Sunday, May 31, 2009

Good Night, Sunshine!

My sleep pattern is all messed up.

Over the past couple of months or so I've gravitated to what I guess is my natural sleep pattern...wake at noon or so and stay up 'till about 4:00am. But that has been inching later and later each night as I get ready for the crazy hours starting this week. Except for tomorrow which is an intro/orientation day at the new job starting at 8:30am, I'll be in training class for 8 weeks starting Tuesday with a schedule of 5pm to 2am! Ya, like I said, crazy!

I have no idea why so late, I guess I'll find out when we begin. It doesn't matter to me. After the scare of the past 9 weeks of unemployment, I'll gladly work whatever freakin' insane schedule they want me to.

But if I start taking on an affectation for black satin capes and the sweet smell of fresh blood, well, ya can't blame me.

So here I am, just after 7am and I'm sippin' some red wine, trying to wind down, getting ready to climb into my coffin, err, I mean my bed.

Next thing you know I'll be scowling and shrieking at the sight of a crucifix.

Oh wait...I already do.

Wednesday, May 27, 2009

FLASHBACK: Early February 2001

I was enjoying a relaxing Saturday afternoon at home playing on Mildred VIII when I got a call from the apartment complex's front gate. Jay was here. This was really odd since he didn't drive and I doubted he would have taken a bus from his house in the Orlovista section of town to my house in South Orlando. Only about 5 miles apart but not on an easy accessed connecting bus line. Once at my apartment, he explained that his friend J.T. drove him over. When I asked why J.T. hadn't come up, Jay said he had some place to be.

Jay seemed to be acting a little weird. He said he didn't want to go out anywhere, He just wanted to visit with me. I was cool with that but it was a bit unusual for Jay to be the type to just "hang out". He soon revealed what he was being weird about. He had brought a couple of rather large joints and asked if I wanted to get stoned. I usually don't smoke pot, preferring beer as my drug of choice, but lately Jay had really been ardently substituting his beer drinking with pot smoking and since he was sharing, well...

We sat in my living room passing the joint back and forth, shootin' the shit and stuff. Jay started getting silly and began to tickle me. I returned the horseplay but he seemed more into continuing the contact even after the silly moment had passed. He suggested we watch TV and as my only TV was in my bedroom we made our way in there. As I turned on the TV and prepared to sit at my computer desk chair, he took up the only other seating in the room, the edge of my bed.

Jay pulled out another bone and blazed it up. I was already too stoned for my taste, but he offered it up and I decided it was mellow enough shit and I wasn't feeling the usual paranoia or anti-social feelings I had sometimes with one too many hits of pot. He suggested we lie back together on the bed to make passing the joint easier. After a few tokes we were both very high and Jay again started his tickling. Suddenly, out of the blue, he asked if I had any gay porn videos. I admitted I did. He said he wanted to watch one of them.

This was getting really weird because I had always assumed Jay was straight and though he was fully aware of my orientation and was totally cool with it, he made no mention of being bi-curious or anything like that.

Oddly though, just a month earlier while he was over during the time Ric was living with me after having been thrown out by his boyfriend Gary, Jay had stormed out of my house while he was waiting for J.T. to come pick him up.

We had been smoking then too and I had gotten tired and passed out on my bed. Ric and Jay were talking in the living room and according to Ric's side of the story, they were talking about gay sex and Ric said Jay told him he had tried it before but felt pain when his partner tried to fuck him. Ric being such the sensitive guy he is joked to Jay, "So you like taking it up the ass, eh?" Jay got all offended and left even before his ride had gotten there.

I heard the door slam so I woke up and Ric told me the story. I went out to search for Jay but couldn't find him. Turns out he waited for J.T. by the gate and made it home okay. Later when I asked Jay about the incident, he said he didn't want to talk about it and we never spoke of it again.

