The Halftime Report

Moving Day

The Interview

Humanitas

Some of them love

Most of them hate

Some of them die

Before they’re awake

Many covet

Some donate

Most get caught

Before they take

Some may dream

Some can fly

Though in fields

Everyone lies

Many shall live

All will die

No one makes it

To the other side

Some of them love

Everyone hates

Too many die

Before they’re awake

Dues Lupus de Professio II

Dues Lupus de Professio

an excuse for imagery

Nathanæl sat under the shower and wore the water like a teary crown. He believed he could last forever in the warm, wet cocoon until he died of pruning. He could just see the headline in Monday’s early edition:



Nathanæl almost cried with hysterical laughter at the thought. After a few moments of wondering laughter he turned off the shower, dried off, and started his evening convolutions. Before he laid his head upon the pillow, he revisited the thought and chuckled his way into a light slumber, where his dreams took him to forward in the morbid fantasy’s progression. His dream was like watching a collage of nightly television news clips about his own demise.

Hell is other people...

At shopping malls...



During Christmas time...



So, here's to you psycho soccer mom, who pushed me out of the way to get your prize... I didn't realize that we were competing in American Gladiators... You win the last Wii game... congratulations...



bitch...

Random Thought In My Head Today

I thought the below thought while working on an invoice today. I thought it was pretty funny and would perhaps give insight.

"I want to kill your onion soup!"

These kinds of randomly slung together sentences are constantly interrupting my daily thoughts. Most of them are really out there, but this one was pretty funny and I'd thought I'd share.

-sib

Witness end of beginning

Looking foreword

And callous yet

Bystand till tomorrow

Breathing for what

Want taken back

Nevertheless never less

A precocious birth celebrated in a quip acrid death. This is how I want to be remembered.

A quip acrid death? What the fuck are you talking about? You want a humored, unpleasant death?

Yup.

Really…?

What?

That’s all you’re going to say is “yup.”

Yup. What else is there?

Well, for starters, you could tell us exactly what you believe is a quip acrid death.

Nah, that’ll spoil the surprise… [and who is us?]

Surprise? [nevermind the us… tell me…]

Yeah. It’s a surprise. You won’t think it so funny if you know what’s going to happen ahead of time…

I won’t, huh?

Nope.

So, my bet’s down on death via autoerotic asphyxiation…

[Ha. Ha. Ha…] I got to admit that would be pretty funny, but the unpleasant part is debatable… seeing as one would only do so to get off…

Ah… good point… Um—well—at the very least—no one is going to believe you as ever in your life being precocious.

…

…

Well, you know what, you’re—you’re—just a big ball of prick… That’s what you are…

A big ball of prick, huh?

Yup.

You’re a dumbass…All in all, none of it really makes sense anyhow...

i-Tunes U (U-tunes) on i-Tunes fucking kicks ass! Especially since it is free (for now)… I found that listening to them on long road trips is very enjoyable, just like listening to book on tape. Now, I suppose much of the visual part of the lecture is lost, but I still found the topics I chose (most dealing with either the social sciences or natural sciences, but a few on literary topics) quite informative and interesting.

-sib

Addicted to Cinnamon Sticks

I actually think I might quit this time...
It’s been about four days and no real panic/anxiety/nicotine-what-ever-the-fuck-attacks...
I am trying out a new drug called Chatix...
it works pretty well... it keeps me from enjoying the cigarettes even if I smoke them...
I can even drink and not feel the pangs and wants for a cigarette...
(Well, except for Pepsi... had to give it up for awhile... it's one of my biggest triggers... for the best really...)
Perhaps it really is the medicine (it really is)... but just to be difficult, what has also helped me along is a little something for curbing nicotine cravings I picked up from a friend back in high school. My friend told me that while his dad was trying to quit smoking (cold turkey... as all the prescription drugs had not been invented yet) he used to chew on cinnamon sticks... the kind you buy at the grocery store, in the produce department... My friend, Dan, said that though his dad gave up smoking, he never gave up the habit of chewing on those sticks... Now I can see why...
They are addicting...
Besides the cinnamon/barkish flavor that these nico-free treats provide, they also provide me with an essential means to keep my fingers busy...
So, I suppose I am here to not only to promote the good of Chantix, but also that, for those who may not be able to afford it, a substitute, a secret, cinnamon sticks do the trick...
I just hope the Surgeon General doesn't come out with a warning about cinnamon now...

Happy @&*%$^! Easter Everyone...

Oh if complaints worked the same way as wishes do in a fairy tail, I'd still complain I didn't have enough wishes...

I used to have a theory, used to being the key phrase, about space, time, and the whole sha-bang. “Sha-bang” being the very sound the universe made when it decided to just appear out of nothing (instead of the widely-believed tiny *pop* like two lips smacking together). Yes, you increasingly intelligent folks, I was just talking about the Big Bang.

Hmm… what’s that? Increasingly intelligent… what did I mean by this? Well, you guys are reading my blog, and that has got to increase your intelligence by some margin.

Oh… wait… it appears that the nominal increase is only due to an accidental delusion of intelligence between the two of us. It happens when anyone is near me. It is one of the universe's fundamental natural laws. If one stands next to an idiot, they naturally appear smarter. The same reason pretty girls travel in packs of mediocre ones. It accents them within the crowd. It seems that this rule applies to reading as well. If one reads unintelligent prattle, then this will easily make them appear brighter.

So, this is a great reason to continue on reading after I get off this particular diatribe. After all, an illusion of gained intelligence is better than not. It boosts the self-esteem. And lord knows, even if you stumbled onto my site or you are a frequent click-by, your self esteem could use some boosting if you’re reading other peoples private journals instead of getting outside and living your life. That said I shall regress to what I wanted to say before my snide comment…

As I was saying before, I had this particular theory about the universe that I wanted to share. It’s no great secret that the universe exploded on the scene about 15 billion years ago and has been expanding (and even gaining speed) ever since. Nor is it a great secret that some scientist believed that it would perhaps collapse in on itself again eventually (the it being the universe not the scientists, silly). Some scientist even believed that this had happened many times over.

