Science Fiction Will Soon Be Science Fact

After reading an interesting article about monkeys with bionic capabilities I began thinking about what this means for the human race. Where will this amazing new brain machine interface lead us? I was instantly reminded of my childhood and teenage years.


I remember playing RIFTS (buy books here) as a young lad and almost always playing as a bionic character. The only human part of my body was my brain and the parts of the digestive tract needed to keep my brain alive. The rest of me was metal and guns. The idea of being a nearly indestructible super mercenary always gave me a warm feeling.

But now, being older I know that that I am not the only one to get the warm and fuzzy feeling from big metal super soldiers. It seems to me that while the medical applications of this interesting, though still fledgling, discovery are wonderful, the military applications are somewhat terrifying.

I would like to think that the military is not already jumping down these scientist's throats trying to make the next super-soldier. But it is a possibility, no matter how far off it may seem today. We're only one or two major advances away from some crazy science fiction type shit. Although, it would be cool to see Seattle protected by Robocop. . .

101st Post!

Well folks, I broke the triple digits on the blog posts and to celebrate I will first thank all you readers out there for supporting me in everything I write. I would like to thank Drew from One More Salute to Vanity for getting me into blogging in the first place. And, finally, I would like to thank Henry Miller, Robert Heinlien and Jack Kerouac for being great inspirations to a mediocre writer.

Last night was interesting. Sort of a mini-reunion of the 2007 class of SCCC film school. I was especially glad to see Marcus Curlee, who threw the event as a fund raiser for his trip to China. Marcus and I were close in film school. We shared the same opinion of many films and often had great discussions about films we had recently seen.

We made a short film called "Pictures" that was an amazing piece, but in the process of making the film we lost sight of many things and had a falling out. Now, almost a year later to the day Marcus and I had our first real pow-wow over the events and everything else that had happened in film school. Needless to say there was many apologies, especially from yours truly, and forgiveness all around for any past transgressions. It was cathartic to say the least.

Afterwards we had an in depth discussion on "The Darjeeling Limited" Wes Anderson's most recent film. We both agreed it was a great film, but had different experiences when we saw it in theaters. He saw it opening day, so he missed "The Hotel Chevalier" which I saw preceding the film because I saw it the second week of release. We concurred that this would dramatically change the viewers experience, essentially making it a very different film.

It was good to have a talk like this again, with someone whose opinion of film I so deeply admire.

But I digress. After many a beer and good chat with people I had spent two harrowing years of my life with I was off to West Seattle. But in those few hours I received a new vitality, and have been given a boon of inspiration.

Mid-day Reflection on Lost Sleep

Life seems to be on the down swing lately. I'm unsure of what I am doing with my life. I have two jobs, but still seem to never have enough money. I'm depressed. I don't want to work on anything. I just want to exist in a state of self-loathing. I wish that I could love the people who love me properly, but I can't seem to do it right.

I couldn't sleep last night. I was up until almost 4 in the morning cleaning my room. I moved back in with my parents after living with Drew for almost a year. It is hard coming to terms with my own state of reality. I'm almost 25. That's almost 30. I have yet to finish my degree, I live with my parents and I don't have a driver's license.

I couldn't stand the room anymore. A collection of useless crap that has amassed over my 24 and a half years. Huge piles of random garbage, bits of paper with forgotten phone numbers, thousands of Marlboro Miles, a pile of rubber bands the size of K-2.

I rooted through the flotsam and jetsam of my life. There was catharsis. It is time for a new alignment in my life. I need to refocus and gain new direction. I want to be happy. I want to make films.

Like communist Russia I need a five year plan.

I dread turning 30.

Foxing Bracture

The only downside to the 21st b-day extravaganza is that I think I have a "Boxer's Fracture". Seeing as it's not a full break, but most-likely a hairline fracture I think I'll let it be. For now.

Akilah is 21!

What do you get when you mix booze, co-workers, and red-neck assholes? Akilah's 21st birthday party.

On the 19th after getting off work me, the boss lady, and one of the supervisors went out to meet Akilah (of Lyon Rouge fame) in Federal Way. For those of you who are unfamiliar with Fed-Way it is like the inside of a Wal-Mart. Only an entire city.

So, setting my own prejudices aside I agreed to go and we ventured down south (insert various cunnilingus jokes here). We met Akilah at a bar and pizza joint called "The Rock." It reminded me of a U-District bar, but filled with hillbillies. After the initial culture shock I settled down and bought some booze.

