Chapter LXXVII: Chicken of Doom

I'm writing this in case I die in my sleep tonight... I'd forgotten how wretchedly disgusting being sick is. Last night, I vomitted three times, and this morning, I had wierd hallucinations while I lay sweating in bed under five blankets. I saw red buckets being filled with sand, and and these were somehow related to the Supreme Court's decision in U.S. v. Morrison. The phrase "duckies in a row" came up a lot too.

It definitely wasn't the same as dreaming, because I was still painfully aware while it was happening. Aware of the headache throbbing right behind the bridge of my nose, the roiling in my stomach, and the fact that I was shivering feverishly like a Substance D junkie suffering withdrawal.

D is for darkness and despair.

No, I don't do drugs. The only thing I can think of is the rotisserie chicken from Albertson's that I ate half of yesterday. I knew there was something suspicious about how it's glistened under the heatlamp. I wasn't even going to buy it at first, but my shopping buddy--who thinks I don't eat enough--coerced me into it.

Thanks a lot, Nicole. Shitkabobs. I just remembered that you took home the other half of the chicken... I should call you about that.

[Update] Full recovery, etc.

Chapter LXXVI: I Once Was Lost

but now I'm found. Was blind, but now I see. After all these years of denial, I admit it...Atheism is untenable. THERE IS A GOD.




And His name is Jägermeister.

World Peace.

Chapter LXXV: Mall Rat

I've spent about 10 hours* at the Mall this week, more mall-time than in the previous two years combined. It was fun at first with all the sights and sounds, but, like a James Joyce character, I was soon disillusioned. The place quickly revealed itself as a meretricious Temple of Consumerism... Each store is a chapel attended by stylish teenage acolytes, where I make burnt offerings of my soul to the steel and plastic idol on the countertop. It gives me a slip of paper in return.

A young woman walked past me with a Mastercard's worth of Indulgences in her shopping bag, trying to buy her way out of a mental Purgatory created by TV ads and magazine covers. Far from the oasis it claims to be, the Laguna Hills Mall is just a wasteland within a wasteland. Orange County sucks (the life out of me).

I guess it's good that I got the jeans situation taken care of, if you know what I mean. Made a goodly sized dent in the short-sleeved polo situation too. The t-shirt situation's been ground into the dust since July, but then again, you can never have too many t-shirts.

Strangely, I was mistaken for an employee twice on the same day. First, at American Eagle, where a man wanted to know if the "I don't mind a little junk in the trunk" shirt was available in XL. I had seen one on the rack a minute ago, so I pointed it out to him. The second time was at a bracelet kiosk in the middle of the concourse. A pubescent white girl comes up to me, points at something, and asks, "Do you have these but like without these things you know what I mean just like you know..." I listen to her politely for about half a minute, with that look of understanding which is my secret code for I have no fucking clue what you are talking about. This was useful in my French class, where the professor only called on people with looked confused, since they "need the most practice." Anyways, when I tell the girl I don't work there, she apologizes effusively: "Oh."

Stupid things I thought about today: (1) Why are they called 'missiles' if the idea is to hit something with them? They should be called hittles. (2) One of my quondam roommates works at the physical headquarters of tennis-warehouse.com. I told him the company should change its URL to tennis-warehouse.net, for obvious reasons. He was not amused.

School needs to start right NOW.

*At least half of this was spent in the bookstore.

Chapter LXXIV: Colorburn

When I was young and stupid (not so long ago), I scoffed at my peers who professed to be avid Photographers, with a capital 'P.' Yeah, whatever, I would silently snort. You're just another kid who thinks he's artistic, but is too lazy to learn how to draw.

In my naive mind, photography was a total cop-out. You just stand there and push a button, and it's over in less than a second. To call photography an art would be an insult to the painters and sculptors who labor for weeks or months over their one-of-a-kind masterpieces.

In fact, I had a very 19th century attitude about art in general. I decried Abstract Expressionism as a cultural tumor (writing an essay to that effect in 11th grade), glorified photorealism (except, ironically, in photographs), and more or less thought that fine art should be time-consuming and unattainable without years of intensive training. Delacroix and Titian were my heroes, Pollack my nemisis, and Ansel Adams was just boring.

But after acquiring a cheap digital camera, and reading a couple books on the subject, I realized that photography is hardly quick and easy, and opening the shutter is only the conclusion of a laborious decision-making process. At the same time, it is also a very immediate experience, choosing which particular second (or 36th of a second) to capture. It this demanding synthesis of planning and spontaneity that makes photography an art form.

And so, in the interest of pushing myself to explore the exciting realm of digital photography, I have started a new photoblog. It is a collaborative effort, and the premise is fairly simple. Every day, we each post one photo to the blog. The catch is, there won't be a traditional caption beneath each image. Instead, we will include some salient bit of the discussion we had about that photograph.

The idea is that I will be instilled with a sense of obligation to keep snapping away and improve as a student of photography*--so as to not let down my coblogger and also to provide a fruitful experience for the random people who stop by.

It is called COLORBURN*. Until I get back to school and my camera, we're both just working through some photos we have piled up on our hard drives, which, in my case, are mostly rather static still-lifes. That will change, rest assured. Keep in mind though, that it will be a daily exercise, so I only expect to produce high resolution and well-composed--but not necessarily stunning--images.

I will, of course, still be posting the occasional riveting observation on the state of the universe here, in this fine venue.

*I would not presume to call myself a photographer.
*Colorburn is a reference to one of the blending modes in Photoshop. I originally reserved the URL as a place to dump art (instead of embedding it into my blog posts) but I never got around to it.

Chapter LXXIII: So to Speak

Blogging...is such an ugly word. It sounds like a contraction of blah and logging, as if it were some kind of unexciting environmental destruction. It occurred to me while I was flipping through the course catalog that a much more respectable term would be "Creative Nonfiction," defined as the inclusion of literary elements in mostly nonfiction writing.

I think I satisfy that definition. Was it not a glorious use of simile when I likened specks of cereal dust in my milk to the frozen bodies floating aimlessly about in Titanic? Was it not a sublime example of extended metaphor when I framed the experience of drinking a glass of juice as a safari? Of course it was! So if I ever fill out a scholarship application, I will confidently write "Creative Nonfiction" in the extracurricular interests section, instead of blah-gging.