Expand, collapse, expand, collapse, expand and so on…

There are an absolute infinite number of times the universe could have preformed the oh-so-great “appearing and disappearing” act. And every time an infinite number of possibilities and probabilities could have taken place. Even Earth, as we know it, may have been before and gone, once upon another universal life-time ago. Some believe that we as humans may have even been before (or some other intelligent creature). The possibilities are infinitely imaginable. Though this train of thought is so absolutely abstract and obtuse, it is fun to play with.

Everyone has heard of the cliché, “History repeats itself.” Or at the very least I hope they have. Well, the theory I am about to present is nothing short of the ultimate use of that cliché. Imagine, hypothetically, assuming that the universe expands and collapses unto itself every-so-often (in universal time-line terms), that because the natural laws of physics, ones that we know and do not yet know, the universe will always explode, expand, and ultimately collapse always in the same fashion every time. Imagine that the Earth as we know it is always within the universe’s grand equation. Though chaotic as it may seem in the looking at the progression of something so innately transcendent as this in its total scale, when one takes a snap-shot of a snap-shot of a snap-shot of the accidental collisions and riffraff floating through space, the organization of natural laws/physics/mathematics is present.

Because negatively charged dust particle A always collided with particle B and its brothers, because a star was born, and because eventually the gravity of this star slingshot Asteroid XP39-2 always into some lonely moon scattering its particles into space, one millennium away, a new, medium sized star grew in a spiral galaxy and held itself, via gravity, nine planets of its own. And just the same, because the third barren planet, perfectly formed and was gravitationally held both close and away, tilted (due to another collision with another planet on the same orbital pattern) just the right way, it always produced life that eventually always became us. And due to natural social laws and animal behavior, a natural selection process that constantly produced the same outcome; we, you and I have always had this very same interaction.

Now, though the notion is quite one of want, it is quite improbable. Yet, it could help to explain the paranormal. It could give some credence to psychics, ghosts, and perhaps even deja vu. But again, this theory is one of incredible improbability. For anyone who has stepped within some sort of lab or at least participated in some sort of experiment, then one would know that there are many different variables that can change the results of the simplest of experiments. Also too, a fallacy stated above, that in natural selection, never does it always produce the same results, even in a restrictive, static environment. Nature just wouldn’t allow it to be so. Though nature can appear quite organized under a microscope, looking into a field from far away we can easily see it to be wild.

There is also another reason my hypothetical explanation could never be. Like always, anal as I am about being correct about all things, I researched a bit before I sat down to write out this entry (just by doing so completely transformed this essay). I found out that most astronomers believe now that the universe is flat. And because it is flat, they have their magical minds and mathematics as proof, it means that the universe is extremely unlikely to collapse in upon itself. Don't ask me how I know this, just take my word or research it yourself if your so great with Greek-lettered physics (the website I visited had the actual equations with the explanation).

So, though the thought and delusion I once held seems like a delectable treat for my imagination, and I might use it as a vehicle one day in one of my fictional stories, the idea is totally bunk. If this were Discovery Channel show, then a big metallic image would stamp itself across my site saying the words, “Busted” right about now. But as it’s not, I’ll rely on the old Saturday morning public announcement star to shine bright instead .

Winter Walk

Symmes Creek

Symmes Creek, originally uploaded by superinsignificantboy.

Bought a new camera...
It's a digital camera
DV Recorder
Mp3 Player
and Digital Recorder...
he he he
Anyway, this is a picture I took of the creek behind our house...

Steven and David

Steven and David, originally uploaded by superinsignificantboy.

You might wanna turn up the volume for this...

The History of the Earth

I wish I had read this before shilling out 7 bucks for that terrible dribble

Eragon Reviews

Save yourself if you haven't seen this movie and planed on going...
read the reviews...

My god that was an awful adaptation of a fun book...

Look what I did while I was at work today...

I'm so deep that I can hear an echo when I'm thinking...

*sigh*

I’ve had a revelation.
—And you’re just gonna share it with us all aren’t you…
Yes, yes I am.
—Great—just great—I just can’t wait to hear this. Is there any way I could convince you from sharing every dithered thought that enters your brain?
Nope—‘fraid not.
—Well, damn. Get on with it I suppose…

Anyway, like I was saying before I was so rudely interrupted, is that I have had a revalat—
—Um… Sorry, but you do know that no one is going to listen, right?
Er… I guess I figured as much.
—And you don’t care?
No, not really. I figured that no one has ever before, so why stop now.
—But you could save a whole lot of trouble by just keeping it to yourself…
I could, but I won’t. Because—
—Because this is too damn important, right?
Yes.
—No.
No?
—No. What ever it is that you have figured out, your so-called “revelation,” is probably—odds are—nothing much more than what someone else has already figured out and written, spoke, or articulated about in some sort of medium throughout the ages way before you have. And, mind you, it was articulated in a manner better than you could have ever touched upon. Chances are that your “common sense” has probably resonated throughout the ages, in every hall and mind, before there was a spit of your essence in your father’s eye.
This may be true.
—And…
And nothing.
—So, you still have the wherewithal to continue on with your useless realization?
Yes. You know, no one really uses the phrase/word “wherewithal” anymore do they?
—No they don’t—well—except rednecks I suppose. But then, when it’s pronounced and used, I doubt it is said correctly or in the right use. Yet, back to the point a hand. I was asking if you’re still going to continue on with your report even though no one may read or care about it.
Yes.
—So, are you?
Of course.
—Why?
Why not? I mean, besides being because I am just stubborn, it’s not really whether or not I can communicate with others my understandings, or whether or not they care. It’s not even whether or not they read what I have to say, because all that matters is that I wrote it down, I put my thoughts into words.
—But what would be the point? I don’t get it. The thoughts are already in your head. Why waste the time writing it down, when you could better yourself by reading or at the very least killing what brain cells you have left—um—so these kind of conversations quit happening.
Of course you don’t. You—like me—are naturally a cynic. You’re a person who believes that people only react to selfish motivations in any form of human interaction. You don’t believe in any form of altruistic actions or points of view without bias. The bias being, of course, me-first and the gimmie-gimmies… I write these notions, no matter how silly, for me and me alone. I know that no one is really out there reading them, if or when I post them, but it really doesn’t matter.
—Why not?
Because when I articulate my thoughts, which for the most part are so fractured and fractioned inside my skull, when I put it to paper, it helps me to assemble the jumble clearly.
—So, if the writing, or whatever you do, is just for you, then why do you post them—especially if you know that no one is really going to read them or even understand your extrinsic ranting(s)?

