Don't Write Like This

A Taste of Redding:  Part 3

If I see somebody reading in public, I always try to catch the title so that I can pass judgment on them and their reading habits.  I assume all people do this, so I am wary about the books I choose to read in public.  When I am reading an impressive book I proudly hold it out in front of me, careful not to cover up too much of the title, so that people can view my erudite sophistication.  I often read what I call escapist fiction, though.  I disappear when I read these stories, able to forget that I have a paper due or an upcoming assessment at work or that the girl who competed with me and lost to be the top student in AP English in high school is about to start her residency and I am just getting around to finishing my undergraduate work.  I hunch over these books, reading from my lap, because, more often than not, escapist fiction is my euphemism for a Star Wars novel.


I was in the midst of finals week and needed to escape from campus and reality, so I sat on a couch at Starbucks hiding my novel.

“Star Wars, eh?” said the man seated on the couch across from me.

I had lost myself in the book for the last hour and forgot to cover the title.  I hadn’t even seen the man sit down.

“I’ve always liked the idea of Jedi,” he continued.  “You know, some people like the philosophy so much that there is an actual Jedi religion.”

“I’ve heard that,” I replied as I studied this enigma I was conversing with.

He was a black man in his mid-thirties.  I judged him to be about three hundred pounds and I estimated that when he stood up he would be a couple inches taller than me.  He was wearing a sports coat with a sweater and tie and had a large, round, bald head and bookish glasses.  I discovered that his name was Cornelius and was shocked at the depth of his knowledge surrounding the Star Wars universe.

I tend to keep this passion secret because even people who love the movies and take the time to know all the details surrounding them, call me a nerd when I open up my library of Star Wars knowledge.  Once, when I was taking some science credits at a community college, I was forced to reveal my nerdy nature. 

It was an astronomy course and I was sure I had everyone fooled that I was actually a cool guy.  At the time, I had dreadlocks and a pierced nose and ears.  I always asked good questions and had interesting things to say.  The professor, however, decided to utilize the last half hour of one of her classes to air her frustration with how Hollywood constantly gets science wrong.  Her ultimate complaint was Han Solo’s boast that he had made the Kessel Run in less than twelve parsecs.

“Parsecs are a measurement of distance,” she railed.  “That’s like saying ‘I made it from Portland to Seattle in one hundred and fifty miles.’  It makes no sense.  I just wish Hollywood writers would have five minute conversations with a scientist or anybody who has the even the smallest grasp of scientific terms so they wouldn’t make these kind of mistakes.”

She was in error.  Her righteous anger was uninformed by truth.  My hand was raised and I was speaking before I had time to think.

“Actually, a measurement of distance is both accurate and intentional in Han’s boast about the Kessel Run.  Kessel is a planet on which the illegal drug, gliterstim spice, is mined.  This planet is surrounded by the ‘Maw’ which is a vast series of black holes that protects the planet from blockades by the Imperial fleet but also makes the journey extremely challenging to the smugglers who ship the spice.  Though speed does play a part in it, Han Solo’s boast truly is about distance.  The Millennium Falcon has upgraded engines that allow it to fly at a velocity that is fifty percent greater than average hyperdrive engines.  This allowed Han to navigate a course much closer to the black holes than anyone had previously attempted, shortening the distance and possibly even bending space due to his proximity to multiple event horizons, causing the regularly eighteen parsec Kessel Run to be completed in less than twelve.”

I had revealed my nature and the class stared at me as the odd beast I truly am.  I gathered my bag and sheepishly admitted to the silent class, “Sorry, I’m a huge nerd,” as I slunk out the door.

I didn’t have to hide any of this as I geeked out over Star Wars with Cornelius.  We were speaking about more than lightsabers and spaceships, though; we discussed the philosophy behind the fictional universe with both its literary and philosophical implications.

“Recently, a lot of the books in the Expanded Universe have spent a significant amount of time on the subject of philosophy,” I continued.  “They’ve introduced a new enemy race who worships pain and death which is inimical to most philosophies held by the inhabitants of the Star Wars universe.”

“Really?” he replied with honest enthusiasm.

“Yeah, and they do it in a manner that never seams preachy or loses the story like the Dune series did.”

We managed to continue on like this for quite some time—making it the longest serious conversation I expect to have about Star Wars—until Cornelius interjected with a seeming non-sequitur.

“Have you ever heard of the Baha’i faith?”

“Never,” I admitted.

“It’s a belief system that credits all faiths as steps towards truth and human enlightenment.”

“Oh, an ‘all truth is God’s truth’ sort of thing,” I respond.

“Exactly,” he said excitedly.  “Each religion speaks to the truth of God and it is only by studying all beliefs that we can find enlightenment and unify humanity as a whole.”

