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.
Thursday, April 29, 2010
Wednesday, March 17, 2010
"Memory and Realization" or "Bad Poetry, Oh Noetry!*"
It was in seventh grade that I learned that I am horrible at poetry. There was an assignment which required me to write two poems: one had to be about the Bible and I believe the other was a personal poem. I put a lot of effort into my poems and was very proud of the results. My content was superb and my rhyming skills most excellent.
We all had to read our poems in class, and after hearing several of my classmates’ work, I knew my poems would be the best. When it was my turn I proudly stood, ready to bare my soul as I shared the poem that had come directly from my heart. A very strange thing happened as I recited my poems; every couple of lines one or several of my classmates would laugh. “What are they doing?” I thought, “This is serious stuff.” I began to blush and would chuckle nervously with the other students in an effort to fit in with the group. As I read the lines “John the Baptist lost his head / Jesus died but didn’t stay dead” I came to the realization that what I had written was patently absurd and in a moment of brilliantly quick thinking that spanned the intake of breath from one line to the next, I made a decision that I now believe shaped much of my adolescence: I owned it. Because all of my classmates thought it was funny and they liked it because it was funny, I decided that it was funny and that that had been my intention all along.
I believe that may very well be the moment I decided that I must be the funny guy, a class clown. Being hilarious was my invincibility because even if you put your heart and soul into a project, if the final product was stupid or a total failure, you could always laugh it off. Comedy is the invisibility cloak of baring your soul gone awry. I held onto this identity until my senior year in high school.
It is amazing how thoroughly a person can trick one’s self. Somehow, at the time, I never felt disappointed or embarrassed by that terrible poem. It took me a while to remember that I had written those poems in all seriousness but I think of it every time I consider writing poetry, or reading poetry, or when things rhyme.
I have almost never attempted poetry since junior high. In fact, I have hated and avoided poetry for most of my life, and it was only in the last few years that I came to appreciate or understand poetry at all (this is hard for an English major to admit) and this was mostly due to a love for Aesop Rock (I have no problem admitting this).
I am currently going insane. Working in finance is antithetical to everything I want to do in my life and I have been forced to put a shit-ton of energy into work lately by working the odd ten hour day and some Saturdays (I typed "work" so many times in that sentence that I nearly gouged my eyes out with highlighters). I have had almost no time to sculpt or write and the little bit I have written of late has been steaming piles of shit. This has brought me to a decision: I have decided to own it. I am going to take my horrible scribblings and poorly worded rants and make them worse by turning them into poetry.
I am pretty sure my brain isn’t working very well right now because this seems like a good idea.
Am I reaping the results of a youthful indiscretion or am I simply growing older?
I pierced my nose seven years ago.
Ever since then
My nose hair has grown wild.
It may very well be the natural course of things
Growing hair in odd places
Losing hair in others,
But I like my explanation better.
From time to time
I have to pull my nose hairs out.
If I do not do this,
My nose gets irritated
And I sneeze a lot.
And my sneezes are pretty violent.
People at work,
Two walls separating my office from theirs,
Will call to say “Bless you.”
I no longer pick up the phone when it rings after I sneeze.
I did not sneeze very much today;
I plucked nose hairs before showering.
The pleasant pain conjuring nascent tears
Was better than a pot of coffee to wake me up.
And when I looked down
The sink looked as if I’d shaved off an eyebrow.
*The magical wordsmith behind Toothpaste for Dinner, Drew, is responsible for this excellent phrase. If I was a doppelganger, I would definitely eat his soul and assume his identity.
We all had to read our poems in class, and after hearing several of my classmates’ work, I knew my poems would be the best. When it was my turn I proudly stood, ready to bare my soul as I shared the poem that had come directly from my heart. A very strange thing happened as I recited my poems; every couple of lines one or several of my classmates would laugh. “What are they doing?” I thought, “This is serious stuff.” I began to blush and would chuckle nervously with the other students in an effort to fit in with the group. As I read the lines “John the Baptist lost his head / Jesus died but didn’t stay dead” I came to the realization that what I had written was patently absurd and in a moment of brilliantly quick thinking that spanned the intake of breath from one line to the next, I made a decision that I now believe shaped much of my adolescence: I owned it. Because all of my classmates thought it was funny and they liked it because it was funny, I decided that it was funny and that that had been my intention all along.
I believe that may very well be the moment I decided that I must be the funny guy, a class clown. Being hilarious was my invincibility because even if you put your heart and soul into a project, if the final product was stupid or a total failure, you could always laugh it off. Comedy is the invisibility cloak of baring your soul gone awry. I held onto this identity until my senior year in high school.
It is amazing how thoroughly a person can trick one’s self. Somehow, at the time, I never felt disappointed or embarrassed by that terrible poem. It took me a while to remember that I had written those poems in all seriousness but I think of it every time I consider writing poetry, or reading poetry, or when things rhyme.
I have almost never attempted poetry since junior high. In fact, I have hated and avoided poetry for most of my life, and it was only in the last few years that I came to appreciate or understand poetry at all (this is hard for an English major to admit) and this was mostly due to a love for Aesop Rock (I have no problem admitting this).
I am currently going insane. Working in finance is antithetical to everything I want to do in my life and I have been forced to put a shit-ton of energy into work lately by working the odd ten hour day and some Saturdays (I typed "work" so many times in that sentence that I nearly gouged my eyes out with highlighters). I have had almost no time to sculpt or write and the little bit I have written of late has been steaming piles of shit. This has brought me to a decision: I have decided to own it. I am going to take my horrible scribblings and poorly worded rants and make them worse by turning them into poetry.
