Where childhood goes to fuckin die, man!

I went to the mall. Weird, right? Yeah, so I had to pick up a new memory card for a camera, and went to Best Buy. When I arrived, I realized that my tummy had the rumblies, and I needed to satiate it or else I couldn't focus on even the simplest task of buying a memory card. And so I hit up the food court. I browsed the food, still unable to concentrate or even make up my mind. It is often that when I am too hungry, I can't think clearly, as well as makes me rather moody. Pizza? Ice cream? Pretzels? Subway? Sure... Subway.. and then I realize that Subway has Coke and Panda Express right next door has Pepsi... I'm really thirsty too, and Pepsi>Coke, so Panda Express it is (You stfu with your Coke vs Pepsi argument right now, I don't care). My fortune cookie had no fortune in it. Rip off artists! Their chow mein sucks. I like the orange chicken though. OM NOM NOM NOM.

And while munching on my terrible Americanized Chinese food and staring blankly at the stereotypical logo of a panda (it reads "GOURMET Chinese food"), I look up to see that the old video game arcade has been replaced with a new.... video game... arcade thingy. It's covered in curtains, so I stroll over and peak inside. What I see is both astounding and repulsive.

It's dark, with some faint blue lighting. There are reclining chairs everywhere. 40" flatscreen HD televisions in front of each of them... and teenage boys all over the place with surround sound headsets and... get this... they are all playing XBOX Live in their own stations, on their very own online accounts.

(I didn't take this picture, but it's exactly what it looked like, dark room and everything)

My quarters are useless here. No more Battle Toads. No more Pac-Man. No more pinball. Not even prizes for winning tickets from kicking ass at skeeball! It was mind boggling. My mind had been boggled!

It was devastating. I was livid. It is a waste of valuable realty and an immoral business that caters to the growing stupidity and laziness of American children (though I admit, it is a clever idea for a business, but that's besides the point here). I quickly packed up my Panda Express, chugged the crap outta my Pepsi, stormed through Best Buy, grabbed the cheapest 8GB card I could see, and stomped up to the cash register. And on my way, I noticed a little boy playing a tester XBOX game.

I snarled, "Read a fucking book!" as I shoved passed him rudely. I refuse to apologize. I wont even look back at him and acknowledge it anymore.

If you are interested, the place is called "PLAYlive" right next to Best Buy in the food court of the Westfield Capitol Mall. They describe it as a social gaming environment, but I have my suspicions as to how social a place can be when all I heard was the clicking of buttons and the occasional frustrations muttered through quiet profanity. To me, it looked like the Twilight Zone of puberty. A place where childhood goes to die... and adulthood never begins. *DUN DUN DUUUUUUUUUUNNN!!!*

But whatever, who am I to complain? As soon as I got home, even before I started writing this, I logged onto an MMORPG to play and waste a couple hours on... Oh wait, there IS a difference. I'm not a fucking business that makes money off my own gamer habits and sets up "stations" for people to exit reality.

On a lighter note, the place does offer console repairs, and actually does sell games and other XBOX related merchandise. That's cool. Even if I did have an XBOX though, I probably wouldn't go there to buy games... It's too creepy.

I'm just a bit sickened by the majority of the place being a bit of a warp zone that I can easily see kids fleeing to after school (if they bother with school at all, I think the drop-out rate is getting higher) and spending all their allowance on and slipping away into space forever. At least with the old arcades, you got fun prizes like over-sized clown glasses and plastic noise makers that you would eventually break after a few laughs.

Holy crap, I forgot my own medicine.

So I haven't written in a while. There are several reasons for that; A) My computer decided to call it quits, B) My best friend came to visit from out of state, and C) I have just been in a bummer mood and didn't want to write anything negative. There are other reasons, but they really aren't important.

What is important is remembering medicine. I don't mean pharmaceuticals. I haven't been taking my own "medicine."

What I have come to terms to recently is that certain things, as minuscule as they may be, can contribute a great amount to attitudes, moods, and feelings. This is an epiphany I have realized many times before, and have forgotten many times before.

It's that thing that can reverse your bad mood in a split second, and you don't even mean it to. That thing that just happens to make everything better, even if just for a temporal moment.

Tonight, I was given a dose of my old medicine. I went to the bar for a single drink, in a crappy mood, and planned to leave as soon as it was done. And I did just that; I went in a bad mood and had one drink, and then just before I left, the bartender did something awesome. He put on some Iron Maiden. It was like a switch in me, I went from bad to good just like *snap* that.

It was like I was reminded of the things I love the most. I love heavy metal, but I haven't recently been listening to it. And maybe, JUST MAYBE, that has been one of the reasons for me being bummed out; forgetting the things I like the most.