Maybe someone will, maybe someone does. This posting thing is nothing but a twenty-first century version of a journal anyway. Sure it’s in a public sphere, but what exactly isn’t these days. It’s not really, like you said, like I am solving any world delemas or anything with what I have discovered or write about, and it’s not exactly anything to personal that I share within the sphere. This is why I don’t write my post directly on the site, but on Word, where I can save the hard copy to my computer. I just place a copy after the fact online if I am up to it. Lately, as you may know, I haven’t been quite up to it.
—Why, what has changed? You were previously putting up crap before, and now—all of a sudden—you are against it? OH THANK GOD!
Erm… no, I still like putting crap out there. The only difference is that now that I deal with computers all damn day long, I never seem that interested in following through with taking that extra step forward and placing them online.
—I hope that never changes…
Thanks…
—Oh, go on then—whatever… Put whatever it is that you have found out, crappy as it may be, online where no one will ever read it.
I will…
—Okay then…

…

—Do it…

…

—Well, are you or are you not going to enlighten us all with your so-called great “revelation?”
Um… Well, I—ugh—I guess I could—
—But…
But, after all this talking, I forgot what I was going to say…

…
…

—Good! Mission accomplished!
What!
—You heard me. You’re pathetic
You know you’re a jerk, right?
—Who doesn’t.

...
...

Jerk…

So, I have been away for quite some time, huh? I have an excuse. I swear. It’s signed by Epstein’s mother. No really, it’s valid. If you want an explanation just read on, but I got to warn you—it’s a real doozy. To be honest, I have been away from you all for so long because I have been in Africa. Africa is God’s country—and well-he can keep it. Yup, that’s right. I traveled to Africa.
I traveled with only one other person. It was my bosom companion, my trusty sidekick, my collaborator in chaos, my friend Jason “Rusty” Bedlam (the III). His father, Jay Jr. is some sort of wealthy-to-do businessman, who has been away for so many years in Europe, or so it always seemed, is now home again and makes up all the lost time by substituting it monetarily. We all know this cliché of family bonding through bonds. It was actually Jason who invited me along with him, and more than likely, it is I who is the sidekick rather than the said above opposite. Whether I was Ward to his West or he was my Jay Silverheels to my Clayton Moore, we were both equal accomplices in anarchy, and it was an easy quick decision to go along with him.
We left the city, drunk and early, on the morning of September 23. After about fifteen hours in the air and six more in the plane, we arrived at the airport in some oddly named city. We at once proceeded 300 miles into the heart of the jungle, where I shot a polar bear. This bear was six feet and seven inches tall, with stocking feet, and it had shoes on…
What you don’t believe polar bears live in Africa? Well, normally they don’t, but this bear was anemic and couldn’t stand the cold climate. You see, he was a rich bear and could afford to get away from his natural habitat. And if you don’t believe that—well—how about this, you take care of your animals and I’ll take care of mine.
From the day of our arrival, we led an active life… Why, the very first morning saw us up at six. We had breakfast and were back in bed by seven. This was our routine for the first ten days. After that we managed to remain awake until seven-thirty.
One morning I was sitting in front of the cabin smoking some meat… I was smoking meat ‘cause there wasn’t a 7-11 anywhere in sight to buy more cigarettes… Anyway, there I was sitting in front of our cabin when I bagged six tigers. That’s right, six. No, sure there were six, and I bagged them and bagged them to go away all morning but they wouldn’t budge. They hung around all afternoon. They were the most persistent tigers I ever knew.
*cough*
The principle animals inhabiting the jungle are moose and elks. Of course you all know what a moose is… that’s big game. The second day I shot two bucks, that was the biggest game we had…
As I said, you all know what a moose is? For those of you who do not know, a moose runs around on the floor, eats cheese, and is chased by the cats. The elks, on the other hand, live up in the hills. In the spring they come down for their annual convention. It is very interesting to see them gather around the water-hole, and you should see them run when they find it. After all, it is only a water-hole, what they were looking for is an alcohol…
On our second to last day there, on a hike into the thick, we ran into one of the local tribes and they invited us back to their camp. None of them wore any clothes. There was a group of teenage girls idly standing on the outskirts of the huts. Jason and I took many pictures. They weren’t developed yet, but we promised ourselves to go back there in a couple months.
After the adventure with the natives, a huge chunk of time edited out for the kiddies, we returned home and for the most part I have been doing nothing but resting from the adventure. Jason caught malaria and died two days ago. The funeral is tonight, but I think I might wash my hair. Other than that, I have done nothing much of interest. Though I left for a few weeks, when I got back, my bosses missed me so much, they gave me a raise. Even now, I am at work with nothing going on. Speaking of which, I ought to get back to my important idle time. You guys really aren’t worth the time I could be spending twiddling my thumbs. Twiddling one’s thumbs is an art. It takes years of practice to master. And spending it doing this is really cutting into the valuable time I have left. Adios people…
-sib

(fyi—most of this was paraphrased and just plain stolen from one of my heroes, Groucho Marx, from the movie Animal Crackers)