I am pretty sure my brain isn’t working very well right now because this seems like a good idea.
Am I reaping the results of a youthful indiscretion or am I simply growing older?
I pierced my nose seven years ago.
Ever since then
My nose hair has grown wild.
It may very well be the natural course of things
Growing hair in odd places
Losing hair in others,
But I like my explanation better.
From time to time
I have to pull my nose hairs out.
If I do not do this,
My nose gets irritated
And I sneeze a lot.
And my sneezes are pretty violent.
People at work,
Two walls separating my office from theirs,
Will call to say “Bless you.”
I no longer pick up the phone when it rings after I sneeze.
I did not sneeze very much today;
I plucked nose hairs before showering.
The pleasant pain conjuring nascent tears
Was better than a pot of coffee to wake me up.
And when I looked down
The sink looked as if I’d shaved off an eyebrow.
*The magical wordsmith behind Toothpaste for Dinner, Drew, is responsible for this excellent phrase. If I was a doppelganger, I would definitely eat his soul and assume his identity.
Friday, January 8, 2010
Whitfield's Big Mistake
“Where did you go last night? I thought your host family lived near mine.”
We had only been in Mexico for a couple of weeks before Tequila Nights became a midweek staple. I am not sure about the logic of prefunking for $2, face-sized margaritas at Mama Mia but no one ever said that the world of drinking made sense. We would eventually come to be familiar enough with the cobblestone streets of San Miguel de Allende that we would make our separate ways to our host homes, but we started out the tradition with the home-bound mindset of strength in numbers, which was why it was weird when just as we left the bar, Antonio said, “I’m gonna take a short cut this way. See you at school tomorrow.”
It wasn’t until I had walked halfway to La Academia with Antonio the next morning that I thought to question his directional sense, “I wanted to swing by El Lounge,” he replied.
“Is there really a place called ‘El Lounge’ here?” I scoffed.
“Yeah,” he said, “it’s the only bar open till daylight.”
I would later come to find out that this statement was not completely factual. There was another bar that was open nearly every hour of the day called La Cucaracha, which, aside from being named “the Cockroach”, I did not want to drink there because women were not allowed entrance and the patronage of gringos of any kind was strongly discouraged, usually through violence (I have always thought of as the Cantina and since I have neither the Force nor a fully functional light-saber, I wisely stayed away). So, while Antonio’s statement wasn’t technically true in an absolute sense, it was true in enough senses that made El Lounge the only after-hours bar I would enter during my time in Mexico.
“You seem awake enough. How late did you stay there?”
“Uhh, I didn’t actually go in.”
“Why, what did you do?”
“Well, I got to the door and just as I was going in, this chick walks out and asks me if I want to go home with her.”
“That’s ridiculous.” I said to the five foot four, pudgy, sun-burnt, Texan “There is no way that happened.”
“I have been here for four months and I can assure you that that does indeed happen, and quite often I might add.” He continued his story while I made numerous mental notes reminding myself to not shake his hand or share a drink with him for the remainder of our acquaintance. “So, this chick invites me to her place and I think ‘why not?’ so I go to her place. Now later, I’m on her roof and I say to myself ‘Whitfield, you’re gonna need to smash this window’. . .”
“Whoa! Hold on a sec there. It seems to me that a large and possibly important part of your narrative has been misplaced. How did you come to find yourself on this roof and was I correct in hearing that when you speak to yourself you call yourself Whitfield?”
“Well, Whitfield is my actual name. I started going by Antonio because that’s where I’m from and no one here in Mexico can seem to pronounce Whitfield.” This being a suitable explanation I was able to move on and with the aid of the crowd that had now gathered,I was able to urge Whitfield to fill in the gaps of his story. It was revealed that the diminutive Texan had indeed engaged in sexual relations with a stranger who had passed out promptly after their coupling. Whitfield let himself out only to find that he was trapped in the courtyard which was hemmed in by a large wall topped with broken glass and jagged metal. The door to the house was locked and his lover could not be roused by any conventional means, leading him to climb upon the roof so that he could break a window, climb inside, and rouse the stranger long enough to gain access to a key that would allow him to make it beyond the courtyard and into the street.
Though this story was odd and entertaining, it seemed like Whitfield was still keeping something from us and, after further probing, it was discovered that the amorous activity was anal in nature, he had not used a condom, and that Whitfield had been so drunk that he could not recall if he had ever glimpsed the front of the stranger leading him to grudgingly question the sex of his partner. Luckily, one of the twins soon began dating a horse-faced local girl whom even the instructors at La Academia referred to as “Cabesona” who had been outside El Lounge on that fateful night and was able to clear up our mystery.
We had only been in Mexico for a couple of weeks before Tequila Nights became a midweek staple. I am not sure about the logic of prefunking for $2, face-sized margaritas at Mama Mia but no one ever said that the world of drinking made sense. We would eventually come to be familiar enough with the cobblestone streets of San Miguel de Allende that we would make our separate ways to our host homes, but we started out the tradition with the home-bound mindset of strength in numbers, which was why it was weird when just as we left the bar, Antonio said, “I’m gonna take a short cut this way. See you at school tomorrow.”
It wasn’t until I had walked halfway to La Academia with Antonio the next morning that I thought to question his directional sense, “I wanted to swing by El Lounge,” he replied.
“Is there really a place called ‘El Lounge’ here?” I scoffed.