But why stop there? Poker sounds seedy also. How about "Applied Statistics?" Yes, that has a nice ring. Going to the gym can be "Applied Kinesiology," or--even better--"Kinesiology Practicum" (Latin = smart, and deserving of scholarships). I don't steal things, I enjoy "Random Acquisition." I don't spend all day on the Internet downloading porn, but I am interested in "Wide-Area Networks Insofar As They Facilitate The Proliferation Of Human Anatomical Imagery."

After all, I'm not lying--just rephrasing things so that they sound nicer. I suppose the best way to describe it would be...creative nonfiction.

Chapter LXXII: Foot the Bill

Ever since Kill Bill Vol. I first flickered before my eyes three years ago, something about the movie has niggled me, like an unscratchable itch. Actually, it wasn't so much the thing itself, which, though inexplicable, is not directly annoying. What bothers me is that whenever I bring up this particular aspect of the film, no one knows what the fuck I'm talking about.

I am referring, of course, to the unaccountably large role that feet play in the cinematography of Kill Bill Volume I. One can almost call it a foot fetish. It's completely obvious to me, and I don't know why I'm the only person who seems to notice it. To make my case once and for all, I have taken the relevant screen captures from the DVD rip. For your consideration:


Besides Uma Thurman's labored breathing, the first sounds in the movie are Bill's footsteps, and the first visual (after Uma Thurman's bloody face) is a close-up of his shoes. All told, the footsteps and the shoes last 38 seconds.

Minutes later (14.3 to be precise), we have a similar segment, but this time of the sherriff's shoes as he ambulates the bloody chapel. It is clearly meant recall the earlier scene, and also features the distinctive footstep sound.


Here, Elle Driver strolls through the hospital whistling that now infamous tune. This segment lasts for 11 seconds.




"Wiggle your big toe." In this scene, not only are feet important visually, but also central to the plot. As you know, it is some time before Uma succeeds in her endeavor.




Another shot from the same scene.








The seventeen year old O-ren Ishii. The scene begins with this shot of her boots and slowly moves up her body.






Here, we have a few seconds of Oren's bare feet quickly traversing the top of the Council table before she decapitates Boss Tanaka. The segment actually shows her feet from a number of angles, of which this represents but one.

An interesting view of Uma as she walks across the...I forget the name of the place. House of Blue Something-or-Other. For some reason 'Pancakes' come to mind. But blue pancakes would be gross.


Oren takes 19 seconds to remove her shoes.






Obviously, there are countless more shots in the movie where feet are visible, what with all the kicking and running about. The point though, is that in Kill Bill Volume I, images of feet are used for cinematographic effect more often than in most movies. That is to say, they are notable in themselves and not just byproducts of the action.

Before you accuse me of combing the movie looking for feet, I only included here segments that immediately leapt out the first time I saw it. In all of them, feet are the dominant visual element for a significant amount of time, and depicted in an artistic manner. As I expressed earlier, I have no idea why Mr. Tarantino chose to feature feet so prominently, but it seems clear to me that he did. OR, I'm psychotic.

I apologize for the stupid title.

Full Disclosure: Site Statistics.

Chapter LXXI: A Toast to Science

Image of the Day: A Study of the Effects of Alcohol Consumption on the Fine Motor Skills of a 130# Male (click to Enlarge)


Research Objectives: To observe (1) how the volume of alcohol consumed affects fine motor coordination and (2) how the passage of time affects the effect of the volume of alcohol consumed on fine motor coordination.

Research Methodology: (1) and (2) above are determined by the relative legibility of the subject's handwriting.

A baseline legibility is established before the subject has consumed any alcohol (first row), at which point a timer is started. At time intervals roughly increasing by factors of two (6 minutes, 14 minutes, 30 minutes), 1 shot of vodka is consumed (each containing approximately 1.2 oz of alcohol), and a handwriting sample is taken, until 1 hour has elapsed.

At that point, no further alcohol is consumed and handwriting samples are taken about every 10 minutes.

Conclusions: Against all rational expectations, it appears alcohol consumption has a marked effect on fine motor skills. The subject's legibility seems to degrade exponentially as time progresses.

Interestingly, it appears that the penmanship progressively deteriorated inward from the end of the alphabet. It is unknown whether this is due to the relative paucity of the latter letters in everyday experience, or simply because the subject's concentration was exhausted by the time he got to them.

Recommendations: Don't drink and write (or drive).

Peer Review: The study attempted to simultaneously track two independent variables (volume of alcohol consumed, and time) rendering the relative weight of each indeterminable. Furthermore, no mechanism has been formulated to quantify the dependent variable--legibility--and so the claim that it deteriorated exponentially is invalid. The study used an absurdly small sample population of one person, who also happened to be the researcher. Thus, double-blind procedure was not followed (or even single-blind procedure), running the risk of confirmation bias. Indeed, it appears this exercise was nothing more than a dumb excuse to become intoxicated, albeit slightly less dumb than previous ones.

Chapter LXX: Snakes on a What?

Image of the Day: Ticket Stub
Despite what my ticket stub would have you believe, I did not watch Snakes on a Plane last night. I almost did. After the first fifteen minutes, though, it was pretty obvious where the setup was heading. It was the worn and weary (some would say tried and true) B-Movie paradigm: an assortment of one-dimensional characters crowded into a confined space, ripe to be killed off one at a time in ridiculously gruesome ways.

Well, Deep Blue Sea came out years ago, and also featured slimy carnivores devouring an arrogant British businessman and a dumb blonde chick. I had also already seen Anaconda, in which slimy carnivores--snakes, no less--devour (you guessed it) an arrogant British businessman* and a dumb blonde*, among others. In all three of these cinematic abortions, the obese black comic relief* always makes it out alive. Speaking of abortion, [update: the rest of this sentence has been removed].

Since I already knew what was going to happen, and nothing unique appeared forthcoming, we decided to forgo what Rolling Stone describes as:

...a murky stew of shock effects repeated so often that the suspense quickly droops along with your eyelids. It's not so bad that it's good. It's so bland that it's boring. Not even worth a hissss.