I hadn’t expected this well dressed stranger to proselytize, and I had never imagined that any conversation about Star Wars could segue into a religious debate, but I enjoyed the discussion’s odd unfolding.

“But most religions claim that they possess the only means to heaven.  How can both Christianity and Islam be correct when they each blatantly state that the other is wrong?”

“Well that’s a matter of human misinterpretation,” he responded quickly.  “Moses, Mohamed, Jesus, even the fictional character of Obi-Wan Kenobi are great prophets that all preach peace, unity, and enlightenment.  It was their followers who twisted the messages into exclusive religions.  That’s why I subscribe to the Baha’i faith; it seeks to unify rather than exclude.”

If this conversation had occurred a couple years previously, I would have been offended by the casual comparison of the Son of God to a fictional Jedi.  Before I could respond, though, we were interrupted.  

An unkempt young man about my age entered, shrugged off his backpack, and flopped bonelessly on the couch next to Cornelius before exchanging an intricate handshake that included slaps and fist bumps that bespoke of familiarity. 

“Yeah,” slurred the stranger, “the world would be better if people were more together, you know?  More unity.”

I assumed that this guy was the reason Cornelius was waiting in the coffee shop but he continued to look at me expectantly so I replied, “Unity is good and all, but it sounds to me like Baha’i strips the interesting mystery from religion and simply brings it to the level of philosophy.  How is there room for God or faith when humans hold the key to their own salvation?”

“That’s just it,” he replied.  “Religions have to lie that we need God, because that lie is what gives them power.  Humans only use something like ten percent of their brain.  Just imagine what we could do if we used our minds to their full potential.”

“Yeah,” interrupted the stranger, “this guy knows some stuff.  I just met him but he’s the shit.  And you,” he pointed at me nearly falling off the couch, “you’re a fuckerhead.”

“Buddy,” Cornelius said holding out a hand to stop the newcomer or perhaps to keep him from falling to the floor, “I don’t know you but we were having a nice conversation before you arrived, so please stop interrupting.”

“I’m Hamilton,” the young man stated.

“That’s a name I don’t hear too often,” I offered, in a friendly attempt to overcome his obvious animosity.

“Named after the president, fuckerhead” he responded proudly.

“You mean the Secretary of State,” Cornelius corrected.

“No, I’m on the ten, see,” Hamilton replied as he patted his pockets looking for his wallet briefly before giving up.  “Think I forgot my wallet.”

“Listen kid,” Cornelius said, raising his voice, “you’re obviously high on something, your pupils are saucers, so sit quietly and calm down while we continue our discussion.”

I noticed for the first time that his eyes were all pupil.  I admired Cornelius for his observation and worldly wisdom and was glad that he considered me a worthy conversationalist.

“Where were we?” Cornelius considered.

“I’m twenty-two,” Hamilton spurted, a step behind, “and I just had a drink or two this morning.”

“Whatever you say,” Cornelius responded dubiously.

“You’re gonna give me a ride home,” Hamilton demanded.

“No, I’m going to pick up my kids from school.  In fact, I better get going,” Cornelius said to me as he got up to leave.

“Pick em up on the way,” Hamilton stated as he retrieved his backpack.

“I don’t want you anywhere near me,” he responded with disgust.  “What makes you think I would allow you to be near my kids?”  To me he said, “It was nice meeting you, Andrew.”

“Thanks for the conversation, Cornelius,” I responded and shook his hand.

Hamilton was getting worked up and I thought I’d save the Starbucks employees the hassle of dealing with him.  I had five inches and about a hundred pounds on him and I figured that if he got too out of hand I could always sit on him so I said, “I can give you a ride.”

“Fine,” he replied and stomped out the door.

“My car is the white one over there,” I pointed, directing Hamilton through the patio where people sat enjoying the afternoon sun.

An older man sat at a table along our route.  He was reading the paper and smoking a cigar.  One of the chairs at his table obstructed our path slightly and Hamilton stopped to push it out of the way.  His actions were slow and normal at first, but then it was if he had a muscle spasm and flung the chair the last few inches.  The table rocked and the man’s drink fell on the ground.  His hands began shaking the paper with surprise or rage and the cigar fell from his mouth as he slowly repeated “What?  What?” 

Hamilton continued walking to my car as if nothing had happened.

“Uh, I’m really sorry sir,” I stammered.  “I just met this guy and I think he’s sick or something so I am taking him home so he doesn’t cause a scene here.  I’m sure if you explain what happened to the baristas inside they’ll give you another drink.”

“What?  What?” was all I heard as I quickly followed Hamilton.

“Aw man, did you just apologize for me?  I don’t need you apologizing for me” he shouted angrily.  “Did I spill that Grandpa’s drink?” he reversed abruptly.  “I should go back and apologize.”