So now Jay was here again, stoned, and wanting to lie back on my bed with me and watch gay porn. I obliged and popped a tape into the VCR. Within a few minutes I could see Jay staring intently at the screen, rubbing his crotch. I thought to myself at first, "Oh, he just needs to rub one out and he knows I wouldn't have straight porn. That's cool, mi casa su casa and all, dude."

But Jay then surprised me and rolled over, grabbed me and stared into my eyes. Without a word we leaned into each other, touched lips and engaged in one of the most powerful and passionate kisses I had ever experienced. Soon it moved to clothes-on frotage. I pulled Jay's shirt off and began to lick his nipples and moved my tongue-play down his torso to his waist. As he groaned in pleasure he pushed my head encouragingly toward his crotch and started to unbuckle his pants. He slid his pants and underwear towards his knees, I lowered my head towards his throbbing cock, and suddenly, I turned away.

It wasn't that I wasn't turned on by him. I had always thought Jay was cute and the pot buzz, the porno and his passionate kiss had me excited as well, but for some reason, it just felt wrong. I was getting all womanly-type feelings and felt this was cheap and too guttural for me. Plus, I knew it would change our friendship and would likely turn into something he'd feel funny about later, being straight and all.

Jay begged me to continue and started to attempt to pull off my pants as if to say, "Hey man, I'm not all selfish. I'll do you too." but for me the urge had passed. I told him "the right thing to say", that it wasn't him, it was just that I was really tired and too stoned. I was also truthful in telling him that I thought it would probably ruin our friendship.

He jumped up, pulled up his pants and went into the bathroom. He stayed in there for a good half hour or so. When he finally came out I told him I was sorry, but he said it was cool and he wasn't upset or anything. He called J.T. to come get him and said that even though he was okay with everything, he had a headache and wanted to go home. I told him understood.

The next day I went up to Beerbellies, the sports bar in Metrowest he hung out in every Sunday. He was there with J.T. and friends. When we had a moment alone, he apologized for his behavior and excused it to not having had a girlfriend in a while. He explained that he was glad it ended up as it did before it got too far since he didn't want me to feel like he was using me. There was honesty and simplicity in what he was saying so I knew it was true and I thanked him for it.

But before the others returned back to the table, he leaned towards me and whispered, "You know though, I have to admit, that was one HOT kiss." I agreed. We smiled at each other, giggled and never spoke about it again.

Monday, May 25, 2009

SCRAPBOOK: Hometown Memories 2

Last July I started off the new SCRAPBOOK series of posts with pics "borrowed" from various web sources of places in my hometown of Woonsocket, RI. I couldn't snag shots of exactly all the locations I wanted to feature in the post since my choices, short of actually traveling to RI and photographing them myself, were limited to what was out there with the only alternative being Google Maps Streetview shots. Back then, Google hadn't shot anywhere near Woonsocket yet. Well, now they have. At least some of the major streets running through town. So, here are a few more pics of some of my childhood haunts.

Here's the weenie place I talked about in last year's post. I have to admit, the interior shots I used were actually of a similar restaurant in Providence. So sue me! ;) But this is the real McCoy here...New York System Lunch on Main Street...a landmark for sure. This and Ye Olde English Fish & Chips sum up 2 of my 3 favorite Main Street area eateries...

This is the 3rd. Chan's. The best fried rice in the world. One of the best lo meins (tied with the Metarie, Louisiana place) and many fond memories of stopping in here after school once a week for a ritual dinner out with John N. where I would always order the Number 4 (Fried boneless chicken in gravy, fried rice, chop suey). It's a wonder I wasn't fat as I am now when I was a kid!

Pretty much halfway between those two Main Street iconic restaurants is Depot Square. On the left is the building John N. and I snuck into to access the 2nd floor public restroom for some teen lust sucky sucky, discussed in this post. On the right is the Providence and Worcester Railroad train station. The spire used to have a brass train engine themed weather vane but it went missing in the mid-eighties. The cops were dumbfounded as to how the thieves got up there. Some theorized they used a helicopter. Ya, right. Ah, donut-drugged small town police dreaming up outrageous capers. How sad.