A hop and a skip away in the next theater, Step Up was about to begin. It stars Channing Tatum (Or is it Tatum Channing? I can never remember) and Jenna Dewan. To be sure, Step Up is as formulaic as Snakes on a Plane. The movie about a wealthy dance student teaching and falling in love with his/her low-income partner has been done innumerably: The Cutting Edge, Strictly Ballroom, Center Stage, Save the Last Dance, Take the Lead, et al.

It does, however, redeem itself by veering away from the most overused conflict arcs. We are spared the snobby parent who tries to squash the budding relationship, the cliché love triangle drama, and the anorexia subplot. Step Up contains a truly unexpected sad moment and grips of impressive dancing, making it enjoyable, dare I say rewatchable. It also has a kickass soundtrack, though I'm not sure if it "defines a generation," as the trailers claim.

By far, the best movie I saw this weekend was the DVD of Kiss Kiss, Bang Bang. Memorable Quote:
Gay Perry: Look up 'idiot' in the dictionary. You know what you'll find?
Harry: A picture of me?
Gay Perry: No! The definition of 'idiot,' which you FUCKING ARE!

*Not to imply that all British businessmen are arrogant, just the ones who are made that way so no one is sad when they are eaten by giant snakes.
*Kenan Thompson, LL Cool J, and Ice Tea, respectively. Not to imply that all black people are obese, just the ones who make it out alive in movies about giant snakes.
*Not to imply that all blonde people are dumb. All blondes are dumb.

Chapter LXIX: The End of the Beginning

A year ago today, I posted the first chapter of this blog. Tempus fugit indeed.

Happy Birthday, Armless Boy.

Image of the Day: Birthday Cake (Found)












Let the festivities begin (this has to be the dumbest excuse to get drunk that I've ever thought of). Cheers!

Chapter LXVIII: Hair Today, Gone Tomorrow

I, being poor, have only my dreams. Dreams aren't legal tender though, so until I make millions of dollars selling my brilliant invention, I am forced go with the cheapest option whenever I need a haircut I can't do myself.

That invariably means some local barber in a rundown shopping center. The flooring is usually yellowed linoleum, and there will be a selection of utterly vapid magazines to peruse, like the March 1993 issue of American Boating. On the back wall is a boy's hairstyle chart that appears to be from the 1950's and show side profiles of fresh-faced white kids with the kinds of haircut that evoke baseball and apple pie.

Half of the scissor happy barbers on duty are ex-Marines whose expertise consists of the generic "boy's short." Alternatively, you might get the Vietnamese lady who feels compelled to chop off your bangs in a straight line across your forehead, no matter what you tell her.

In San Luis Obispo, this place is called University Barbershop, and I went there last week for my first haircut in 4 months. Unexpectedly, it was probably one of the better haircuts I've ever gotten, although I would have liked to keep a tad more on the sides. While my head was being pruned, it occurred to me that barbers have, for some unknown reason, often been portrayed as devious tricksters in literature and the arts.

For example, the oldest story involving haircuts is the tale of Samson and DELILAH and she was definitely tricky, using her feminine wiles to pry out the secret to Samson's strength. To be fair, he was an idiot and didn't make it especially difficult. The first time she asks, he tells her he will lose his strength if she ties him to his bed with 7 bowstrings. Delilah then proceeds to actually do this, so why he would tell her the truth the second time she asks is beyond me.

Maybe something was lost in the translation for Hebrew to Greek? Like, they were actually just flirting the first time she asked, and being tied to the bed was a kinky fantasy Samson wanted to act out.

Fast forward to the 1800's to THE BARBER OF SEVILLE, Rossini's famous opera. In it, the Count Almamiva wants to marry Rosina, but she is locked up by Doctor Bartolo, who wants to marry her himself, so the Count gets his trusty barber, Figaro, to devise a convoluted plan for them to meet. It is unclear why the Count approaches Figaro, unless there is a stereotype of clever barbers.

Continuing on the theme of singing barbers, we find SWEENEY TODD: THE DEMON BARBER OF FLEET STREET, the 1979 Broadway musical. Sweeney Todd, a deranged barber, slits the throats of his customers with a straight razor. His specially designed barber's chair then slides the bodies through the floor to the bakery shop of his neighbor, who cooks the corpses into meat pies. That's pretty devious.

And finally there's BARBERSHOP, which is also about barbers. I haven't actually seen the movie and I'm tired so I'll stop typing now.

[Update] The Inner Critic: Damn, this was a lame post, even for you. Seriously, "BARBERSHOP, which is also about barbers..." Thanks for clearing that up, Jerry. All this time, I thought that a movie titled BARBERSHOP must be about evil gay hamsters who terrorize Chicago, biting off people's scrotums and then clipping their fingernails, all in one swift move. Your stupid discourse about barbers in the arts imploded without reaching anything that resembles a point (or even the ugly cousin of a point), and your "poem" is just a poorly written sentence chopped into seven lines. No wonder you only got one page hit yesterday. Two thumbs down.

Chapter LXVII: Playlistism

From urbandictionary.com:

PLAYLISTISM - n. Discrimination based not on race, gender, or religion, but rather on a disturbingly horrible iTunes music library discovered through a school or job network. Often requires awkward explanation of why you have "that song."

Mike accused me of playlistism when I questioned his collection of Color Me Badd b-sides.

Personally, I've never understood why music is such a big deal, so I was never able to judge people based on it. I enjoy music too, but only as a form of temporary diversion, not in any sort of philosophical way. Call me shallow, but if a song is catchy, I'll listen to it; meaningful lyrics are a plus, but ultimately irrelevant if I can't stand the tune. Also, I have no compunction against removing a single song from the "context" of its album and playing it ad nauseaum, all by itself. I guess I can understand some people's intense feelings about music if I think about it in terms of my own emotional investment in graphic art.

But really, I'm more likely to look down on you based on the newspaper you subscribe to. Los Angeles Times? How parochial. Wallstreet Journal? Stop pretending you're smart. Christian Science Monitor? ...Stay the fuck away from me.

I am often surprised by a person's musical tastes when they seem incongruous with other aspects of his personality. Like my former roommate, a Christian fundamentalist , Chinese EE major, who always has his speakers blaring what I affectionately call "the black people music." He says it's because he grew up in the "bad part" of the Bay Area. Whatever, Quinn.

