TRENDS

Ankleweights.

The new black?

MILLION DOLLAR IDEA OF THE WEEK

Hot Hobos!

Maybe in calendar form, like in that British teadrinking naked ladies movie, where they're like, "We're doing this to save our friend from cancer...even though we're a group of at least 15 people so couldn't we just take up a collection instead?" ? (that punctuation is correct. Check the Nasdaq if you don't believe me. And yes I know that movie is based on a true story. Suck it, cancer!)

Or maybe a quarterly publication with hobo interviews and steamy pics (for fan service)?

Foreign Blogs, or an Exercise in Humility

We all get a little smug and comfy up on our high horses sometimes. Usually, it's the places you'd least expect that kick you right down off that high horse and into a puddle of dung beetle sombreros.

Today, I decided to check out what happens when I'm on my own blog (checking for spelling errors! I absolutely do not go back and reread my own posts or look at my own pictures or video for amusement. I'm doing a spellcheck. Spelling.) and you hit Next Blog.

Normal enough, right? Don't act so cool, I know you do it, too.

Immediately, I was taken to a series of photography blogs with (I'm just going to say it okay?) odd, slightly amateurish pictures of wedding parties (all nontraditional like - so maybe the bride is made up like a pretty pretty princess standing under a tree and the groom is three feet away, wearing basketball shorts and a sleeveless T-shirt to show off his dynamic arm tats. Also, he's wearing sunglasses. And they don't even look like they're into each other. "Thus our story unfolds" the caption (should have) said) were the main focus. And then a bit farther down the page, a few pictures of babies with food all over their faces but in Black and White (now that's avant garde).

So, clearly, I kept clicking.

And curiously, I very soon found myself roped into a group of blogs in another language. A language I didn't understand. A language I don't even recognize. The first visual was so arresting, I had to take a screen-shot.

Gel Kizim indeed.

Kind of funny, yeah? Awkward geocities format, obviously very little SEO optimization and even less consideration given to make the format or color palette appealing. I felt smug and condescending. Oh well, at least you've got that child there, Oguz. Maybe people will read your blog one day, poor ponce...then I saw his followers. 16. 16?!

I don't even have UHH follower. Let alone 16 followers who would painstakingly check out my bi-annual updates and grainy cell phone photos of me and my kid in front of our scary haunted house curtains. (those curtains are the kind an old lady would lovingly hang, and then die in front of) And I have animation! Well, drawings.

Anyway, I felt a little taken down off my pedastal. Where were the really bad foreign blogs? The ones where someone hasn't even manipulated their pre-formated design scheme and has animated gifs of things like magic dust or jumping bunnies?

I clicked on.

The next blog was even worse. And by worse, I mean better.

No need to overdo it with cuteness, Olga.

She has an adorable cat-pumpkin drawing, a funny blog title in English pun no less and a sexy picture of her and her cocaine dealer boyfriend living it up in the Moscow night. Moscow has the most billionaires in the world, did you know that? And clearly, Alice and her miraculous breasts have taken advantage. She's probably one of them, in fact. Because she had over 400 followers. That's kind of cheating though, because maybe teenage boys stumbled onto her blog by searching something about bras and became followers in the hopes that somewhere, somehow this foreign woman would post pictures of her boobs.

Foreign blogs are better than me. It's clear. But I just couldn't stop, I had to find something that was bad in a true way. Not just a wedding photo way, that's such an easy bad. Anyone can do that kind of bad.

Next blog.

I was hopeful.

There were no pictures. And the layout and text design left very much for the creative neurotic to desire. The posts were long blocks of text with no paragraphs or even spaces between some periods. I was starting to feel smug again. Even jolly.

Then the followers. 138. 138 people would rather go blind reading what, I don't know Moby Dick in Portugese? than look at my inoffensive pictures and charmingly droll anecdotes? Apparently. But the design was crap so I still felt kinda safe in my mind tower.

Next blog.

I quit. I quit the internet.

First of all, there was a song. And not the blaring hip hop loop that made me want to eat a lit firecracker, but a hauntingly sweet melody where a (probably) parisian woman whispered things in Finnish as a harpsichord danced about. It was beautiful. And there was Latin on the page (note to self: Must put some ancient greek on my page somewhere, I know enough of it - Augmented Fricative! Delta! Psi!) which automatically gives it depth. How many followers? Take a wild leaping guess.

WRONG! There were over 1700. And I couldn't even figure out how to add myself to their followers because it was in a different language. I did click on one of their adsense ads, though. It was cute. And you know, power to the people and all that.