Across the river is this cool looking stone courthouse. I had to face a judge under a charge of hit and run! Yikes. Thankfully since I was young and cute the closeted gay judge felt sorry for me and let me get off with an expungement after I paid the lowlife owner of the van I'd hit over $400 in damages. That idiot actually ran into me and only got a little scratch on his already beat-up van. How dare he hit me after I'd just drank two bottles of wine. Of course I left the scene! I wanted to wait a few years before I'd get my first DUI.

Just across the square from the courthouse is St. James Church. Here I attended the funeral of a good friend just a couple years after graduating high school. Stephen was a brilliant nerdy kinda guy but he liked to play silly games and one night while home from college he and his buddies got in a car and raced down Gaskill Street. Unfortunately whoever was driving the car he was in lost control and wrapped the car around a tree.

Here's a view of the Hamlet Street side of Precious Blood Church, just a stone's throw from St. James. My parents were married here on September 23, 1963. My aunt/godmother, "Neuna" had her funeral here.

Here we have a pretty much average street corner in the "infamous" Social Corner neighborhood of town. Though a bit less cramped today due to fires and demolitions, the area has long been the denizen of the city's most poor and working-class. And in a poor and working-class city, that's sayin' a lot. Here some of the typical three-story tenement houses seem to have been stripped of their porches. Probably due to age, wood rot, and the landlord's fear of liability if tenants started falling off them after a night out at one of the many corner barrooms. Of course, you know, Kid Chase grew up in this hood.

Friday, May 22, 2009

When It Rains, It Pours

After what seems like forever, after rejection after rejection, after my patience and confidence are worn to a bare thread, the calls finally started coming in.

Three solid interviews this week, two calls to set up interview times and then on Thursday, finally, one company extends an offer to me.

Once again, I do the impossible and step off the crashing plane just before it plunges into the ground, avoiding certain death.

And, once again, the offer is for what seems to be better job duties, better hours, better location, better company, better benefits and even better pay. All my consternation of the past 2 months nullified by an entirely more adequate setup than before. Albeit some $2000 in savings lighter since that's what I'd been living on. Ah well, I'll consider it a mini-retirement.

So to MS Money I go, planning my next few months budget without a look of horror on my face. Michael slips through by the skin of his teeth yet again. Yay! No need to outfit Nugget as my new residence just yet.

Monday, May 18, 2009

Rainy Christy's Syndrome Monday

The rain. Sometimes it gives me the blues. When you first came here, I only loved the writer part of Paul Sheldon. Now I know I love the rest of him, too. I know you don't love me, don't say you do. You're beautiful, brilliant, a famous man of the world and I'm... not a movie star type. You'll never know the fear of losing someone like you if you're someone like me...

...I have this gun.

Sometimes I think about using it. I'd better go now. I might put bullets in it.

-Kathy Bates as Annie Wilkes in "Misery"

Okay so I'm not freakin' Annie Wilkes depressed but I'm definitely undergoing a strong bout of Christy's Syndrome today.

Christy's Syndrome is what I call strong cravings for beer counterpointed by just as strong desires to not drink. It's named for a particular liquor store in Rhode Island, Christy's Liquor Superstore. They had built this huge retail package store in the very early 90's just as I was beginning to struggle with my alcoholism. In RI, alcohol of any kind, even beer and wine, must only be bought from designated stand-alone liquor stores. And licenses were tough to come by for would-be merchants so when a new store opened up or got remodeled/expanded, it was big news for us alchies.

One of the aspects of the liquor store retail setup in RI was the fact that most stores in operation seemed to have been in business for decades. And they looked it. Dingy, dusty, sometimes downright dirty, the traditional package store didn't need to look all bright and cheerful. Their clientele were steady, as is the nature of their product to make the consumers addicts, and the customers didn't give a fuck. They just wanted to get in, get their hooch and get out fast. With little competition and a notoriety for being mob-owned, these were pretty unsavory places to be sure. Oh yes, there were more "hoity-toity" places, catering to wine connoisseurs and patrons of fine single malts and shit, but they carried the hefty prices in there. For us workin' joes, there was the neighborhood package store with the shelves of dust-covered Old Grandad and a grisly fat guy named Sal behind the bullet-proof glassed-in counter. This atmosphere of desperation and destitution helped me when trying to stay away from them.