The older man was no longer on the patio.  I assumed he had gone inside to clean up and call the police.  Hamilton may have been an idiot but I didn’t think he was a criminal, so I hurried him into my car and said, “Don’t worry, I explained everything to him.  We need to go.”

“So, where do you live?” I asked as we pulled onto the street.

“Let’s go to the mall!” Hamilton exclaimed.

“No, we can’t go to the mall.  You don’t have your wallet and I don’t have any money.”

“Why don’t you have any money?”

“I’m a poor college student.”

“Oh, you go to Simpson?  I live right by there.”

I was glad to have a direction, but was a little concerned that someone who was on potentially dangerous drugs lived close to the conservative Christian campus.

“Hey, drive up next to that car,” he said pointing to a small yellow truck.  “I know those fuckers.” 

I obliged him as he rolled down the window.  As we drew alongside the truck he leaned out the window, waving both arms and flipping off the truck as he laughed and yelled senselessly.  The elderly couple looked shocked and took the first available right turn.

“Oh shit!  I didn’t know them, but they sure got a kick out of me,” he shouted as he continued to flip off the roadway.

“Mind if I smoke?”

“Knock yourself out,” I responded. 

I was beginning to question the wisdom of giving Hamilton a ride home, but I figured that even if he got us pulled over, the truth would get me out of it and my passenger would sober up in a jail cell.

“You do drugs?” he asked abruptly.

“No, I’m clean.”

“Good, good . . . ever do meth?”

This question seemed unnecessary in light of my previous response but I clarified anyway, “No way, meth is a seriously bad drug.”

“Good, if you liked meth I woulda been pissed.  I woulda, I woulda beat you up if you liked meth.  Meth is bad, it’ll fuck you up.  It’s bad, but sometimes . . . sometimes it’s so good,” he concluded in an enraptured sigh. 

“Ah,” I thought sanguinely, never truly realizing the implication of this revelation, “he must be high on meth.”

“I had this roommate once, found out he was making meth in his room.  I beat the shit outa him before kicking him out but . . . but man we did have some good parties back then.”

He swung his face next to mine and blurted, “You know, I’m about five seconds away from ripping that nose ring outa your face.”

I had lied to him before.  I had done plenty of drugs in the past and felt like I could understand the fluid reality of his thoughts.  I hoped that if I confidently put forth the reality that what he said was a joke, he would believe that he had been joking, so I chuckled and said, “Gee, I sure hope you don’t do that.”

He continued to stare at my nose as he growled “No seriously, man.”

I finally began to admit to myself that giving this guy a ride had been a bad idea. 

“Don’t worry,” I continued with a nervous chuckle.  I reached up a quickly flipped my crescent septum ring up into my nose.  “See, it’s gone, no problem.”

He was quiet and motionless for the first time since he had stumbled into my life.  This lasted for about twenty seconds before he erupted.  “You better tell me where the fuck that thing went before I go looking for it.”

I realized that my size advantage meant very little in the confines of my car.  “It folds up into my nose, see,” I stammered as I revealed my nose ring.  “Out, in, out, in.  Not everyone wants to see my nose ring so sometimes I hide it.”  I left the nose ring hidden hoping he would forget about it.

“Here’s the school, so where do you live?” I asked to distract him.

“Right there,” he said as he pointed to a shack on the edge of campus.

I pulled into the driveway and he got out.  Holding the door open he turned and said, “When I first met you, I thought you were a fuckerhead.  That black guy, he was cool, but you gave me a ride and you know what?  You’re still a fuckerhead, but thanks for the ride.”

Something is better than nothing, right?

I recommend Jodorowski films to most people with the knowledge that they will be disturbed and possibly hate me forever for the recommendation. He is a Polish Mexican filmmaker who cannot be easily described and must be experienced.  I first discovered Jodowroski through Holy Mountain, a conceptual kaleidoscope that symbolgasmically inseminated my dreams with more wonder and confusion than a thousand bastard brain babies.  El Topo, the second Jodowroski film I watched, is a bit harder to describe.  I watched Santa Sangre while writing up a plot synopsis and would like to share it with the internet.  Whereas, with most films, a plot synopsis would be a severe spoiler and discourage later viewings, I posit that any person should be able to read this plot synopsis, immediately watch Santa Sangre, and be constantly surprised.

Santa Sangre

A man is insane and thinks he is an eagle. 

Enter Circo Del Gringo.   A boy magician, whose best friend is a midget touted as the worlds smallest elephant trainer, falls in love with the mute girl who walks a flaiming tight rope.  His father (the ringleader who looks like a wicked overweight Brett Micheals) is a drunk who killed a woman in America and cannot return, but falls in love with the tattooed lady. 