So I guess it's good for all of us, when - for whatever nonexistent reason - we're certain we're god of the internet that we realize there are people out there who are better than us. Without even trying. They're like the stars in the sky that make up constellations. Those stars get noticed. But most of us...we're just the little winky ones you can't tell if they're lowflying airplanes or not. And no one cares. Into the black abyss. Of night...ancient greek things...i go...Hamlet and stuff...

KING OF DRINKS

Watermelon Lemonade.
There are no other words.

I don't know if I've properly expressed this yet, but I am having a torrid love affair with my juicer (the magical Omega 8005). The Ace is really the keeper of the juicer; he gives it hay and a good rub down after each energetic undertaking, and puts a blanket over it at night. I am like the willful horsemaster who pushes the juicer to its limits, taking it over higher and higher fences and through rougher and wilder country until it is finally able to achieve the greatness truly etched on its soul.

Today, for the first time this summer we got a watermelon. I was really freaked out because it was a big boy (about 15 pounds. We named it Jeffrey the Big Boy.) and I was fearful that the juicer couldn't take it. But I left it in the Ace's capable hands to get it ready for the ride, and I must say that, as always, the Omega did not disappoint.

First, Jeffrey himself.

 (property of Frederator, not me)

I left the kitchen for about 5 minutes and upon my return, the Ace had already carved Jeff up into 4 massive pieces (each about 1 foot long, 6 inches deep---I'm not sure if that's the precise mathematic way in which one renders melon measuring, but just go with me). We both tucked in and the flavor was heavenly. All you could want and more from a summer watermelon. Succulent, bright fuschia dotted with seeds, and that earthy sweetness that makes your mouth act like a rabid weasel going at some type of smaller vermin that would be its prey.

Then, we started juicing. I was still enjoying my slice of Jeffrey (seriously, if someone had tried to ask for a bite, I would have snarled and tried to punch their throat off) when the Ace informed me that we were only using half of good old Jeffy - the remaining portion was still in the fridge! GASP!

Then, the juicing commenced. The Omega 8005 was a champ right from the get go. We were yielding about a cup & 1/2 of juice for each slice of melon. It was a tremendous achievement.
And then the tasting.

Imagine the flavor of Bubbilicious Watermelon Wave. Then forget that cuz that's not how watermelons tastes. THEN, imagine the best summer watermelon you ever had. Then Extrapolate that times 50. And then, add a drizzle of unicorn blood and some stardust. THAT is what fresh watermelon juice tastes like. It tastes like magic.

Once I came down from my cloud, we juiced 2 lemons, added 1/4 cup of fresh honey - et voila; the King of all drinks was born.
I encourage everyone to go out, find your own Jeffrey the Big Boy and start drinking his guts like NOW. You're basically just waiting to die unless you have tasted freshly made watermelon lemonade. This is where real living begins!

(property of Tamachan87, not me)

CONFESSIONS

I have watched Saving Private Ryan probably 300 times. It’s a good film and it’s shot in a shaky-cam style that, for the time (theatrically released in 1998) was fairly revolutionary, as it introduced “gritty realism” to battle scenes. There are lots of studly guys in it. I watched it every single day in freshman and sophomore year of high school. Literally, almost every day. I got ready to it. Like, put on my sluttish teen make-up to the beach scene at Normandy.

I think it desensitized me to war movies. Just movie violence in general. Really violence in general. I could probably watch someone getting their arm blown off across the street and just keep right on enjoying my Bugles.

It’s not something I’m proud of…and I think it might be kind of disturbing to people that I used to eat oatmeal while hot rolling my hair and watching Adam Goldberg get slowly stabbed. Or Giovanni Ribisi bleed to death from a machine-gun wound to the liver. Gross. But hey, it woke me up in time for 7:45 rubbish-teaching!

This confession is more about my shame at having attended public school. Don’t do it! CONFESSION.

Incidentally, I used to tell people Tom Hanks was my dad. In first grade. At a PUBLIC SCHOOL!

CONFESSIONS

I intend this to be an ongoing admission of many embarrassing quirks (or outright LIES!) I have allowed myself to get away with for most of my life and would like to leave behind. It's time to go to Confession:

1).Trying to force myself to be ambidextrous.

