Neons

This is the full story of what happened. Nothing here is made up, the quotes are close to exact.

I was driving back from Dublin Iceland after playing some hockey and skating around. I didn't want to take the freeway and felt like doing a little bit of night driving, so I was taking the long way home, down Foothill to West Las Positas, and then down Hopyard to cut through Birdland at Crestline. As I was coming up to the light at Hopyard, my iPod fell on the floor. The left turn light was red so I stopped to find it.

I'm going, "ahhh where did it go..." because I wanted to change the song. Not able to see it on the black carpet, I turned on my neons. What you need to know here is that my interior and exterior neons are linked to the same switch, so when the inside lights up so does the outside, and visa-versa. I have been planning to wire one switch for inside and one for out, but I hadn't gotten around to it yet, so at this point all of my neons are on.

When I bent down to find the iPod, there were no cars anywhere in sight. When I sat back up, there were two obnoxious spotlights and some very pretty red and blue roof strobes blasting me in the face off my mirrors. Before I even saw the damn cop, I had already turned the lights off because I found the iPod, so to him it looked like I was trying to hide them.

Pulled around the corner and off to the side of the road. Dude walks up, maglite searing my eyes.

"Know why I pulled you over?"

"Assume it would be the lights. Wasn't doing much speeding at that red light."

"You know those are illegal in the state of California?"

"No, actually. I bought this car from a police officer, so I figured it was safe to assume they were legal."

He looked very confused. He could not imagine a fellow police officer doing such a horrible thing as installing neons on a car. This was outrageous. I continued my sympathy-seeking ramble:

"I also did a pretty intensive search through the California Vehicle Codes, but wasn't able to find anything, really, because they're written in Finnish...no normal person can read those without getting a headache."

He laughed. This was good.

"I wouldn't use them on-road, but I've been trailed by several Pleasanton Police squad cars before without being pulled over."

I knew why this guy pulled me over while the others hadn't. I give him credit, a tuner with neons driving around at 1:30 in the morning on a weekday when there are no other cars on the road would look suspicious to me if I were on patrol.

"Okay, well I'm going to need your license and registration, it's just going to be a fix-it ticket, no points on your record. You got anything illegal on you?"

"No. Except the neons, apparently."

I think he realized at this point that I wasn't a drug dealer, a serial rapist, a drunk, or a street racer. I know this because it only took him five to ten minutes to write me up. When cops are pissed at you, they take as long as they can, especially when you're in a hurry. Plus, when he ran my license there wouldn't have been anything on the record, so he didn't need to file through hundreds of offenses, like some of you have. A second officer had pulled up, because in Pleasanton, you need at two squad cars to write a fix-it ticket. So my neons had, at that point, attracted a quarter of the active patrol. He walked back over.

"Hey turn those things back on for a second."

The newly arrived cops were now enjoying a light show while I sat there wishing I could strangle them, but I didn't need assault on an officer on my record so I just kept the show going.

"Do they change color?"

Okay, now I'm ready to get out and backhand you.

"I'll sell 'em to you for two hundred...you can put them on the Crown Vic...it'll keep the drunks entertained at least..."

One of the other ones was talking now:

"Hey, sounds good to me, it is tax dollars you know..."

This is ridiculous. I'm sitting in my car, at two in the morning now, while four cops are admiring my neons, and writing me a ticket for them at the same time. And they're considering buying them off me. The first guy walked back over.

"Okay, here you go, you're going to need to get this...what happened to the inside of your car?"

Hm. I forgot that I had removed most of my interior paneling to repaint it, so the inside looks totally ghetto. It's pretty much just the gauges and my stereo deck, with some of the dash board still attached. I told him I was having it re-done, because "...if anything were stolen it would've been my deck and that's still there..."

"...uh, okay...well take this to the Pleasanton Police Department or flag one of us down once you get the problem fixed and we'll sign if for you. Then you can take it to the clerk at the Courthouse."