I started this paragraph previously with simply the starter, “There’s only one part of my body that is not sore right now…,” but before I sat down to write anything else, I thought it a clever time to take a brief moment and pause, before I got started, and waddle my way down the hall to fetch a beer.
I waddle because my feet are aching. Right now, my calves feel like they are on fire. I believe the only words for how my back is feeling right now starts with the letter F and ends with something even a white-trash mechanic (if one were so present to hear my thoughts) would blush at the sound of hearing. I paused to grab a beer, waddled my way up and down the corridor, let out a grating sigh as I leaned down into the fridge and grab a beer. And as quickly as the sound erupted from within, like a flash of lightning (the way these thoughts come streaming into my mind), the thought occurred to me and the once quick blurb of an update that was to be was quickly transformed into the following discourse.
As I was saying, I think that the only part of my body that is not sore is the very tip of my nose. But this soreness is not to be chided. It is a good pain. It is a pain not unlike being beaten to a pulp by an enemy, but the difference is that the enemy is none other than yours truly. It is I, who tortured my being unto this point of ill-contorted stiffness. It is the same pain an athlete feels after a long arduous workout. I stiffly walk, huddle and hunch over in agony, but I feel much better about it than I would if I were attacked by group of ruthless thugs. This is perhaps because our body’s, when we exercise, shoot endorphins into the bloodstream (or so I’ve heard).
No, I did not go jogging or any other such nonsense or do some typical workout. I hurt, because I took a weekend away from the hustle and bustle of my normal existence. This weekend I was only on call to the sound of crickets as they chirped madly away in the cool summer night. I was only on call, as I turned off both of my phones, to the crackling and hissing sound of damp wood as I placed another log onto the flames. It was a weekend of sheer joy, a weekend of mental relaxation, a weekend away.
If you hadn’t guessed it yet, and I feel truly sorry for those of you who haven’t, I went camping over the weekend (Lord knows I have the bug bites to prove it). Chris and I traveled to nowhere exotic this weekend, as we have many times in the past, or at least to an area which you may have heard of before. We didn’t need to. As long as there is open sky, a place to set up tent and camp, enough to start a fire, and good conversation, then I am satisfied. And this is what occurred. Luckily, we had all the above (perhaps not the conversation—ha-ha) and enough beauty to visit to keep us entertained during the moment when there is daylight, daylight being a time when the magic of the campfire is ineffective (I find). It is because of this trip out there, plus the additional beginning of the trip sleeping on Chris’ loveseat that I am so sore right now.
Like I said before, what I am feeling right now is a good pain. And a good pain is something that can wake us and reevaluate our course without causing too much destruction, something which a harmful pain can bare upon us. It is something worth reflecting upon further.
Pain breathes the very essence of living. As humans, we measure our existence in divisions of pain. It often seems that we are only aware of our existence when we can reflect upon its’ sourness. When times are hunky-dory, no one reflects upon how fortunate they are, they live mindlessly as robots, programmed to continue on that same path that has brought them such fortune until a circumstance (a painful moment), often out of their control, reawakes them to rethink, to reflect upon, and change their present course to another in which they may fly on autopilot once again. When one induces that pain, like a doctor induces labor in a pregnant woman, the body, the mind reawakes on it’s own terms and out of that slumber a person can find themselves once again. Perhaps, like Rip Van Wrinkle, they find themselves a person who is a hundred years away from what they used to be the last time they awoke, the last time they were cut off autopilot. This is probably why so many men go through mid-life crises. Is it a coincidence that men, when they reach a certain age, are told to start exercising by their physicians (because they are not as young as they used to be), all of a sudden reemerge new selves after that first stretch of highway they trot down? Or perhaps women, who seem to be constantly aware of themselves, are such because society demands that they start training and working out (for aesthetic purposes) at so young an age?
There has to be some direct connection here, something worth diving into. Yet, as I look to the clock, a tool which I seldom used this weekend, it has rotated back into focus and it is late. The hustle-bustle world is once again calling for me, and I have accordingly turned my phone back on once again. As painful as it is, my body including, I know that once again I am slave to the beating rhythm of the minute hand that hypnotizes us into submission. It is the white noise we listen to in order to fall asleep. Yet, I also know true that the sooner I fall asleep once again the pain will abate. And so, perhaps sleep could do me some good as I am awfully tired and too sore to care whether or not I stay awake once again.

-sib-

Could you exist if you didn't know of your existence? If you were not aware that you were alive, would you be?

I was too damn busy to write this weekend. Besides, it's not like anyone really cares anyhow. Other than that update, I wanted to share that I was thinking about giving goob a new title. I was going to call him the "Guardian of Misused and Broken Condoms," but oddly enough, the title was already taken--So, I just got nothin' now...
Mr. and Mrs. Barron, I am just joking...
Chris, I really am not...
*snicker*

-sib

Epilogue... or Epilepsy? so far...

Epilogue:

The television was on too loud again and Roger crawled out of bed, made an exasperated noise as his feet touched the cold hard wood floor. It was quite annoying to him that he was sent to bed so early, nine o’clock, earlier than any of the kids he knew, probably all children around the world got to stay up later than he did, just to be tortured by the loud echoes of the television reverberating over the entire house. It did not seem fair to him to be shut away, only to sit awake for hours, his attention diverted from falling asleep in the cold nook he called his room. Really, his room was nothing more than a crawlspace on the second floor, but it was his choice to move in there. If he had not, then he would still be sharing a room with his two younger twin brothers, who were five years younger than Roger and five years too annoying for him. So, the cold, cold winters and the desperately humid and hot summers were bearable to him as long as he did not have to spend one more minute cooped up with those two terrors any longer. In fact, his little space he called home would be quite acceptable if he could only convince his father to lay some carpet in there to block out the noises between nine and twelve at night, until his father finally shuffled off to bed.
Roger made his way down the steps. As always, at ten o’clock, his father switched over from whatever he was watching to the early edition news. And unlike any other night, when Roger entered the family room, sure enough, it was Jack Northerly, the cheshire anchorman, enameled as always, cheerfully deliberating death and destruction to his public. Cheerful of course because the more death and destruction there was in the world, the more secure Jack Northerly’s job was. And it seemed to Roger that Jack-too-many-teeth was never, ever dour. And unlike what Roger’s grandfather always said, “No news is good news…,” Roger believed that Jack would probably forever disagree.
Roger decided to stand back and watch a little of the evening spectacle before making his presence and problem know to his father. Tonight, Jack and his co-anchor, Tisha “tight-shirt” McGraw, were laughing at the acrobatic antics of a waterskiing rodent, as they tried to pawn off the lighter side of the news as more entertaining than it really was. Roger thought to himself that it must have been a slow day to have this story so close to the beginning of the show, but then the tone of Trisha turned a more serious one as she began a new story. Evidently that day, three men died at a gas and go as a botched robbery took place. Roger figured it was time to get going, otherwise if he watched anymore, he would have horrible nightmares. Those nightmares wouldn’t involve any botched robbers killing or rampaging, but it would be a recurring one where the two anchors and their botoxed faces, their shiny, inhuman teeth chattered away and did social commentary on Roger’s own insignificant boring life.
Roger unglued his eyes from the screen and cornered around the couch to confront his father only to find him asleep, beer and cozy still in hand, and his neck and head arched back and rolled on to his left shoulder. Roger didn’t know if he should be upset at the fact the television was left needlessly on or happy that he had the chance to commandeer the television to watch one of science channels he loved. The ones on at night were always a little bit more risqué, but they were definitely better than rehashed ones during the day. Just before he was about to change the channel, Jack interrupted his partner with breaking news.