“Yeah,” he said, “it’s the only bar open till daylight.”
I would later come to find out that this statement was not completely factual. There was another bar that was open nearly every hour of the day called La Cucaracha, which, aside from being named “the Cockroach”, I did not want to drink there because women were not allowed entrance and the patronage of gringos of any kind was strongly discouraged, usually through violence (I have always thought of as the Cantina and since I have neither the Force nor a fully functional light-saber, I wisely stayed away). So, while Antonio’s statement wasn’t technically true in an absolute sense, it was true in enough senses that made El Lounge the only after-hours bar I would enter during my time in Mexico.
“You seem awake enough. How late did you stay there?”
“Uhh, I didn’t actually go in.”
“Why, what did you do?”
“Well, I got to the door and just as I was going in, this chick walks out and asks me if I want to go home with her.”
“That’s ridiculous.” I said to the five foot four, pudgy, sun-burnt, Texan “There is no way that happened.”
“I have been here for four months and I can assure you that that does indeed happen, and quite often I might add.” He continued his story while I made numerous mental notes reminding myself to not shake his hand or share a drink with him for the remainder of our acquaintance. “So, this chick invites me to her place and I think ‘why not?’ so I go to her place. Now later, I’m on her roof and I say to myself ‘Whitfield, you’re gonna need to smash this window’. . .”
“Whoa! Hold on a sec there. It seems to me that a large and possibly important part of your narrative has been misplaced. How did you come to find yourself on this roof and was I correct in hearing that when you speak to yourself you call yourself Whitfield?”
“Well, Whitfield is my actual name. I started going by Antonio because that’s where I’m from and no one here in Mexico can seem to pronounce Whitfield.” This being a suitable explanation I was able to move on and with the aid of the crowd that had now gathered,I was able to urge Whitfield to fill in the gaps of his story. It was revealed that the diminutive Texan had indeed engaged in sexual relations with a stranger who had passed out promptly after their coupling. Whitfield let himself out only to find that he was trapped in the courtyard which was hemmed in by a large wall topped with broken glass and jagged metal. The door to the house was locked and his lover could not be roused by any conventional means, leading him to climb upon the roof so that he could break a window, climb inside, and rouse the stranger long enough to gain access to a key that would allow him to make it beyond the courtyard and into the street.
Though this story was odd and entertaining, it seemed like Whitfield was still keeping something from us and, after further probing, it was discovered that the amorous activity was anal in nature, he had not used a condom, and that Whitfield had been so drunk that he could not recall if he had ever glimpsed the front of the stranger leading him to grudgingly question the sex of his partner. Luckily, one of the twins soon began dating a horse-faced local girl whom even the instructors at La Academia referred to as “Cabesona” who had been outside El Lounge on that fateful night and was able to clear up our mystery.
Tuesday, January 5, 2010
Have you ever accidentally used Holy Water to make your coffee. . .
. . . resulting in sharp pains in your stomach due to some sort of internal cosmic warfare in which the power of Christ compels the demons of feculence to be exorcised into the abyss?
I have recently finished an experiment which lasted the whole of 2009. I committed myself to a reading list, but one that was descriptive rather than prescriptive in that I only added books to the list once I had completed them. I have never had too much of an urge to create a reading list to follow for any period of time but I have toyed with ideas of recording my reading habits, and must thank Evan for suggesting this wonderfully simple one that I overlooked. Below is a the list, broken down by month, of what I read in 2009:
I have recently finished an experiment which lasted the whole of 2009. I committed myself to a reading list, but one that was descriptive rather than prescriptive in that I only added books to the list once I had completed them. I have never had too much of an urge to create a reading list to follow for any period of time but I have toyed with ideas of recording my reading habits, and must thank Evan for suggesting this wonderfully simple one that I overlooked. Below is a the list, broken down by month, of what I read in 2009:
January:
Twilight Watch, Starship Troopers, Care of the Soul, The Reason For God
February:
House of Leaves, Preacher TPBs 1-9, A Game of Thrones
March:
A Clash of Kings, Bird by Bird, Y the Last Man TPBs 1-10, A Storm of Swords, A Feast of Crows, On Bullshit, Fables and Fairytales
April:
American Gods, Assassin’s Apprentice, Royal Assassin
May:
Assassin’s Quest
June:
The Bible, War and Peace
July:
Dead Until Dark
August:
Hood, Living Dead in Dallas
September:
Club Dead, Dead to the World, Dead as a Doornail, Definitely Dead, All Together Dead
October:
Les Miserables, When You Are Engulfed In Flames, Luck in the Shadows
November:
The Name of the Wind, Foreskin’s Lament, Player Piano, Last Watch
December:
Fahrenheit 451
First of all, I am a little bit ashamed that I only completed 36 books in 2009. True, The Bible, Les Miserables, and War and Peace are all beasts that are several times longer than the average novel, but I still feel like I should have been able to complete more books in a year's time. One may look at this list and say "Shit Andrew, you sure have a lot of goddamn silly books on that there list." To which I would reply "That is true" as I fire my automatic shotgun into the advancing zombie horde (because obviously this question was asked by a well read yokel during a zombie apocalypse in which we are fighting our way to freedom through a bayou. I think that it is important to talk about things like reading, self reflection, as well as future goals during the realization of any type of apocalypse, because, aside from basic survival, there are many good reasons to clear the land of the violent undead. Not the least of which being that as one of the sole survivors (due mostly to my excellent shotgun skills) I would be in an excellent position to reshape society into one that once again prizes books above other forms of entertainment).
