also pin this on stupid and unlikely shit such as work ethic.
Saturday, August 1, 2009
Omission and apology
The author of the previous post, and all of us here at Why Not Just Blog? would like to formally, and publicly, apologize to Rogue brewing for omitting them when referencing wide-spread and popular microbreweries. Though Rogue is, as a general rule, not as inventive as Stone or Dogfish Head, they engage in the most bottling and certainly have the widest selection of brews of the three. Indeed, Rogue practically defines the gambit along which beers may run, no matter your tastes, there's always one, often two, expertly crafted Rogue beers to enjoy.
Like Stone and Dogfish Head, Rogue embraces and supports the Microbrew Revolution, even moreso than then others, and it does so with far less ego or eccentric psyche.
Apologies to an excellent brewing company. Sorry.
Like Stone and Dogfish Head, Rogue embraces and supports the Microbrew Revolution, even moreso than then others, and it does so with far less ego or eccentric psyche.
Apologies to an excellent brewing company. Sorry.
Thursday, July 30, 2009
Beer in politics
It's been a month since I last posted, so I wanted to get one in here so that my archives tag the month as having a post instead of just omitting it altogether. Seems sad, to be needlessly padding my blog in its earliest days, kind of like putting a five-year-old on Ritalin, to avoid the responsibility of actually having to do some work. But, alas, there was a news story that appealed directly to my interests.
New York Times: What A White House Beer Says About Race And Politics
That link, at least at the time of this posting, connects to the story about Obama's solution to the allegedly-racist-white-cop-pulling-over-black-Harvard-professor turned presidential-scapegoat-incident-on-racism-in-police: he had everyone over for a beer. While we can debate endlessly whether or not this was a good solution—though I, for one, am a huge fan of colloquial politics—to a problem that was at least self-created, we can all agree there was one major loser here: beer.
The president reportedly asked his attendees, "Do you want a Bud, Red Stripe, or Blue Moon?" before the incident (presumable so the mugs would be properly chilled for best enjoyment). We know the president has a Bud Light, the vice president a Buckler (nearly non-alcoholic brewed by Heineken), the officer a Blue Moon, and reports vary on whether the Harvardite had a Red Stripe or Sam Adams Light.
Assuming he did have the Sam Adams Light, the professor is the only person there who went American. Presumably, the president chose Bud Light because it is, symbolically, the American beer. There's even a tale that, while on the campaign trail, someone in a stereotypically hickish, red state told Obama, "I'm going to vote for you if you drink Budweiser," shortly after the politician ordered one.
But far more important than going American, the professor may have been the only one there who went craft brewer, showing that the true losers are microbreweries and discerning beer drinkers in general. I presume that you can get any beer currently in existence if you're going to be drinking it at the White House in a publicized event with the president. I can just imagine a White House staff member cruising liquor stores looking for the Dogfish Head 120 Minute IPA or Stone flying out a growler of the first-ever batch of Imperial Pilsner (yes, they just invented it, in 2009). And those are just my suggestions from the well-distributed microbrewers and beers that fit the summer afternoon.
As Dogfish Head proved within the last twenty years by inventing the Imperial India Pale Ale (or double IPA, or IIPA), a beer that essential turned brewing on its head, and Stone did with their just-developed Imperial Pilsner, American brewing has some merit. Merit far beyond slamming the same, simple, three brands of beer. A merit that deserves to be recognized and is, obviously, ignored by those in the upper echelons of power.
We will not be ignored, discerning beer drinkers. Let us raise this incident as just the most recent in a series of grievous crimes committed against brewing. We shall unite, probably drunk, under the flag of flavor as we battle this injustice from the barstool. The macros have awakened a dangerous beast with this flagrant display, for now our cause is a righteous rebellion.
Viva la bière locale!
New York Times: What A White House Beer Says About Race And Politics
That link, at least at the time of this posting, connects to the story about Obama's solution to the allegedly-racist-white-cop-pulling-over-black-Harvard-professor turned presidential-scapegoat-incident-on-racism-in-police: he had everyone over for a beer. While we can debate endlessly whether or not this was a good solution—though I, for one, am a huge fan of colloquial politics—to a problem that was at least self-created, we can all agree there was one major loser here: beer.
