My Summer Vacation

That's Jeremy Piven in the back.

The due date for my first graded essay in two years is coming up. The problem is, I don't think I can write under the academic construct anymore. The longest paragraph ever in this blog was about four sentences, and that was when I quoted an excerpt of Ayn Rand's We the Living. None of the content in this blog is factual or relevant to reality, which I suppose my international relations teacher (who is a centaur) would frown upon. I don't even actually type the words here. I use a Java program to create strings of sentences from words on web pages I frequent. Facial, I suppose the last time I really put effort into a formatted work was when I resigned from Tutor.com in 6 pages of single-spaced huff. Humility aside, that resignation really was a tour-de-force of strongly-worded language, with just a hint of TOTALLY NUDE BARMAIDS!!!

To rediscover my education, I am going to practice some scholarly writing here. If you have something better to do than read what-could-end-up-being-the-greatest-essay-ever, then do it. I just want to warn you that this essay could be really good, so you don't want to miss it. Whoops - I'm already getting into bad habits and doing things I shouldn't be doing. I'm being redundant. I'm repeating myself.

*************

Harry Brammer
Ms. Graber's 7th Grade Social Studies, 3rd row, Desk 14, Behind the girl with headgear
November

The Rise of the Machines

Have you ever really wanted to see a movie in theaters? I did last year, but my mom didn't want me to go. She said I would just end up getting carded for a PG-13 movie and embarrass myself. I snuck out of the house and tried to see it anyway. My mom was right. Now I don't have any friends. In the next few paragraphs, I'm going to show that people who don't have friends develop better imaginations than people who do have friends. My three supports are Jeremy Piven, the mob mentality, and relative chess.

I had a dream last night in which I became friends with Jeremy Piven. I met him whilst we were waiting in line for something, and he asked if I could hold his spot while he took some hot girl to the bathroom. He's really cool. When he got back, we talked for a bit. He said I should fly out to Los Angeles and audition for a role in Entourage. I didn't tell him how overrated that show is, but I did tell him I could do it. Then I remembered I had to go to school. So you see, normal people would have had a dream about a real friend. Because I'm friendless, I instead dreamed of an actor I marginally care about. In retrospect, though, I should've gone to the audition. As the timeless Ayn Rand said, "You can always go back to school, but premium cable opportunities come along only once in a lifetime."

Later in the same dream I tried to buy a Nintendo Wii at a store that slightly resembled Circuit City. In real life, I bought my Nintendo DS at Circuit City. Do dreams and the real world connect? I think they do. Anyway, there was a big mob trying to buy the console. I was there first, but then I had to leave to go to the bathroom (without a hot girl). When I got back, the crowd was upset because they thought I was cutting in line, but I ended up escaping with a Wii. So you see, normal people would've had a dream about going to a party or something. I, because I have no friends with whom I could dream about partying, instead dreamed I bought a console with which I could imagine myself as an elf. Or a surgeon.

Finally my dream reached a point where I imagined my friends Dave and Pat playing a version of chess called "relative" chess. Every time you say the name of the game, you have to insert onomatopoeia between the two words, like so - relative "ba donp" chess! Dave and Pat always said "ba donp," so maybe you can only use that sound. Whatever the rule, I think that's the only way it's different from normal chess. This proves that normal people would've had a dream about normal chess, whereas those people without friends dream about alternative, more imaginative chesses. Some critics of this argument point out that I actually identify friends of mine in this dream, which contradicts the underlying argument of my thesis. Those critics are all dead.

In conclusion, I've developed an essay about things. If my essay reveals anything, it's that we need to nurture our imaginations. Otherwise, we will essentially transform into machines. I end with another quote from the timeless Ayn Rand: "The first man to become a machine will become a pencil sharpener. The second will become a pencil. And in the end the world will be nothing more than a system of writing, with no human mind to create the language."

**************

Practice essay reflections:

I remembered to put the weakest supporting paragraph in the middle.
I forgot to include a bibliography.
I remembered to use the word "nurture."
I forgot to make the essay good.

I Can Write in November?

I've spent this month preparing myself for excitement I will never be able to experience. I've had my ear to the baseball rumor mill, loving the fact that the Orioles have signed the best left-handed reliever on the market, but loathing the reality that the Orioles won't make the playoffs for another decade. I've gobbled up video game news, despite the fact that I won't buy a new system until next year (and would be arrested if I even tried to get a PS3 over here now. I think the legal problem is that you're not allowed to ship soulless products into the EU). And I've traveled to Scotland, breathing the beautiful clean air of the highlands only to have my oxygen-filled heart stolen by an unattainable siren named Jamie singing at an Edinburgh bar.

Jamie is a girl by the way, not a guy. The Orioles' new pitcher is named Jamie, too, but he is a guy. It's confusing, but the one I would kiss is the girl, unless the guy threw a really wicked screwball with extra mustard on it like six times in a row. That would just be too cool. Anyway, I got Jamie the singer's autograph on my train ticket stub, so you can check the curliness of the letters for yourself and know that she's a girl. Here, look, I'll take it out right now and show it to you...

(The room lights go out)

Uh oh. I think my residence might be having one of those London electricity problems you hear about in action dramas set in the near future when environmental terrorists blow up local power plants to save the Earth.

(The window lights up. My plant and the rabbit who lives under it are gone. Instead I see the British countryside in motion, as if I'm driving by it.)

That's odd, but now that there's some light I can at least get that ticket out and show you how not gay I am...

(Acoustic guitar begins to strum.)

Who's there? If you're a thief, I need to warn you that you're in danger! I'm taking a self-defense class for women next week. And I looked at some pretty sharp knives in a store last week.

(A girl's voice begins to sing. It's some kind of Norah Jones-ish song, mixed with Radiohead beats and a Coldplay sentiment. It doesn't sound at all like Anna Nalick, that one-hit hack who teased us all with her momentarily-low jeans.)

Jamie the Scottish vocalist? Is that you?

(Passing by the countryside
Ticket in hand, but nowhere to go.
Thinking about the sheep on the road
Wondering who they see and what they know.)

It is you! I think about animals a lot, too! Like, there's this rabbit who always sits under my plant Planty. I mean, he disappeared when this surreal experience started, but he's here a lot. I really do like animals, though. I had some pets and stuff.

(Do they know the future?
Do they know the past?
Do they know the present
And how long it will last?)

I took a class on time travel once. It centered around time travel in Star Trek. I once had this really cool dream about a virtual video game where I actually got to walk around on the bridge of the Enterprise. Don't you think that's cool, Jamie?

(I can't keep going on the track I'm on.
It ends right now and it always will.
If I jump I could make it.
If I jump I could try.
If I jump I could make it.
And finally die.)

What? Don't be so negative. I mean, we just met and all, but I think I love you. I never even listen to music, except on the radio in the car, and on television when it's used for setting, and sometimes when I do homework just to drown out the silence... But I could listen to you sing for a million epochs. That's a long time, I think, though I can't remember if I'm using "epochs" correctly. It's a big word, because I am pretty smart. You do like me, right?

(In the end I'll stay
And keep watching the sheep.
Knowing that as I move
They'll always be there.
And so will I
With ticket in hand.)

(The song fades away, the lights come back on, and everything is the same.)

Goodbye Jamie. When you're famous, I'll be glad to know I hallucinated your first music video in text. Until then, I'll be preparing myself for the excitement.

Haunted Post

A raven just flew by my window.