But Christy's was one of a few new style liquor stores to make the scene. It was sparkling-new and friendly. Product was displayed lovingly in end-caps, aisles and illuminated with sharp track lighting. The uniformed staff were polite and didn't make you feel like you were buying something illegal. It screamed in bright cheerful colors: "Buy here, and you won't feel dirty! After all, drinking is hip and cool!"

So by 1992 when I was earnestly trying to stay off the bottle, if I ever caught myself driving down Cranston St. in Cranston (which I don't know why I would since I had no business in Cranston then. Maybe I was shopping?) I would get the twang in my stomach when I saw Christy's. There were nights, I remember, that I would drive up and down the road, passing Christy's, fighting with myself as to whether I'd go in or not. And this could last for hours. Either I'd finally drive home after giving in and getting something, or I'd be sweating and shaking, having been able to hold off...for another day.

So today it's raining out and will be, according to the weathermen, for another few days.

I guess that's good, what with the weather we've been having and the brush fire alerts and all, the land needs a a long deserved drink after this dry spell.

And so do I.

No I don't.

Yes I do.

No I don't.

Where's that gun when you need it?

Saturday, May 16, 2009

A Line Must Be Drawn Here

In "Star Trek: First Contact" Captain Picard utters this famous line when he explains to the 21st century Lily why he is so reluctant to surrender his ship. Lily holds to her own assertion that he is deluding himself and makes a simile to Ahab chasing his whale.

Defending something you cherish is a long held human trait. But depending on what it is you cherish so much has also played into some pretty big setbacks over time.

Throughout the millennia of man's existence, how many wars have been fought to hold on to possessions which seemed, at the time, inconceivable to fall into enemy hands? I used to think, and still do frankly, that it's futile anyway.

Like another ST:TNG quote: "Resistance is futile."

In the end, we always lose.

Entire civilizations have faded into mere memories, and countless others don't even have that anymore. Nation-states fight fiercely, no matter how small, to gain, assert and maintain independence, all to eventually fall. No country, as no man, is immortal. Religions fervently prosteletize to sway the masses only to have new belief systems usurp their efforts as mankind develops new ideas and embraces change.

On an individual scale, every human loses what they love. Their youth, their friend, their lover, their job, their home, their health, their life.

So why fight the inevitable?

I must say I really don't know.

But I do know that whatever we do have, in the here and now, would be significantly diminished if we all believed the fight was unworthy of fighting...if we all just gave up.

So if for no other reason, the struggle must prevail for that.

And that which seeks to deprive us of whatever it is we so dearly wish to defend, today at least, should be held at bay and driven back.

Huzzah! Man the ramparts! To arms! To arms!

Monday, May 11, 2009

FLASHBACK SPECIAL: The Sad Saga Of Kid Chase

My father has a prominent tattoo on his right forearm. It's a caricature of a feisty little boxer with his fists at the ready and the words "KID CHASE" inside a furled banner printed beneath.

He said he got this as a teenager, both the tattoo and the moniker as a result of his bar brawling prowess and local "notoriety". He admitted to us kids that he would easily get into fist fights in bars and come out on top. But he also admitted that his perception of "winning" at these fights was dampened by the fact that he usually ended up getting arrested, and ultimately charged with various misdemeanors causing him to pay fines and retribution, as well as a stint or two in jail. The full scope of his legal ramifications of his unruly behavior was downplayed by him in favor of building up his self-illusioned cult of personality over his imagined macho barroom local legendary status.