The president reportedly asked his attendees, "Do you want a Bud, Red Stripe, or Blue Moon?" before the incident (presumable so the mugs would be properly chilled for best enjoyment). We know the president has a Bud Light, the vice president a Buckler (nearly non-alcoholic brewed by Heineken), the officer a Blue Moon, and reports vary on whether the Harvardite had a Red Stripe or Sam Adams Light.
Assuming he did have the Sam Adams Light, the professor is the only person there who went American. Presumably, the president chose Bud Light because it is, symbolically, the American beer. There's even a tale that, while on the campaign trail, someone in a stereotypically hickish, red state told Obama, "I'm going to vote for you if you drink Budweiser," shortly after the politician ordered one.
But far more important than going American, the professor may have been the only one there who went craft brewer, showing that the true losers are microbreweries and discerning beer drinkers in general. I presume that you can get any beer currently in existence if you're going to be drinking it at the White House in a publicized event with the president. I can just imagine a White House staff member cruising liquor stores looking for the Dogfish Head 120 Minute IPA or Stone flying out a growler of the first-ever batch of Imperial Pilsner (yes, they just invented it, in 2009). And those are just my suggestions from the well-distributed microbrewers and beers that fit the summer afternoon.
As Dogfish Head proved within the last twenty years by inventing the Imperial India Pale Ale (or double IPA, or IIPA), a beer that essential turned brewing on its head, and Stone did with their just-developed Imperial Pilsner, American brewing has some merit. Merit far beyond slamming the same, simple, three brands of beer. A merit that deserves to be recognized and is, obviously, ignored by those in the upper echelons of power.
We will not be ignored, discerning beer drinkers. Let us raise this incident as just the most recent in a series of grievous crimes committed against brewing. We shall unite, probably drunk, under the flag of flavor as we battle this injustice from the barstool. The macros have awakened a dangerous beast with this flagrant display, for now our cause is a righteous rebellion.
Viva la bière locale!
Tuesday, June 30, 2009
My German fanbase
My article on post-irony has received some international attention.
I know have a German fanbase. This is even more interesting than the simple fact that I possess a German fanbase because I acquired them prior to obtaining a familial fanbase.
"Fan" might be the wrong word to use here, since the two Germans (or Austrians, I'm not really sure) who read my article both seemed to dislike it. Part of the problem has been my inability to speak German and the rough-edgedness of Google translator, but I also suspect that the Germans and I have a different definition of the issue being discussed.
Here are the very poorly translated comments the Germans gave me:
Though, fundamentally, the Germans and I agree. My German is a tad rusty, but they seem to embrace post-irony as a way for unlimited creative freedom, since, with post-irony, everything has beauty. While I state that under post-irony, "anything is cool." So we both agree that everything has merit and it's just locating the proper perspective and context to make it worthwhile/cool/beautiful.
The reason they appeared to have disliked it probably because of my general irreverence to their subject. Much in the same way certain Christians dislike the Buddy Christ. Deep down, we believe the same thing, the Germans just take it more seriously than I do. I have survived my first exchange with German intellectual snobs.
I know have a German fanbase. This is even more interesting than the simple fact that I possess a German fanbase because I acquired them prior to obtaining a familial fanbase.
"Fan" might be the wrong word to use here, since the two Germans (or Austrians, I'm not really sure) who read my article both seemed to dislike it. Part of the problem has been my inability to speak German and the rough-edgedness of Google translator, but I also suspect that the Germans and I have a different definition of the issue being discussed.
Here are the very poorly translated comments the Germans gave me:
Commenter A:
I find odd ... he sees as a postmodern ironic indeed a tightening of the ironic, the good stuff fades completely. clearly are also "stupid" things to experience again a revival, but this is not necessarily postironisch. are at least t-shirts with stupid sayings for me, the sheer irony of the times for taking up what he calls. you are hit with such a shirt even a stamp, which is rarely true with something to do, what you really is or what you really want to say. I am slow to ask is whether it is at all feasible, a universal definition of post-Irony to create self-irony of this is not really succeeded, but because everyone somehow his own presentation of these well understood and will probably always have .
Commenter B:
I can only agree with you ..
did the post / link posted to the bewildering range to show what post-irony, and everything is subsumed, or for what purpose, and illustrations of more or less current sensitivities to PI zurechtgebogen abused.
itself, I think the author of this post is highly ironic and sarcastic style of the late 90s.