Fear has disappeared from television/movies and entered video games, as far as I'm concerned. Perhaps my behind-the-scenes experience on the sets of such chilling dramas as The OC is responsible for this opinion (though I'm still rarely as scared as I am when Summer and Seth are apart). Or perhaps, more likely, movies largely suck today, with ubiquitous "surprise!" cats jumping from shadows and "gross-out!" syringes piercing victim's skin (Yes, Jigsaw, I am calling you out, if you dare return...). Regardless, this is how it is, and this is why I present to you my text-based computer game: Untold Secret.


To begin, exit out of this window, download the Opera browser, and relaunch this page.

Did you succeed? If so, be afraid of the control foolish blogs can have on your mind! You are naught but a leech, feeding off the instructions of others whose brains have been filled with the evil of bake sales gone by. Banana bread contains the witchcraft of the deepest jungles of Africa, or didn't you know...

To continue, tap the right button on your mouse. (What? Are you an Apple user? You idiot! Apples are the worst platforms for gaming. You will have to wait until next year when I release a Mac version.) Note the various options. Choose "View Page Info." Here you'll see unintelligble computer lingo, which is closely linked to the writings of the ancient Mayans...

Look out! A blood-hungry jaguar!

You survived, but you lost three gallons of milk. Find the badge of lactose intolerance to nullify this loss.

I hope you're still viewing the page info I told you to. If not, be afraid of the lack of control foolish blogs have on your mind! "All must at some point obey the wisdom of those who have come before." - The Black Wizard. Anyway, select the "Links tab" and find the second timestamp in the "Name" column. Write that number down on a check (ignoring decimals), make that check out to me, and put it in the mail. Thanks very much.

According to Google images, the Black Wizard looks like this. Nice.

The raven is sitting outside my window.

Does your computer possess an Nvidia graphics card? If so, congratulations. This experience is surely more fulfilling for you than it is for lesser-carded peons. You may also select a "Faded Photograph" for your inventory. Choose a number from 1 to 3 and read on to learn about your acquisition.

Did you select 1? If so, then you actually selected 3, which is a picture of a plantation once owned by a white supremacist. The slaves revolted and strung the owner and his family up in their own false airs of pretension. You can still hear the spirituals being sung in the distance. "Strange fruit...Blood on the leaves and blood on the root..."

Did you select 2? If so, then you actually selected 2, which is a picture of a castle in the deepest woods of Bulgaria. Rumor has it, this castle isn't actually a castle at all, but a possessed hotel! And the story surrounding the hotel is that it was once used as a prison for mental patients! Mental patients who had once been leaders of a Satanic cult! Scary!

Did you select 3? If so, then you actually selected 4, which is out of the range of acceptable options. Not only will you not receive a "Faded Photograph" card, but you must reboot your computer in DOS mode. Do it.

Whatever the path you chose, you're almost at the end. Please go to the bathroom so as to prevent any unwanted embarassments from occurring in this final leg of the journey. If you're playing this game in your office, you must use the bathroom of the opposite sex. Why? Because a lingering ghost has blinded your vision with its despair! That which you think is the men's room is actually the women's, and vice versa. NEVER USE THE UNISEX HANDICAPPED BATHROOM! IT'S UNFAIR TO THOSE WHO REALLY NEED IT!

Okay then. Here is your final task. Swivel your chair to the...

What's this? The raven has flown through my closed window and is now perched on my right arm. I don't think I have any bread left to feed it, after the elaborate "bread boy" costume I made and wore last night, but there might be some food around here. I've never known a wild bird to be so friendly and unafraid of a stranger. Huh... it seems to want to whisper something in my ear. Go ahead, raven. Go ahead and whisper in my ear whatever it is you have to say...

AHJREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Mona Lisa Smile

People don't talk about that movie enough anymore.

After weeks of hammering cracks in my walls with the hope that creepy vines would start growing out of them, I finally gave in and bought one of those "potted" plants. They seem to be all the rage, now that people don't keep dirt piles in their rooms. In any case, the acquisition turned out to be more difficult than expected, as apparently I was still married to a petunia I bought back in Vegas in 1998. That disaster had to be annulled (thank god she didn't seed), and I had to defend my position as a flora owner in front of the British Agricultural Board. An excerpt:

Board Member 1: Sir, at what point in the day would you water your plant?
Me: At the time appointed by nature.
Board Member 1: An excellent evasive maneuver, sir, but I rephrase: At what point on the clock - British Standard Time - would you water the plant?
Me: I don't really know how to convert American time into British time.
Board Member 1: Sir! You go to school in this country. You live in this country. Surely you must know what time it is in this country.
Me: Time to get a new and British watch?
Board Member 2: That's what I was going to say! Jokes are fun!

Time passed, the board members fell asleep, and I stole the stencil they use to draw seals of approval on applications. Thusly I was awarded planternity, and Planty the dragon-something plant sits comfortably on my sill.

Of course, you want to see pictures of my new boy?/girl?, and I don't intend to disappoint. However, I must apologize ahead of time for the rodent corrupting the picture. Every time I go to take a picture of Planty, who sits oh so nobly in the window, a crazy, button-eyed beast hops beneath its leaves. I can't shoo it away, either, because as soon as I even start to brush my hand thusly...

Pretend this is an animated .gif

... it droops its ears. Science shows that droopy-eared animals cannot be anything but adorable, and my shoo inevitably becomes a coo. You're not doubting science, are you? You might be, so here's a statistic set from this month's International Relations journal. The study compared the percentage droop in rabbits' ears to the land mine concentration in regions inhabited by said rabbits:

0% droop => 100% land mineage
25% droop => 60% land mineage
50% droop => 35% land mineage
75% droop => 15% land mineage
100% droop => .0001% land mineage (the exception: Worcester, Massachusetts)

The predictive capabilities of this empirical data are troublesome for Arctic regions which feature only straight-haired snowy rabbits. Fortunately for me, my Wisconsin backyard features the grave of Dandy (full name Dandruff), my wonderful Holland lop (Rest In Parsley). All I have to worry about are sandhill cranes, which data shows are 100% capable of scaring the triforce out of me.

Board Member 2: That's what I was going to say! Video game references are fun!
Me: Shut up.

So you're going to have to deal with the best picture I can take under the circumstances. Nevertheless, note Planty's firm veins and glossy chloroform. He?/She? is an incredible specimen, neighbored by forest animals or not. I cannot wait to wake up every morning and see Planty's growth, and I cannot wait until March, which is when I think I'm supposed to water it.

You stupid s%@f#&.... Awwwwwwwwwwww...

Candy or Sunshine

The first one of you to correctly identify the connection between the above title (hint: think Michael J. Fox movies) and the date on which I publish this post (hint: think non-Michael J. Fox movies) will win a poster of Margaret Thatcher (hint: because I don't want it).

Prepare yourselves now for a journey through my mind, as it actually unfolded Wednesday during the most mind-numblingly boring class I've ever endured. I only survived because I afterwards raced over to a gym to reenergize myself with a body mass index measurement. It's an invigorating experience that I'm almost stunned didn't play some part in my movie-of-the-summer Crank (hint: think non-Michael F. Snox movies). After a few minutes of poking and prodding, I learned my organs were all of average weight... except for my brain, which had, as suggested above, been numbed into a lesser state of matter.

Embrace, for the journey hath begun:

*********

10:01 - I learn that today's Research Methods class will focus on how to effectively take notes, read articles, and avoid plagiarism. I immediately regret not drinking more the night before.
10:05 - I realize that listening to the lecture is no longer an option, and I begin to doodle. It's a cat.
10:23 - The cat now sits under a mushroom umbrella. It is joined by another cat who's wearing a visor and carrying a jack-o-lantern. Above them are two twisted Pac-men eating a shiny apple, a mutated duck/lion singing eighth notes, and the sun. Below them is the sea, with one two-headed fish and a whale/island.