Here's a quick timeline of some "Kid Chase" style stunts he "lovingly" interspersed throughout his supposedly "settled down" family man lifetime of raising three kids on a high school dropout's, mill worker salary:

1968: Kid Chase decides to again come home to his wife, two toddlers and one newborn, after a night of bar hopping with his buddies. Mom and he get into a heated argument, like so many before, but for the first time, it gets physical. Kid Chase grabs an object off the kitchen counter and throws it at Mom. It misses, but mom replies with the pot of hot spaghetti and sauce on the stove top. Whoosh! It smashes against the wall mere inches from Kid Chase's beer-buzzed head.

1972: Mom takes us kids on a midnight ride around town, not for the first time, mind you, to hunt down the whereabouts of Daddy aka Kid Chase. She stops at every corner it seems, because in the early seventies Woonsocket actually has a bar on every corner, it would seem. She can't find him and he's very late. Turns out, Kid Chase was a lot closer to home when we had set out on our search. Mom had headed in the wrong direction. Kid Chase wrapped his car around a telephone pole at the end of Florida Avenue just before it intersected with our home's street, Morin Heights Blvd. An ambulance crew pried him out of the wreckage and, amazingly, he survived. After a week or so in the hospital, he only had a Frankenstein-ish scar across his forehead to show for his exploits. He vowed to his family to never drink again. Yah, that would last a full 2 weeks or so.

1978: After being mildly harassed in public at a town parade by the father of the neighbor kid he'd months before decided to turn against, Kid Chase's oldest son, me, made the fatefully bad decision in telling his father about the admittedly minor humiliation. Well, more out of bravura than protection of his child, Kid Chase decides to confront the offending neighbor by assaulting him on his own property. Ugh! Now Kid Chase is faced with the humiliation of having to settle out-of-court to avoid an even costlier lawsuit. Who gets the blame? I do, of course.

1984: I get a car and park it in the driveway. Kid Chase gets home around 1am, drunk of course, and orders me to move the "piece of shit" out of the driveway so he can park his car there. I do so but after getting back in he continues to berate me. I had enough of his shit. I challenge him to come at me with his fists. He does. We get into it. But since I'm a virile, muscled and strong (and very pissed off) 19-year old, it very quickly looks like I will kick his ass royally. Younger brother and sister in witness intervene and the match is ended before a winner is declared. But by his out-of-breath, resigned look and my stance of ready-to-continue defiance, it's clear. I've won. Kid Chase has been defeated by his own son.

And a homosexual son, at that!

1989: Kid Chase had become almost dormant for years but he was making a comeback in the late 80's. He was undergoing a full-out mid-life crisis and was destined to take it out on everyone he could. On Christmas Eve, the family got together to enjoy the holidays but when he opened a card he had received from his wife, he suddenly fell deathly quiet.

"We said, that since times were tough, we were NOT going to be giving gifts to each other!", he sternly reminded my mother of their solemn promise to each other, in front of all of us attending this party.

"Paul, it's just a card!", my mother protested.

But the card contained a scratch-off lottery ticket. And that represented at least another $1 investment but a potential of thousands of dollars in winnings. To him, this was a valuable gift, thus, a breaking of their agreement.

Within minutes, the assumed "slap in his face" and the accumulated alcohol in his system from a night of partying flared up into an immense fit of rage.

He picked up the wooden rocking chair near him and threw it against the wall smashing it. He violently swept the contents on top of the table onto the floor and lunged for his wife, our mother, with total hate in his eyes.

My brother was able to restrain him, my brother's girlfriend hugged and reassured my mom, and I sat there benignly watching, drunk myself, playing the role of the totally unaffected bystander. To me, by then, this was so much an every-year occurrence, I almost welcomed a final, dramatic resolution to the ongoing soap opera of my parents' tumultuous existence. I was over it. But alas, they woke the next day and made up...as always, like it was "nothing". Merry Christmas!