Since the time that I was very young, I have always had a problem remembering the diff between left and right. Not because I couldn’t tell which side was which, but giving them names seemed …pointless. And I am a visual learner and unrecognized genius, so after a few months in 1^st grade of my parents going “Why don’t you get this, jackass?!” (I’m paraphrasing) I realized I was going to start having to fake it and fast or I would never get to be the next Jeanette (see: The Chipmunk Adventure). So telling my parents I used both interchangeably seemed a good way to convince them that my confusion was founded in some kind of harmless genius confusion.

Now, I will say this: I have always found it easy to switch between right and left for most tasks– teeth brushing, phone handling/dialing, juice drinking, peanut butter spreading – which is I think why I had a problem distinguishing between them early on because I had no reason to know which one I was using. Both my hands seemed so eager to help get the job done, I just let them take turns; I was always very fair.

But the one major exception to this was writing. It’s not that I can’t or couldn’t write with my left hand – in fact I’ve always been able to, but the cramped serial-killer scrawl that fills up the page (in addition to completely tiring me and my wrist the CRAP out) is just too scary to use unless it is an emergency. Like on the phone while peeling an orange and trying to beat your own score on Brick breaker. So you need to write out that phone number some annoying "friend" is giving you with your left hand. I’m not saying I’m ambidextrous, but … I do have the proclivity. It just gives me the feeling like, when you’re in a dream and you’re trying to run away from a huge horde of King Koupas and somehow Beebop & Rocksteady join the gang and they’re all chasing you down with maces and battleaxes with their 80’s punk flare and you can’t friggin get your body to run.

It’s like trying to get yourself together in a Bounce House. You just can’t do it – too much excitement, too much bubblegum flavored icing, too much blue drank (I don’t know quite what this is, but it always managed to be the beverage du jour at birthday parties I attended between 2^nd and 5^th grade, leaving a huge blue stain around everyone’s disgusting child lips), too much bouncing! And that is how I am with writing with my left hand. Other stuff – piece of cake (with bubblegum-flavored icing, please) but if I have to so much as write my own name, my whole wrist just panics. And within three minutes, I’m holding the pen so tight I have to consciously tell my thumb to relax, the Back Store.

The only way I’ve actually been able to get away with it, is when I’m taking notes that only I have to decipher at a later date. So in class, my wrist/thumb actually chill out enough to realize, hey, serious situation here involving grades and my future so no time to fart around and act like you’re too chicken to write a run-on sentence about this professor’s horrible description of right ascension & declination. Wrist-thumb pep talk. Wrumb-eptalk. (isn’t that a Star Trek character?) And that’s how I use my not-quite ambidextrousity. But I think I should stop telling people I’m ambidextrous. Because that auto-implies “Yes, I am Leonardo Davinci’s equal – tremble before my intellectual MIGHT!” and really…not the case. CONFESSION!

But if you need someone to open a jar for you or help you tie your shoelaces with their left hand…I’m just saying I could help. For $50 an hour. “Will work for Bounce House time.”

SECOND

This is a long one. Apologies upfront for my shamefully childish imagination. And stream of consciousness typing. Also, if you need to reference it again as you read on, Hippie - body/heart; Ashram - reality, experiencing reality; Teacher - mind/wisdom, superhero, mindheart.

So how many times has your body betrayed you? You know, like those examples in psychology where they tell you about four different people witnessing a car wreck and one person says it was a green car and one person says it was a little green person driving a red car and someone else says they like turtles, which are green, so there’s sort of lots of different interpretations to events and we apparently can’t rely on our eyes or our bodies to properly interpret any of that. Really, we have to run it through our translator machine of Mind.

Spiritual teachers say the real source of peace and joy is our mind – not anything physical or bodily can truly make us happy (even green people in red cars ). The mind, not the body or even the supposed reality happening around us is the real controlling force in how our lives unfold and what they mean.