Though, fundamentally, the Germans and I agree. My German is a tad rusty, but they seem to embrace post-irony as a way for unlimited creative freedom, since, with post-irony, everything has beauty. While I state that under post-irony, "anything is cool." So we both agree that everything has merit and it's just locating the proper perspective and context to make it worthwhile/cool/beautiful.
The reason they appeared to have disliked it probably because of my general irreverence to their subject. Much in the same way certain Christians dislike the Buddy Christ. Deep down, we believe the same thing, the Germans just take it more seriously than I do. I have survived my first exchange with German intellectual snobs.
Saturday, June 20, 2009
Power Outage
My power was out last night. Actually, it was a whole lot more than my power. At about 10:30 (I worked until 11), my buddy from the same apartment complex called me to let me know that the power was out in our whole area. A few minutes later, the lady who works at the front of the store came by and mentioned that the whole strip mall I live behind was out of power, in addition to a few stoplights. "People gotta rely on the courtesy of others out there. I nearly died."
When my shift ended and I was able to survey the lightlessness situation and, sure enough, the lights were off in the strip mall; with the notable exception of Walmart. Thankfully, the street lights were back up, so I did not have to rely on others being friendly. I cursed that any night in which the area lights were out was undoubtedly a cloudy night, meaning I could not gaze up at the stars and pretend I wanted to do this all the time.
I scooped up my aforementioned electronically-stranded buddy and we hit the nearby bar we frequent because they have $5 pizzas in the evenings. Shooting the shit until one o'clock, when the bar closed, to kill some time because no one under the age of 30 gets tired before 2 am; at least, no one I would hang out with. You know, since I work until 11 and all. Plus, they're squares.
Eventually, the surly bartended gave us the boot and we prayed in vain to pagan gods we were sure were dead that our electricity would be restored but, alas, the area was still shrouded in darkness. It was deeply terrifying, in a way: all that mankind can do can be shattered by nature and rendered inoperable, and worse boring. Darkened, abandoned buildings is how I've always envisioned the world after it ends. I had to suppress a very strong urge to begin looting.
Upon returning home, I lurked for a while before brushing my teeth in total darkness and otherwise preparing for bed. Then, as I was still not tired enough, I did some exercising. Seriously, there's just nothing to fucking do in pitch blackness at 1:30am in Indianapolis.
Then, right as I was realizing that working out and not having any AC was a terrible combination, the power was restored. I crouched in the darkness for a few more minutes, listening to the renewed beepings and whirrings, distrustful, assuming that someone was trying to lure me into a trap. When I finally accepted this new reality, which was really just a restoration of my old reality, I check my email and went to bed. Since I was tired.
When my shift ended and I was able to survey the lightlessness situation and, sure enough, the lights were off in the strip mall; with the notable exception of Walmart. Thankfully, the street lights were back up, so I did not have to rely on others being friendly. I cursed that any night in which the area lights were out was undoubtedly a cloudy night, meaning I could not gaze up at the stars and pretend I wanted to do this all the time.
I scooped up my aforementioned electronically-stranded buddy and we hit the nearby bar we frequent because they have $5 pizzas in the evenings. Shooting the shit until one o'clock, when the bar closed, to kill some time because no one under the age of 30 gets tired before 2 am; at least, no one I would hang out with. You know, since I work until 11 and all. Plus, they're squares.
Eventually, the surly bartended gave us the boot and we prayed in vain to pagan gods we were sure were dead that our electricity would be restored but, alas, the area was still shrouded in darkness. It was deeply terrifying, in a way: all that mankind can do can be shattered by nature and rendered inoperable, and worse boring. Darkened, abandoned buildings is how I've always envisioned the world after it ends. I had to suppress a very strong urge to begin looting.
Upon returning home, I lurked for a while before brushing my teeth in total darkness and otherwise preparing for bed. Then, as I was still not tired enough, I did some exercising. Seriously, there's just nothing to fucking do in pitch blackness at 1:30am in Indianapolis.
Then, right as I was realizing that working out and not having any AC was a terrible combination, the power was restored. I crouched in the darkness for a few more minutes, listening to the renewed beepings and whirrings, distrustful, assuming that someone was trying to lure me into a trap. When I finally accepted this new reality, which was really just a restoration of my old reality, I check my email and went to bed. Since I was tired.