“I’m sorry Trisha, but this was just handed to me. It seems that we have been just been given information on totally bizarre case and our producer has said we just have to share this. It seems that the teacher at Karl Marsh Elementary, Mr. Walters, Jim, who has been missing for over a week now. We brought you that breaking story last Thursday. It seems that there is footage of his disappearance, and we have it for you. And when we come back from the break, we’ll have it ready to roll.”

Mr. Walters? Thought Roger, and he froze with the remote hanging straight forward pointing out as an extension of his arm as an automotive repair commercial came on screen. That was Roger’s favorite teacher from the previous year. He taught social studies and he actually made it interesting unlike so many unsuccessful teachers before him. He was a favorite among Karl Marsh alumni and it was no different in this household. But Roger was somewhere near shock as this was the first it had reached his ears, a week or no week. How could that be possible? Before he could answer himself the news popped back on.

“And we’re back. Tisha, you and I took a look at this video of his disappearance during the break, and I think we can both agree that this footage can only be described as nothing less than amazing as indescribable. And taken at an ATM machine no less—”
“Yet it is not just amazing, Jack. It is completely terrible and tragic, no matter how incredible it seems.”
“Yes, yes, of course, it’s tragic and terrible Tish. But astonishing none the less… just watch…”

And there on the television screen appeared Mr. Walters in green tint, a stop time stamped video footage placing his ATM card into the machine. He looked no different from the last time Roger saw him about a year ago in class.

“As you can see..” said Jack. “It is a simple transaction that Mr. Walters is making. He pushes a few buttons, takes his money, and begins to turn around. He takes a few steps and heads right toward Main Street. And then…”

Just at that point, the Mr. Walters on screen, the man who has been supposedly missing for a week, just evaporated. Nothing slow like dissipating smoke, Mr. Walters just disappeared. Poof! Gone. There was no trace whatsoever of him left. One second here, the next he just was not.

“…he just disappears. Abracadabra. We have tried contacting the police to see if they have ascertained any theories involving this case, but it seems that the deputy chief was unavailable for questioning at this time. We’ll show it again, but again, we have no further information at this point regarding this. But be sure as the story unfolds, we at Channel 10 are sure to bring you the action first. But here again is that disturbing, yet dumbfounding image one more time.”

And they showed it. Actually, the news team showed it twice more because their man Jack just couldn’t get over the fact that he could replay his voice over and over again while doing this seemingly rehearsed surprised voiceover as the video played. Sure, it was quite unbelievable, but seeing more than twice seemed to take away some of it’s shock value and Roger turned off the television halfway during the third time through, just as Mr. Watson was tugging out a few twenties from the machine again, he pushed the power button and the television made a shwoosh noise, which woke his father up. Why is it that a marching band can pass through his family room, and like all dad’s, they won’t awake until the shwoosh of the television powers down? Is it something innate in all males that lays dormant until they reach the age of thirty or so? Thought Roger.
For quite a bit, all his father could do was stair at his son as the father began to deduce that this was not now a dream. And Roger could see it all across his forehead, as a scowl appeared, that the usual “What are you doing up?” was about to slip from his father’s mouth. And sure enough, as soon as the thought had crossed his mind, his father predictably said those exact words.
Roger wanted to shift the subject away to the amazing incident that just happened on the screen, but a high whine only came out and he cringed under it as he said, “Buh-but the TV—too loud… I couldn’t sleep.”
His father didn’t even dignify a response, but simply pointed in the direction of the stairs and gave Ryan the crooked eyebrow response. Roger let out a frustrated huff and did about-face and marched away from his father. Roger just knew that he was a disappointment to his father. The crooked eyebrow was just one more confirmation of the fact. He sluggishly dragged his feet up each step.
Mr. Lilienthal, Roger’s father, was one of those fathers who were heavy into sports as a child, playing them throughout his youth, excelling at any one he was apart. From tennis to football, Mr. Lilienthal was good at them all naturally. When his knees grew weak and his back began to give out, Rick Lilienthal’s playing days turned into days of vicariously living through other players on the television, and when Rick had his first child, and it was a boy, (this being the real reason that Roger believed his father even wanted children) he wished to live vicariously through him. But not only did Roger do poorly at every sport, he thought they were quite silly to watch too.
This is why Roger felt that his father, though he seemed to despise children in general, did not give up after just one. No, he kept trying and this time he succeeded with not only one son to be proud of, but two identical boys, Parker and Peyton, who incidentally loved and were brilliant at all sports like their father. Parker was named after his father’s favorite baseball player, Dave Parker, and Peyton after a not so famous quarterback you’ve never heard of. Roger of course was named after another famous person, but much to his father’s chagrin (even though he wouldn’t admit it) not a famous sports athlete. Roger was actually named after a famous mathematician Roger Cotes, who was an associate of Isaac Newton and an innovator in trigonometry. This was his mother’s choice after giving birth to boy for her husband. If this doesn’t give you any insight into Roger’s positive attributes, stick around for it is sure to come up again somewhere further on.


Okay, I guess I'll keep at this one, but so far I haven't had anytime to even sleep let alone write. Hopefully, I will be able to find time now over the weekends, but we shall see... This is just the intro to the parallel universe story, but stick around and perhaps one day this will finally go somewhere...
-sib

So, who is the person from Seattle, Washington, who keeps check out my site?
They use Comcast internet...
and no, not my friend Andrea...
who are you person who frequents my page?

A Long Silence Abated?