1996: Kid Chase and his hapless wife had moved to Florida but ever since the move almost two years earlier, bad luck had plagued them. Mom had been stricken with severe phlebitis and eventually lost her leg. Kid Chase's 15-year-old settlement with the Commonwealth of Massachusetts obtained because of his "job-related back injury" he'd suffered in 1983 while working at Wrentham was finally running out, and they were having their over-priced, crappy manufactured home foreclosed on.

They decide to fly up and visit relatives in Rhode Island over the Thanksgiving holiday. I decide to make the short trip from Providence to these relatives to visit with my mom. Kid Chase takes issue to the fact that his eldest son has not contacted either of them for several months but suddenly shows up for T-Day dinner. A heated argument ensues. I decide to leave but before I go I scream out, at the top of my lungs, to Kid Chase through the open window from the driveway that I know he's really upset with the fact that his son is a fag!

2002: Things really start to disintegrate for Kid Chase. His invalid wife is wheelchair-bound for life and gaining all her flabby fat back from years before. Money is thin and he needs to work minimum wage jobs in a low-end laundry working with people he refers to as "ignorant niggers". He and his wife get in many heated arguments often, since they both get drunk on cheap beer and liquor frequently now. He ends up having the Volusia County Sheriff's Department called on him when his wife becomes fearful of his violent mouth. He's arrested for domestic violence and is soon released on bond, but is quickly arrested again and ends up spending a month and a half in lockup awaiting trial. He's nearly incarcerated again in 2003 when he verbally curses out a hospital customer service rep on the phone when he tries to call his wife who is a patient there. He actually threatens to use a bomb and blow up the hospital. He is arrested but released on personal re-cog, yet after the trial, he has to pay a hefty fine.

2003: As his wife lies dying in the hospital, he drinks himself to sleep nightly but not after causing anxiety to his son who is staying with him by screamingly cursing his God and punching the walls like a madman. He eventually calls his daughter to oust his oldest son since he can't deal with him. Poor Kid Chase has only so much tolerance for adversity. He only learned one way to deal with difficulties...punch them out...or drink them away!

2009: Who knows what drama Kid Chase experiences now? Surely it's more subdued due to age and wisdom. One would think, eh?

But ultimately, who cares?

Sunday, May 10, 2009

To Boldly Go...Where They Shouldn't Have

I am a lifelong Star Trek fan.

Though I don't consider myself a hardcore "trekker", attending conventions in home-made costumes and spending every spare dime on collectibles, I do feel I have been a loyal and enthusiastic viewer for over 35 years.

I, like so many others, was waiting with palpable excitement for the release of the latest Star Trek film. I watched all the trailers, read all the fansites and patiently trod through my mundane real life looking forward to May 8th, 2009, when I would behold the return of my beloved characters to the big screen.

So Ric and I made arrangements to go to the huge IMAX theater at Pointe Orlando on I-Drive. I paid my $5 parking, and the $15 ticket price but skipped the $10 soda and popcorn since the line was so long. Once inside, we got great seats right in the middle for the full IMAX experience.

The place was sold-out but I expected that so the noise of the crowd didn't get me down. The seats and acoustics are designed well enough so you don't get that "cramped-in" feeling like in some packed movie theaters.

But right away, my overly high expectations were starting to be chipped away, little by little.

Prior to the start of the obligatory 10-minutes of preview trailers for other up-coming blockbuster-wannabes, music was being played to entertain the audience. It was some half-somber, half-bombastic bad classical shit that I joked to Ric sounded like some bad "we're coming to conquer the world" B-movie atmospheric score. Much to my chagrin, when the movie finally started, I found out, that was the score to this movie!

Ok, so the theme music is cliched and poor-quality, I can overlook that (though I'd rather not since a great score can really define a great movie...can you say "Star Wars" anyone?). This was no John Williams composition.

Unfortunately, it all went pretty much downhill from there.