Saturday, June 13, 2009
Origin Story of Project Chloroplast
She was born in a botany laboratory, the result of billions of research dollars and thousands of scientist's man hours. Every couple hours she was pulled from her soil and studied. She was constantly injected, and her dirt fertilized, with chemicals whose names were so complex they'd tie the tongues of even seasoned lab technicians. They didn't know that she could feel, and think during all of this: every searing microscope examination, every violating stab of the needle, every chemical burned her inside and out. But there was simply no way to for her to communicate her misery.
Things only got worse when she sprouted her first cotyledon. Clearly, the scientists had gotten what they were after with her, so the examinations increased in frequency and invasiveness.
Quickly, she grew out of her Petri dish and into a glass box. Now, she was too large for the scientists to use their microscopes, so they instead cut off tiny pieces of her to put under their microscopes. It hurt even worse than their needles and she would scream every time, calling to her missing parts. There were plants in the room, and they would wince at her agonized yells, but the people in lab coats didn't seem to hear her at all.
Her glass box was too small to contain her eventually. The scientists moved her to a large glass tube, away from her precious soil. Instead, they gave her measured amounts of sunlight; just enough to keep her alive. It was in this glass tube that she realized she could move and discovered, much to her dismay, that she looked like one of the people, not the plants with whom she could converse.
Though she looked like them, the scientists were still cruel to her, giving her water laden with chemicals and constantly cutting off pieces for their tests: all but one. There was one yellow-haired young man she liked very much. He would never cut her pieces off, and, when it was just the two of them in the lab, he gave her fresh water and turned up the sunlight so she had enough strength to stand. As the months passed, he taught her how to understand the language of the humans and, when she had enough sunlight, he could hear her talking.
Then, it all came to an end. Their funding was cut, the scientists had to shut down the lab and that meant destroying all of their research subjects: they had enough data to reproduce them all if funds were restored anyway. They grabbed a torch and approached her tube. She was too weak to fend them off, too weak to stand, too weak to make them hear her screams.
But the other plants heard her. They heard her desperation and something inside moved them to great feats: the trees threw their mighty boughs at the scientists, and the vines wrapped around legs and necks. A flower toppled its pot and flicked on the light switch behind her tube. Within a few moments, she had the strength to break herself free and fled the lab, only glancing once over her shoulder at the sign above her cell: Project Chloroplast.
The yellow-haired lab technician met her outside the building and brought her to his house where she lived in the backyard, gleefully feasting upon the bountiful sunlight and growing an impressive garden, while the heat died down from the incident at the lab. She taught herself better command over her leafy brethren and how to channel the sun's power; he taught her that not all humans were bad.
Now, embracing her moniker as Project Chloroplast, she seeks out anywhere there are weak being abused by the strong and rights that injustice.
Things only got worse when she sprouted her first cotyledon. Clearly, the scientists had gotten what they were after with her, so the examinations increased in frequency and invasiveness.
Quickly, she grew out of her Petri dish and into a glass box. Now, she was too large for the scientists to use their microscopes, so they instead cut off tiny pieces of her to put under their microscopes. It hurt even worse than their needles and she would scream every time, calling to her missing parts. There were plants in the room, and they would wince at her agonized yells, but the people in lab coats didn't seem to hear her at all.
Her glass box was too small to contain her eventually. The scientists moved her to a large glass tube, away from her precious soil. Instead, they gave her measured amounts of sunlight; just enough to keep her alive. It was in this glass tube that she realized she could move and discovered, much to her dismay, that she looked like one of the people, not the plants with whom she could converse.
Though she looked like them, the scientists were still cruel to her, giving her water laden with chemicals and constantly cutting off pieces for their tests: all but one. There was one yellow-haired young man she liked very much. He would never cut her pieces off, and, when it was just the two of them in the lab, he gave her fresh water and turned up the sunlight so she had enough strength to stand. As the months passed, he taught her how to understand the language of the humans and, when she had enough sunlight, he could hear her talking.
Then, it all came to an end. Their funding was cut, the scientists had to shut down the lab and that meant destroying all of their research subjects: they had enough data to reproduce them all if funds were restored anyway. They grabbed a torch and approached her tube. She was too weak to fend them off, too weak to stand, too weak to make them hear her screams.
But the other plants heard her. They heard her desperation and something inside moved them to great feats: the trees threw their mighty boughs at the scientists, and the vines wrapped around legs and necks. A flower toppled its pot and flicked on the light switch behind her tube. Within a few moments, she had the strength to break herself free and fled the lab, only glancing once over her shoulder at the sign above her cell: Project Chloroplast.