I have read a lot of fluff in the last year, and I hope to change that somewhat, but the fact remains that reading, for me, is definitely a form of entertainment. I love the books that require a bit of brain sweat, but I also like the books that allow me to turn off the unending self-reflection, social commentary, insane ideas, and inane chatter that is my cerebrum. Also, I feel I can defend almost every book on this list (except for Luck in the Shadows, fuck you Powells for suggesting this book as an acceptable place holder for George R. R. Martin's tardy novels. Fuck your stupid face and this awful waste of paper.). Even the Sookie Stackhouse series contains some very interesting complexities and social commentary. Plus, I read that series via audio book (if you want to argue with me about the validity of "reading" audio books, go right ahead but I cannot think of a safer way to read a book while driving or riding a bike.) and I am falling in love with the accessibility of audio books and find that I would rather listen to a book for a half hour than watch just about any show on television.
For the next year, I plan on continuing my reading list, but I hope to post it each month with a short defense of each book I read. I say defense because I don't want to do a full fledged book review, and I know that I will continue to read many fun books but feel that I ought to try and keep myself accountable that the books I read are also reasonably worthwhile. I also hope to read a lot more books this year, and, as I have already finished three books this year and in the midst of two more, I believe I can reach this goal.
This is but one of several challenges I have set for myself in the next year, and, like this reading list, I believe that I will only post them once I have successfully completed them. That way, if I fail miserably, no one will ever know. But if I don't post any completed challenges, feel free to assume I have died or my life has fallen apart completely and I have moved into my parents basement/tool shed where I chain smoke in between shots of some horrific grain alcohol as I play World of Warcraft and masturbate furiously in my specially reinforced chair that is necessitated by my corpulence.
Wednesday, December 23, 2009
Wednesday, October 7, 2009
Take a look, it's in a book. . .
I found out today that I am now older than Reading Rainbow. Reading Rainbow first aired on June 6, 1983 and continued airing new episodes until November 10, 2006. Reruns were aired until August 28, 2009 when PBS pulled the plug on Reading Rainbow completely. This means that as of September 8, 2009 I have actively existed for longer than Reading Rainbow (I was born ten days after the first show aired).
Initially I was surprised to find out that Reading Rainbow had continued to exist long after my childhood, but then I became nostalgic. I remember watching Reading Rainbow quite often. I am not completely sure why I watched this show; in fact, I am pretty sure I never read a single book LeVar Burton talked about. We didn’t have cable and my parents could plop us kids in front of the television with this on, secure that there would be no boobs or cussing (most people would add violence to that list but as most of my childhood games were competitions/battles with my brother involving fire, falling or pushing each other from heights, burying one another, or other forms of violence and we would only get in trouble if one of us had to go to the hospital or damaged somebody’s property, I figure that my parents weren’t all too worried about exposing us to violence as we were pretty good at being creatively violent all on our own).
I also remember watching it often on my own, even before I learned to read at age seven (Yeah I started late, I blame my mother who “home-schooled” me until 2nd grade which allowed me to discover fire and all the aforementioned games, but never allowed me to learn to read). I had the theme song memorized and anticipated the ironic one liner that ended each book review because I definitely did trust Mr. Burton’s word but if he insisted, I guess I could try to force myself to doubt him. How could you not trust the helmsman of the star ship Enterprise? If the operator of a fucking spaceship tells you that a book is good, you better believe him. And if said operator is Geordi La Forge, a blind guy who can see with the aid of a kick ass mechanical visor, pretty much making him a cyborg, and this guy shows up and tells you that reading is cool, then you know without a doubt that reading is totally fucking awesome.
Whew, got carried away for a second there, but Reading Rainbow is a great show. Several tattoo shops I know of have a couple of free tattoos they are willing to give people. Usually it is a crappy drawing of a stinky beaver or some such nonsense but I have always dreamed of finding a tattoo shop that has the Reading Rainbow logo as a free tattoo. I would take that deal in a heartbeat.
I am currently reading the unabridged version of Les Miserables; a monstrous tome and a fantastic literary work. I feel that I have come a long way since I learned how to read as I am pretty sure that I just remembered the first book I ever bought (I have absolutely no idea what the first book I ever read was). It was a school book order and since I attended a Christian school we had to order from some shitty Christian publishing company. The first book I ever bought was the initial installment in the nearly unremembered, Christian, science fiction series, Zaanan. I remember thinking that these books were cool because instead of being rectangle they were square. That seemed totally futuristic to me for some strange reason. I believe that Zaanan was some sort of galactic police officer or detective or something like that because I remember mysteries being solved. The best thing about Zaanan, however, was that he got to wear these bad ass bracers that could shoot laser beams. I throw around words like “best thing” and “bad ass” but really, the only good thing about these books was the idea of these books. I am pretty sure that even in second grade I realize that the Zaanan series was pretty lame. . . But don’t take my word for it.
Initially I was surprised to find out that Reading Rainbow had continued to exist long after my childhood, but then I became nostalgic. I remember watching Reading Rainbow quite often. I am not completely sure why I watched this show; in fact, I am pretty sure I never read a single book LeVar Burton talked about. We didn’t have cable and my parents could plop us kids in front of the television with this on, secure that there would be no boobs or cussing (most people would add violence to that list but as most of my childhood games were competitions/battles with my brother involving fire, falling or pushing each other from heights, burying one another, or other forms of violence and we would only get in trouble if one of us had to go to the hospital or damaged somebody’s property, I figure that my parents weren’t all too worried about exposing us to violence as we were pretty good at being creatively violent all on our own).