I almost stayed at home, saved some money, payed off my loans, but a opportunity came for me to move away from my schizophrenic family and I jumped.
I almost finished my work this week and didn't have to work on the weekend, all weekend long, but thanks to bacteria and a sly ill-placed frog, I have no choice.
I almost got drunk and had some fun with my friends on Friday, but then halfway through my first beer, the Mason cops set up a sobriety check point outside of the bar.
I almost gained the courage to ask a girl out this week, but then was embarrassingly saved the eventual disappointing rejection when I dripped chili down my shirt.
I almost came back from my long sabbatical with a thrilling update upon what has been going on this week, but was too inconvenienced, too incontinent to even attempt such a tedious task.

I am quiet because I have yet to get the internet at my new apartment and I really haven't much to say that is interesting enough anyway...

Menagerie of Meretricious Metaphysics
Mumbled Mannered Me



X Graduate from college

X Buy a new car

X Get a job

X Move away from home

___ …Um I got nothin’… get my hair cut, perhaps?


So, it seems that my check list is almost complete. I have accomplished (or will at least next week) the short term goals I set out for myself a few months ago. But now I guess my dilemma is that I have no new short term goals left in mind, not to mention long term ones. I guess it would be truthful to say too that I never have had any long term insight about what I saw my self doing in five, ten, twenty years from now. I guess I always assumed I would be dead by the age of twenty-five and never gave it much thought.

But here I am, twenty-five, and I have at least a good ten years left in me. What do I do now? I guess it wouldn’t hurt to stop smoking and exercise a bit, lose my gut, and see if I can’t stay around a few more years. Yet, I cannot really think of any great reason to even do so.

It’s not really that I hate life or mine in particular (otherwise I would have off’ed myself or at the very least, you a long time ago). It’s just that we all have to go eventually. Some go sooner than others, some keep on it for quite awhile, but most (if not all) go before they are ready. Do you know why we go clinging to every breath that they can possibly cling? Why we hook ourselves up to so cold and sterile machines? Why do we have those indifferent aseptic nurses keep resuscitating the life back into us? It is because we have generally and regrettably not lived our lives to the fullest? Were we too busy trying to extend our lives, too busy to take the time to sit back and really enjoy it? Are we too busy trying to secure our old age with wealth that by the time we are ready to enjoy the comfort cushioned, we are too frail and tired to actually enjoy it? The answer it seems, for the most part, is yes it is.

I am not implying that I by any stretch of the imagination that I have lived myself silly or anything like it. But I do admit to enjoying the simplistic and naughty vices here and there. If my life were put into a music disk, I’d have an anthology of songs sung about black lungs, dead brain cells, loose women/morals, and many songs of misplaced nights.

Basically, it would be much like any rock and roll album out there today. Yet, I have not lived the life of a rock star by far. Nor have I lived life running toward danger. I am not stupid. Like I said before, I don’t hate my life. I am kind of fond of it actually. There’s a difference between living life to the fullest and just throwing one’s life away frivolously. And this is why I will be able to justify such actions as smoking throughout my youth, drinking banefully till I can’t remember how to feel, or at the very least the lack of exercise when I am upon my deathbed. There will be no pleading to some unknown for a reprieve to be granted. When we die, we die. To think otherwise would only hinder one’s capability to be free from the limitations of conventional thinking. Traditional ideologies and religious notions over saturated with certain base beliefs and fallacies about the value of life and what it actually means to live.

I do not believe in reincarnation or any mumbo-jumbo like it, nor do I believe in anything as silly as an after-life. I believe we have one life to lead and then we basically disappear. It is as simplistic as that. This may scare some people, but it does not frighten me. At the very least I know there is an end. Otherwise, life would be somewhat pointless. POINTLESS? Yes, pointless… Let me explain.

Let us say, for the sake of argument, that there is such a thing as reincarnation or an afterlife. Then life could and would, via strict laws of religious imagination interpreted by yours truly, go on infinitely, yes? Either on a Heavenly plane or an Earthly one (unless the Sun explodes and eventually kills all life on the planet—and then the life perhaps would be transported somewhere else) life would continue on forever. Well, if one lives forever, then what kind of significance does the span of 40-80 years have on us? I suppose not much at all. It much the same as looking into anything infinite, forty to eighty, even ninety years is nothing short of a drop of water in the ocean (Hell, all seven oceans—all oceans around the universe). We cannot possibly fathom how insignificant that span is because it is so meaningless.

So this brings me back to the very start upon which I began this discourse. What exactly should I shoot for as a good goal to achieve if I only have a fraction—a meaningless blip of time in which I can pursue it? So far the only thing I have is on a list below.



___ Stop waisting time writing philosophies that no one will read and you yourself will not follow.

___ Buy more soda when I go to the store

___ Pay my bills on time

X Take a nap after I finish this damn list



Okay, so this updated list is pretty pathetic, but what about my life (and yours… don’t even try to exclude yourself if you have just taken the time to read this) isn’t pathetic? Well, screw you guys for not disagreeing with me… I am taking off to see if I can’t really accomplish the last goal on the list…
Peace out peoples,
-sib-

Public Service Announcement

This here’s about that mountain chap
Ya know the man as Jacky Strap
People—his mountain’s just a small hill

He said he were one rough neck guy
Throw ya a punch an spit in yer eye
Yet I ain’t seen him throw one still

Ya just know when there comes that night
And you and he have got to fight
I place my dollar on yer bill

It’s not that yer so damn tough
Or on the fact that yer hot stuff
It’s just his name should be Jill

I saw him in a Texan town
Where they lay the whisky down
Local spot where I drowned my fill

Jack was in a ring game of stud
When a man walked in from the mud
And start to flirt with “his” girl, Lill

Doncha right know a fight broke out
And all the men began to shout
So thrilling to witness the kill

Must have been something Jacky saw
All of a sudden he didn’t want to brawl
An’ ‘fore the draw—he lost his will

Quickly he off’ed an’ disapeared
Before the dust had all but cleared
The crowded laughter were so shrill

As I now think of what I saw
The tale I tell you ain’t that tall
You can trust against yer will

In his or yer fear you shall lave
Take a stand, men or dig yer grave
Giving in is a move made ill

Shake yer head and doubt what I say
Seen it like it were yesterday
But you dont believe—even still