Right from the get-go, I could see there were going to be "problems" with canon continuity. The captain of the "bad guy" ship, Nero, was supposedly Romulan. But he looked more like a scruffy mutant tattooed Reman, ala the also disappointing "Nemesis". In fact, it's revealed the ship he is piloting is a massive mining vessel from the late 24th century (shades of the whole Reman mining moon and approximate time period from the aforementioned previous movie). Further plot revelation via lame dialog exposes him to be a vengeful renegade survivor of another horrific surprise tragedy in the Romulan star system. Apparently the planet Romulus was disintegrated by a supernova (the Romulan sun one would assume but it's not presented specifically as such, only that its explosion "threatened to destroy the galaxy").

Several issues with all this, both in the canon of the Star Trek universe and in the hard science of the real one.

First, Romulans, an off-shoot of the Vulcans, were always presented much more Vulcan-like, both in appearance, outward-demeanor and civility. They always seemed self-confident, well-groomed, apparently utopianically-affluent and highly intelligent. They mainly differed from their Vulcan counterparts in their deviance, corruption, xenophobia and sinister designs upon other races. Like the Vulcans' evil twin. Here, Nero and his cohorts seem grizzly, and barbaric, driven by a guttural rage and bloodthirsty desire for vengeance over a perception of double-crossing done, allegedly, by a 24th century elder Ambassador Spock. They had more of an emotionally-charged, apolitical, primitive and defiantly aggressive attitude. Hmmm, like Klingons?

Next, the Romulan homeworld, and though not specifically stated, all or most of its inhabitants (judged by the highly-charged ire and angst of the Nero character and his rag tag band of survivors) are wiped out by a supernova. Well, supernovae don't "just happen", at least as far as we can tell. It is the death of the process of sustainable fission of a very aged star. The star would have swollen to a red giant or shrunk to a blue dwarf over millions of years before the eventual explosion that defines a supernova. Romulus would have had warning even before the events of any Star Trek episode, heck, even way before present time. What's more, the film shows a yellow star going nova. It doesn't happen to yellow stars (like our current sun).

And, BTW, a supernova, even occurring as a result of the death of a star the size of VY Canis Majoris (2100 times the size of our sun) would not endanger the entire Milky Way galaxy. But your average idiot movie-goer wouldn't know this, of course.

So within the first hour of this movie, I knew I was in for a let down. But that's not the biggy. The biggy is the end of the film...

All along, while watching, I kept thinking about the major, no, make that "universal" impact to Star Trek lore that a destroyed planet Vulcan would have. I kept thinking, that, like in "First Contact" they'll be able to wrap up the movie by correcting the damage done by this time travel and make it all right again.

But the ending came, the credits rolled, the other people in the theater applauded (even Ric!) and I sat there in shock.

They were going to leave it at that! Six billion innocent Vulcans murdered with a wink and a nod. And with a crowd of hapless, moronic movie-goers, throwing their half-empty popcorn boxes nonchalantly onto the theater floor in order to clap in appreciation!

The universe had unimaginably changed, two vastly different-aged Spocks dwell simultaneously in the same reality and the tried and true fans of the Trek phenomena get a kick in the teeth.

So now, in this new alternate vision of Trekdom, the diaspora of a mere 10,000 homeless and displaced Vulcan refugee survivors wander the galaxy in search of succor and pity from races they had once helped to civilize.

Hopefully they won't be greeted with their own now utterly ironic salutation: "Live Long and Prosper".

Tuesday, May 05, 2009

Bizzare Ebay Listing

I saw this original sculpture item for sale on Ebay tonight. It's starting bid is $1,000,000.

I certainly empathize with posting something up on the Internet while you're messed up, but man, this guy is waaaaay out there!

Here's the seller's description, word-for-word:

___________________________________

Where on earth will you find one like this!

Although there is a lot of art that would be difficult to replicate, but this piece wouldn't be.

A Galaxy Meteorite with full pocket ring coverage. Estimated value: $35,000,000.00 per square inch. And at over 4" in diameter. At day it looks like a brecciated gothite. At night with a small light behind it looks like a top view of Batman's Gotham City of lights within miniature caverns, to making you wonder "how in the world" did the artist come up with this.