At last call (which at this place is 11:40 p.m.) I bought a Long Island and two shots of Tequila. I figured the birthday girl needed a drink that rhymed with her name. Having sucked down our respective drinks it was time for another bar.

We headed down the street to the only bar in Federal Way to be open until 2:00 and proceded to drink some more. The bar was mediocre, but cheap, and there was some semblance of Karaoke, so I made the best out of it and had a good time.

As I walked up the stairs to the Karaoke stage I saw none-other than A-ron Thompson, of Federal Way and his room-mate Joey (not to be confused with another Joe who will be mentioned shortly). We exchanged some male greetings along the lines of "What the fuck are you doing here!?" and shared a man embrace.

After singing "Touch Me" by the Doors, and nailing it, I decided to go have a smoke with the birthday girl. As we were chatting one of her friends friends decided to get a little fresh with Akilah. Normally, when I see a woman "fondled" against her will, I react rather rashly. Akilah, however, handled the situation and all seemed well.

Pulling me aside she said "Don't worry about it, I told him to stop, you can let it go." And I did. We continued to drink, and I even had a chat about classic rock with the White-Trash offender, whose name for blog purposes will be "Joe-py Grope-y."

After a fairly sociable chat with the Groper-ton Akilah and I sang a bit of Al Green and went to have another smoke.

That is when our cheese-ass white-trash friend decided to have another go at "showing Akilah a good time." Having already been more polite than any woman should be in said situation Akilah asked me to kindly "save her."

I put my body in betwixt the offender and offendee and calmly said "Look man, she's already asked you not to touch her, and she already has a boyfriend, so why don't you leave her alone." Our good friend Joe-py replied "You tryin' ta touch me son? I will fuck you up."

I wanted to punch this skinny dweeb in the nuts and stomp on his chest, but my therapist says I should try to resolve disputes with words. So I did. "Look, dude, I don't want to fight you, I just want you to leave my friend Akilah alone."

"I will fuck you up son!" he said to me with a vile stench on his breath "I will beat your mother fucking ass." At this point Akilah grabbed me by the arm and led me away. "Thanks," I said to Akilah, "I was about to punch that guy in the dick."

Meanwhile, my two compatriots A-ron and Joey had seen this unpleasant gentleman get into my face and did not like it one bit. Joey walked up to Mr. Grope-y and explained to him that he should not treat either Akilah or me in such a manner. Grope-y had another idea. A fist to Joey's face.

I used to fight. A lot. I would fight anyone who pissed me off. I fought my friends, sometimes for fun, but also sometimes out of anger. I have won, and lost, many fights, but I have been trying my best to stay "fight free" as violence only begets violence. Another nugget of wisdom from my therapist, which was in this case, true.

This rather unpleasant hillbilly had the audacity to start a fight with not only one of my friends, but a friend of the birthday girl. As he grappled with Joey I moved at his back and started to pummel him with my fists. While this was happening A-ron also came into the fight, with his own swings.

The bouncer was in there fairly quickly, and I immediately got back in the bar. After a long discussion with the bouncer Joey, Grope-y, and A-ron where officially bounced. When the rather large bouncer, J-Rock, came back in he said to me "You got out of there quick and listened to me, thats why you can stay."

"Really?" I said with astonishment. "Yeah. You was just helping out your boy. I'd a let him stay too but he was runnin' his mouth at me. You was calm." So, with a mixture of adrenaline, awe, and booze I closed out my tab and finished my beer.

"Preebz." Akilah said, "I didn't want a fight on my birthday, but that was gangster." I smiled and thought about the end of "It's A Wonderful Life" I felt like Clarence had gotten his wings.

In hindsight I realized that, my own desire to not get in a fight does not always pan out. Sometimes, you see your friend get hit, and you react. It's an instinct thing. I stayed out of a fight, because I knew that there would be no good coming from it, and then that fight found a way to wrangle me in.

Was it the right thing to do? If I hadn't jumped in how would I feel about it? I would feel bad. Whether that is a good thing or not, I don't know. I know that as a male of the species there are certain things that we have a drive to do. We have a drive to hunt and kill to provide food. We have a drive to keep our mates safe. We have a drive to fight each other, for dominance or what ever other bullshit evolution wanted us to fight for. Not in our sweet, art loving, philosophical outer cortex, but in that iddy biddy reptile brain. The brain that is all fight or flight. Sometimes, we can't fight off 100,000 years of evolution. Then again. . . sometimes I don't want to.