Or when you're browsing Facebook, and you come across someone you knew in highschool--honors kid, SAT scores through the roof, always very sensible; and the first two bands in his Favorite Music are Killswitch Engage and Silverchair. Sheesh. Maybe I'm deluding myself in thinking that there is any connection between what people listen to and other things they do.

Anyways, I have embedded a Stickam player in my sidebar and loaded it with a more or less random selection of songs that were readily available on my hard drive. Wonderfully, the player also displays photos, so the Flickr photostream has been phased out, though the transition has not been completed yet (Stickam requires jpegs). Stickam also supports a bunch of other stuff I'm not using, so many of the buttons will be fruitless.

Chapter LXVI: Self-Indulgence

"Everywhere I see bliss, from which I am irrevocably excluded," lamented Frankenstein's monster, but he's got nothing on me. I've had a terrible week--well, more like a terrible Monday/Tuesday. A total of five essay swere due, on disparate topics: the Rwandan genocide, the Argentine currency crisis, the economics of cocaine in Bolivia, Dubliners by James Joyce, and Mary Shelley's Frankenstein. Not exactly lots of research synergies. Also, I had two Midterms and a grueling ARCE Final which was from 7-9 at night.

It was nucking futs...I didn't have time to sleep, shower, or go to the gym at all. I also didn't eat anything on Monday, but on Tuesday I bought 15.4 oz of plain M&Ms and nibbled on them all day. A pound of chocolate probably wasn't a good idea in my sleepless, unwashed state, but I'm sure you'll forgive me for not being able to think straight.

BUT! Everything went swimmingly. I sweated out five kickass essays and aced the tests (more or less), and it's clear sailing for here on out. Really, it's a wonderful feeling.

On Sunday, I told myself that if I was able to pull it off I would have to reward myself somehow... Actually, I knew exactly how I would reward myself. It's a little embarrassing, but I'm addicted to t-shirts. Not clothes in general, just tees. I used to buy copious amounts of them, but not so much anymore. Except today. In recognition of my accomplishment this week, I bought some t-shirts online. Close-ups of the designs are below. You can test your Googling skillz by trying to find the sites (4 in all) where I got them.

Chapter LXV: What's Up?

It's funny how in America, greetings and their responses have become so automatic that they're effectively meaningless. How many times have you overheard (or participated in) the following ubiquitous exchange?

A: What's up?
B: Nothin' much, you?
A: Nothin' much.

or its cousin...

A: How's it going?
B: Not bad, you?
A: Not bad.

If extra-terrestrial archeologists ever tried to decipher English, they would think 'nothing much' is another term for the sky. That said, I overhead a strange variation on my way to class today. Two guys were walking briskly in opposite directions, and had the following conversation as they passed one other:

A: What's up?
B: Not bad, you?
A: Nothin' much.

Me (silently): Um, what the fuck?

For the rest of my walk to class, I tried to determine who had been stupider, A or B. Clearly, B's response to A was non sequitur. In my Stupidity Rating System (SRS), that's worth 1 Stupid Point (SP). A also gave a non sequitur response though, since B's 'you?' actually referred to the unspoken question of 'How's it going?' Of course, it must be accounted for that A's response would have been appropriate had it not been for B's mistake.

Therefore, I only allotted 0.5 SPs to A and concluded that B was the stupider of the two (1 SP to 0.5 SPs).

When I explained this reasoning to my lab partner, she concurred that A's non sequitur response was less egregious than B's. However, she argued that A should have recognized that B screwed up, and called him on it; that A did not do so is certainly worth an additional 1 SP.

A, she asseverated, was in fact stupider than B by a score of 1.5 SPs to 1 SP. I commended her insight and we proceeded to do the lab.

Perhaps you have already realized the flaw in our logic. For me, the epiphany didn't occur until I was on the elliptical machine at the gym, eyes closed and mp3s blaring. The fact is, if A had realized B's mistake and acknowledged it, A's own illogical response would never have occurred. It is unfair to penalize A both for not recognizing B's slip-up and also for acting on that incognizance, since the second blunder is an 'error carried forward' of the first.

Recalculating the Stupid Points, we have B at 1 SP for his non sequitur response, and A at 1 SP for not catching it. In the final analysis, then, A and B are equally stupid (1 SP to 1 SP).

Chapter LXIV: UnAmerican

Image of the Day: Intercepted by the Secret Service (Illustrator)




















You are thinking that I should retitle my blog "Crap I Made In Five Minutes Using Adobe Illustrator." But you see, that would be inaccurate...some of this stuff only took four minutes.

Not to worry though, me thinks the Illustrator fad will only last until I exhaust my supply of art to digitize. The original medium of today's chef d'oevre was, as you might have guessed, crayon on 8.5x11 paper, produced three years ago as a joke. It was fun recreating all the nuances of 1st grader handwriting.

Along the anti-Bush vein, I watched a flash music video today, titled (Didn't Know I Was) UnAmerican, by Ian Rhett. It's pretty cool, yadda yadda yadda*, you should watch it.

Actually, labeling it as "anti-Bush" is misleading. It's more...pro-world, if that makes sense. I think that's why it was more resonant--for me--than two hours of Fahrenheit 9/11.

I had earphones on and had been doing my online French listening exercises, which are ever so fun. Today, the lady on the tape/mp3 sang "Frère Jacques," known to les américains as "Are You Sleeping?" This was fine and dandy, except it was sung at an abnormally slow tempo (probably to aid comprehension) and with zero accompaniment, such that it passed from being a cute lullaby to actually sounding hypnotic and sinister.

Tangentially related: a flash music video I saw on Larry King Live last year, about corporate irresponsibility/outsourcing: BigBoxMart. This one starts playing right when you click the link. It's set to the tune of "Oh Susanna" and quite catchy (though depressing).

*Each yadda represents 1.53 sentences of effusive praise.

Chapter LXIII: Technicolor Bedset

Image of the Day: My New Sheets and Pillow Case

The most annoying feeling in the universe is when the bedsheets slide around and crumple up and maybe even come off of the bed in the middle of the night.

I suffered through this for a whole year, and blame it for the C- I got in English 134. The stupid sheet shifting made me sleep fitfully and I didn't wake up in time to turn in an essay that was 15% of my grade. It was a kick-ass essay too, about people starving to death in the snow.