Some nuns are rioting because their church (Santa Sangre) is going to get bulldozed.  Just when it looks like they will defeat the bulldozers through the power of music the Monseignor arives to hear the history of the church:  Their patron saint and martyr, Lidio, was a little girl who was attacked by some street thugs who cut off her arms then raped her and left her to die in a pool of blood which miraculously still exists in the foyer of the church.  The Monseignor says she is no saint and that the pool of blood is actually a pool of paint.  He rejects the head nun as a heretic and encourages the bulldozers to tear it down.  The head nun is the magician boy's mother, but luckily, some clowns are there to chear him up.

The tatooed lady is very flexible.  Head nun does not approve.  But she is powerless when confronted with the Ringleader's spandexed body.  Scary sex scene culminates with an elephant spewing blood from his trunk.  Clown band plays it out.  Huge coffin goes over the cliff while the mudmen pay tribute. . . and then eat it.  Everyone dances.

Ringleader gives (forces upon) Magician boy his first tattoo, and passes him his mantel.  Mute girl doesn't know the sign for eagle so does the sign for dove instead.

Clown show.  Magic show.

Ex-head nun burns off Ringleader's genitals with acid so he cuts her arms off then slits his own throat.  Mute girl watches in horror then gets kidnapped by the tattooed lady while the boy magician watches impotently from his trailer.

Hey, guess what?  The crazy guy from the beginning is the boy magician all grown up.  His doctors try a revolutionary new therapy that consists of hugging kids with down syndrome while circus music plays and then eating a lot of fruit.

Crazy eagle guy and the downies are sent to the movies while doctor and nurse make out in the car, but instead of seeing a movie, some guy gives them cocaine, takes them out dancing with transvestite hookers, then gets them all a deal on cheap blowies.  Crazy eagle guy wanders off and finds the Tatooed lady. . . flash forward to the next morning and mommy-no-arms gets magician manboy to jailbreak himself  by utilizing her crazy crazy eyes. . . Tatooed lady is hooking the mute girl to a mute, giant, Mexican Lenny but she escapes via Transvestite-hooker-conga line, though she narowly escapes a creepy dude who tries to feed her his ear.

Tattooed lady gets hacked to bits by a mysterious stranger with a dagger.

Crazy man/magician boy reunites with his midget friend and then acts as his Mother's hands while she gives a creation and fall sermon with mariachi accompaniment followed by cancan girls and striptease.
Magician Manboy in ringleader costume meets with stripper but his mom takes control of his arms and throws a knife into her and she dies. They hide her in a donkey costume and bury her in their backyard after painting her white.  She turns into a goose and flies away.

(At this time I wandered outside and discovered a phospho-luminescent worm crawling around my backyard.  I watched it for nearly twenty minutes wondering if I was sane or not and then trapped it in a matchbox.  The matchbox was empty when I checked it in the morning.)

Magician Manboy is his mom's hands for breakfast and then she uses him to practice the piano.  Chickens and Jesus figure.

Magician Manboy fantasizes about being the invisible man and a mad scientist but is disappointed about his obvious lack of invisibility, anyway, his mom needs his hands to finish knitting stockings.  He goes to the apothecary and pulls a giant python out of his pants. . . but only in his mind.

Luchador fight with the world's strongest woman, nobody can overcome her.  (shower scene with world's strongest woman and magician manboy that I would like to forget forever)  Magician manboy seduces world's strongest woman in an attempt to find a woman who can overpower his mom's control over his arms, but mom is far too strong and has a samurai sword at her disposal.

Magician Manboy's victims' become bridal looking zombies and rise from their graves. . . don't worry, I'm sure it's just a metaphor.

Mute girl and Magician are reunited at last!  They may or may not have floated when they kissed.  But Mom enters and commands her son's hands to cut off mute girl's arms.  EPIC STRUGGLE!  He defeats his mom and she  becomes a ghost of some sort, and the clowns are now back to comfort him.

Pigeons, puppets, more clowns, a musical number, a fire hazard, some mannequin violence, a burning in effigy, a midget kiss, and then everyone goes to jail.

The End.

A study of the effects of reading a book a day for a full week.

It was raining heavily on Sunday but my house had been invaded by teenage girls, so I slogged out to the leaky shed in the far corner of my backyard with a water bottle, some cigarettes, a martini, and Kurt Vonnegut Jr.'s Sirens of Titan. I planned to spend an hour reading in the relative peace of a thunderstorm and remained four hours til I was finished with my book.  My butt was sore from sitting on a milk crate and my feet were wet from the two-inch puddle that had accumulated while I sat, but I was quite pleased with my afternoon.  Vonnegut always gives me a feeling of mildly pleasant insanity.  It had been some years since I had read an entire book in one day;  I was happy to find that a great story can still force me to consume it in one sitting.

Monday was sunny and warm so I hung up my hammock and grabbed The Sun Also Rises.  I do not recommend following Vonnegut with Hemingway because the colorful absurdity of the former makes the terse style of the latter feel soulless.  I was almost two thirds of the way through the book before I realized that I was enjoying the story, but it is a quick read anyway, so you never feel as if you are burdened with getting through the slow parts to get to the exciting part of the story.