So, you just go on yer own way
Hunker down and pay his pay
And I recon you always will

Happy Endings

Tonight as I was lounging around after eating a hearty “traditional meal” (steak, potatoes, and something green) with my family, I recalled an event that occurred sometime around the time I was ten or so. It was a summer evening, just after supper, at my grandparent’s house. My Grandfather and I were sitting on the back stoop listening to crickets and pondering the growth of grass as our stomachs digested my grandmother’s cooking.
There was minimal conversation, as there ever is after such meals. After fifteen minutes of this my Grandfather interrupted the silence with a hacking cough. It was one of those terrible smoker's coughs that come after too many years of smoking unfiltered cigarettes.
With tears rolling in his eyes from pain he looked at me and tried to smile. He could probably see the worry on my face. Before I could warn him of the dangers of smoking, the ones I learned in school, he decided to cut me off and teach me one of his many life lessons instead. I could tell it was coming just by the curl of the right of his lip before he smiled. His eyes would smugly set on the horizon just as he always would start off, "Listen young man, did you know..."
Like most things out of my grandfather’s mouth, this lesson was nothing short of crude. It was and is the reason I looked up to that old man. His crotchety old mouth always taught me such colorful words and phrases I could never hear at home. And what ten year old boy didn’t want to be the first to use such rude banter at school? What glories were brought to the kid who taught the others, as they gathered around in the back of the school bus, the naughty new things they can call each other? Lord knows I did.
That night, my grandpa decided to vulgarly compare life and living it to the act of having sex. A subject somewhat taboo to a ten year old, but something still which was magically drawing and elusive just a boy just the same. My ears perked right up, and I can even remember how I nervously leaned in. Here it was. Finally, here was an adult who was going to let on to one of the basic secrets shared within the hallowed halls of manhood. Someone was finally going to indulge me with what it was all about, with the only subject that the other boys at school seemed to surpass my knowledge on.
He started off saying bluntly, and right to the point, that he knew those who took to life like they did a loose woman, giving it to her hard and finishing so very quickly. Of course, with this, I was totally confused and didn't know where he was going at the time. Then he said, much like the above, that there were those who took it easy and made sweet love to that woman the whole night through. Of these two, Grandpa would said the latter had it right and one should always strive to be that guy. Finally, after he inhaled the rest of his smoke, smudged it out on the arm of the wooden patio lounge chair, and concluded his crude metaphor by saying that there were those who lived life like prison inmates. He told me that these guys always settling to take it up the rear. “Don’t be an ass fucked queer…” he’d say, “don’t let no one stick it to you—or in you for that matter…”
I blushed and laughed awkwardly at this, embarrassed for the both of us, though hardly knowing exactly what he meant. And then he was quite for the rest of the evening as he let the bottle take a sip of him now and again.
Now that I look back upon it, I guess in a way he was correct, especially since I do know of what he means. Yet, I don’t think that it is so cut and dry like he believed it to be. I think, like all things, that life is greyer than black and white (like my grandfather believed everything to be).
Life and those who live it do not always play specific roles. Collectively, we all take our share of being screwed and screwing. We take things fast and hard and sometimes we take it slow and easy. For the most part, since everything is principled on the balance and moderation of things (such as diets, alcohol, and just about all things), I think life can, and should be, the same.
Let’s not compare life then so crudely as my grandfather did to sex, but instead a relationship. A healthy relationship is where both partners give and take with equality. It is a relationship of sacrifice on both fronts. So, to speak as rude as my Grandfather once did, it is sometimes taking the screwing, as in other times, it is the giving of it.
For the most part, I think that’s true with life. Without the unhappy parts (the getting screwed) how would, could, we ever appreciate the happy parts of life (screwing???). We couldn’t, plain and simple. It’s not I think—therefore I am, but I feel—therefore I am. And without a feeling to compare and contrast upon, one feeling is just not enough to sustain a healthy livelihood. After all, there are those who have it all, taking life by the horns and all that, who are successful, who are not happy. Just like there are those which are raped by life cruelly, who equally do not enjoy it. They are just two differing variants of un-enjoyment. Those who live mathematically meanly will probably get the most out of life, because as bad as it can get, we must still appreciate, learn, and perhaps laugh upon later, the bad stretches (no matter how awful) in our lives. No matter what, at the end of life, unlike with some sexual partners, we still get to finish, no matter how beautiful, exhilarating, lame, or awkward that life might have been. There will be Happy Endings for all… I promise…

The world can be so lonely when you are incapable of sharing your personal thoughts articulately…

Pantry told me tonight that Virgin Oil is actually a dirty little slut...
that even that reconstructive surgery wouldn't put things right with her...
of course Pantry is an old gossiping fool, so who really knows the truth...
not me...

Yup, took a page out of Abs' playbook and put a poll in the sidebar. You see the thing is, that when I first saw that she had one, oh so long ago, I grew jealous and wanted one for my own. But the problem was that I couldn't think of anything to poll. Lately, it has occurred to me that I have been writing a many start to stories, but I have yet to finish them or even start upon them because I have grown indecisive about which one should get my attention. To me, all of them are great premise ideas. So, I figured I'd throw this up there and see what happens. I suppose it is necessary to say that there is only one vote per day and at the end of this week I'll see what has favor over the others. Then, hopefully I'll actually sit down and write for a bit and see where I end up. Okay, I guess I'll mosey off to bed now (seeing as I have to get up in a few hours).
Peace out peoples,
-sib-

A Man’s Work is Never Done…

A man’s work is never done—Now where did my pogo stick get to?
Weeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!