After that, I disposed of the sheets altogether, and slept directly on the state provided mattress. This was reasonably comfortable, until I threw up all over the bed one night, and it always smelled just a little bit funny after that, in spite of (or was it because of?) all the Febreeze I sprayed.

Anyway, I learnt about a miraculous new product, utterly simple in its conception, but at the same time a consummate improvement over existing technologies. I thought to myself, only NASA could have thought of something so clever, these must be a spin-off of space program--like velcro and duct tape.

They are called "fitted" bedsheets, and are just like normal bedsheets, except that they have a band of high-quality elastic running around the edge, so once you snap it onto your bed, it stays tight and never ever comes off!

I started drooling immediately upon hearing of this gift from Prometheus and dashed to Target so as to procure some immediately, before they were all snatched up. There were aisles upon aisles of bedding to be perused, and I went up and down them all, muttering to myself. We wants them, we wants our precioussss...

To my dismay, although Target had 20 choices for twin-sized unfitted sheets, and 10 choices for fitted sheets, queen sized, there was only ONE twin-sized fitted, and they were HIDEOUS. But I guess you already know that, since the picture is at the top of the post. Seriously, they almost look radioactive. It goes to show what mindset I was in that I got them anyway. At least they came with a couple pillow cases.

According to the packaging, these are "designer" sheets, sold exclusively at Target. I guess "designer" is the new word for "ugly." But whatever, they're fitted and they don't slide and it's 4:36 AM. Nighty!

Chapter LXII: An Apparatus for the Systematic Conversion of Puppies into Nuclear Missiles

Image of the Day: Orthographic Projection (Illustrator)

DIAGRAM KEY:
1. Stage I: Loading of raw materials (frisky beagle pups)
2. Stage II: Separation of components (viewer discretion advised)
3. Stage III: Assemblage (see fig. 926.53)
4. Stage IV: Distribution of final product (nuclear missiles)
5. Industrial byproduct (highly carcinogenic)
6. Post-Modern roof ornaments (César Pelli, circa 1985)

Chapter LXI: Auld Lang Syne

Image of the Day: Rwanda
Doo deeeee dee dee dee deee do dee, DOO DOO DEEE DOO DEE DEE DOOO... my cell phone chirps as I dig through my backpack, frantically searching for it and knocking a pencil off my desk in the process. It clatters noisily to the floor and rolls away.

Five seconds earlier...

On the TV screen, a dirt road is covered with mangled, human corpses. Flies are everywhere, and the narrator's voice fades out as the camera pans over the bodies and then shakily zooms in on the naked form of one infant boy. His arms and one leg have been hacked off and only bloody stumps remain. His genitals are missing as well.

Rwanda.

The silence in the room is palpable. You could cut it with a machete.

And then, out of nowhere, a noise--unexpected, tinny, and shockingly inappropriate. Auld Lang Syne. My phone is ringing. Holy. Fucking. Shit.

If this happened yesterday, during a lecture, it would have been merely annoying and a little bit rude. I would have turned it off quickly, with an apologetic glance to the professor.

But today, TODAY, during the Rwanda documentary, and at that very instant, right after the footage of the tortured children, and while it is utterly silent in the room, when everyone is leaning forward in their seats blown away by the scale of the tragedy, is the WORST moment for my phone to start blaring Auld Lang Syne. Only my grandfather's funeral could possibly have been more inopportune.

To make things worse, I can't find the damn thing! My backpack has literally pockets within pockets within pockets, each of which has an almost equal chance of containing my phone. The lights have been dimmed, just enough to make it impossible to see into my backpack, and the ascending ringtone means I can't use the volume of the sound to tell if I'm opening the right pockets. I have only my groping fingers to rely on. It is still the only sound in the room, still getting louder, until it sounds like a fucking New Years' Eve party in my backpack. On the screen, bereaved mothers are sobbing over the bodies of their children, killed in their classrooms while the teacher was forced to watch.

I can feel Professor Arceneaux's glare, even though he is behind me. My classmates keep their eyes carefully fixed on the screen, pretending I don't exist, not wanting to associate themselves in any way with the insensitive asshole who would let his phone go off at a moment like this, and with such an unfortunate ringtone. The ghosts of murdered Rwandan children fill the darkened room, and they stare at me, silently asking why I am desecrating their memory. I still can't find it.

In desperation I put the backpack back on the floor and stomp on it, hoping to mash a button, anything to stop the infernal noise. I'm not sure if it works, or my voicemail kicks in, but it finally ends.

I sink back into my seat, red with shame--silently apologizing to the universe.

Chapter LX: Armless Boy I

Image of the Day: Adventures of Armless Boy I

This is the digital version of the very first Adventures of Armless Boy strip created over two years ago. As you can see, it is kind of wierd...Armless Boy has the ability to fly through the air and eat your head. I'll explain it by saying that this is actually a dream sequence, in which Armless Boy acts out what he wishes he could do to all the annoying people in the world. Unlike the villain in this strip, Armless Boy can indulge his violent tendencies in the dream world, and is a nice guy in real life.

There is a bit of symmetry in the story progression, in terms of dialogue, etc. The gouts of blood in the last panel are meant to evoke the red hibiscus in the first.

This design was heavily influenced by the shape of 8.5 x 11 paper, but I'm going to start making them natively in Illustrator, so that will no longer be the case.

Chapter LIX: Self-Portrait à la MySpace

1. Beanie: preserves careful arrangement of bangs
2. Bangs: carefully arranged
3. Wierd expression + head tilt = individuality
4. Black tee-shirt with off-center graphic: angst
5. Low-rise jeans: distressed, like my soul
6. Cheap digital camera: I enjoy taking "photographs"
7. "Drug Use is Life Abuse" wristband from 6th grade: straight edge, "vintage"
8. Mirror: in bathroom of single family, detached housing (Suburbia)
9. Emo glasses: $5 on eBay
10. Artifact that would have been removed if I knew how to do anything in Photoshop besides fiddle with the contrast.

In other news, I flipped a coin last night to decide whether or not to buy a Speedo. It landed on heads.

Chapter LVIII: Armless Boy

Image of the Day: Armless Boy III






















This is the third Adventures of Armless Boy strip I've made, and the first one to be digitally remastered, as it were. It is also the only one to address homosexuality. I don't know how I ever lived without Adobe Illustrator.. The hand-drafted version took like an hour, but it was the work of a four-minute long instant in Illustrator--with cleaner results.