On Tuesday I decided to pick up another short book to see if I wanted to continue this pattern of literary consumption.  I want to say that I've always loved Steinbeck but that is a stupid thing to say.  Several years ago, I had never read Steinbeck and a few years before that, I couldn't even read.  I do believe I might safely posit that I've always enjoyed playing in mud and boobs but that is about as far as I am willing to go right now with my hyperbolic statements.  Cannery Row was fantastic and I couldn't help but decimate it in one sitting.  I started to feel literarily gluttonous and a bit ridiculous, but it wasn't as if I had anything else going on.

After reading three very different authors, each with a unique style, I decided to go in a strange direction and read a book on style.  Strunk and White's Elements of Style is a great little handbook for anybody who desires to communicate with the written word in the English language.  Nevertheless, reading the whole book is a silly endeavor on any given Wednesday.

One might consider Thursday's read as being a cheat on the formula of starting and finishing a book in a day, but I don't know if it is possible to read Moby Dick that quickly.  I had been reading Moby Dick off and on for about a month and decided it was time to be done with the last third of the book.  This was an easy task because this is a wonderful book.  I felt like it ended a bit too abruptly, but I'm sure many others complain that it drags on far too long.

I debated what to pick up on Friday, and after staring at my shelves of unread books for several minutes, settled on Douglas Coupland's Polaroids from the Dead.  Coupland always puts me in a reflective mood that forces me to write, so when I finished the book, I was forced to sit down and write up reviews for the books I had read so far that week.

On Saturday, I woke up from a nightmare into which parts from each book I've read were integrated.  The part that was inspired by Moby Dick was the most disturbing and vivid.  In my dream, a twelve-year-old boy tied up his six-year-old brother, made an incision from armpit to wrist, and then used a water pick to peal the skin back and see what was inside (This reflects the story told by the captain of the Rachel of how he lost his arm the only time he met the white whale.).  The dream was absurd because there were all sorts of organs inside the arm as if the boy had cut open his brother's torso.  The dream was frightening because the older brother was calm and unemotional while the little brother never cried but never ceased screaming in pain.  The EMT s decided not to untie the child even though he was pleading to be released because they were afraid he'd hurt himself.

I decided to pick up The Crying of Lot 49, a strange book by Thomas Pynchon I had once read twenty pages of and then gave up out of confusion, for my Saturday read.  It wasn't nearly as confusing as I had remembered it. 

I hadn't left the house all week and I felt ridiculous and self-destructive.  One of my friends was in town for a visit and called to invite me to a free beer tasting he said he could get me into.  I debated whether or not to go, which is silly because both free beer and friends are rareities in Redding.  I had an absurd goal to complete though, didn't I?  I decided to stay home and finish my book and then reversed my decision, drank free beer, and hung out with friends, leaving my book unfinished until the following day because reading a book a day for a week is a bad idea.

The best ideas come after midnight.

Buzz Kill

An original Screenplay Concept by Andrew Kooy

Spring break turns deadly when part-time bee keeper, full time madman, Belvidere Bosmoton (played by Crispin Glover) swears deadly vengeance against local marine biologist, Henry Gills (played by Scott Baio) after his daughter, Nancy (played by Miley Cirus) is stung to death by jelly fish and then eaten by sharks. The pristine hamlet of Townville is brought to the brink of destruction when Belvidere discovers that he can control local bees by playing ancient, apiary hymns on the church’s pipe organ and Henry gives his fish a taste for human blood. The town’s only hope lies in Mary Stockworth (played by Megan Fox wearing glasses), social outcast and three year debate team champion, but she is deathly allergic to bee stings and doesn’t know how to swim.

Rated NC-17 for graphic bee violence and anthropomorphic rape

Welcome to the Life Major. You may call me Professor Kooy.

Hey buddy we need to talk about something. Make sure to take good notes, this is important.

You're pretty much a person now and it's time you've mastered a couple of skills, namely: being still and being quiet. You might think that I want you to learn these things for selfish reasons and, while I am excited about the day I can put you in the corner of the grocery store, between the radishes and lunch meat while, I go shopping and get a couple of rounds of free samples in peace, I also know that these are life skills that will aid you in many of the challenges ahead of you. You never know what life is going to throw at you. Just imagine if you were in a "Most Dangerous Game" situation; the ability to be still and quiet is more valuable than any type of woodcraft or self defensed you can think of. If you knew who Anne Frank was I would tell you that she is a pretty good example of what I am teaching you but. . .Actually, no more "Dirtiest Little Puppy" we are starting The Diary of Anne Frank at the next night night. And you better pay attention because I want you to be able to tell me what her greatest errors were by the end.