Fucking Hell

Last week sucked. This week is turning out to be okay. Last night was awesome. More on that one latter. Gotta go poop.

Of Late Night Evenings and Inablility to Sleep. Part 3

I can't seem to sleep. It's not even that late, but it is late for me now. My life has been reorganized due to my new-ish job. I wonder if I am doing a good job. I wish that I could talk about it, write about it, tell people anything. I can't. Contract and confidentiality blah blah blah. I'm too honest to break something like that.

I remember getting Drew to break her agreements of the sort, just to hear what she was doing at work. I promised her I would tell no one, and I did exactly that.

I feel old, or at least some semblance of old. I'm almost 25. That's halfway to 50. This though terrifies me. I feel like I should be getting married or starting a family or some bullshit along those lines. I still feel like a kid.

The scariest thing is seeing people my age who do have kids. So many of them have all the joy sucked out of their lives. "I'd go out tonight. . ." they say with that pathetic glazed over look "but I have to get home to my kids." I can barely take care of a pet, let alone another human being.

I understand why my father spent so much time being there for me. It was the right time for him to have children. He was 36 when I was born. He's old now, I guess, but with so much love of life still in him. The hard part is seeing him when yet another one of his friends die of cancer, or suicide, or heart attack. . . it keeps on going. Life, I guess, but more than that death.

I'm 24 and my two preoccupations in life are sex and death. At least it is some real life shit I worry about, not fashion or architecture, but the continuation of life and it's inevitable end.

More Music Videos. . .

Having re-found YouTube and all it's glory I would like to share with you some interesting videos of music I like.



(Jeff Mangum from Neutral Milk Hotel)

and. . .



(Paul Simon "Boy in the Bubble" music video. . . or as I like to call it "Some Freaky Deeky Weird Shit")

and finally. . .




Protect Ya Neck!

My Sweater is Way Cooler than Your Sweater

I love Argyle almost to a fault.

Pretentious?

I was talking to a barista at the Online Coffee Company about blogging when I was met with this response: "What would I ever read a live journal or a blog? I think that it is pretentious to say your life is any more interesting that anyone else's. What's so important about you?" Then she followed it by the good old fall back "No offense."

Admittiedly there was some offense taken, and I think for good reason.

1) My life is more interesting than most people's lives because I am in constant need of stimulation. . . and I'm crazy.

2) A good blog is well written and contains more than journal entries of the blogger's life. It should contain observations about life, music, and art (depending on subject matter of said blog.) In this case a blog is read for it's literary merit.

3) A "Live Journal" while being a kind of blog is not a blog. It is a Live Journal. Maybe I'm being pretentious when I say that, but I feel that most people (bloggers) will agree with me.

4) You're a bitch. JOKES. . . Kind-of.

I just said to her "My life is waaaaaay more interesting." And left it at that. If you know me, you know I'm right.

Take One

I feel sad. The lack of intuition and abundace of booze is getting to me. I've finished Naked Lunch. I feel apathetic about the whole ordeal. I read Anthem by Ayn Rand. I'm happy and surprised that Ayn Rand does not get flagged as an improper spelling. Makes me feel like things aren't so bad.

Don't start me trying now. Cause I'm all over it Angeles.

I don't think I'll ever be satisfied. I feel as though my secret wishes are too dark, too destructive. I don't know whether or not I'm glad to meet you.

I guess Either. . .

While looking for a decent video of "Lost and Found" by Elliott Smith, I found this incredibly depressing video shot in front of the wall on the cover of Figure 8.


As well as this awesome Elliott Smith video for "Angeles." Enjoy being Emo.



AND as I final side note, doesn't Elliott Smith look like Geoffry Rush?

Hanging Around in the Lost and Found

Last night at work, while going for a smoke and showing off my Eagle Scout card, I realized that I had lost my ID. Needless to say I flipped my neurotic shit.

Waves of paranoia washed over me. "What if someone steals my identity?" I thought. After scouring my office, the bathroom, and calling every department in the hotel I calmed down. "If its not here, I must have dropped it at a coffee shop or cafe." I reassured myself.

But then, a whole new set of worries grabbed me. What would I do without an ID? I would be unable to go to bars or liquor stores. I would be caught in the throws of sobriety, a very sobering thought indeed! "At least there is always the Maja." I was fighting back worry.

Furthermore, I had no idea how I would replace said ID. What would I need? What if "they" would not reissue me an ID? This post 9/11 world is a pretty crazy place, after all. How would I survive without my happiness fuel?