Either way, I have a few beers in me, and I have a mix of Iron Maiden, Judas Priest, Motorhead, Saxon, Tank, Diamond Head, and more playing, and I really doubt it's the beers that are making the difference. (If you know me, you know.)

Tonight, my medicine was listening to the music I always loved but had neglected for a while. It truly helped me feel better. Tomorrow, maybe my medicine will be something else. I might even bake the cookie recipe I have been wanting to try out, and that might be my medicine for the day. I haven't been baking recently either. I haven't even been painting! It comes in different forms, you know. But I have what I need for now.

I dare anyone, everyone, to backtrack to the last time you were excited about something. Something that doesn't correlate to another person. A reason you were happy on your own and why. Not because of a job, or a new apartment, or a date. Like the last time you really got excited by yourself. Was it discovering a new band? Was it finding a new place to eat that suited your dietary needs? Was it finding that album that you haven't been necessarily looking for, but were super stoked on finding by chance? Feel that again.

Feel this again!

Muses: Hot Chick or Rambo Downey Jr.?

Muses. They’re supposed to be there for motivation and inspiration. According to Greek mythology, they are the goddesses, or spirits, that guide and inspire science, and literature and the arts. Some say there were three muses, some say there were nine and each one had their own field (epic poetry, dance, love poetry, astronomy, music/song, history, tragedy, comedy, and hymns). I don’t really give a fuck how many there were, so long as they got the job done. I like to go with three, simply because my personal journal has three muses imprinted on the thick leather cover (and it’s got gold trimmed pages, because I’m classy as fuck), when it comes to matters of mythology. However, when it comes to matters of needing a muse for personal projects and work and whatnot, everybody only ever says, “I need a muse,” referencing a single entity to help them out.

So what the hell is this muse anyways? I think most people imagine a drop-dead gorgeous woman, with flowing locks of auburn or gold, and eyes that pierce your soul like Excalibur. And some sort of toga that just barely covers her boobs. But looks aren’t everything, she’s also the smartest and most creative mother fucker there ever was, and that’s why she’s a fucking muse.

 But why stereotype muses to be bodacious babes? I mean, that surely wont help you get motivated or inspire you do be productive in anything at all. Instead, you’d be distracted more than ever and you might as well just sit and stare at her, drooling, wishing that some magical breeze came by and blew away her loose toga instead of painting, or writing, or music-ing. I know I wouldn’t get shit done, I’d be distracted too. And I would probably be plotting ways to cut her hair, or convince her to start wearing parachute pants with Uggs, because my muse sure as hell isn’t allowed to be prettier than me.

You see, a more reasonable approach to what a muse would be would probably be some kind of drill sergeant, screaming at you to get your shit done or else he’s going to tie you up and pour Tabasco sauce on your genitals, and take pictures of you crying like a little bitch and send it to everybody in your email contacts. Now that’s what I call motivating… But lacking in the inspiring department. So he (the muse is a man now, apparently) needs some sort of rogue-hero quality, too, making you kind of want to be like them. Something to inspire you while simultaneously scaring the crap out of you.  Like muthafukkin Rambo!

I can already imagine him yelling “You’re going to write some fucking music, and make a fucking painting, and write a fucking song, and discover a new planet so you can be a bad ass like me, or else I’m going to chop your mother fucking dick off and make you eat it on a mother fucking bun with some mother fucking sauerkraut!”

But you know, if you can get as lazy as I can get, even motivation via threats won’t work too much. No matter how much I think I could be a bad ass like Rambo, it still isn’t inspiring enough. What I am going to need is some rewards for my work, or a good healthy amount of bribes. Like cash money, or a free housecleaner for life (I really, really, really, really hate cleaning), or better yet, my sexy muse will pleasure me all I fucking want. And if you are like me where you are pretty sure your virginity has grown back, that’s a nice trade. But not with Rambo’s face. Sorry, Mr. Italian Stallion, you’ve got a nice bod, but that mug doesn’t whip me up in any sort of frenzy. Let’s see…

Oh dear god. Oh my lord. Mr. Robert Downey Jr., you can help me discover new planets any day! If you tell me too, I’ll write a fucking novel of epic proportions, I’ll paint a new Sistine Chapel, I’ll even compose a symphony that could make Beethoven weep. Just don’t put your shirt back on, and I am good to go.

Although, I think he still might be a distraction while standing around the room looking like a god of all that makes my vajayjay dampen. But knowing the rewards from accomplishing the tasks and goals and work that he is there to help me complete (whether they be under the sheets or on a table top or in a hot tub… Mmmm…) would be a fine enough inspiration and motivation. I must say, though, the subject of all the works I would create in that situation would be rather adult-rated in nature.

I don’t fucking know. As far as it seems, my idea of a muse has transformed from a spirit guide into the arts, literature, and science to being an orgasmic bribe.