I also remember watching it often on my own, even before I learned to read at age seven (Yeah I started late, I blame my mother who “home-schooled” me until 2nd grade which allowed me to discover fire and all the aforementioned games, but never allowed me to learn to read). I had the theme song memorized and anticipated the ironic one liner that ended each book review because I definitely did trust Mr. Burton’s word but if he insisted, I guess I could try to force myself to doubt him. How could you not trust the helmsman of the star ship Enterprise? If the operator of a fucking spaceship tells you that a book is good, you better believe him. And if said operator is Geordi La Forge, a blind guy who can see with the aid of a kick ass mechanical visor, pretty much making him a cyborg, and this guy shows up and tells you that reading is cool, then you know without a doubt that reading is totally fucking awesome.
Whew, got carried away for a second there, but Reading Rainbow is a great show. Several tattoo shops I know of have a couple of free tattoos they are willing to give people. Usually it is a crappy drawing of a stinky beaver or some such nonsense but I have always dreamed of finding a tattoo shop that has the Reading Rainbow logo as a free tattoo. I would take that deal in a heartbeat.
I am currently reading the unabridged version of Les Miserables; a monstrous tome and a fantastic literary work. I feel that I have come a long way since I learned how to read as I am pretty sure that I just remembered the first book I ever bought (I have absolutely no idea what the first book I ever read was). It was a school book order and since I attended a Christian school we had to order from some shitty Christian publishing company. The first book I ever bought was the initial installment in the nearly unremembered, Christian, science fiction series, Zaanan. I remember thinking that these books were cool because instead of being rectangle they were square. That seemed totally futuristic to me for some strange reason. I believe that Zaanan was some sort of galactic police officer or detective or something like that because I remember mysteries being solved. The best thing about Zaanan, however, was that he got to wear these bad ass bracers that could shoot laser beams. I throw around words like “best thing” and “bad ass” but really, the only good thing about these books was the idea of these books. I am pretty sure that even in second grade I realize that the Zaanan series was pretty lame. . . But don’t take my word for it.
Thursday, August 6, 2009
Found Poetry: A recorded testimony of drunken brotherly love transcribed for your reading pleasure.
I woke up in the middle of the night and listened to the first message for some unknown reason and, as I was mostly asleep at the time, the message integrated itself into my dreams and I had drunken, poetic conversations with Jordan all night. I did not recall this until I received the second message which allowed me to discover the first message as well as the text. The process of writing these messages down was necessary for both posterity and comprehension. If you would like a dramatic reading, feel free to give me a call.
7/26 6:00am (text)
Everythinh’r good,
nothing’s great,
things are stuff, yet all is well.
Love jordan. L & s…
Good morning butthorn.
Sometime while I was asleep on 7/27
Huurrr Ho ho ho ho ho
Here’s a uh, little message
from Jordan,
your brother
uumm
Clap clap clap
ahhh sometimes we wish
sometimes we piss
sometimes we wander
other times we Saunter
aaaaand other times we falter
and the other day I met a guy named Walter
Sometimes there’s splash
Sometimes you just go and pass
And then there are other times when we see a light
Aaaaaand there are other times when we see a fright. . . movie.
But in the end,
sometimes we just send…BAD phone call messages
Great!!
Ate, sate, bate, crate, late…as always
Click…
lick, slick, tick…
The end. . ..dick
7/28 4:28am
What!?!…
what what what, is that soot
on my foot.
My foot, my shoe, don’t you?
Did not do those things that we did
and was done back when we had fun
now how did we… wow!
Those great crops
and give me props for not selling,
reeling those silly feelings that I was selling…
But please, don’t be a tease,
I say excuse you
when I sneeze.
Aaaaaaaaaand take cord when you snore and ignore…
myyyyy upbringing?
I see a stop sign
and I did not see Coralline
cause the movie looks like a little bit of a sloosey
and stuff
Safeway is the wrong way
I much prefer danger way.
If you remember that September or October and November
where we painted and instigated
much paintings,
many feastings…
Rooftops are great by the way,
I’m feel okay
It’s not all it’s up to beeeeeee…
and we see which is me Jorban,
Lorban, Jobs, Cobs, not Nobs
Okay…
I get punched in the face in the end
so send me a message and we may uh, chrisbinosomebitch…
woops, now I’m just making up words.
were nerds,
butter turds…
Aaaaaaaaaarrrrllllllhrhghgsge sue poo you crew too
The end.
Holler back… girl.
Huh, jen, dun, du du duuu uhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh Boop!
Thursday, May 21, 2009
Epic Goals
A couple of days ago I said "I am not going read anything or start a project until I finish reading the Bible and War and Peace." I immediately realized the absurdly epic nature of my vow and was even more pleased to realize that I was completely serious.
I plan on finishing before my birthday, a mere 26 days hence.
That is all.
I plan on finishing before my birthday, a mere 26 days hence.
That is all.
Wednesday, October 22, 2008
Semantic vortices, musings, and doppelgangers
I haven’t written for a while. My reading has slowed down too but that is because I am reading meatier texts. I should be reminded that writing is far more stimulating than not writing more often.
When I first started sitting in on a literary theory class taught by Professor Philippian, he explained that theory must be thought of as tools with which we can understand the text. Each of these tools, used correctly, will bring out a different understanding of the text. A reader could use the same tool to search every text just as a can opener or a chainsaw could be used to open a can it is just that some theories are better suited for a text than others. At the same time I see the problem of the man with a hammer who sees everything as a nail because it seems to me that literary theories are mostly a way to state your foremost bias as a reader.