It’s as if your body is some tripped out hippie at an ashram and reality is the ashram and the mind is the spiritual teacher (or “guru” if you are still at the crazy hippie level) and everything is getting turned into this silly, deluded supposedly spiritual trip and all the while the teacher mind is like, “No, you’re just still being fake – being happy doesn’t mean being fake all the time,” and the hippie body is like, “Oh yes, wise guruji, you see right through me” (continues dancing with scarves) and then the teacher is like, “Just sit down and let’s talk about what you’re afraid of,” and your hippie is like “This ashram takes away my problems, it’s like a dream lalala…is that a baby elephant riding a go-ped? I feel so alive!” and the teacher is like, “I reaaaally want to quit you right now, but I can’t because I’m your teacher/mind, so just chill out for a second and I’ll get you some juice,” and the hippie is like “Juice! I love juice! Juicejuicejuicejuice,” and the teacher is like, “This lovable moron,” and goes to the kitchen and everyone at the ashram is like, “Juicejuicejuicejuice,” and it’s perfectly climate controlled in there so you THINK you’re not hot, but actually you’re dehydrated and so the teacher brings what he told you was juice but it’s mostly water because he knows you’re freaking dehydrated you idiot hippie, and you’re like, “I don’t need water! It’s like 68 and sunny all up in this ashram, MF,” and the teacher is like, “Trust me,” and hippie goes, “Ashram, what do you think?” and the ashram is like, “It feels cool to us, dude,” and the teacher is like, “They’re dehydrated, too, just trust me, OK, I’m trying to help,” and hippie body pouts and finally goes, “OK, I’ll take a sip,” and then your stupid ignorant body takes a drink of water that it thought it didn’t want and ashram reality told it that it didn’t want and then you suddenly feel really refreshed and hippie is like, “Wow, I was really thirsty! I didn’t even know it. Thanks guruji, I was probably close to having a freak-out! I wonder how I didn’t even realize I was thirsty…” and the ashram is like, “We were trying to tell you about the water, man,” and the teacher is like, “Let’s all just sit here and read a book,” and the hippie is like “Awww man!”

And that’s how Buddhism works.

Sort of. I may be wrong on a few points, but basically your mind is the only means of awareness – all of your senses and reality’s mirages are just Input that could be completely wrong, and Mind/Teacher is the Receiver and interpreter. Think about it – body without a brain = not reacting or interpreting much. Brain without a body = delightful science fiction movie!

So I think peacefulness in life comes first from the big brain tricking the body with watery juice to make sure it stays healthy and alert enough and then worry about the ashram. Because reality is what it is – even if it’s ridiculous or wrong (see: Darfur, the VietNam Conflict, Dancing with the Stars) – and it’s not up to us to change any of that because ultimately, no matter what color people saw, the car in the accident was only one color (sorry, I am running example wild). And our little mushy pieces of body can’t tell what any of that means without the brain.

The mind I think is something connected with the brain and the heart. So it’s sort of a cool hybrid, like a liger only not as fat and lazy. The mindheart is like the body’s superhero that has infinite powers of perception and compassion and patience and Juice-giving skills and can deal with anything! But, if you have a really annoying hippie, any mindheart is going to get a little numb from dealing with that retard after a while, and so you need a way to reset it.

Give your mindheart a spa package. And that’s where the Buddhism comes in. Or whatever you want to call it, I think it's still the same thing - compassion for yourself and others.

In our above example, Teacher Mind would NEVER have been able to deal with Stanky Hippie Body and Ashram Reality without some serious training. And a lot of us expect our mindheart to be able to deal with these ridiculous characters without any training at all, without even thinking, “Wow, I haven’t been trained for this.” We just do things and expect our mindheart to keep up and then get all pissed off at ourselves when we yell at someone in traffic or forget to file our federal income taxes. Yes. Forget...

It’s like asking an 8 year old to operate a forklift.

It’s not his fault when 47 people wind up horribly disfigured and an entire city block is turned to rubble – it’s the people who didn’t train him. See, I’m not saying 8 year olds shouldn’t operate forklifts – I’m saying 8 year olds shouldn’t operate forklifts without proper training. I think. I’m digressing.

OK - mindheart training. Mindheart is like a superhero. Like Bruce Willis in Invincible. Sorry if you haven’t seen it. It doesn’t know it’s a superhero. Which makes it get really caught up in the realities of the ashram reality: oh crap my train got delayed, oh no my wife is a weird ho, oh gross I have a kid – these sorts of mundanities.

However, once it finds out, “I’ve never been sick! I can lift 900 pounds like I was Thunder from American Gladiators!” the fact that it was previously worried about the train delayed stuff seems silly! Screw the train – my mindheart can fly to the gym! Or who even cares if my train is delayed, I’m friggin magical!

But in order to Wake Up to our superheroness, we need training (not everyone can just suddenly be aware of it like Bruce). So what is the training we need to realize our full mindheart superhero potential? Personally, meditation works for me (no, really!) because it’s about letting go of the struggle and constant neuroses that come with body and reality. It’s just sitting there with my superhero mindheart and being great.