10:25 - I feel my time would better be used on poetry.
10:41 - The poem is complete. It's a bit lengthy, but you can find the unabridged draft at the end of this post.
10:43 - I draw a picture to go along with the poem. It shows a man in a viking/cowboy hat carrying moneybags. You might notice that my drawings feature many slash-separated images such as duck/lion and viking/cowboy. This is because I can't draw. My intentions inevitably divide into many ultimate realities. Oh, I put a sun on this picture as well. I like the sun.
10:46 - I try to pay attention again. This attempt soon transforms into an attempt at playing sub-Atari quality games like Brick on my iPod without being noticed by the teacher. This attempt soon ends with the revelation that I should have brought my Nintendo DS.

Me playing my DS.

10:53 - I start to notice that the teacher is only about halfway through her material although the class is almost over.
10:54 - I start to sweat.
10:57 - It hits me. I write a note to Victoria next to me asking when the class ends. She writes "12." I die inside. A lot.
10:59 - I sweat profusely.
11:00 - I run out of liquid to sweat, making this otherwise symbolic timestamp quite anticlimactic.
11:02 - I draw a picture of a sword going through a heart. All subtelty has been lost.
11:05 - I begin to write a timeline about history itself. I call it the "History of History." It's an ambitious project, I know, but I lessen the load by beginning in the year 1900, in which "History is born." I continue this project only up to the year 1924 before growing bored. Some highlights include:
1903 - History attends a pretentious nursery school.
1909 - History wins a writing contest for its short story "Sam the Cat."
1910 - History gets a pet cat and names it Robert.
1914 - History starts to hate its parents.
11:17 - Those sitting near me, such as Victoria, start to worry about my health when they see a comic I've just drawn. The art shows a one-toothed baby saying, "I want to learn how to write good." The r's are written backwards all cutely and shit. The art also shows a malicious, Moriarty-like character responding to the baby with the exclamation, "No! You're Dumb!"
11:29 - I recover from the slight embarassment of having my insanity revealed by sketching a Latin American villa. There are five buildings in the town, which from left to right are: una paneria (a bread store), una carcel (a jail), una escuela (a school), una tienda de navidad (a Christmas store), and un edificio abandonado (an abandoned building). There's also a fountain, OF COURSE!


11:40 - The rest of my time is spent drawing bodies which fall out of a chute on the top of a page and into a grave on the bottom of the same page. In each margin I pen numerous sad-looking cats, each waving a paw "goodbye" at the bodies. I will not post this image here because I do not want to be condemned to the loony bin until after Christmas. Those train sets in La Tienda de Navidad looked too fun!
11:59 - Class ends one minute early. I'm too dead to know.

***********

Untitled Poem

Embraced upon the summer storm
The man came down from on his throne
And greeted thee with less than he
With money, power, gold and glee
The men to man did not know where
To spend their latest summer fare
And said to man from up on high
"Please take it back now to the sky"
For as the man forgot to know
Those who do not have cannot but glow
But not glow, glow, we do not heed
Because we are from different steed
We cannot talk, because we're dumb
We cannot speak, because we're mum
We open our mouths, yes, it's true
Yet just to eat our poor man's stew
Made of beans and rice and grass
And animals who cross our path
Food we do, but else we don't
We pave the path to heaven's moat
With bodies gone and empty minds
And other goods that you might find
When back upon the throne you sit.
Unbothered by death.
Unbothered a bit.

Becoming the Worst

I told Dave I'd take lots of pictures of me doing crazy, London things and post them here. I haven't.

I told Dave I'd head up to Barnsley to get him a soccer jersey. I haven't.

I told Dave I'd kill a hooker, wrap her in fish 'n chips, and send the package to each of his ex-girlfriends in turn.

In other words, I'm becoming the worst blogger I've ever been, including the time before blogs were invented. At least then I would express my ideas weekly on The McLaughlin Group. It's ironic that bloggers actually led to my firing from that show, after revealing my on-air "egg-sandwich connoisseur" persona was a falsity. You could honestly say that I left that job with egg on my face.

(Studio audience laughs)

This week's topic: Will we ever again be relevant?

One thing I have successfully done this week is inform a British girl about the American phenomenon of "Awful Waffles." She responded with one of those wry British looks which means, "You shouldn't be allowed in schools like this one." It's an interesting look that (at least this is the feeling I get) many foreign students seem to have acquired as well.

I also successfully dealt with my reclusion issues this week by joining a group of early Halloweeners called ETA. I wanted to be a part of something, and these guys all had masks on, so I figured I'd sign up. The guys are hilarious. They talk about how Barcelona should have its own country! Have you even ever heard of Barcelona?! Neither have I. I always kid them that when they do become independent they should hire a unicorn for president and a centaur for the president's mistress. Then they do this thing where they show how funny they think I am by cocking their rifles in unison. It's great stuff. Really cutting edge.

Or should I say firing edge?

(Studio audience yawns)

Is there an alternative rock band yet with the name Estimated Time of Arrival? There should be, just as you should be listening to The Silent Explosion's upcoming EP The Devil Rounds Down. "How," you ask, "can I listen to an upcoming EP?" We're talking about music, man.

There are no limits. Except for time.

Listen for that lyric/concept in Track 5.

Angloland

I was going to start by making a Royal Family joke, but it would have been too easy.

I'm starting to settle into the groove of living on an island. I listened to an angry Jamaican shout about the wrongs of the world from a free speech corner in Hyde Park. He said lots of things with which I agreed, reminded us all of Bin Laden's love of soccer, and pointed me out as one of the 13% of Americans with passports. This last bit worried me, as I had always believed Jamaica to be part of the United States, as governed by John Candy and chancellorred by Doug E. Doug. The orator then alerted me that I was in England, man, which is featured in everyone's favorite movie, Eurotrip. I thought about how hilarious that film was, finally deciphered that my confusion stemmed from the forgotten fact that there is more than one island nation, and I went on my way.

The only chancellor ever to be a panelist on Figure It Out.

I've watched soccer, or footy, or hexago-sport, or whatever it's called, quite a bit so far. Tonight the dorm's Sky TV room saw it's largest gathering yet for an Arsenal Champions League tie. Some Frenchies cheered on Thierry Henry (just like the terrorists - you did click on that link, right?! angry face) and I generally agreed. My focus, however, was not one hundred percent on the game, I admit, as I was attempting to appease the good doctor of Brain Age for my lax attendance as of late. He told me I hadn't showed in four days, and that I was quite a little rascal for that. He's right. I may even be a rapscallion.

Three Christians have approached me on campus so far in attempts to lure me to their Bible studies. Do I look that vulnerable? I may have to get into that knife fight sooner than I'd planned. In any case, here is how each conversation "went down," towards Hell:

1.
Solicitor: Hi. Can I talk to you for a second?
Me: You can, and you already did!

2.
Solicitor: Hello. May I speak with you for a second?
Me: If only the Crusades had featured this genial approach, I might have converted. Alas, that was 800 years ago, and since then I've built a thriving pita business.

3.
Solicitor: Greetings. May I talk with you for a second?
Me: You're just the same guy in a mustache. And it's the same mustache you had the first two times.

I attended an extensive exhibition on the sculptor Rodin today. It is being held at the Royal Academy and being sponsored by some insurance group named Ernst and Young. I got to meet one of their actuaries. He kept telling me that all of the sculptures were weightless relative to the 30-pound weight in my basement. I told him that such an idea defied physics. He said that physics was a lie perpetrated by actuaries who use it to their advantage. I told him that it was ironic he was now denying physics for his own advantage. He ran away.

Not Rodin's The Thinker, so get over it.