From the beginning I wanted there to be a sort of swiss army tool; a literary theory that doesn’t set one bias over another in the reading and understanding of a text but exposes all biases and can thus search for understanding in a more holistic manner. The problem with this is that not all people contain all biases so there will automatically be preferential treatment toward one or another venue of comprehension and no one person can possibly grasp all of his own biases. And if, in some amazing happening, a reader could look at a text from every possible angle with every possible bias, writing or speaking of that understanding would last forever. And if it was trimmed down to a digestible size it would just as absurd as attempting to say every word I am going to say today in one second; the result would be an incomprehensible yalp. The impossibility of a functioning swiss army tool doesn’t detract from my desire for one but requires me to search all the harder for this fantastic absurdity.
When we came to Deconstructuralism (also called poststructuralism), I was at first quite put off by the school of thought. Deridda starts his essay with “Perhaps” and constantly speaks in such ephemeral doublespeak that there is no possible way to find any definitive meaning in the essay. I don’t know why I didn’t like the essay at first; I guess I momentarily forgot how much I love absurdity.
I have been thinking more and more about Deconstructuralism and have come to realize that it is a sort of swiss army tool. Deconstructuralism takes a reading of the text down to the meaning of words but says that words only have meaning in relationship or context to other words. When meaning is broken down this far the author, the reader, history, belief, and language all have a say in what the inherent meaning of a text is and are all fallible because communication is inherently flawed. Deconstructuralism is a great humbler of critics because it will always call foul on any critic who claims authority over knowledge. Not because it claims to be right (which would, of course, be a paradox) but because everyone is wrong in that we can never be totally right. Deconstructuralists are kind of kooky because they can never say anything definitive beyond you are wrong because you are only partially right.
This seems to be a rejection of any metanarrative and revulsion to absolute truth but I disagree. Deconstructualists are driven to a constant rejection and embrace of ideas because partial truth is never sufficient. They are driven by a search for absolute truth even though the fallibility of language renders all efforts to quantify Truth incomplete thus allowing them to question critics while accepting their ideas.
Maybe I simply like Deconstructuralist criticism because it can agree with my own feelings that absolute truth exists but at the same time is unquantifiable in human language thus making it incomprehensible and untenable in the current human reality of a finite realm, and since it can not be grasped because it is beyond human ability of conception, in the same way, it does not exist in a human language defined world. Or maybe I just like it because I love semantic vortexes and infinite play of language in interpretation (here I am not talking only about texts but about all communication everywhere).
Now that I have got my absurdity out for the day let’s turn to a more serious matter. I googled myself the other day. Simply typing “kooy” into the search engine did not render the results I had hoped for though I did find out that there was a musician named Peter Kooy who is apparently popular in some circle or another and that my last name was originally spelled Kooij (Grandpa always said that there was once a j in our name).
What I was really searching for was an answer to the question of how important was my blog in the realm of my self as defined by a Google search. When I typed in my full name I got better results though not quite as good as I hoped for. The first result was a hit from classmates.com. The second was Andrew Kooy on facebook. The third was my myspace page. Finally, in the fourth place I found Kooy to the World.
My first reaction was: “Fucking myspace. Sure that profile has existed longer but my blog is far more interesting than myspace.” My second reaction was: “Wait! Facebook? I don’t use facebook. Did somebody set up a facebook page on my behalf?” And in an attempt to catch the lousy bastard I clicked on the link to see what “my” facebook had to say about me. I wish that someone had simply set up a false account for me but the truth is far more insidious. I have a doppelganger.
The doppelganger Andrew Kooy currently resides in Toronto, Ontario and has many Dutch friends, lots of Vander-something names. As doppelgangers originate in Germany I am sure that he followed a linguistic route to track me down. Dutch is an offshoot of German so of course he went to the Netherlands, fell in love with the myth of Kooy, and immigrated (just like my ancestors) to Canada. There I am sure he is honing his skills of subterfuge so that he may destroy me, feast on my soul, and take my place in society when he finally confronts me. Luckily I know that I am my doppelganger’s goppeldanger and have skills I too must hone if I am to prevail. Fear and tremble Andrew Kooy. I, your nemesis, know of your existence and will not stop until I taste of your destruction.
THERE CAN BE ONLY ONE!!!
When I first started sitting in on a literary theory class taught by Professor Philippian, he explained that theory must be thought of as tools with which we can understand the text. Each of these tools, used correctly, will bring out a different understanding of the text. A reader could use the same tool to search every text just as a can opener or a chainsaw could be used to open a can it is just that some theories are better suited for a text than others. At the same time I see the problem of the man with a hammer who sees everything as a nail because it seems to me that literary theories are mostly a way to state your foremost bias as a reader.
From the beginning I wanted there to be a sort of swiss army tool; a literary theory that doesn’t set one bias over another in the reading and understanding of a text but exposes all biases and can thus search for understanding in a more holistic manner. The problem with this is that not all people contain all biases so there will automatically be preferential treatment toward one or another venue of comprehension and no one person can possibly grasp all of his own biases. And if, in some amazing happening, a reader could look at a text from every possible angle with every possible bias, writing or speaking of that understanding would last forever. And if it was trimmed down to a digestible size it would just as absurd as attempting to say every word I am going to say today in one second; the result would be an incomprehensible yalp. The impossibility of a functioning swiss army tool doesn’t detract from my desire for one but requires me to search all the harder for this fantastic absurdity.