A man’s work is never done—And climbing these steps up to my bed is killin’ me…

A man’s work is never done—So you’re going to have to be a man and work my shift today, ‘cause I’m calling off sick…



-sib-

Nothing going on at work yet, so my boss has given me new software specifically for web design. It's kinda cool but a little out of my league as well. We'll see. She wants to see something preliminary by noon, and so far I have a decent template layout, but without any pictures or decent photo-shop on my work computer, I cannot make anything too complex and it kind of stinks. Meh...
Anyway, I had a pretty decent holiday weekend. For the most part I hung out with Goober on Saturday, Sunday, and part of Monday. We went to the Reds game on Sunday afternoon and baked in the blistering sun for three hours only to see our Reds lose again. That's alright, I suppose. I am now six and three when it comes to winning home stand visits. With the Reds record at home this year, this isn't too bad, as they have a losing record at home this year (how sad is that?) The rest of the time Goober and I pretty much hung out, watched a few movies, and visited BP for a bit.
On Monday night, I went out with Steven to a block party where we saw a neighborhood firework display, which was incredibly impressive, near his parents house. The hodge podge of fireworks brought by those in attendance (people who came from all over just threw their fireworks into a community pile and a few of the drunkards set them up with timers and etc.) had a price range of ten thousand dollars or so. These people went ridiculous with their spending I think, especially for only about ten - twenty minutes of loud explosions. But I didn't spend a dime and the show was quite good, so why should I care, right? Well, it was the first time in a while where I got really drunk, and nothing says "Happy Birthday America" like killing many brain cells, right? He he he
Other than that, it was pretty all around relaxing this weekend. For the most part, since it was a four day holiday for me, it seems that my vacation is just now finally over after two weeks. Ah well, it was a good run. Well, I better get back to it.
-sib-

While ornithological pathologists were to pecking away at the study of viruses connected with the avian flu from birds and entomological pathologist were pestering around with diseases spread from nasty little mosquitoes, little attention was paid to the real threat to humanity. But perhaps if they had a closer inspection of the insect called Photuris lucicrescens, then they could have saved us all. And why would they? It was after all a common insect that man had lived with for centuries without any incident or warning of such a threat could be possible.
Artists and poets had been using their beautiful nature on their respective canvases for as long as art has been produced. Little children, on hot summer evenings, would spend hours of their formative years catching them in little manufactured homes of made of jelly jars, punching holes into the lid for breathing beforehand, just to watch them glow their little abdomens off for hours until they finally died. There was no harm in them it seemed. And there wasn’t. But that was then and this is now, as they, who ever they are, supposedly say.
That’s right, and for those of you who haven’t figured it out yet, this is for you. The carriers of man’s demise were nothing more than the common firefly (a.k.a. the “lightening bug” as they are known around here). But that still does not explain the reason our top scientists were not able to see it, to prevent it. Earlier I posed a simple question to this, ‘Why would they?’ And the answer is quite simple. Because the firefly is not a sexy enough bug to study. No, not sexy as in procreative attraction, but sexy as in glamorous and appealing in the means of grant money. To be blunt, there was no real future in the study of the creature. Not when too many people died of heart disease, cancer, influenza, and etcetera.
It is the politics of scientific research. Like politicians who raise money for their political campaigns have to follow what their constituencies want of them, scientists too have their own constituencies. The media spread hysteric stories of flu-like viruses spreading to humans, wiping out billions, from other likely transmitting carriers such as mosquitoes and whatnot. And since one of the greatest pandemics in our history happened less than a century ago, this of the Spanish flu (which killed more people in one year than the black plague did in four across Europe), it is a threat that strikes fear in our populous. This fear demands acting upon and the politicians of government and other wealthy benefactors grant the means for scientists to look into these specific ailments as others are swept to the side.
But who could know? Certainly not any respective person, who was once ten years old, could ever think such nonsense. It is just one of those things that seem to just happen. Like the crude saying goes, “shit happens.” No one could have foreseen the outcome of man’s extinction caused by something as insignificant as a lightening bug. Well, that is save one. One man tried to warn the world, but like any other raving person, he was shoved to the side, discarded like the foil wrap in a cigarette package out the window of a speeding automobile. And Gerald Boivin, resident entomologist and certifiable wack-job, of the small town of Highland, New Mexico could have (and would have to if allowed) saved us all. For instead of “shit happens,” as the saying goes, Gerry (as he liked to be called) would fashion the saying in a different light. He would always be telling his students of Highland High, “Evolution happens…” And that is just what did happen.
You see, the small town of Highland is cropped somewhere in between Roswell and Carrizozo, New Mexico, and it happens to be somewhat close to many places where eerie and perhaps random events have occurred numerously over the past sixty years. And if someone who was smart enough (like Gerry is) sat down and plotted all of these events down chronologically and geographically (like Gerry eventually did), they would find a bulls eye pattern leading to the start of it all. Gerry believed that many of the events surrounding this area were all tied somehow into an event that occurred in 1945. Some were silly and often harmless, like the crash that supposedly happed two years later in Roswell, but it was what happened here with the lightning bugs that we are concerned with (or should be). It is here where Gerald believed our beloved nighttime insect evolved into the terrifying mass murderer it is today. This story is not about Gerry or his discovery. Perhaps we shall get to him a little bit later. We should instead focus a little further back in time and introduce two souls who would eventually meet in these ruinous times and possibly save humanity, or not. For after all, this is their story.

So, yes, I went out west as you all know... and I took so many goddamn pictures... it took me about four hours just to shrink them all down and clean them up... I am only going to put a few teasers on here today and try to get a bunch more up Wednesday after work (as i am now leaving for an area outside of Columbus for a few days of training for my new job... woot! road trip!)...

Garden of the Gods

half way up Pikes Peak, CO

Hanging Lake, CO... This was fucking beautiful and you gotta see all of these pictures...

Colorado River running through Glenwood Caynon

A hidden lake somewhere on the Loveland Pass road... it was a beauty, eh?

of course, there will be me playing on rocks and pictures of rocks and what is going on in this crazy geologic muck-up called the Rocky's... I bought's me a book just so I knew exactly what was going on everywhere I went in New Mexico and Colorado...

By the way... I did throw some more pics up on my flickr site... not all of them (because I ran out of space... and none have descriptions yet, but again... When I get back into town on Wed, I'll try my best to get some infor up there...
just click on one of the pics up there in the show box at the top right of the sidebar to access my flickr site or click here

home.... finally...

Well, after twenty-four hours on the road back home, I have finally made it back safely... I have wasted the last of my savings and pulled into my driveway on fumes because of it... he he he... good thing I start work again tomorrow... I think I might go rest a bit, but in the meantime I am currently downloading all two hundred odd pictures I took and will post some of them later after I can rifle through them and pick out the good ones...
-sib-