But then again, Muses can be many things. Your muse can be passion for a lover, or an obsession, or a presence of enlightenment in life. Some inventers and painters have copies of Leonardo da Vinci’s sketchbooks as their muse. Some songwriters and musicians have a collection of records and tapes and CDs to play over and over by their favorite artists as their muse. Some writers have favorite authors that inspire them, and the idea of a best seller is their motivation. John Lennon’s muse and greatest inspiration was probably Yoko Ono, despite the fact that she is most notorious for breaking up one of the best bands of all time and it was more than likely an unhealthy relationship. It doesn’t necessarily have to be one imagined entity for all things, nor does it even have to be a person at all. For fuck’s sake, I think Van Gough’s muse was absinthe. Actually, I think many artists of the late 19^th century used (and abused) absinthe as a muse. I personally am not a fan; I don’t like the licorice flavor and it’s too expensive.

Eh… I’m just going to stick with my Robert Downey Jr. as my muse for now and call it good. I’ll make a more meaningful one later, but at the moment, my mind is… elsewhere… Oh goodness, is it ever elsewhere.

The Good, the Bad, the Oly.

I come from an unfortunately small town (Olympia, WA), and I detest it with all my might, but refuse to move elsewhere. I suppose, one could say it isn’t that I refuse to move, it’s just that I am comfortable enough here not to. I have such mixed feelings about this place, let me explain: 

(Olympia's finest, which hasn't been brewed in Olympia since 2003) 

 

I grow increasingly irritated at the town I live in because of its predominant hipster mentality that seems to be so infectious (I saw a poor little southern girl get enveloped within only a few months of moving here, so sad...). This mentality is insestual and passive, and rather aggravating. Most of the people that live here are college transplants (we have three colleges), or people that moved from some other similar community because they wanted something “different” but didn't want change. The people here seem to all like to sleep with each other and think it’s all fine and dandy. Sexual freedom is fine and dandy, but I’d rather not know that all my friends have had sex with each other, and I certainly don’t feel like discussing how somebody I am currently seeing has slept with any of my friends. I’d actually rather not know that at all. I’m more the monogamist type that likes relationships, but almost every person I know has nearly 5 different sex partners a month. And they all think I’m the one that isn’t open-minded because I don’t sleep with everyone around me. I’m open-minded as hell, I just don’t need to fuck everyone to prove it, and I don’t like being pressured into the idea of sleeping with everyone just to fit in. That just isn’t my thing.

So many people like to pretend to be activists ‘round these parts, but all they are doing is being unnecessarily overly-defensive and talking too much about crap they hardly know about. The girls are all hardcore feminists (with the idealistic wooly mammoth legs), the boys are all void of emotion whilst pretending they are profound philosophers, and everyone is an alcoholic vegan/vegetarian in a crappy band that has no real fans except for their friends, who are also in crappy bands. Nobody is going anywhere in this town that is overcrowded with arrogant twenty-something’s. The few thirty-something year olds that participate in this “thriving” scene are generally still there because they haven’t grown up yet and moved on.

There are too many flannels. I know it’s cold, but Christ. Enough is enough, flannels have a reason and a purpose and it shouldn't be exploited year-round. And the unkempt mustaches! I am a fan of mustaches, I love them, and I think they are amazing, but having a crappy one just to be “ironic” isn’t really that cool, it’s just pretentious, and makes you look fucking stupid. And they’re all misinterpreting irony, too. Did I mention every single person here is a self-proclaimed artist? No, you’re not an artist, douche bag, you just want to call yourself that because you think it makes you unique to be EXACTLY THE SAME as every fucking other liberal arts student around you.

There never seems to be enough PBR around here to keep up with fashion, either. The trend is to look like you are constantly hung-over, and unwashed from a night of coke-snorting, binge-drinking, sex parties, and you must keep this look at all times, no matter the occasion. Weddings? Funerals? Your nephew’s 2^nd birthday? It doesn’t matter, because you didn’t have the time to change into a cleaner 80’s t-shirt (that may as well have nothing to do with you or your life because you were probably born after ‘87 anyways) while you are hurrying off to the co-op to buy a brand of organic coffee that is essentially the same as every other coffee, but it’s cool because it’s organic. And don't forget to add a nice slab of pizza grease to your [always uncombed and asymmetrically-cut] hair, for that extra "I don't give a fuck!" look.

Everybody wants to be angry about something, when there really isn’t anything to be angry about. They always find something to be bitch about, though. Like how some crappy noise band’s latest album totally sounded like they sold out and were getting too mainstream (despite the fact that it still has not signed with any record label). Or they want to be angry at society for being too… Mainstream. Everything is just too mainstream!

And the worst part is that they all want to complain about exactly what I have written here, while simultaneously doing it. Really? REALLY?? STFU AND GTFO!