Note: Plus due to the overwhelming innovation in the lower grade plates usefulness, tests, and further plans. Water and soda bottles will shortly have a surprize in them that will change how fast we will consume fluid for alternating exercise survival and it will take babies longer to remove every drop left in a bottle. "Want to know more? Email me direct through here.

Plus winner will receive one CD of over 3000 images of my artwork, paintings, ink drawings, line by line art, miracle bubble art, sculptures & sculpture of a wooden spool dragon, an allosaurus adult size skull, my other art styles, new handmade weapons, and wearable masks.

My wooden spool sculpture of a giant dragon at 35' tall by 75' long by 8' wide, and the pictures show it sitting by one of the busiest highways for my hometown. "You should of seen how vehicles going bye had slowed down, passenger jets and the air force flew over real low, just to watch me construct it all by hand. Even school children have come out to get pictures of them standing by it. (The smallest spool on top only weighed 35 Lbs, while the largest weighed nearly 300 Lbs). There's even pictures of primitive objects you wouldn't believe I have in my possession! "Can you imagine finding an inscribed & sculpted stone with the "Eye of Ra" on it at Chichen Itza in Mexico, at my age of 3yrs old. And no archaeologists today knows I have it! Though what makes it interesting, is there's a sealed pocket in the bottom of the stone and you'll get to see its face picture on the cd too. (Of course I didn't know what I found until I reached the age of fifteen).

And after that discovery I started drawing at the same age and have been creating all my life.

I live today in the west central desert area of Utah and enjoy collecting rocks and fossils on the side, and I sculpt and paint on the side.

I went through thirteen schools and made a lot of friends in and outside of them and I had worked at 482 job sites due to needing just enough to travel and make more friends.

The hometown I live within is not the average for my perspective view due to growing up in rougher neighborhoods and living most of my time in huge cities. With most of my friends being business acquainted to owning restaurants, drawing buildings to building them, being bike builders and pathway makers, and working in constructional and carpentry to building bridges, it's amazing what I have learned and what else on what we can all perceive and remember. And I use to record music sixteen hours a day.

Feel free to ask me any questions after 6pm during week days. Due to having to work other jobs and helping others, my hours keep me usually to busy to bother to look into see how things are doing on ebay.

All rights are reserved!

Some of my original works have been sold and many are still in my possession.

Thank You for Looking and have a nice day!

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Monday, May 04, 2009

Finding A Clear Signal Amongst The Static

When I was a kid and I couldn't sleep, I would sometimes bring my transistor radio to bed with me, plug in the mono earplug and quietly listen to all manner of programming. I especially liked to listen to obscure AM band stuff like the kooky "Dr. Demento" radio show, broadcasting (syndicated) from Culver City, California, and also stuff like the then-dying, now-totally-dead art of radio plays. But some nights, the air would be so crystal clear that I could play around with the AM tuner and find faint signals peeking almost shyly through the static. The volume dial would have to be up to near maximum, making the static deafening, but then ever so gently I could coax a signal from the mess by tuning the tuner wheel ever so slowly. I once got a French-language station all the way from Quebec...on my cheap little AM radio in Rhode Island!

Recent happenings have made me think of this analogy because like those midnight signals poking through the crackling dead air, I find that the Universe is helping me fine tune my Life Receiver to hunt down a good frequency.

I wish I could elaborate more on this but as I'm right in the midst of this signal flux, I'm not sure any example presented now would stay stable enough to last a week, or even a day.

I can only communicate...like a weak signal through heavy static...in semi-meaningless word vignettes.

whir-errr-wheee-eeer......gout's now not gout......downgrade from Bud to Busch......No Soup For You!......the "out of shape" comment flack......commencement of the Direct IP Clash of the Titans......the brief return of the pod-person......re-admission to the Florida Teat Sucklers Club?......Mose must be on dope......ugh, the 90's are back, not the decade, the temps......whir-errr-wheee-eeer