The yellow-haired lab technician met her outside the building and brought her to his house where she lived in the backyard, gleefully feasting upon the bountiful sunlight and growing an impressive garden, while the heat died down from the incident at the lab. She taught herself better command over her leafy brethren and how to channel the sun's power; he taught her that not all humans were bad.
Now, embracing her moniker as Project Chloroplast, she seeks out anywhere there are weak being abused by the strong and rights that injustice.
Friday, June 5, 2009
"They call him The Elephant"...
… said Sergeant Major Colin Buckingham.
"Why's that, sir?" asked the sniveling and forgettable private lucky enough to find himself in the presence of the Army's most innovative officer.
The private looked confused. To his mind, elephants were lumbering creature, totally incapable of performing secret missions on behalf of the military. But his mind was wrong. The Elephant was, as his name implied, utterly unstoppable once he'd built up momentum, able to recall even the most minute details of anything he'd encountered before, and proficient in charming audiences with tricks. In short, the stupid private did not realize, when he spoke his next words, that he was insulting the greatest agent the world has ever known out of sheer ignorance. "But wouldn't an elephant make a terrible soldier?"
Sergeant Major Buckingham glared at him. "Evidentially not."
"Why's that, sir?" asked the sniveling and forgettable private lucky enough to find himself in the presence of the Army's most innovative officer.
The private looked confused. To his mind, elephants were lumbering creature, totally incapable of performing secret missions on behalf of the military. But his mind was wrong. The Elephant was, as his name implied, utterly unstoppable once he'd built up momentum, able to recall even the most minute details of anything he'd encountered before, and proficient in charming audiences with tricks. In short, the stupid private did not realize, when he spoke his next words, that he was insulting the greatest agent the world has ever known out of sheer ignorance. "But wouldn't an elephant make a terrible soldier?"
Sergeant Major Buckingham glared at him. "Evidentially not."
Wednesday, May 27, 2009
Destination: Iowa
Iowa. I've been there a handful times, considering my mother was born and raised there, and it's a place I remember very little about. Perhaps this is due to its similarities to non-Twin Cities Minnesota, or perhaps that the rumors of it being the most boring state since Kansas (which I can accurately attest to) are true. Either way, they allowed gay marriage recently. This is, probably, unrelated to the reason I'm attending the state which is the first marriage of my friends of immediate acquaintance.
I've been told by a number of people the early-to-mid-20s are when all of my friends get married, but I always replied with, "Clearly, you haven't met my friends." But I'm now eating those words as, outside of this Iowan union this weekend, another set of friends are to be wed come September. Not to mention my former roommate got married late last year without inviting, or even informing, me. So, clearly, the nerds are able to find partners in crime.
Getting to this wedding, as it's in Iowa and I'm in Indiana, is going to be an experience. Two cheap folks, myself and girlfriend, are hitting the road. We've already got grand plans involving audio books and coolers of preconstructed sandwiches. Though I suspect, after the first two hours, it'll just become the menagerie of misery and tardiness that road trips always become.
We're not the only ones from my circle of friends attending this wedding. No less than a gang of eight people who will probably be introduced by the groom as, "My gaming buddies," are going. Together, we stood shoulder-to-shoulder against demons, dragons, and sarcastic elves, which is probably why we had to bully him into even inviting us to the wedding. We discovered he was even dating the girl in December, a month later, we read a post on his Facebook congratulating him on the engagement. Fearing that he was planning to exclude us, we frantically began a campaign to ensure that his wedding was geeked-up a bit with talk of base attack bonuses and the similarities between dragonborn and dwarven culture. He probably anticipated only one or two of us making it, certainly not the band of eight we're bringing.
It's odd, really. The people who stepped up for this are people who normally refuse to even drop the greenback to go see a movie. People who, really, aren't that close to the guy. Heck, none of us really were, just his gaming group and we've barely exchanged words with him the last two years. Maybe he is more beloved than I'm giving credit for, but I suspect it's this wedding phenomenon.
Weddings are clearly important, they're one of those big moments in someone's life because they combine uniqueness, with a sense of general love and good will, with a party that possesses cake. On the other hand, they're the ultimate beacon for fair-weather friends (My WUNT article on the subject). Which, I suppose, is what I've become for admitting both that I wasn't really close to the guy anymore, and that I'm poor and cheap and can't afford trips; but I'm still going.