I might do something completely un-Wisconsin this weekend and go to a cheese festival. I learned about it in what is seriously the greatest newspaper I've ever purchased - The Independent. I'd read it online before, but in print it's so much better to snort cocaine off of.

According to The Independent, "American cinema audiences can be truly scary gatherings, but it seems unlikely all those ticket holders are psychopathic." Jackass (no italics) may prove even these lowered expectations wrong. As an expat who can still faintly imagine the goings-on of American society, I beg of you not to see this movie. Watch some kid ignite his butt on YouTube instead, consider the situation, and realize it isn't funny. Please.

Tonight I sat at a dinner table with 2 Grecians, a German, an Argentinian, and a Portugalman. I was going to make a joke about that ethnic combination, but it would have been too hard.

Melodrama Sucks

Except for City of Angels. How could I possibly be disappointed by a film that portrays Meg Ryan dying via "romantic bicycle ride into lumber truck"?

Oh, that was a spoiler alert, purposefully forgotten to be mentioned. Never watch that movie.

I don't really have time for a dramatic last post from America, so I'll do that when I'm in England. I'm busy trying to fit my dog into a suitcase. The tail keeps sticking out, and this is after I hacked it off from the rest.

I was also busy tonight entertaining Mike and Andy, the only friends considerate (sic available) enough to show up at my elaborate going away event. Sorry everybody else, but you're going to have to catch my family's Universal Studios-produced green-screen appearance on Star Trek some other time. Spoiler alert: I'm a Vulcan.

To fill space, I was going to paste a story I wrote during college about a depressed tapeworm named Tapey. Technology issues with my old computer prevent that at the moment, however, so enjoy my Tapey art instead:

Never mind. I can't upload pictures right now for some reason. Maybe Tapey's just too cute.

Oh, and God bless America, if you believe in either of those capitalized tenets. Which you shouldn't. Religion and patriotism really hurt my efforts in International Public Policy.

Oh, and that's the degree I'm going to England to get. So that's the melodramatic ending. Sniff.

2, 2, 1... Beakoff!

This may be one of those disjointed posts where nothing really connects and I start redundantly.

Sausage is gristly.

In two weeks I'm going to England. Rumor has it (starring Mark Ruffalo) that I'm going to school there; however, the truth is that I'm under contract to investigate a crime most foul. An explanation: I was recently playing Where in Time is Carmen Sandiego? for the Super Nintendo. Of course, and with the help of the game-included encyclopedia, I was breezing through the early cases . When I got to Super Gumshoe level, though, the drama stepped "it" up a notch. Big Ben had been stolen. I was shocked, as I always am when virtual events take place, but I was already on the trail. The criminal liked art by an impressionist who specialized in painting ballerinas. I figured this had to be either Mary Cassatt or Edgar Degas, so I went to check my trusty sidekick when... gasp! The encyclopedia was gone! All that remained was a note reading: "You are hired to solve the mystery of where your encyclopedia is. A little birdie told us you should start in London..."

Was there a signature on the note, you inquire? Yes. It was James Dean's!

"Non sequiturs are so not cool."

In two days I'm going to Chicago. I think I have friends there, so I might hang out with them. They'll probably pressure me into doing things I otherwise wouldn't do, and I'll end up appeasing them by creating the following interactive game. It's called Turncoat Harry, and it features you telling me to do strange things in Europe. Do you want me to have a threesome with a member of the Royal Family and a bowler hat? Do you want me to swim up and down the Thames wearing nothing but a French flag? Do you want me start a sitcom on the BBC called "Running through Threshires"? Then suggest these things! Not only will I read the suggestions, but I may even laugh at them! Everyone has fun playing Turncoat Harry! Everyone, that is, except propriety.

I read the first Paddington Bear story today, seeing as how I'll soon be living next to Paddington station. It was cute. Like a bear from Darkest Peru.

"I'm even cuter when sculpted with eyes."

In one day (meaning Friday) the most important event of my year is occurring: My mom is buying a bird! If bird jokes were hilarious before my family housed a bird, I can't imagine how topically hilarious they'll be when there actually is a bird in the house. I can already picture myself letting you people in at the door, walking you past the cage, and introducing you to my "fine feathered friend." He'll be cleaning himself, and I'll say something like "It's hard out there for a primp!" And because you haven't watched Leno this week, you would've only heard a joke referencing that song twice in the last week and it will still be awesome.

I wonder what my mom will name the bird. I'm guessing the Harry Potter lobby in my family will push for something like Hedwig, but you can count on me to pressure for the only name a bird of comedy should have: Eddie Gizzard.

A crossdressing bird of comedy, I mean.

Opposites A Tracked

See what I did there? Just a bit of wordplay, for all you lexo-junkies. I know (sic hallucinate) you're out there, searching for blog posts with avant-titles so that you can sign the authors up for your hot new e-magazine Alphabit. Well, I'm not going to let my friend Chris be the only one you hire. I'll make jokes with any letter of the alphabet you tell me to. Yeah, I'll do a K joke. Why not? I'm a rebel, and I'm willing to put my image on the line for an opportunity with your publication.

I do nudity, too.

I get all mascoty when I'm nude.

Tonight was either the apex of my life or the antapex (what a word! *cough*) I know I introed with the same kind of set-up last night, mentioning I was both depressed and elated, but this time I'm for real. Last time, I was only kind of real, like a dog ghost. I was also kind of hissy, creating a voice for the soul purpose of "hating on" (I can be urban, too) television bloggers. So I guess I was more of a cat ghost. But now that I'm fully apparated, I can separate myself from last night's vendettas and move on with an honest desire to communicate my new divergent realities.

By the way, I maintain that V for Vendetta is the greatest love story of our movie generation. Unless you're a hot girl and you didn't like it. Cuz then it sucked. What do you like? (note my charisma)

And thus we reach the topic d'noche (how cosmopolitan!) - hot girls. Tonight I called in to a TomGreen.com show entitled "Girl Talk." The format is a bit complex but I'll try to summarize. 4 hot girls hang around Tom Green's LA house, drink, eat bagels, and take calls. It's confusing, I know, and I'm sure you have questions, so I'll answer them in turn. Umm...guy in the red shirt:

Guy in the Red Shirt
I was wondering why you - a seemingly well-adjusted young man with a college education - would call in to such a show?

An excellent question, and this is where I become uncertain on the current extremity, good or bad, of my life. One explanation I've theorized is that I'm still somewhat drawn into the whole Hollywood scene. I hate so much of it, and my people told me I had to get out before I became the next River Phoenix; nevertheless, there are hot girls there. And when I see them in real life I molt, so I need to call in to their shows instead. Additionally, I love the thought that I called Tom Green's house tonight. By no means does this compare to the aforementioned Chris's pubescent call to Alex Mack's house, but it's still a fun piece of kitsche. Umm... guy in the green shirt:

Guy in the Green Shirt
What exactly did you talk about when you were on the show?

I actually got to chat for about 5 minutes, as I was in the super-minority of callers that didn't call in only to scream a profanity. I asked them why they thought Angelina Jolie was hot, which led to a brief look at Kirsten Dunst's attractiveness, which unrelatedly led to video game talk, and so on. I wasn't very witty, as it's difficult talking on the phone to 4 tipsy girls who aren't really paying attention and are also hot. Also, to those of you who don't know me, my voice kind of resembles the sound effect heard when Link opens a treasure chest, so that made things hard, too. Umm... guy in the green shirt who is wearing pants:

Guy in the Green Shirt who is wearing pants
Do you happen to have a transcript of the conversation your friend Chris once had with Larisa Oleynik?