When we came to Deconstructuralism (also called poststructuralism), I was at first quite put off by the school of thought. Deridda starts his essay with “Perhaps” and constantly speaks in such ephemeral doublespeak that there is no possible way to find any definitive meaning in the essay. I don’t know why I didn’t like the essay at first; I guess I momentarily forgot how much I love absurdity.
I have been thinking more and more about Deconstructuralism and have come to realize that it is a sort of swiss army tool. Deconstructuralism takes a reading of the text down to the meaning of words but says that words only have meaning in relationship or context to other words. When meaning is broken down this far the author, the reader, history, belief, and language all have a say in what the inherent meaning of a text is and are all fallible because communication is inherently flawed. Deconstructuralism is a great humbler of critics because it will always call foul on any critic who claims authority over knowledge. Not because it claims to be right (which would, of course, be a paradox) but because everyone is wrong in that we can never be totally right. Deconstructuralists are kind of kooky because they can never say anything definitive beyond you are wrong because you are only partially right.
This seems to be a rejection of any metanarrative and revulsion to absolute truth but I disagree. Deconstructualists are driven to a constant rejection and embrace of ideas because partial truth is never sufficient. They are driven by a search for absolute truth even though the fallibility of language renders all efforts to quantify Truth incomplete thus allowing them to question critics while accepting their ideas.
Maybe I simply like Deconstructuralist criticism because it can agree with my own feelings that absolute truth exists but at the same time is unquantifiable in human language thus making it incomprehensible and untenable in the current human reality of a finite realm, and since it can not be grasped because it is beyond human ability of conception, in the same way, it does not exist in a human language defined world. Or maybe I just like it because I love semantic vortexes and infinite play of language in interpretation (here I am not talking only about texts but about all communication everywhere).
Now that I have got my absurdity out for the day let’s turn to a more serious matter. I googled myself the other day. Simply typing “kooy” into the search engine did not render the results I had hoped for though I did find out that there was a musician named Peter Kooy who is apparently popular in some circle or another and that my last name was originally spelled Kooij (Grandpa always said that there was once a j in our name).
What I was really searching for was an answer to the question of how important was my blog in the realm of my self as defined by a Google search. When I typed in my full name I got better results though not quite as good as I hoped for. The first result was a hit from classmates.com. The second was Andrew Kooy on facebook. The third was my myspace page. Finally, in the fourth place I found Kooy to the World.
My first reaction was: “Fucking myspace. Sure that profile has existed longer but my blog is far more interesting than myspace.” My second reaction was: “Wait! Facebook? I don’t use facebook. Did somebody set up a facebook page on my behalf?” And in an attempt to catch the lousy bastard I clicked on the link to see what “my” facebook had to say about me. I wish that someone had simply set up a false account for me but the truth is far more insidious. I have a doppelganger.
The doppelganger Andrew Kooy currently resides in Toronto, Ontario and has many Dutch friends, lots of Vander-something names. As doppelgangers originate in Germany I am sure that he followed a linguistic route to track me down. Dutch is an offshoot of German so of course he went to the Netherlands, fell in love with the myth of Kooy, and immigrated (just like my ancestors) to Canada. There I am sure he is honing his skills of subterfuge so that he may destroy me, feast on my soul, and take my place in society when he finally confronts me. Luckily I know that I am my doppelganger’s goppeldanger and have skills I too must hone if I am to prevail. Fear and tremble Andrew Kooy. I, your nemesis, know of your existence and will not stop until I taste of your destruction.
THERE CAN BE ONLY ONE!!!
Thursday, October 16, 2008
A Taste of Redding: Part 3
My first experience of “pint night” at Carnegie’s is one I hope to never forget (I would say that I will never forget it but there is always the possibilty of senility or brain damage). My friends had spoken of the wonders of pint night for some time. I always wanted to go, but it occurs on Wednesday nights and my friends were usually busy. Finally, some time in the fall a couple of years ago, my friend Scott gave me a call and we journeyed together to Carnegie’s.
The pub was crowded. The line for beer ended at the front door and there were no tables open when we entered. We waited in line, figuring that by the time we got our beer, a spot would open up for us.
Pint night, in my opinion, is a very good idea. It goes like this: To enter into pint night you first buy a pint glass tattooed with the decal of a brewery of your choice (that is, if the brewery of your choice is on tap and they have not run out of glasses from said brewery). The cost of the pint glass is six dollars which includes your first pint. Each pint after this is only two dollars so if you drink four pints you will only be paying three dollars per pint and you have a glass to keep. Carnegie’s only has about a half dozen beers on tap but they are good beer and you can change your preference each time you fill up so I deem pint night to be a good, economic choice for midweek beer enjoyment.
While we stood in line we didn’t speak much. As I said before, the pub was crowded and I don’t like having conversations publicly. Usually I try to move away from everyone if I am even to answer my cell phone. I wanted to wait until we were seated, just another part of the crowd. Waiting in line always makes me feel as if I am on stage, as if everyone is watching me, waiting to see if I will remain patient or become exasperated. Overhearing conversations while in line or in close proximity to a line is not a deviation from the norm by being nosy or “listening in” on another’s conversation; it is a right of the bored.
