If you need cheering up..

This makes me happy

The downward spiral of human ingenuity

How did we go from



and

to


and god forbid



**A strange note, if you read Garfield with the voice of Jerry Seinfeld it somehow fits really well**

I really miss the days of good newspaper comics like Calvin and Hobbes or The Farside. Comics use to be able to make you laugh, be insightful and also pull at your heartstrings. Unfortunately this is now rare, and when it happens it almost seems accidental. So, I guess, I'll end with this. One of my favorites.

The illusive nature of hooks

Frequently, I lose things. At least I misplace them with such abundance that I usually spend more time searching for a particular good than I actually spend using the damn thing. Many people have this bad habit regarding small and mundane items like their car keys, or their iPod. I suffer in this area as well, but have perfected my affliction frequently misplacing things that, some might say, are rather difficult to lose; hammers, pets, siblings, my car and most recently my entire wardrobe of pants (clean and dirty alike) have all fallen victim to my propensity for misplacement. Frequently I accomplish this while simultaneously using/interacting with the object/person. Essentially, I've gone pro.

While comforting to know I'm highly proficient at something, it's also incredibly inconvenient. As a result I've developed a rather methodical approach to rediscovering my personal property. A method which principally involves walking around my house, hands outstretched [ala Marry Shelly] at eye level. While rather unhelpful while trying to find my parking space or my pet turtle (Speedy. Wasn't I clever?), it often it yields the object I was looking for and periodically the discovery of some other absent minded placement.

It has also led to a rather disturbing observation. Unless something is moving, dramatically colored or placed around eye level it might as well be invisible to the general public. The rampant neglect of public hooks is a perfect case study. Every where we go there are hooks placed for our convenience, which no one uses. Under most bars there are coat hooks. In every stall on every ferry I have been on there are coat hooks on the post. Buses, doctors offices, waiting rooms and probably many more. Once noticed it is hard not to notice them empty, with usually a pile of coats on the seat next to the person using occupying that particular space. Sometimes a friend pull up an extra seat because one has unnecessarily been burdened with a pile of dense outerwear.

What this negligence alludes to on a broader or even a societal level, I have no idea. However, in the future, if I want someone to notice something there is a good chance it will be brightly colored and flashing.

Does anyone fist fight in heven?

Just a thought.

If, by some strange magic, we actually have the good fortune of cosmic continuation after the dismissal of our corporal bodies, what happens?

I don't intend this question to be profound in the manner of, "do we exist as light? Do we enter the fields of Elysium? Or do we simply walk around mildly bored eating second rate diner food served by a mildly uninterested waitress named 'Patty' for the rest of eternity?" or any other speculation regarding the manner in which existence is continued.

Rather, do we remain 'us' in the way in which many of people consider their essence.. or soul. Our preferences.. Will we still disregard the French as standoffish and uppity? Will they still regard us as ignorant, loud and under dressed? Will Caddy Shack still be funny? Will there still be racism, bigotry, culture clashes? What about bar fights over the disputed superiority between Aussie rules or American rules football?

As much as we would like to see our petty differences evaporated and expelled from any continuation, It seems that an across the board dismissal of our petty differences might also be a dismissal of who we are as people. Admittedly petty differences have started countless wars. Millions have fallen solely in the name of country, in the name of money, and most frequently in the name of God. However it seems to be our imperfections which give us not only satisfaction, but a sense of identity. Gentrification is a good case and point. A lot of people realized that perfection and similarity in the shape of the suburbs kinda really sucks. Granted, as yuppies move into lower rent neighborhoods they push out the residents who were already living there and can no longer afford to. And that sucks, but isn't really the point.

Anyway, I know this idea isn't completely flushed out is and probably filled with opportunities for annoyingly astute philosophy students to correct me based on some symantic minutia. Putting forward a philosophical argument is not what I am trying to do, just something interesting to think about.

When getting laid poses problems

I got laid off this week. The worst way to get laid ever.

I did however manage to milk my prodeals and so the following things were purchased.

1 Black Diamond climbing harness
1 Black Diamond ATC XP belay device
12 Black Diamond quickdraws
1 New England Rope

Stories and pictures of my adventures on the faces of rock walls will be soon to follow, hopefully. There may also be pictures of x-rays spawned from an over abundance of zeal available soon too. If so, these will also contain a high level of bodacity.

Hero Worship

Laird Hamilton is my hero, or at least one of my top 3. There are many reasons for this. His spirituality and positive outlook on life. His dedication as a father and husband. His utter humility. The way he innovates, and constantly pushes himself not only as a surfer, but as a human. He is one of the few icons left that children can healthily aspire to be with no ill consequences, and as a result he is respected worldwide by people of all walks of life. Oh yeah, and this is what he does for a living...

The wait

Anticipation eats at a person. It's one of those things in life that never really changes even as a person does. When I was six I would sit in class on Fridays and stare at the clock willing it to go faster. Even at that age I knew with all certainty that if I just relaxed, enjoyed my Capri sun and focused on making the the perfect blue swirls in my pencil tray glue sculpture, my torturous wait for scholastic liberation would be easier. Despite this knowledge my stomach was in knots and my concentration was spent on futile attempts of psychokinesis rather than the constant vigilance needed to successfully infuse the white Elmer's glue with beads of the bubbly blue generic work glue from from Albertsons.

My art suffered greatly for it.

As I grew I learned that hosts of other situations can be successfully, even artfully managed. A larger vocabulary allows the expression frustration in ways other than screaming and hurling stuffed animals around my bedroom with enough violence to startle a seasoned war veteran. Broken hearts are eased with cigarettes, whiskey, bad songs and long recitations to bored friends. Successes is usually handled in a similar fashion, replacing only the self loathing beat poet cigarette with the biggest most phallic cigar affordable. An attestment to the masculine dominance over whatever challenge has been overcome. And so on.

Things get easier, or at least dealing with them does. Routines are constructed and adhered to. When perfected it is possible maintain enough dignity to illicit admiration on how bravely you are dealing with the death of Marty the goldfish, because they just don't make goldfish like that one more than once in a lifetime. This can even get you laid.

Anticipation is another beast though. Even with years of work, keeping your sanity is next to impossible. Reason being a routine to deal with the stress of anticipation already exists. A routine your born with, that it self will not die. A routine that is simple, and only involves the losing your fucking mind. Even the most cool and composed are turned into obsessive compulsive dervishes of stress and self sabotage. Any romantically afflicted person waiting for the love interest to return their call is a caustic example of the psychological damage truly achievable by this scary station.

Stare at the phone. Triumphantly announce "Fuck it. I don't even want to see her. I'm going to turn my phone off and meet Greg downtown for a beer." Walk back and forth between the kitchen and the living room for twenty minutes, each time opening the refrigerator and string blankly into the light. Turn the phone off. Flip through the channels fifteen times before lamenting the lack of meaningful programming on these days. Turn the phone back on and check the messages. Sigh and toss the phone into the couch cushions with as much simultaneous indignation and feigned apathy that can be mustered.

Repeat.

Unfortunately romance is not the only circumstance capable of manifesting one of these mild psychotic breaks. An online job posting has done the trick rather nicely in my case. For my convenience the processing status of my application is posted and updated in real time. Though a notification system like this seems banal and even charitable on the part of the company it has wreaked havoc on my daily schedule. Closing date passed I have been checking the website and hitting the refresh button with the desperation of a lab hamster hitting the feeder bar on his cage, trying to get a food pellet out of an empty machine. I am almost surprised that I haven't been sent a message telling me to chill the fuck out, that I needed to be patient.

I think they understand.