You're referring of course to the actress who played Alex Mack. Unfortunately I do not have what you desire; however, I do have a proposed transcript of how a phone conversation between those two would unfold in the modern day. Read:

Chris: Hey, uhh...
Alex Mack: Yes?
Chris: Uhhh, is this Larisa?
Alex Mack: Who is this?
Chris: Uhh, I just want you to know that I live with my girlfriend now so I don't think I should be stalking you anymore.
Alex Mack: You found my number and called in the middle of the night to tell me that?
Chris: Oh my god were you asleep? I'm sorry. Go back to bed.

Chris, you fool. Thanks for making me feel better about my lack of phone prowess, even if your quoted conversation is only hypothetical. I think we have time for one more question. Umm... guy who's painting mustard mustaches on those other guys:

Guy who's painting mustard mustaches on those other guys
I believe earlier in your post you were making parenthetical notes to hint at the qualities you'd bring to a word-based magazine. What ever happened to that bit?

A revealing question, but an acceptable one. I actually joined the staff of Phontastic! about midway through the post, but when I mentioned I'd talked to hot girls things got complicated. My fellow editors argued that hot girls are the greatest enemy a man of words can have. Their beauty outshines even the glossiest dictionary, and a single look from their eyes can steal syllables straight from the mouths of men who would otherwise be great. The editors have a point, I concede, but I left anyway. I just can't stop talking to hot girls. So now I work for the gun magazine You're Dead instead.

Unless you're a hot girl and you don't like that, I mean.

According to research, hot girls might wear something like this.

Analys Is (The Xtreme post)

I am oscillating right now between depression and elation. You will discover why in the following post.

Lissy65 has signed on. Hi, Lissy here. Thanks for joining us. I'm doing the minute-by-minute report for Harry's post tonight. He started off with two sentences, explaining his current state of mind. Let's see where he goes.

Bad news first I guess, or so my doctor suggests. Unfortunately, the good news after my check-up today was, "There's a KerPlunk marble in your liver." That was actually the bad news, too, but I'm glad I can finally start up my KerPlunk tournaments again. So-called friends had suggested I just buy normal marbles to replace the lost, but the roundness of Milton Bradley's balls really is irreplaceable.

To make my KerPlunk paragraph funnier, read it in the style of Woody Allen.

Lissy65: Harry's making a reference to KerPlunk. I think it's a game or something.

Anyway, I'm a bit depressed because of what I experienced viewing-wise tonight. At first I watched some decent baseball(which no one wants to read about); however, I then made the poor choice of watching Tom Green's internet show. This is no fault of Mr. Green, nor of the guests I tuned in to check out (G4's Kevin Perreira and Olivia Munn), but rather of some killjoy skater Tom let hang around. "Jeremy" seemed to forget that alternative sports personalities are supposed to be Xtreme. Instead he just whined and moaned about how much everything "sucks." Such action may be considered superlative, or "extreme," in a negative sense, but to be Xtreme with a capital X and missing E you have to do something like this:

1. Open up a MySpace account.
2. Post a picture of yourself dying your hair while getting a tattoo.
3. Put up a background with skulls on it.
4. Have a Sum 41 song play on the page. I'm pretty sure they're still hip.

Lissy65: I'm back. Harry's typing about Xtreme things now. I think he's trying to be funny.

I'm becoming more and more depressed as I post. I'm working on creating the MySpace profile detailed above, but the service bullied me into typing a 10-character verification code multiple times on account of unsatisfactory passwords. First I had no number; then the password was too similar to my name; then I didn't have enough letters. Eventually I just got totally Xtreme and typed "F***This1", which was accepted. But at what cost? I only achieved in proving that Jeremy's negative extremity really is Xtreme.

Lissy65: Harry just told a MySpace anecdote.
This is my last comment, as I am actually a bot created to satirize Emmy bloggers, and TV bloggers in general, who do nothing but restate exactly what they see. The Daily Show is never less funny than it is when rehashed on TVSquad. Inaneness realized. Program terminated.
Lissy65 has exploded.

And now I've reached the absolute pit of depression. I just requested that DeadCandy be my friend and she rejected me. She called me a poser and said she'd seen more Xtreme profiles on eHarmony.com. I can't take this. I need a friend fast to get me out of this night alive...




Yes! CompInstaller just accepted me. He seems like a really nice guy. He has two daughters (7 and 4). He administrates the network at a paper outlet in Nebraska (Go Cornhuskers!) And he's really thinking about purchasing an HDTV. F Xtremity. This is my kind of people. Finally, after a long night of nothing, I can relax in an aura of...

Elation.

****************************

Edit: DeadCandy just accepted me and said she was totally kidding before. That rocks. Sorry CompInstaller, but I've got some videos of me smashing vending machines to upload.

XTREME

Sponsor my Funeral

Sinking into one of my more contemplative moods today, I imagined what it would be like to have a friend who is a scientist. I know some "actuarial scientists" out there will argue that, rhetorically, they are both my friends and scientists. However, my definition of scientist requires that said person work with test tubes 90% of the time. 'Tis a simple definition, as derived from the "It's what they're always doing in the pictures on those grade school worksheets" method. Unconvinced? Ask yourself: Have you ever seen a doctor without a stethoscope? Have you ever seen a clown not juggling? Have you ever seen a dog not grow healthy bones after eating a delicious bowl of Alpo(TM)? I highly doubt it all. If you answered "yes" to any of these questions, you must exist in a slightly alternate dimension, and I will resist shaking your hand in the future out of the fear you'll pull me in there.

Speaking of the future, this sentence exists, relative to your reading, in the future of the previous.

Speaking of the future in terms of non-meaningless observations, I also contemplated today the arrangement of my funeral. If I died in the near future, how would the people I want to attend my "Rockin' Dead Year's Eve" party get the invite? Yes, Dick Clark would come to complain about my posthumous misuse of his television event title; and yes, my parents could probably contact a majority of my Wisconsin friends; but what about the rest? What about all of my Los Angeles friends? I don't think my extra role on Quintuplets (look for me in episode 103 under the Fox logo) warrants me an IMDB news alert, so my pal Topher Grace will miss the message. And Stan Lee hasn't talked to me since I pointed out some missing pixels on Wolverine's right index claw in X-Men Legends II, so I doubt he'll even care if I want him there.

Stan and me during the best of times, when we were friends and I was Mexican.

And what about that kid I'm hiding from everyone? She's going to be 3 this November, and her name is Chandyce, as presented by Dentyne Ice. I don't want her growing up with the guilt of having missed her father's funeral. Nor do I want her growing up with the relief that her kidnapper is dead. (I never specified why I was hiding her.)

Sigh. Dying is going to be an organizational nightmare. Unless... Yes! That's it! I'll hire strippers for the event so that everyone shows up! I'll hire policewoman strippers! And firemen strippers! And poodle strippers! Every man, woman, and beast in earshot will rush to the raging techno beat of my final farewell, as my ashes are tossed out over the river I've travelled so much in my dreams - China's mighty Yangtze.

I'm so glad this problem is solved. Now I can relax and peruse some BBC News...

NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

HiberNation

If I were a bear running for office, I would definitely call my campaign HiberNation.

My fortnight of absence, although disappointing*, has not been without event. I've heard and seen things that''ll turn your hair red and your eyes a soft shade of fuschia, and I'm not even referring to a hipster concert. I'm talking big things. End of the universe things. Cats and dogs, living together... oh you get the reference. How very postmodern of me.
(*to few).