Unexpectedly, I've actually taken some flak for this strip. Apparently, the joke may not be immediately obvious. Comments?

Chapter LVII: III.

III.
charlie
How many moons have passed by
To become another streetlamp?

Once I bowed to an orb of light
Mistaking the glow for a goddess.


(Faculty Offices East Courtyard @ 2 AM)
----

In other news, I have killed the screaming popup ads; they were being caused by the tag-board code. I know you all weep for the tag-board, but "sometimes...for the greater good...sacrifices must be made." Like Jews.

It's a good thing you've all watched Prince of Egypt twenty times, or else I would seem really racist, huh?

Chapter LVI: Static Motion

Image of the Day: Miró/Calder Imitation (Ink, then Photoshop)

I'm captivated by this drawing, but I don't know why. Something about how the composition is perfectly balanced, yet at the same time retains an ineffable sense of movement.

Or maybe I just can't accept the fact that it is utterly nonrepresentational, and my brain is subconsciously searching for meaning. What is it supposed to be? A dog? A man on a bicycle? Leaves on a plant? A stylized time-lapse image of an oar moving through the air and into the water? Or something deeper...a symbol, perhaps? Of what?

As the artist, I should be the most qualified to answer that question (if anyone is). But I can't. I made it several months ago, and I don't remember what I was thinking at the time, except that it was inspired by a Calder mobile.

I think it's least meaningful thing I've ever made, but at the same time the most formally ideal, in terms of composition, color, line, etc. Very strange.

Chapter LIV: Number Fifty-Four

Number Fifty-Four (Charlie Fan, 11/18/2001)

here it comes,
the steady rock that knows nothing.
let me be mute as the red cliffs,
silent as the pebbles on a sandy beach,
quiet as moonrocks.
because i have secrets,
a world of knowledge pressed and
engrained within my brows...
so heavy and
burdened that
i close my eyes,
clamp my mouth shut...
and become nameless as the rocks.

(found images + Photoshop)

Chapter LIII: A Rose By Any Other Name

would smell as sweet, Juliet informs us in Act II. But a blog by any other name? That remains to be seen. Effective next Wednesday (July 26), the blog URL will be changed to tryptox.blogspot.com, from the current tryptofantasmic. This modification is win-win because it is easier for me to type, and easier for you to remember. The correct pronunciation of the new name is TRIP-TOE-EX, not TRIP-TOCKS, as some uncultured swine might have you believe.

Along the same vein, I've finished changing the passwords to all my various Internet personas: facebook, myspace, partypoker, crazypenguinsex.com, etc... Yes, that was a joke; I don't actually have a myspace.

Anyways, until a few days ago, my main password was the cumbersome 'salamandostron,' which is a fictional mountain in the Redwall series by Brian Jacques. Circa 2000, when I set up my first password (to hotmail.com) these were my favorite books, and it was a natural choice.

The problem with 'salamandastron' is that it's long and somtimes hard to get on the first try since password fields are all ************** and you can't tell if you've screwed up*. This can be a pain if you're trying to get into one of those sites that lock you out for an hour if you don't get the password right on the first two tries, ie my.calpoly.edu.

Also, some sites (flickr.com) limit your password to 10 characters, so it ends up being 'salamandas' but their devious password field lets you type more than that, so you have to realize what site you're at and what the character limit is, if there is one.

Finally, many sites (turnitin.com, collegeboard.com) require that your password include a non-alphabetic character, which means the password ends up being 'salamandastron1', or, if the previous restriction also applies, 'salamandast1'.

All of this, combined with my crappy memory, was a recipe for disaster that I have finally rectified. The new password is 8 characters long, well within the min/max character restrictions of all passworded sites, and incorporates a number to cover that contingency as well; basically, now I can use the same password for everything, no matter what the requirements are. Out of nostalgia, it still contains a reference to Redwall.

Image of the Day: the original US edition softbound cover

*When I was in second grade, I watched my cousin type his password to something, and triumphantly declared that I knew his password. When he asked me what it was, I told him it was six of the little star thingies. That's the day I learned that password fields are sneaky like that.

Chapter LII: Blograffitti

Image of the Day: Digital Ink Splats (Illustrator, then Photoshop)
In its Help section, Blogger.com describes several excellent ways to increase traffic to your blog.

Most of them are obvious, such as "Write quality content."
Some are more subtle, such as activating the "Email this post" feature.
And a few of them are utterly pathetic. Seriously, bumper stickers with your blog URL? What kind of loser would actually do that? Car bumpers should be reserved for political activism ("KerryEdwards'04") or deep, thought-provoking Star Wars jokes ("That's no moon, that's YO MOMMA'S ASS").

But then I realized that I do some stupid things to promote my blog too. For example, when I set my blog as the homepage on all the browsers in the Library's second-floor computer lab. Fifteen minutes ago.

I am quite literally the only person in the room; I guess no one needs the computer lab on the last day of the quarter. The freedom of being all alone...If I wanted, I could take off all my clothes and dance around naked, then pile up all the keyboards and sacrifice them to the God of the Harvest. I could holler Broadway show-tunes at the top of my lungs (naked), and no one would tell me to shut the fuck up... Tomorrow! Tomorrow! I'll love ya, tomorrow! You're aaalways a day awaaaay!

On the other hand, I could have a freak aneurysm, and no one would be around to call an ambulance.

But I digress. What I was going to say was that I think building site traffic is only half the battle--page hits are one thing, but getting people to stay and read (and heaven forbid, comment) is something else altogether. Every blogger who uses a site tracker service will notice the columns of data indicating hundreds of daily page hits, but an average visit time of less than 5 seconds. People are arriving, but not absorbing.

Thus, the new plan is to put the Image of the Day at the top of each blog entry, thus drawing the prospective reader into the text with an intriguing picture. Hopefully this way, I don't have to write as much "quality content." Or print bumper stickers. Oh yeah, the blog URL will be changing to tryptox.blogspot.com as of next Monday, for ease of remembering. [Reference: the current URL is tryptofantasmic.blogspot.com]

About the Image of the Day...I'm illustrating some of my brother's poems for my Art 181 (Digital Imaging and Design) final project. The relevant passage in this case is "The line between sanity and release is an inkblot tendril." He's been obsessed with inkblots/Rorshach tests for a long time, and I've inherited some of that.