There is, however, a brighter side of living in a small town. When you have had your flirtations with the scene like I have, you get to know a lot of people and develop many relationships. And in a small town, after having been able to get to know the community, it’s nice to walk down the street and see familiar faces. Aside from the general passive-aggressiveness that radiates in the “drama-free” social groups (“drama-free” is taken with a grain of salt, we all know there is a tremendous amount of drama even if we don’t want to admit it), people still smile and say hi, and ask how you are doing. The town is too small to hold grudges, so you have to learn to get over your shit (or at least pretend to) quickly and play nice.

The music scene isn’t really that bad. For as many fleeting, crappy, alternative music projects going on that last the duration of a semester at most, there are also many quality bands that produce good music worth checking out. Many shows are hit or miss, but the hits make all the misses worth the trouble. And quite a few well-known and semi-well-known bands and artists have their roots in Oly, too (e.g. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Music_of_Olympia).

As mentioned earlier, everybody thinks they are an artist, but they all think that because they are surrounded by so many legitimate artists. Many buildings downtown have murals by local painters, and there is a plethora of art groups and projects going on, and every venue and many restaurants and bars have turned their walls into a display area for local artists, not to mention a gallery on every block. After a saddening closing of a popular west-side art supply store, a couple of Olympia noobs came in and saw the opportunity to open a new business called Olyphant that is thriving harder than anyone could imagine a small business in this economy to, and now has a large building located downtown that also hosts art classes, and is a focal point in the local network of painters, sculptors, inkers, and sketchers alike.

And one of my favorite parts of Olympia is how community-orientated it is. Off the top of my head, aside from the new city hall (which is an eyesore and completely unwanted by “the people”), and one single Starbucks (that doesn’t get nearly as much business as any of the other cafés in town), downtown is mom-and-pop shops, quaint and cozy locally owned businesses, and near completely free of any big, corporate business. The money we spend in the community stays in our community, that’s how our little economy works, and that's how we like to keep it.

I guess, for as much as I can bitch about it, I can revel about Olympia, too. But seriously, quit with the fucking flannels.

Measuring Insanity

"They never tell you how crazy you are. Just that you have lost it, that you're beside yourself... out of your mind."

I have a few favorite foreign short films, and this is certainly one of them. It’s an interesting take on the concept of how to measure a person’s sanity, or lack thereof. Or more, how it feels to be in the midst of losing your sanity, and how you are supposed to adjust to life as an insane person, while trying to find out exactly just how insane you are.

I could never imagine what it would be like to be clinically mad. I know that I am not fully right myself, and doctors have been telling me so from a very young age, but nobody is fully “right” anyhow. I have been diagnosed with a few disorders, but they are slight and do not inhibit my ability to function in society as a normal person. I don’t hear voices, I don’t see things that aren’t real, I don’t have multiple personalities, and I am not paranoid or schizophrenic. Everyone has a disability of some sort, I believe, and that might possibly be what gives us humanity; the capability of knowing and understanding that we are not perfect, and are all flawed, and persevering with that as a social and empathetic species in our environment. I suppose you could say I am less insane than most people. If measured, I’m sure I am only 2.7 centimeters insane.

I have always wondered what it would be like to be crazy, truly crazy, and know that I was crazy. I often see people downtown talking to themselves, or at a wall. I have seen a woman walking down the street with three old, tattered dolls in a stroller, and taking care of them as if they were her own children, and it reminds me of an old horror movie called “Don’t Look in the Basement” about a mental facility where one of the patients in the institution has a doll that she cares very deeply about and thinks is her real child. But none of these people I see actually know they are crazy, or at least I don’t believe they do. I think their insanity could be measured to be approximately 124 centimeters.

To be insane, and know you are insane, could be a terrible thing. Not only would you have to learn to re-adjust to the world around you, but you’d have to learn to juggle both your insanity, and the knowledge of your insanity. I’m most certain that understanding you are insane would drive you even more bonkers, especially after finding a way to measure it. Exactly 91 centimeters. And you can't possibly do anything about it because you are insane and incapable of grasping the sanity needed to change it.

Do people committed in institutions know they are deranged? You’d have to know something was wrong with you when you realize you are being given medications every day, and have to ask permission to go outdoors only to be kept under surveillance in a closed area. Wouldn’t you have to realize things were a bit off when you watch movies and the television and see that nobody else has the same restrictions as you? Or is the mind of a crazy person similar to an elderly person that has become senile? They don’t know they are senile, they just ARE.

If my mentality were ever to be derailed, I wouldn’t want to know it. People look at the touched differently, and treat them differently than they would a normal person. Relationships change when you are crazy. I wouldn’t want to become crazy and know it was happening to me, and see the way the world changed around me because of it. I’d rather it happen without my knowledge. Perhaps it already has, and if that is the case, then I am pleased with the outcome, and I am pleased to not know how many centimeters I am from sanity.