THINGS I'VE HEARD

1. John Madden's aristocracy.
As my channel-flipping fingers lingered on a preseason football game, obviously embalmed in a passing dextral coma, I heard John Madden give his opinion. The debate at hand was whether or not there should be a shorter preseason, so as to cut down on the number of meaningless weeks and unnecessary injuries. John stated he favors the status quo of more exhibiton match-ups, because "you'd have to pay the players more if you had more regular season games." An interesting point by a multimillionaire, especially given that players, as far as I know, are not contracted by the week.

2. Alan Thieke.
My mom and I drove my sister to college in Ohio this week, and at some point we decided to eat. How very traditional of us. Whilst eating, I swore I heard Alan Thieke talking at a table somewhere behind me, so I threw this observation into my own table's conversation. Usually when I offer such remarks I'm rebuffed with a pause and an attack on my sanity, but this time my mom concurred. "Yes. I heard that, too." The obvious conclusion is: Alan Thieke sat somewhere near me and was talking. That puts me one degree away from Kirk Cameron, and two degrees away from God.


3. Birds.
I can't really remember hearing any birds over the revving of my Mario Kart DS engines, but I must have heard some. Maybe a robin? By the way: What do you call a bird from Vienna who has lots of money? An Aust-rich!

THINGS I'VE SEEN

1. Mandalorians.
If you know who Mandalorians are, you are a super-nerd and are welcome to attend my "Jar-Jar Sundays" brunches. Lately it's just been me and Professor Panda Bear, so your presence would be more than welcome. (I don't know how much more I can stand listening to the prof talk about his ex-wife. Ugh. I get it. Melony was a "bamboo whore." Move on.)


Oh, and this point actually refers to my complete indulgement in Star Wars: Knights of the Old Republic over the last two weeks. A great game. Play it. And may the force be with you. (Topical!)

2. More video games.
I can't believe I'm yet to blog about G-Phoria, G4's video game awards. I swear I will, right after I finish a few games of Crossbow on my Atari 7800. (Topical!)

Two paths diverged in a retro game. I chose the one less monsterful.

3. Guarded borders.
My friend Daniel moved down to Richmond, Virginia last week, and as nice as he is when he's in Wisconsin, he's an intolerant bobby down South. As I travelled near Ohio's southern border on my aforementioned trip, I noticed Dan driving parallel on the Kentucky side. He swore he'd lynch me if I crossed the line a moment before my summer tan faded into glorious white, so I kept clear. He may be a bobby, but he's also a man of his word. Then again, he also swore he'd knife me if I ever used the term "bobby," and so far as I can tell my body remains blade-free since '93.

4. The future.
I know all you Emmy-lovers are going to soon be blogging about your event parties and the delicious crepes your 35-year old neighbor brought over and the baby pictures Maude showed off during the 9:15 commercial break, but while you all are doing that, I'll be hanging with an age group I'm legally banned from hanging with: teens. I watched a few minutes of the Teen Choice Awards tonight, and I learned all I need to know about awesomeness. Where else can you see Ashley Olsen present an award with Soul Plane show-stealer Snoop Dogg? Where else can you see a jelly-filled Britney introduce the world-premiere performance of her husband K-Fed's newest rad beats? My eyes were loving it; however, due to some bloodcurdling screams when Johnny Depp appeared onstage, my ears were not.

And that's why I can never write about the THINGS I'VE HEARD again. A tragic ending, in the vein of Shakespeare himself. How very Victorian of me.

Shakespeare Federline? Or creepiest photoshop ever?

I Like Candy

Sugar makes my teeth hurt a bit nowadays, but the memories are worth it. I once bought rock candy in Mark Twain's hometown of Hannibal, Missouri. And I once ate a lemon drop I found stuck to the Washington Monument. Both were glorious, unforgetful events, even though the second one was fictional.

I'm just passing by to share with you an article I found in the Mansfield Post-Gazette-Picayune this week. It concerns me, and it concerns the past. It doesn't concern candy. Enjoy, or as I now say (as of now), "Educate yourself."

**********************************

"Boy for Sale?" By Rick Delaney

Thursday night, Harry B., 23, of Brookfield, Wisconsin (whose grandfather was a coalminer), went to bed with the self-satisfaction of a man confident he'd written a blog entry racy enough for the "Most Controversial Post" Bloggy award. He was certain his brain would rest in the comfortable knowledge of future trivial ceremony. However, as Harry drifted into sleep, his arrogant predictions began to prove themselves faulty, for his brain decided its greatest rest would be achieved through no rest at all.

In the first known case of brain-vacation, Harry's brain actually lifted itself out of its headslot and pleasured itself in a variety of activities. Witnesses, which include Harry's cats Starlight and Midnight, say the brain made little mention of why it was leaving for the night, though each theorized on the reasoning. Starlight proffered the possibility that the brain was "sick of thinking about 'important issues' like race and international relations. It didn't want to deal with Harry's human desire for meaning any more. In fact, it didn't believe Harry and his conversation partners understood the purpose of their brains. Brains exist to facilitate the survival and enjoyment of life, which they achieve quite nicely in us felines. Brains do not exist to trouble themselves with the follies of others - follies which are often entirely unreasonable and unresolvable anyway given the current state of humanity." Midnight, on the other hand, supplied the following statement: "Mew."

To the best of our knowledge, the first leisure in which the brain partook was voting. Perhaps entertained by the irony of voting for something with no potential for violent fallout, the brain headed over to G-Phoria to vote for G4's annual video game awards. A significant amount of time was spent at the site, suggesting that even though the brain was having fun, it was having fun by sincerely thinking about its vote. We at the newspaper do not suggest you vote in this election unless you are willing to think about your vote equally hard. We at the newspaper also deny that we make this suggestion only to keep you from affecting results on which we've gambled our entire publication. By the way, enjoy our special issues next week, which will either focus on our new gold-plated paper or our insider-reporting on robbery.

Providing a nice segue, Harry's brain then headed out to local neighbors' houses to gather any attractive property it found unguarded. The brain must have realized that it was National Night Out, a night on which families and police celebrate their community's safety by gathering in one place and leaving the rest of the city an anarchic free-for-all. The brain is said to have scored an XBox 360 (possibly for more voting research), two toaster-ovens, and a birdcage filled with money.


With the night coming closer to its close, Sir Brain (as it chose to recreationally appoint itself), quickly put some notes together for the hidden instrumental track on The Silent Explosion's forthcoming album The Devil Rounds Down. Witnesses again included just Starlight and Midnight, with Starlight saying the record sounded "as rocking as anyone would expect from the dark lord's newest melodists" and Midnight purring softly. The Post-Gazzette-Picayune will feature exclusive inserts on this young band's rise to the top, in addition to its subsequent fall, in future issues.

As the sun rose over the tiding sea, the brain returned to its proper place, where it was heard to whit these parting lines: "I have had my fun. Now I shall hope that Harry has his."

When asked about the event, Harry had this to say: "That, like, totally blows my mind. It's like my brain is a Furby or something." Apparently, Harry remembers nothing from the night except a dream his brain had placed on loop.

In the dream, Harry existed as a Wolverine-like mutant who used his powers to do nothing, but instead revived a theatrical version of Snow White. Profits from the performance were meant to support the underpriveleged theme park workers who were acting in the play; however, on opening night a robotic motorcycle attacked the star of the show and ripped up his patented Zenedine (Zizou) Zidane jersey. Harry chased the robot, actually putting his Wolverine powers to use briefly, but it was too late as the jersey had already been ripped to shreds. A fat Italian guy gathered the pieces of fabric and held them up dramatically. Seeing this, the actors gathered around the Italian and the relic and marched back into the theater, where the audience was still waiting four hours after the announced start time. "Zizou! Zizou! Zizou!" the congregation chanted, and everyone applauded, clapped, and cried.