Now don't start thinking that these skills are only good when your life is at stake. If you are able to be still and quiet, untold fun awaits you. I've seen you play hide-and-go-seek and sometimes, I am ashamed to call you son. It's obvious that you put a lot of effort into hiding. You take your time and choose creative hiding places while half of your idiot friends try to crawl under the couch cushions. It's just that once you are safely in your hiding spot, you are so proud of your sneakiness that you start giggling and getting careless. That, son, is hubris, and hubris is unacceptable. If you master the ability to be perfectly still and quiet, you could stand in a a slight shadow and disappear. Just picture all the kids looking for you and getting worried because they can't find you. You let them get almost to the point of being frantic before you step out from right behind them and quietly say "I'm right here." They will shit their pants, and trust me, though that may seem normal now, eventually, you will be able to hold that over their heads and it will be awesome. Couple these skills with silent movement and you will be a ninja.

Don't tell mommy about this, ok. Sure she would be pissed at Daddy and say that I was filling your head with craziness and trying to make you weird or something, but if she knew about your lessons, she wouldn't be as easy to trick, and you've got to practice on somebody, right? Oh, and don't practice this on mommy when daddy and she are together, I'm not supposed to give you that talk for a couple more years yet.

Let me see your notes. . . Well, I guess this is my fault. The first lesson really should have been on note taking. Time to get your jammies on kiddo. Sure it's still light out but it's never too early to develop a nice healthy fear of Nazis.

Mega Shark vs Giant Octopus = Mega Fun and Giant er. . .Fun!

You know a movie is going to be a special gem when an explicit message to the audience is given within the first twenty minutes when one of the characters (I have to assume it was a cameo by the director) says "Just don't take all this too seriously and we'll all be fine." Sure it was hidden amidst an explanation that stated that Japanese oil rig workers like to pee on dolphins due to some sort of ancient superstition but I saw right through that shit. I'm like the MacGyver of knowing shit and the internet is my paperclip.

I love shitty movies. I'm not talking about Ryan Reynolds romantic comedies, Twilight films, or Nicholas Sparks adaptations. I love campy, ridiculous, stupid, gory films that push the boundaries of the absurd. There will always be a special place in my heart's soul for the hundreds of truly silly horror films I've watched and the thousands that have yet to be seen. VAGINA DENTATA!!!

MS v GO is awesome because it isn't even trying. Sure they bust out some poorly stated political commentary but I'll take a comparison of prehistoric aquatic behemoths to hurricane Katrina over pictures of oil covered birds any day.

As I watched MS v GO while drinking large gin and tonics (see I totally could have written "mammoth" instead of "large" right there but I didn't because I have integrity. . .no, it was probably so that I could have the opportunity to write this explanation. THIS IS A BANK ROBBERY!) I felt that it was important to jot down a few notes that I would now like to share with you.

Why you got to bring Tokyo into this? Seriously, a giant, prehistoric creature coming from the ocean to attack Japan. Now that's some fresh shit.

I love the science in this movie. It consists completely of mixing various colored fluids in various sized test tubes. Let's mix this here red liquid with that blue fluid and. . . AW SHIT PURPLE?!? FUCK!!! Well how about we take this green vial and add a couple of drops of light blue and GODDAMMIT STILL GREEN!?! What the fuck are we doing wrong? (tortured dream sequence) How about we use a big ass needle to inject glow stick fluid into a bucket of more glow stick fluid but this time call it pheromones. . . MOTHER FUCKING BINGO!!!

It seems logical for ancient sea creatures to envy the technological advancements in flight, but killing two planes does seem a bit excessive.

Do we really need a love story plot arc in here? Oh yeah, awkward scientist sex is probably the only way they could have brought pheromones into this story.

NO SHARK! NOT THE GOLDEN GATE BRIDGE!!! No wait, I'm totally fine with that one.

Why are there some Mexicans in the Japanese navy?

"Only a hate stronger than their combined survival instincts could force these results." And for some reason, two lines later they imply, nay demand that physics proves that success of this plan is inevitable. Now this really bothers me. WHAT THE FUCK DO PHYSICS HAVE TO DO WITH ANYTHI no wait I'm just out of G&T.

Oh Shit! Shakespeare Quote!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

INTENSE SUB DRIVER FACE! Apparently subs have emergency turbos. Who knew?

Of course the pilot freaks out and pulls his gun on the captain forcing the Irish marine biology professor who happens to have once been a nuclear submarine operator to take the helm to keep the submarine from crashing into the ice shelf. I'm just surprised the heroine didn't get shot in the ensuing struggle to increase the scene's dramatic impetus.

Wait just a minute. Are they really going to end the movie that way!?! They totally forgot their blanket on the beach. This movie makes no sense at all.