In this case, I justify it with wanting to reconnect. I don't expect that he'll move back to Minnesota and rejoin the ol' dungeon crawling group, but just being able to include him on my list of people I chat with now-and-again online is enough. I've maintained quite a few friendships that way. That way, if I'm ever traveling through Iowa again, I can crash at his place for free.
I've been told by a number of people the early-to-mid-20s are when all of my friends get married, but I always replied with, "Clearly, you haven't met my friends." But I'm now eating those words as, outside of this Iowan union this weekend, another set of friends are to be wed come September. Not to mention my former roommate got married late last year without inviting, or even informing, me. So, clearly, the nerds are able to find partners in crime.
Getting to this wedding, as it's in Iowa and I'm in Indiana, is going to be an experience. Two cheap folks, myself and girlfriend, are hitting the road. We've already got grand plans involving audio books and coolers of preconstructed sandwiches. Though I suspect, after the first two hours, it'll just become the menagerie of misery and tardiness that road trips always become.
We're not the only ones from my circle of friends attending this wedding. No less than a gang of eight people who will probably be introduced by the groom as, "My gaming buddies," are going. Together, we stood shoulder-to-shoulder against demons, dragons, and sarcastic elves, which is probably why we had to bully him into even inviting us to the wedding. We discovered he was even dating the girl in December, a month later, we read a post on his Facebook congratulating him on the engagement. Fearing that he was planning to exclude us, we frantically began a campaign to ensure that his wedding was geeked-up a bit with talk of base attack bonuses and the similarities between dragonborn and dwarven culture. He probably anticipated only one or two of us making it, certainly not the band of eight we're bringing.
It's odd, really. The people who stepped up for this are people who normally refuse to even drop the greenback to go see a movie. People who, really, aren't that close to the guy. Heck, none of us really were, just his gaming group and we've barely exchanged words with him the last two years. Maybe he is more beloved than I'm giving credit for, but I suspect it's this wedding phenomenon.
Weddings are clearly important, they're one of those big moments in someone's life because they combine uniqueness, with a sense of general love and good will, with a party that possesses cake. On the other hand, they're the ultimate beacon for fair-weather friends (My WUNT article on the subject). Which, I suppose, is what I've become for admitting both that I wasn't really close to the guy anymore, and that I'm poor and cheap and can't afford trips; but I'm still going.
In this case, I justify it with wanting to reconnect. I don't expect that he'll move back to Minnesota and rejoin the ol' dungeon crawling group, but just being able to include him on my list of people I chat with now-and-again online is enough. I've maintained quite a few friendships that way. That way, if I'm ever traveling through Iowa again, I can crash at his place for free.
Tuesday, May 26, 2009
So far, so alright
I've already spent more time working on this particular blog than any other. Sure, there's not much content here, but I'll be damned if it isn't rife with pretty colors--I opted to go with black and white, with just a dash of pink--and laden with wonderful features to the right of these words right here.
Also, it appears my font changed. This sucks, because I hate sans-serif. Gotta take care of that before I write anything of substance.
Also, it appears my font changed. This sucks, because I hate sans-serif. Gotta take care of that before I write anything of substance.
Saturday, May 23, 2009
Here we go again
This is the sixth blog I've tried to make since deciding I was a writer. Traditionally, I've always made the first post self-referential and, in spite of the overwhelming success of those previous projects, the theme is sticking. This is because I feel a need to justify the project, having spit upon the concept of blogs for much of my life.
Essentially, I hated blogs because they're just a bunch of assholes writing their opinions online and pretending everyone cares. Then it occurred to me that 90% of professional writers fall into the same "assholes who think people care" definition. And so, I either had to revise my opinions of blogs or admit that writing is bogus, and I refuse to do that. Thus, this was created.
Why I think this particular incarnation will succeed, at least better than the previous projects, is that I'm embracing the spirit of engaging in selfishness, unabashedly; it's like I'm writing a cover letter. In that same spirit, creating a body of writing so that people who hire people with bodies of writing have a body of writing to refer to. Basically, yes, I'm trolling for a job with this. If you happen to know anyone, let me know. The final reason I have hope in this project, is that I'm presently blogging for WakeUp Naptown!, an Indianapolis-area blog, and have already come up with numerous ideas for entries that are either too long, too short, too fictional, or too fantastic to include on that website, thus creating a need for a dump such as this.
So here you are, reading about what I think and, yes, I do think that you care if you've made it this far. To many happy returns.
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