- RD

"It's like my brain is a Furby or something."

Q-R-S-T-Jew-V

I'm telling you: They sneak themselves into everything. Even the alphabet.

But enough anti-Semitism. Even though it's totally in right now, due to Israel's invasions and Mel Gibson's tirades, it's only in for 1 or 2 jokes a night. I need to spread this out to fall, when all the big designers release next season's trends. I'm hoping to blaspheme some kind of Oriental race, but I know the hot topic's going to be Mexicans again, given congressional elections. Ugh. That was so spring. At least I can always count on Leno for a hilarious Arabic turban joke. They wear towels on their heads! Ha! I get it! They're so different!

If you can't tell, I'm trying to be satirical. In real life I don't mock entire races. I only mock members of races in specific towns, e.g. blacks in Brown Deer, Wisconsin. And I don't as much mock them as I do hate them. Stop walking across the middle of high-speed roads! It doesn't matter what time of the day I'm driving through Brown Deer, there's always a black man waiting on the side of the street until my car gets close so that he can start walking in front of me at a non-intersection. This has happened at least 5 times, which is more than enough to support a stereotype. I honked at "one of them" today, trying to give him a scare, but of course the liberal blogosphere has already attacked me by pointing out that there actually was a walkpath for this man. The one time I make a mistake and everyone wants to jump on me for it. Please, I'm trying to secure the roads for all drivers of all races. My aggressive gesture was necessary, and although it misfired upon an innocent, it does not in any way suggest I should stop honking. Besides, that "innocent" guy was black, and they're not as good as us.

Satire alert again! Phew. Writing satire is like eating a thick gouda. It really starts to weigh heavy inside of you and make you feel gassy. I'm sure you readers feel somewhat similarly on your end, so here's a glass of absurd skit to wash it all down with:

Hardware Store

Scene 1

BOB (to clerk): I'm looking at a couple of those ladders up there. I really like the length of the first one, but I'm also attracted to the color of the second.
CLERK: Well, which do you prefer? The former or the latter?
BOB: I already told you I wanted a ladder!

Scene 2

BOB: I don't think I want this toilet anymore.
CLERK: What? You were just about to buy it!
BOB: Yeah, but that was a couple of minutes ago.
CLERK: What's changed since then?
BOB: All the urine in my bladder evaporated. Now I don't need a toilet anymore!

Scene 3

BOB: My mom once told me that comedians either go to heaven or kill their wives. Which do you think it is?
CLERK: I don't really see why the choice is only between those two fates, but I'd like to believe the first option.
BOB: Then why do you keep trying to sell me the ladder!

Climbing the Hollywood latter.

I hope you enjoyed that brief passage of levity, for I would like to end in memoriam today. I've written an elegy for E3 (the electronic entertainment expo), which has recently been dissolved. Best wishes to you all in these difficult times, and mozzeltoff.

Oh E3; you were a part of me.
I was like a chip inside your huge robotic brain.
What you taught, I learned,
Through your robotic circulatory system.

Now.
Rhyme.

I learned about Guitar Hero 2, upon your hallowed floors.
I learned the PS3 would cost me more than 40 whores.
I learned that Spore would let me be the king of my own world.
I learned I had a baby, and I learned it was a girl.

Rest In Pixels.

And the Mystery Is...

I should've written this post last night, but I couldn't. I naively glanced at my previous essay, blacked out, and woke up 2 hours later with over 100 open browser windows containing search results for "Kelly Clarkson phone number." I have no regrets. The concert continues to be as life-changing and life-affirming as ever; meaning, by definition, my life hadn't been affirmed until last weekend. Was I a ghost? (Twist!)

Whilst you ponder that mystery, I have a few more for you in my Top 5 Mysteries of the Summer countdown. I wasn't so sure these mysteries even existed until last night (sic 2 nights ago), when a conversation concerning the WNBA opened my eyes. An oft-arising debate between friends asked whether the WNBA is a step forwards or backwards for women. Nothing got resolved (mirroring the Washington Mystics' frontcourt issues - hello? you need a power forward), but all the while an important fact evaded us: The WNBA brought Swin Cash to prominence, which coupled her nominally with Jonny Cash, which eventually birthed the hit double EP We Ain't Related, Or So They Say, which is the greatest baller/crooner album of all-time.


The mystery behind that fact: It's not a fact at all. Enjoy!

Top 5 Summer Mysteries

1. Songs - Art is always impossible to grasp, and that goes doublefold for this summer's radio music. From the inexplicable faux-reggae beat of Paris Hilton's "Stars are Blind" to the Fray/Daniel Bedingfield/Etcetera piano melody underlying every whitey song to the complete lack of any variety in KissFM's "here is a mid-paced R&B song about falling in love" playlist, mystery abounds. A warning: Listening to KissFM while driving more than 5 miles on a Wisconsin freeway will confuse your brain into thinking it's entered a neverending loop. If you must endure this crazy mindgame, bring something that changes to remind yourself that the world is progressing through time. My suggestion for something that changes: A caterpillar.

2. People who live with no resources - On our drive through Waukesha county, we drove past a wide array of aluminum-sided factories and outlet stores. Amongst this capitalist sprawl, however, was not one center for the obtainment of survival goods. No grocery stores. No restaurants. No gas stations. No anything with the resources necessary to live, yet houses hid everywhere. There weren't even any schools. Tell me: If you weren't educated, how would you survive? Ask a passenger pigeon. Oh wait, you can't. They're dead because didn't have schools.

3. Abandoned schoolbuses - This is a pretty straightforward mystery, also encountered on our midnight drive. Of course, a skeleton manned the steering wheel. And compounding the conundrum was this eerie truth: The skeleton winked at me.

4. Sandhill cranes - A bird never seen before by anyone (given the sample polling group of me and Dan), this terrifying species has now appeared at both my backyard in Brookfield (first) and Dan's neighborhoood in Oconomowoc (second). Observe the presumed flightpath:

We think they took a car.

This development sounds shockingly similar to our currently-on-the-shelf kangaroo disaster movie, with one huge difference: Sandhill cranes are real killers. We all know kangaroos actually just sit around and look cute (thus the genius irony of our movie), yet sandhill cranes are really truly known for spearing dogs with their beaks and chasing famous birdwatcher John James Audobon into a river. I no longer go into my backyard without fencing attire and an instructor. I suggest you prepare similarly. If you're cornered by one of these monsters, it will be very difficult to WORM your way out of it. Cuz birds like WORMS.

5. Conclusions - How many times can someone make an overly clever blog ending and get away with it? Isn't it a bit predictable to end a mystery post with a....

MURDER!

Alienation = Life

Following is a review of the single most defining moment in a trio of young men's lives. Forgive the lack of humor, as this post must devote itself entirely to the recreation of an event that, if captured accurately, could set progress ahead thousands of years.

Saturday, July 22, 2006, 1st Time Era - Patrick H, Arun A, and Me I embarked on a journey that would transform our present from one of subtle meaning to one of extreme, technicolor magnifecence. We threw caution to the wind and took our first steps towards real evolution. We knew things would be different, but we didn't realize the entire structure of society would reimagine itself upon our actions.

We attended a Kelly Clarkson concert.

Our anticipation, albeit slightly tempered by the only opening act willing to wave its own band flag around during a set (Rooney), would eventually erupt in a silent explosion.

The alienation of three grown men surrounded by a sea of 10-year olds could only remove so much wind from our sails when the lights finally went out and the show begun. Hark! What's that there on the horizon? It's the silhouette of a man playing the wooded violin. Why, he plays so melodically and beautifully. Surely no human is capable of accompanying this glorious tune. Hark forth! Another silhouette. Surely no creature of flesh and bone could approach so near the bow-gliding master. Nay! 'Tis a goddess! 'Tis Kelly Clarkson! The masses scream, whilst we three adventurers enter Utopia with the quiet respect of those who know they have reached the Promised Land.