Chapter LI: Vodka Checkers

Drunken text:
i palyed cheackers with my roomate a few mintues ago. he has one of tohose glass boards with th shot gllass pieces that you pit liquirds in to drinky drink from. we uvsed vodka. but not allll vokda. also some orange sjucce and sprte. like a third and athird andathirdandathird or something. i'm not the fcukign chem major. dont remmeber how ti worked. theres 12 pieces. each one gets some ackleehol and smome oranj joooos, and some spirrte. and oyu mix it all up tastylike. buble bublle bblbub oh yeah, earlier i pltyed him nmormal checkesrs, with normal piaces, and i WON, an d i playted with one less piecee than him. and it was aweom.e so i was like, pssshhh, bring it on foolio, you is sucky at the checkrrs, i traoucennece your ass anyaday, drunk or wahtever. so we play and halfeay through, the fucker triplejumps me. one two thre.e FUUKCKKKCKCKKK. cheater sippity sip all the way down, yum. then i lose cauz he take forever to fucking move afdn i cant think.anymore. vodak shots to the head, brains squish squash pish posh mish mash fish fash oh, i got some mroe fishes in the deep blue sea, joi to you and me not fair. =9 also, i knock ovr the rest of the peices. heeheeheheheheee..hm. sleep oh im soryy i havent bloged. busy. skool. jsut watn to sit in the corner and do corsswordpuzzle.s im good at crsoswords. suckat life. delete soryry. jst jmp ovremepleaez d f d

Chapter L: Near-Life Experience

Image of the Day: Cracked
The car is about to explode. I am going to burn to death gruesomely in a gasoline/brake fluid inferno. The police will need to get my dental records from Dr. Shern to identify me...

Irrational in retrospect maybe, but it's my first car crash, and I don't know what to think.

I mean, all my experience with car crashes so far had been vicarious, through movies and TV. And that's what happened in movies--you crash, and then have 30 seconds or so to frantically crawl out of the car before it becomes a giant fireball of death. I can almost see the leaking gas dribble slowly, inexorably toward a fire. Just like in Crash.

A moment passes and the car fails to explode.

Through the haze, I realize I am not going to die. My next thought: 'So that's what airbags actually look like.' I'd never actually seen them before in real life, and they aren't the billowy fluffballs they show in car commercials. No, these were floppy, deflated things, drooping out of their compartments like a grandmother's breasts. They weren't soft either, but coarse like canvas. And dusty.

I have no idea what to do next.

A large man in sunglasses appears at the window, which I had rolled down to let out the smoke. Are you all right? Yeah, I reply. Your lip is bleeding. Did you hit your head? No, I don't think so. OK, you're going to have to pull over to the side of the road. Can you move the car? I'm not sure. Try to.

To my surprise, the car is still semi-operational, and I pull to the side of Interstate 405, by the Fairview exit. There are two other cars parked there. Apparently, when I smashed into the Ford Expedition in front of me at an ungodly speed, I shoved it into the back of the pick-up truck in front of it.

The man in sunglasses comes over again. You're sure you're OK. Do you need an ambulance? No, I'm OK. Did you not see that I had stopped? No, I saw the brakes lights, but it was too late. It happens. Do you have insurance? Yes. Is this your first car accident? Yes. OK. You'll get through this.

I have to kick the door to get out of the car, still half-expecting it to explode. The pick-up truck drives off.

I'm Bill. What's your name? Jerry.

Bill told me the driver of the pick-up had been rear-ended in the same spot a week ago, and no further damage seems to have occurred, so I probably wouldn't be hearing from him. Bill isn't hurt, but he needs his bumper fixed. It is my first time exchanging insurance information, and I don't know what to write. Your name, insurance policy, driver's license, and a number where I can reach you.

We sit in his car until my dad arrives. Bill tells me that he did the exact same thing on a different freeway twenty years ago, driving home from a USC/UCLA football game. Fast lane. Traffic stopped. No time. Smash.

It happens. I thought it was the end of the world, but I got through it. Your parents may want to kill you, but you'll be fine. Don't worry.

My parents come. Bill leaves.

Then the tow truck. 'How much will it cost to repair?' they ask the driver. He gives the car a cursory look. About five thousand dollars...conservatively speaking.

Totalled.

Fuck.

It could have been a lot worse, my dad says on the drive home. You could have hit an old lady in a Civic. Paralyzed or killed her. Gotten your ass sued off. We would have been in deep shit, lost the house maybe. And then there's the guilt--no amount of money can make that go away.

It's funny. After all is said and done, the only person angry at me seems to be...me. I had just gotten used to the idea of having a car, and I can't help but to bitterly self-recriminate. Why didn't I brake sooner/swerve into the carpool lane/pay more attention? I just don't know. 'It all happened so fast,' I believe is the popular refrain.

I think I've learned two important things from this near-life experience. The first is that I'm not invincible and that it's important to be careful on the road and blah blah blah blah blah. You've heard it all a hundred times, but I'm serious. I thought I was a prudent driver before, but there is a certain alertness that you only get after you've been in an accident.

And secondly, I learned that there are considerate people in the world who realize that making someone feel like shit after they've made a mistake is pointless, because they already feel like shit and it doesn't help the situation. And that's reassuring.

It seems I am a pedestrian again... although Diana would say I never stopped being pedestrian at all.

Chapter XLIX: Illusion of an Allusion

Image of the Day: My Letter to the World, that Never Wrote to Me

A long time ago, in a post far far away (Chapter XI: A Glitch in the Matrix), I described the benefits of explaining an allusion right after you make it. On one hand, if the person I'm talking with is uncultured and misses the allusion, he will now grok it. On the flip side, if he thinks I am uncultured, I can dispel his suspicion that I alluded inadvertently.

Today, I read something that makes me wish the writer had followed my advice. Specifically, I'm not sure if a certain title in a magazine is supposed to be an allusion or not.