I called my mom. What else is there to do when one is in need of expert calming? I chatted with her for a bit and described the situation. She agreed that it was frustrating, and that I would need to search the last places I was prior to going to the DMV.

I got off work, and for a while forgot the whole problem. Reading Ray Bradbury's Martian Chronicles helped keep my mind away from my worries while riding the bus home. I felt my panic and paranoia creep back on the walk home from my bus stop, but as I went to sleep I resolved to search high and low (Seattle's Best Coffee and Specialty's Cafe) for my missing Identification.

After work this morning I went downtown. I wanted to kill some time so I wasted time at the Online Coffee Company and then at a Lark in the Morning, a wonderfully esoteric music shoppe.

I used the old "in the market for a new guitar" line and played for an hour and chatted up the clerk (mostly folk music.) After playing about half the guitars in the joint I set off to (hopefully) reclaim my lost ID.

I set back out through the market and being hungry ate some extremely spicy Texas Style Chili that just about gave me a panic attack. Then, feeling the need to waste a little more time, wandered the market for a bit.

No longer able to delay the dreaded inveitable I set off for SBC. I steeped inside and stood at the counter. For TEN minutes. I stood there for ten minutes watching the baristas chat and pretend I was not there.

This increased my chili induced panic. Was I there? Was I just a vapor or a brume? Had I died and continued about my business unaware of my own death? Thankfully, no. Feeling my glare one of the baristas came up to help me. It was Christa, a mousy-bookwormish barista with whom I spoke about books on my occasional visits to Seattle's Best Coffee.

"Can I get a drink started for you?" she asked, smiling.
"Do you have a lost and found?" I asked in return.
"Do we have a . . . lost and. . . " a light clicked. "Oh!" she exclaimed, "You're IAN!" I was both worried and elated at this minor fame.
"Yeah, I'm Ian."
"I have something for you." I prayed it was not a severed head.
"What is it?" a silly question, because I knew immediately what it was.
"This." She handed me a piece of paper with my ID taped to it. There were various phrases written on the sheet. "Help! I'm lost!" A speach bubble said. In another person's handwritting it said "REGULAR. He will be back."

"Thanks," I said feeling much better having attained my lost ID.
"So. . . do you want a drink in celebration!" Christa made me a coffee smoothie and I was on my way. Next stop West Seattle.

Steve Martin is not Leslie Nielson

While riding the lovely 49 bus up to Capitol Hill to get some Pho, the Vietnamese noodle soup which is the main fuel for yours truly, I heard some interesting conversation that a mother and her two daughters were having.

I love America. It is the only place you can get such wonderful gems as these.

DAUGHTER: (pointing at American Apparel) See mom, the 80's are coming back.
MOM: It's so horrible that the 80's are coming back. . . those. . . those were my high school years.

and

MOM: Area 51. Thats where they keep them alien spaceships. If you go there they kill you. I think it's by Reno.

and the true gem:

DAUGHTER: Naked Gun is such a funny movie, it's got that one guy. . .
MOM: Leslie Nielson?
DAUGHTER: No. . .
MOM: O.J. Simpson?
DAUGHTER: NO! That one guy. . . from Cheaper By the Dozen. STEVE MARTIN!
MOM: Oh, that's right.

I just want the record set straight. Leslie Nielson is not Steve Martin. Leslie Nielson wishes he were half as cool as Steve Martin.



Side Note: "Groovin'" is playing on the radio now. . . Life would be exstasy. You and me and Leslie (Nielson) Groovin'

My Bum is on The Swedish

While walking down the north end of Broadway, up by Swedish Hospital I saw a camera crew filming a man standing at the hospital's sign. He was rubbing his butt against it. As I approached I saw that it was none other than Tom Fucking Green of MTV and film fame. I smiled at him as I was walking by and he started to talk to me.

TOM: Excuse me sir, Do you remember me?

ME: Yeah. I remember you.

TOM: I'm rubbing my bum on things. I did it ten years ago. It was really popular. Do you remember it?

ME: Yeah, it was really funny back then.

TOM: So now I'm taking a trip down memory lane. (While rubbing his ass on the Swedish sign) My Bum is on the Swedish.


Then he came over and we had a little chat. He seems like a nice guy. One thing I did not know about Tom Green is that he is a fucking giant. He must be 6'6" or 6'7" at least. I felt short standing next to him.