The line moved slowly. Not many people filed in behind us and by the time we had halved the distance to the bar there were only four people trailing us, first two women, and then two young men. As we neared the bar I noticed that the four middle aged customers sitting directly at the bar were not partaking in pint night but were imbibing wine. I scowled internally as they flaunted their excess by circumventing the excellent deal of bargain beer. I filed them away as philistine lushes due to the caliber of wine they were drinking as well as the slurred timber and public volume of their conversation.
As we edged ever closer to the front of the queue, one of the men at the bar turned around and attempted to focus with the particular effort forced by inebriation on the words printed on the sweatshirt of the young man behind us in line.
“You ever been there,” the older man said.
“What? You mean here?” the younger man replied, pointing at the words on his sweatshirt that advertised some casino in Ferndale, California. “Yea, that’s where I bought the sweatshirt.”
“Oh,” said the old man, seeming to deflate for a moment before expanding with joyous confession, “I fucked a sheep there once!”
I turned away from the man and looked at Scott with wide eyes in an attempt to ask “Is this really happening?” without uttering a word.
“Yea, me and four of my buddies went down there and fucked a sheep, but I went first; no sloppy seconds for me!”
“Uh, okay” the young man replied. How do you respond to such an oddly exuberant confession of bestiality?
I attempted to contain my shocked laughter. The older man turned around, paid his bill, and left with his friends before we got our first beer.
“Did he just say that he ‘fucked a sheep there once’?” I asked without attempting to hide the incredulity in my voice.
“I think so” the young man spouted in the midst of his own unbelieving laughter.
“Who does that?” I asked Scott as we stepped up to begin pint night.
As he took out his wallet to show is ID to the barkeep he clapped me on the shoulder and said without reserve or need to contain the laughter in his voice, “Welcome to Redding, man.”
The pub was crowded. The line for beer ended at the front door and there were no tables open when we entered. We waited in line, figuring that by the time we got our beer, a spot would open up for us.
Pint night, in my opinion, is a very good idea. It goes like this: To enter into pint night you first buy a pint glass tattooed with the decal of a brewery of your choice (that is, if the brewery of your choice is on tap and they have not run out of glasses from said brewery). The cost of the pint glass is six dollars which includes your first pint. Each pint after this is only two dollars so if you drink four pints you will only be paying three dollars per pint and you have a glass to keep. Carnegie’s only has about a half dozen beers on tap but they are good beer and you can change your preference each time you fill up so I deem pint night to be a good, economic choice for midweek beer enjoyment.
While we stood in line we didn’t speak much. As I said before, the pub was crowded and I don’t like having conversations publicly. Usually I try to move away from everyone if I am even to answer my cell phone. I wanted to wait until we were seated, just another part of the crowd. Waiting in line always makes me feel as if I am on stage, as if everyone is watching me, waiting to see if I will remain patient or become exasperated. Overhearing conversations while in line or in close proximity to a line is not a deviation from the norm by being nosy or “listening in” on another’s conversation; it is a right of the bored.
The line moved slowly. Not many people filed in behind us and by the time we had halved the distance to the bar there were only four people trailing us, first two women, and then two young men. As we neared the bar I noticed that the four middle aged customers sitting directly at the bar were not partaking in pint night but were imbibing wine. I scowled internally as they flaunted their excess by circumventing the excellent deal of bargain beer. I filed them away as philistine lushes due to the caliber of wine they were drinking as well as the slurred timber and public volume of their conversation.
As we edged ever closer to the front of the queue, one of the men at the bar turned around and attempted to focus with the particular effort forced by inebriation on the words printed on the sweatshirt of the young man behind us in line.
“You ever been there,” the older man said.
“What? You mean here?” the younger man replied, pointing at the words on his sweatshirt that advertised some casino in Ferndale, California. “Yea, that’s where I bought the sweatshirt.”
“Oh,” said the old man, seeming to deflate for a moment before expanding with joyous confession, “I fucked a sheep there once!”
I turned away from the man and looked at Scott with wide eyes in an attempt to ask “Is this really happening?” without uttering a word.
“Yea, me and four of my buddies went down there and fucked a sheep, but I went first; no sloppy seconds for me!”
“Uh, okay” the young man replied. How do you respond to such an oddly exuberant confession of bestiality?
I attempted to contain my shocked laughter. The older man turned around, paid his bill, and left with his friends before we got our first beer.
“Did he just say that he ‘fucked a sheep there once’?” I asked without attempting to hide the incredulity in my voice.
“I think so” the young man spouted in the midst of his own unbelieving laughter.
“Who does that?” I asked Scott as we stepped up to begin pint night.
As he took out his wallet to show is ID to the barkeep he clapped me on the shoulder and said without reserve or need to contain the laughter in his voice, “Welcome to Redding, man.”
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I have started an experiment with me most excellent freind, Halden. We have decided to combine our culinary skills and editorialize them on the vast series of tubes you see before you. They will reside in a magical mansion who’s front door is a perfectly smoked slab of baby back ribs. . .where taps are never for water. . .where beautiful mermaids serve you buffalo wings of mind blowing deliciousness on a platter of magic bacon cooked by a unicorn’s laser vision. The drinks are always cold (unless they are supposed to be hot, in that case they will be hot. . .but not so hot you would scald your tongue because that would just ruin the whole experience), the food is probably bad for you (but always worth it), and, depending on how much we have consumed of either of those two, the posts are interesting.
We invite you to enter into the world of two minds in perpetual synergy. Our dreams will thrust themselves upon reality, pleasuring her with our wonderful meat and most excellent alcohol. You are welcome internet.
mightyvaldenkor.wordpress.com