The legend of Kelly Clarkson is a well-travelled one. Forced to endure the scum pit that is Fox reality television, Kelly Clarkson was the first and only person to emerge from the process with some shine of sincerity and personality remaining. Having done so, she ascended into heaven and is seated at the right hand of the father. All others who attempt to approach this city of God must (ahem) walk away, and still more must face the curse of horrible plagues - gay rumors, fat jokes, country singing, incredibly annoying soulless gray hair Dodge commercial singing. Meanwhile, Kelly's once-rival Justin Guarini mines the fires of Hell. And seriously, what was with his hair?

Returning to Kelly's most recent visit to Earth, she blessed the crowd with a blood-bubbling rendition of "Behind these Hazel Eyes." Patrick H feinted, almost cracking his head on a cement corner of the amphitheater. Yet just as his skull was about to meet its ultimate moment of cohesion, Kelly ordered salvation, cautiously lifting Pat into an upright position with a collection of slow songs via the power of 3/4 legato.

Showing that she still sympathized with humanity, Kelly performed a piece for New Orleans in front of a set shaped to resemble the swampy bayou. The mood was, for the moment, calm and relaxed, lulling many lesser fans into their seats. Yet these same seats were soon forgotten when a wolf appeared in the upper branches of one of the moss-covered trees on set! What was this beast doing in the midst of Kelly's vocal charity? Would he ruin everything for everyone forever? GASP! He would! The wolf jumped on Kelly and in one bestial swoop swallowed her whole.

Mothers consoled their young. Nuns tended to the sick. A city fell quiet.

Hark hark hark! The wolf began to convulse. Indeed, Texas fatty would not be on its menu tonight nor ever again as Kelly cut her way out of the wolf's belly with a shining sword. The glint of the blade revealed a sexy new outfit as well, which was soon stripped to reveal the old outfit once again.

The city rebirthed! Textile prices boomed! Keeping wolves as pets was banned! And Kelly sang! Oh, did she sing! Song after song immersed the crowd in a euphoria that was 1-part euphoria, 2-parts megaeuphoria. Alchemists have since attempted to duplicate the sensation with hallucinogenic compositions of all flavors, but all have failed, and all have been put to death.

And then it ended. Kelly left the stage by (ahem) walking away (ahem ahem). We were sad it was over, but we knew the goddess gave us what we deserved. She knew what was best for us, just as Scott Baio knew what was best for those girls on Charles in Charge, just as I know that inane television references are best for this blog. Pat, Arun, and I started to roll up our tongues, tuck our eyes back into their sockets, and collect the loose change we'd lost in jumping.

!!!!##!$#$#%#$@#$#$!@#!#@@@##@

Oh. My. Gosh.

She reapparated, literally thirty feet away from our second tier seating. She stood amongst the commoners, far away from her pillar of stage, and waved at us as if she were one of we! Despite the spotlight in her face, I swear she caught my loving stare, for into my heart flew this mantra: "Alientation is Life."

She was right, as she is always right. We twenty-something college graduates felt a bit out of place when we entered the arena that night. We weren't sure we belonged in this particular crowd of believers. And we didn't. But because of that, and because of a brilliant performance by the greatest pop star in generations, we never felt more alive.

Rest in Peace: Past.
Live in Brilliant, Kelly-Induced Chaos: Future.

Shangri-La.

'Field

Because our kangaroo disaster movie unexpectedly stalled out, my creative partners and I are producing a Laguna Beach/Hillz type show in the L.A. of the Midwest - Brookfield, Wisconsin. We haven't exactly cast parts yet, but I want my character (sic "real person") to be named Brady. Not only is the name supercool, but it will serve a fine memorial to late Orioles outfielder Brady Anderson. May Thor grant him everlasting peace in the form of lightning.

The greatest dead ballplayer alive.

As usual, I'm here to give you media freaks a sneak peek at the action in our upcoming series. Sit back, grab a potato snack, and enjoy this preview of (cue Death Cab's "New Year")...

'Field:

**************************

Scene: Tina and Lynda get ready for a party.

TINA: So I heard Brady's coming back from college for this party.
LYNDA: Yeah I heard that, too. Oh my god your skirt is so cute.
TINA: Don't you love it? I got it at (insert sponsor name).

(Cue Fallout Boy.)
City driving shot.
City shot.

Scene: The party.

TINA: Hey Brady, you're back. Happy Flag Day.
BRADY: Whatever.
TINA: What's up with you, Brady? Ever since you went to college it's like you don't even care about our Flag Day parties anymore.
BRADY: Things change.
TINA: Yeah. They do.

Brady leaves the party. (Cue "Boys of Summer" - the new version, obviously.)
City shot.
Beach shot.

Scene: Mike and Lynda walk a lonely beach.

MIKE: ....
LYNDA: ...
MIKE: ....
LYNDA: Wow. There's like no one here. Do you think this beach gets lonely?
MIKE: ...
LYNDA: ...
MIKE: (Chuckles)
LYNDA: (Smiles)

Lynda puts her head on Mike's shoulder. (Cue Avril Lavigne's "I'm With You.")
Wide beach shot.
Credits.

************************

I'm already sweating under the increased humidity of your salivation, but if you think that's good, wait until I put Sir Dan in charge of the music. Unlike me, he knows more than five modern songs (apparently ragtime isn't considered modern anymore? When did that happen?).

Oh, and if this production fails, you're just going to be stuck watching a live-action reprisal of farming sim game Harvest Moon, featuring hours of me standing in a garden with my Gamecube controller pressing "A" next to crops.

So please, donate your enthusiasm and loyalty generously. We promise we'll provide the angst, on the next...

'Field.

A. A. A. A. A. A. A.

To Push Down the "Man"

Look! There are two posts here! This one mostly created to hide the picture of Sean Hannity I included previously during a forest-mushroom induced hallucimagination.

As all who've touched me in the last week know, I am now anatomically connected to my Nintendo DS Lite. When you touch my finger, I move one step closer to winning the girl in the silhouetted dating game Feel the Magic. When you touch my hair, I picto-chat via wifi with all other DS owners in the vicinity. The conversation usually goes, Me: (Draws a smiley face.) Others: F off old man.

Women's faces only display their menopausal scorn.

Well now I'm just an older man, kids. Nintendo gave President Bush a DS Lite complete with Brain Age for his 60th birthday. That means two things. One, I have to work even harder on the "Head Count" mini-game, in which I'm supposed to keep track of how many people enter and leave a house; I can no longer be sure which figures are people and which are "enemy combatants." Two, I now have to buy the DS version of Animal Crossing so that I can sneak into Bush's fantasy village and chop down all his trees in the night. You cut down real trees, Mr. President, I cut down your pixellated ones. No blood for oil, no I won't trade you my zigzag shirt for your cabin-style wallpaper.

Moving on to another friend of the president, one Emmy category pits Stephen Colbert against, among others, Barry Manilow. Is the Academy trying to feed Mr. Colbert jokes, or is this the first we're seeing of what I dub the "Dakota Effect"? (Dakota Fanning can vote for Oscars) She's the most discerning 12-year old I've ever seen (I heard she won't eat chocolate-based ice cream!), and I know she wouldn't have just let this nomination absurdity slide by without some purpose. What do you want, Dakota?

WHAT DO YOU WANT?!?!?!?!?!

(Scene. Vote for me.)

The unabashed joy of someone who still respects the Oscars.