Autocorrect says "donut" is wrong but is fine with "donuts". Okay, how does it feel about doughnuts. . .oh, it's fine with it. Fuck it, I'm sticking with donut.

One of the few perks of my job is going to other offices and stealing their coffee and eating their donuts or cookies or whatnot for the small price of idle banter. This morning I used the phrase "I'll just take a donut for the road" (which is a very lame, banter-y thing to say and I felt a little embarrassed about how naturally it came from my mouth words) and unwittingly called up one of my pleasant childhood memories: the road donut.


I spent summers almost exactly like I spent the rest of the year when I was little because I was "home-schooled". In the summertime, however, Saturday mornings were often spent going yard-saling with Grandma Kooy and the cousins.

Driving back to Kooy's Irrigation, Grandma pulled over because she saw something lying on the shoulder of the highway that looked edible. I just want to pause for a second to allow everyone to ponder that last sentence while I point out that this actually happened and that not only was this not weird when we were kids, I still only think of this as weird when viewing it from a non-Kooy perspective. I was the nearest child to an accessible door so I was sent out to run back down the highway to find out what it was. Non-Kooy perspectives are weird because I am suddenly questioning the sanity and safety of my childhood as six kids under ten in a pickup with two seat belts doesn't seem too safe, not to mention having a five year old run down the side of a highway to pick up discarded donut for a snack. . . aw dammit, now I'm starting to think that eating things found on the side of freeways sounds like a bad idea too (especially when stated so direct like that). Damn you common sense, you are no longer allowed near my childhood.

Anyway, what I found was a giant donut. In my memory it is much larger than my head, maybe the size of my torso. It was mostly encased in saran wrap, sitting on a Styrofoam tray similar to the ones that I only ever see holding meat these days. The tear in its covering caused a couple of inches of donut to be soiled with road debris but Grandma cut that part out. And, since it was open to the elements it was a little stale, but Grandma had a solution to this as well: ten seconds in the microwave.

Grandma was able to cut the road donut up into enough pieces so that all of the cousins and all of the uncles who were working at the shop that day could partake in our fortuitous discovery. One of the older girls thought it was gross so I got two pieces. That was a good day.

Not all titles make sense, but the one referring to Radiohead and bicycles totally did, I just never got around to that part.

There were a couple of things I neglected to do to prepare myself for my second century: eat right during the race, wear sunblock, and train properly in the three weeks before the race. I wouldn't call this a recipe for success. In fact, I would call it the opposite of that. . .what was the word for that again? Oh yeah, it's called "Andrew's half-assed long distance bike ride training regimen". I'm going to start selling DVDs this summer!

The course for the Chico Wildflower was designed by an asshole. There is over 4,000 feet of altitude gain on the course, which wouldn't be too horrible except this elevation is exclusively located in the climbing of two mountains. The first mountain comes before mile thirty and is the longer of the two climbs. It is a seemingly infinite series of switchbacks which turned my legs into a lactic acid factory. As I neared each blind turn I pleaded that the summit would be revealed, but I think that I started hoping that in the middle of the climb so I had a lot of disappointment ahead of me. I guess whoever designed this course isn't too bad because they could have put this climb at mile ninety.

The second mountain is situated around mile fifty which occurred, for me, around one in the afternoon on the first quite warm day of the year. On paper, the second climb is easier as it is about three hundred feet less of elevation but in reality it is far worse because I had already climbed a mountain and though this one was shorter, it was still a nearly half mile of vertical gain within a three mile span of road. I nearly passed out, so I walked the last 1/4 mile up the mountain. I felt quite sick at the top of Table Mountain but pushed on thinking/hoping it would pass.

When I got to the mile 65 lunch stop I had reached a special level of exhaustion. It reminded me of the upsetting senselessness of being tired as a small child. My body was extremely sore and I was so fatigued that I felt like crying. I remember thinking that I felt like a 3 year old who had just gotten kicked down a flight of stairs at 3 a.m. The sound that came out of me as that thought went through my brain was a depressing chuckle-sob which inspired me to turn up my mp3 player as I forced down my sandwich.

The rest of the ride was fairly bland. There were no huge climbs and there was also absolutely no shade. Before I get to the eventual failure, however, I must go back to the mountains.

Downhills are pretty crazy for a fat guy. I have always biked alone so when I take on a sweet downhill on which I will meet or exceed the speed limit, I generally just take over the lane. I love it when drivers get pissed because you are on a bike, in their lane, going their speed. They usually want to pass me or attempt to make it look like I am inconveniencing them in some way. By the time I get to the bottom of the hill, however, they are 300 yards back and generally continue to give me a fair amount of space. Do they think I'm crazy for going so fast or have they just realized the size of a dent my extra large helmet would put in their car? When there are bikes as well as traffic, the descent becomes a bit trickier.