The publication in question is Men's Health Magazine. As an aside: For many years, whenever I passed the magazine rack at Barnes & Noble, I would wonder what kind of idiot bought those hideous fitness magazines--the ones that put oily, musclebound freaks of nature on their covers. As of last Saturday, I officially became that idiot.

To my credit, it's not an issue of Men's Health per se, but more of a book put out by the editors of Men's Health. It's titled Amazing Abs and actually contains quite a lot of useful information, especially regarding diet (when/what/how much), so I decided it was a good one-time investment.

Anyways, on page 41, there is a small inset under the heading "Waiting For Jell-O" that explains waiting forty minutes before eating dessert after dinner (to let blood sugar levels stabilize). At first blush, it appears to be a clever allusion to Samuel Beckett's play Waiting For Godot (pronounced 'guh-DOH'), punning on the rhyme.

But on closer examination, it isn't so clear. To begin with, 'Jell-O' and 'Godot' don't actually rhyme, since the stress is on the first syllable in 'Jell-O', and on the latter in 'Godot.' Furthermore, there are absolutely no other literary allusions in the entire book, much less allusions to a work as relatively obscure as Beckett's existentialist tragicomedy.

Besides, such an intellectual treat would be non sequitur in a book where the author tries to make every point with a veiled reference to sex. Regarding overtraining: "There is only one thing most men would do a thousand times every day if it were physically possible, and it isn't crunches." Regarding rep pacing: "Each rep of an ab exercise should last slightly longer than you lasted on prom night--4 to 6 seconds." Regarding the benefits of ab training: "ABS WILL IMPROVE YOUR SEX LIFE." You get the idea.

Was I wrong to imagine a Jell-O/Godot connection? Is there anything else it could be a reference to? Paint me confused... Someone rescue me.

A final note: Besides the Jell-O/Godot conundrum, there five allusions in this post. If you got them all, kudos. If not, they're listed in the first comment.

Chapter XLVIII: Que Seurat, Seurat

Image of the Day: Scan of pointillist maple tree, using maroon, yellow, and red gel pens. Click to Enlarge













What color is Georges-Pierre Seurat's hair? You may have no idea, but you have, at some point, seen his most famous painting, titled "Sunday Afternoon on the Isle of La Grande Jatte." The 1886 tableau is regarded as one of the most remarkable artworks of the 19th century, and is widely alluded to in popular culture. Just last night, I saw it featured prominently in a TV ad for Acuvue brand contact lens.

It famously uses pointillism, or the application of varying densities of discrete dots to create an image. In all, "Sunday Afternoon" is composed of over three million individually applied dots of paint and took over two years for Seurat to complete the 7' x 10' canvas. He didn't choose this grueling method on a whim, of course, but was trying (unsuccessfully) to use new developments in optical theory**.

A couple weeks ago, I got some taste of what a pain in the ass pointillism can be by producing what you see above.

I have no idea how many million dots I used, but it took six hours. My hand and brain went numb at the same time and I transformed into a pointillism zombie. Seriously, I only thought about three things in that entire period--'maroon,' 'red,' and 'yellow.' In any case, I'm reasonably happy with how it came out and when I have time during the summer, I plan to redo it on heavier 18" x 24" paper (this was 8.5" x 11") with four colors instead of three. Zebra SARASA, the brand of pen I used, now also comes in orange.

**Specifically, it was discovered that contiguous dots of contrasting color merge to form a single hue in the viewer's eye (more vibrant than if a single color had been used). However, Seurat's dots were actually too big to achieve the dithered effect at normal viewing distances, hence the appearance of graininess that is trademark Seurat.

That's all.

Chapter XLVII: Frequently Asked Questions

Image of the Day: Nothing Rhymes...

Q: When and why did you start blogging?

In my junior year , I started posting daily recapitulations in my AIM profile, focusing on humorous or bizarre incidents. These have since been lost in the mists of time (i.e. the Great Harddrive Formatting Accident of 2004), but off the top of my head, I can recall writing about my grandmother's goldfish named Gorbachev, being sent to detention every day for a week, stupid things my French teacher would do, etc. I guess I wanted my peers to think I was clever, while hiding the fact that my life was actually pretty fucking shitty. After the AIM profile format, I moved to AIM Subprofiles (remember those?), a brief foray into Xanga, and then offline into Notepad, until one fine day in August 2005, when I was browsing the "more >>" tab on Google and came across blogger.com.

Q: Why do you call each post a "Chapter?"

It's just one of my pretentions, as if this blog were the "story of my life" that I am writing one chapter at a time. I considered using "Episode" instead, but didn't, because 'episode' sounds too much like 'octopode' and I fucking hate octopodes.

Q: Who is the intended audience of your blog?

Hmm, that is a very good question. Different posts ("Chapters") have different target audiences; possibly me, people I know personally, poker aficionados, the faceless Internet, or some combination of the above. I usually delete the embarrassingly introspective or boring rants that I later realize only I would read, and only because I wrote them. On the other hand, I don't want to concentrate so much on being funny/relatable that I don't feel free to write whatever is on my mind. I tend to write inductively--starting with a personal experience and then generalizing it.

Q: What happened in November 2005 that prevented you from writing a single entry?

*Shrugs*

Q: Are you really gay (cf. Chapter XLIII)?

Yes. I look up gay porn all day long. <-- A Faustian bargain: I'll get page hits from horny guys typing "gay porn" into Google, but they won't stay to read anything.

Q: What do you have in mind for the future of this blog?

I'm working on a visitor poll to put in the sidebar, as well as concepts for organizing posts for ease of navigation. Perhaps I will change the post format so that the Image of the Day is included in the post summary. Also, I will be opening a mailing list so my regular reader(s) won't have to check in every day, but can get my blitherings delivered straight to their inbox! And finally, regularity.

Q: What is regularity?

"Regularity is defined as the easy passage (without straining) of well-formed stools (neither too hard, nor too soft) at least once every two to three days without the use of assistive devices (such as laxatives). A well-formed stool is soft and flexible..."
- http://www.fruit-eze.com/regularity.htm

With the minor amendment of "stools" to "blog posts," the above definition is suitable for our purposes. I'm going to aim for about two posts a week, released on Sundays and Thursdays, hopefully without straining or resorting to laxatives. I'm trying to become a better writer, and writing more is the first step in that direction. Posts may also become more literary as I experiment with short stories and poetry.