It’s not spiraling into the past or future or trying to figure anything out, it’s just giving the poor teacher mind a chance to take a breather, and after you do that enough, I think you’ll see that there is relief in giving yourself some space. Like opening a window in a stuffy room. And while you sit there, there’s no judgment of the little distractions that the mind tries to come up to keep the conversation going, mindheart just has this huge capacity of kindness and patience to let that go. Then eventually, that state of being follows you after you get up from meditation and you feel like your superhero self all the time, despite continued interaction with yourself.

See, Mind by itself is like Hugh Grant. It’s just got to constantly be talking and saying awkward things – it means well; it means the best of things, but sometimes it just comes out wrong because it just keeps going on and on and finally your heart is like Shh please! I’m trying to feel.

And the heart is like a young film student who’s watched Breathless 100 times and cries when they see a flower wilting by the sidewalk or hear the distant rumble of thunder and it just needs to be loved and understood, but if doesn’t get loved in a healthy way it’s just like your sister when she’s on her period – one sensitive bizznite.

BUT if you join the two, the Hugh Grant part has a way to stay alert and show off his educated vocabulary and actually has some pretty insightful things to say once in a while – not the awkward blather that spews forth when he feels like someone isn’t into him. And since the heart has someone to be the object of their affections and reciprocate, it can also show some insight but also keep things grounded in the present and remain patient and understanding with its feeliness.

So I guess I’m saying in a most inept way, test it out for yourself. I have discovered that by giving my superhero a little more credit, I’ve found greater peace and happiness in the hectic silly ashram by listening to my mindheart superhero.

Hopefully, no one was offended by my ridiculous metaphors. I think in pictures, and sometimes they get a little out of control. Mainly the hippies. You know how they are.

First

By my command, Greetings and welcome!

From the above, you probably think I am a big Battlestar Galactica-ekkie or whatever those are called.

Not that I have anything against those things. I mean, they’re not things they’re people and they deserve respect, but I just happen to not be one of them. And there is absolutely nothing wrong with watching the Sci-fi channel like it is real network TV.

I think we’re getting off on the wrong foot.

Let me start over.

Hi, this is my blog!

It’s not much. Just an avenue or launch pad for discussions on things that interest me - and really the world at large, I think. My intention is actually for this to be more of a forum or discussionable (it’s a thing) (it is now) for stuff that…well that I like. Don’t come all up in here expecting to talk about, say Lady Gaga or…well, Battlestar Gallactica. Or other television related things.

I don’t have a TV.

That’s sort of a lie.

I have a large HD TV that weighs about 14 tensor bundles – seriously, it’s so heavy it takes rocket propulsion to escape the carpet’s atmosphere - that my animal spirit guide found on the curb in a rich section of town. It has amazing picture quality and hooks up nicely to my Wii, PS3 (suck it, Microsoft!) and other electronic products. I absolutely did not steal my TV. Someone was throwing it away.

I guess what I don’t have is cable. Or the internet. Or a phone.

I’m cheap.

Not like I’m promiscuous, like frugal. Measured with regard to spending. Not sluttish. Although if we still operated on a barter system, I would never be offended if someone propositioned me that way, since I think barter systems are excellent means of economy and so, to be fair to everyone, no method of barter could be deemed unacceptable. Sort of an ACLU bartering system where, well maybe you’re doing something totally evil and crappy but as long as it’s within the terms of the law hey, barter to town. Barter down! I would of course have to turn said propositioners of ess ee exing down, because ew, no and also you slut! But bartering, all for it.

Also, why don’t farmer’s markets accept bartering? They take checks but not a pair of old Sketchers? They are in perfectly good shape. I give you the Sketchers; you give me the kale. These Sketchers are a fashionable pink-and-black color scheme with a skull-like emblem (with bow to denote femininity) and have a sturdy polystyrene base – they will last you for centuries. Put them on your pigs in winter to keep them from getting icy mud all up in their toes.

Actually don’t do that – no self-respecting adult should ever dress up cats/dogs/pigs/babies like they’re actually people and talk to them like they’re conscious beings. EW. Get an i-pod. Take-up ikebana. Talk to your actual friends and/or loved ones. Having a dachsund with a name like “Chester M. Worthington III” who wears ascots and has his own cell phone is like kryptonite for self-respecting adults and therefore any potential mate you may come across.

I don’t think I’m much of a self-respecting adult (see: barter system) but I know that much.

This is getting out of control. I just wanted to say hi, welcome, come here and talk about cool things or post your thoughts about the cool things I am going to bring up, like constantly because I know what I like and it is cool! CUPCAKES! MAGNADOODLES! TALKING WITH RICK JAMES-LIKE INFLECTION! It’s all here.