After the first mountain, I was excited for a long downhill run. After the second mountain, I hit every down-slope by saying "Fuck this pedaling shit. You owe me this one, gravity." I let my speed get a little out of hand on the first hill, however. I can feel fairly comfortable in the low 40s, but that is when I am the only biker on the road. About three quarters of the way down the hill I was flying by other riders and swerving into the turn lanes hoping to miss the cars driving up the hill as well. Luckily, my odometer stores my fastest time. I was going 48.9 miles an hour. I'd like to try for 50 at some point in time, but not any time soon.

I felt steadily sicker as I rode, and at mile 75 I started experiencing very painful back spasms. I now think that this was probably not a muscle issue as I drank my camelback dry twice (it holds 100 oz) and about 100 oz more of sports drinks at the various stops as well as another 150 oz of water at dinner afterwords and I didn't pee once all day until 7 at night. I'm thinking that back pain might have been my kidneys screaming for help. After dinner, I got the special opportunity to experience the literal reality of a cliched phrase as insult was added to injury and I was completely debilitated for an hour and a half writhing in horrible pain with the hiccups.

Since the ride looped back on itself, I could have cut off the last ten to fifteen miles and go straight to the finish. But, despite feeling ill and being in pain, I had to keep trying to do the full 100. I didn't allow myself to stop and rest in a spot of shade for a moment until mile 93. I figured this was safe because I ride seven miles every day to and from work. I stood straddling my bike with my head resting on the handlebars. After a couple of minutes I realized that I would not be moving from this spot and at that moment one of the ride volunteers drove up and offered to give me a ride back to the finish line.

Just about everybody had already finished as evidenced by the two remaining cars in the parking lot. I thanked him for the ride as I dropped my bike in the grass and called Jen to come pick me up. As I lay on the grass in the shade of some rose bushes, I remembered that I had put my headphones in my pocket without turning off my mp3 player when I hopped into the car. I slipped them back into my ears and heard:

"You do it to yourself, you do
and that's what really hurts
You do it to yourself, just you
you and no-one else
You do it to yourself
You do it to yourself"

Luckily I had turned the music up, because I'm pretty sure the laugh/sob/whimper of pain probably sounded pretty depressing.

"Just" is my favorite Radiohead song. You got a problem with that? Are you challenging me to a duel? Fine then, I get to choose the weapons. I choose bicycles. A slow, painful, endurance race to the death is the only thing I can prove my point with now.

Riding a century is a pretty awesome feat. They could have called it a 100 mile bike ride and it would still be bad ass, but calling it a century adds an epicness to it. Sort of as if you are transcending space and time, or making the Kessel run in less than 12 parsecs.

I completed my first century at the beginning of the month. I rode from my house in Redding to my in-law's house in Paradise. It was raining the entire time and there was a headwind of ten miles per hour that increased to about forty miles an hour. The last five miles of the ride gained nearly half a mile of altitude. If it had been a ten mile bike ride it would have sucked. This ride was straight stupid.

Don Quixote helped me keep going. I listened to the king's portion of the book on that ride. It is wonderfully cyclical to be listening to the exploits of a crazy person doing absurd things while attempting to complete an absurd task yourself.

Lauren also helped me keep pedaling. In January I was speaking with my sister about some of the feats and challenges I was to attempt and she added another: she challenged me to ride one thousand miles on my bicycle before she gave birth to her baby. I had a little over three months to complete this challenge and in that time I started training to ride a century, eventually coming up with a plan to have the completion of my first century coincide with my thousand mile challenge.

I believe, however, that the main thing that kept me from stopping is my amazing stubbornness. I used to think that I was a pretty patient guy. It has taken me a long time to realize that biding one's time may look very much like waiting patiently though in reality it is an entirely different sort of beast. You may have faith that moves mountains but I have the stubbornness to wait for the rocks to melt and the dust to drift away on the breeze.

It may have taken me almost thirteen hours but I completed my first century, and in doing so, reached one thousand miles. I was surprised at how sore one's entire body can feel after a bike ride of this nature. Football never made me feel this sore, and I sucked at football so I got smashed around a lot. I felt the way Bruce Willis looks by the end of every Die Hard movie. But I didn't fight terrorist or avert any disasters; I defeated my unborn nephew. That little sucker was so embarrassed, he didn't even show his face for another couple of weeks. You may call him Titus Ransom Soini, but I will always refer to him as that kid I already beat. Not that I beat kids on a regular basis, but I probably could if I wanted to. It would be totally easy actually: They are small and lazy and I'm pretty sure they're illegal immigrants because most of them can't even speak English.

Anyway, this weekend's century was a little bit different. This is already kind of long so I will start out by telling you the ending: I only rode ninety-three miles. And by start I mean end. . . for now. My drink wants ice and my brain wants drink. Three more days till my third century: one success, one failure there's no third option so it's all repeats from here on out.