The "problem" fixed, like my neons are like a blown taillight or something. Screw you. The only problem here is that you have too much time on your hands, and you're giving me a ticket for being awesome.

At this point, a white Cadillac drove by in the opposite direction, and the face of the driver could only belong to Blake. Sure enough, my phone rings 15 seconds later. I cancelled the call. Kept calling me until around 3AM, but I turned my phone off. What the hell are the chances of that?

Anyway, being a suck-up, I thanked the officer for my ticket.

"Okay, thank you sir, I'll do that. Have a good evening."

The caravan of cops drove off, and I went home. Fast forward 12 hours.

---------------------

Now it's mid-afternoon the same day. I spent about 10 minutes cutting the wires and unscrewing the bulbs, and I'm sure it will take about four times that long to put the damn things back on. Oh, yes, they're going back on.

I drive to the Police Station and walk in, handing my paperwork to the lady at the front desk. She did not seem to know what to check for, because I don't imagine they get very many 24003CVC violations.

"Purple lights?"

"Purple? They were blue. He wrote purple? Oh....they were neon lights, you know, like underglow, running lights, whatever?"

We walked outside.

"This yours, the sporty lookin' white one? Okay, just go ahead and show me the lights."

"Uh...I took them off."

"Why'd you do that?"

Oh my God. She was not getting it. For some reason, she was looking for the lights, to make sure they were fixed I guess.

"Well...that was the violation, to have the lights on the car. I took them off, they're gone."

"Ohhh, okay."

She signed the paper. She didn't even look under the car, or under the hood, just took my word for it. This really pissed me off, because I didn't even have to cut the damn bulbs off, I could've just left them on and she never would have known the difference. What a waste of my time. I hate the government.

Fast forward 24 hours.

---------------------


I drive to the courthouse, everything is signed, supposedly. Park in the parking lot, walk past the 15 Bail Bonds trucks, all of which are Tacomas with bad vinyls and 19" Rockstar rims. I threw all of my junk in a bucket and walked through the metal detector. The security guy there grabbed my keys. I was like, "why is he looking at...oh shit."

Ever seen my keychain? It has a .223 bullet casing on it, pre-fired and filled with a fake but very realistic copper round in the top. I almost didn't make it into to building.

"Yeah, uh...that's fake, it's a keychain...see the firing pin mark? It's been fired...I probably should have taken that off..."

He let me in. There were about 20 cops sitting on a bench, waiting for different trails. That's my idea of making a living, getting paid government salary with pension to sit on a bench in an air conditioned building. I walked up to the window and gave the guy the paper, who said he didn't think it could be processed right away because I had received it less than 36 hours before. When I threatened to rip out his tonsils, he went in the back and processed it. No way was I about to leave and come back later...Courthouses are my least favorite places ever, next to DMV offices and hospitals.

I paid him ten bucks and left. End of story.

---------------------

And now I'm putting my neons back on, but I'm not going to use them unless it's an ego emergency. You can still notice me by the StreetGlow® decals on the back windows, black 18" rims and the fat dent in my back right quarter panel.

Neons will never die.

Current Mood: Aggravated

Listening To: "Limelight" by Rush

Should've Been A Rock Star

It's weird.


I've always been a really technical person, I work well with logic and reasoning, and am "left-brain" oriented (although anybody with experience in psychology can tell you that the whole left-brain right-brain thing is a bunch of junk.)

I'm such a technical person that I've geared my future in that direction. I'm lined up to become one of a group of some of the most technical people on Earth: Mechanical / Aerospace Engineers. It's a high-paying, highly sought-after field of work, but Christ is it work. Lots of work, math, science, and other tedious little detailed classes. So get like the user manual on a Trident Missile and read it from front to back, that's the kind of light reading I'll end up doing. Before, I was totally cool with that, because I knew that this is what will be best for me.

But, of course, right at the time when I am supposed to decide which one of 8,000 majors I'm going to work towards, I start to change. Lately, I've been doing a ton of photography, most of which, if I do say so myself, isn't half bad. I've been teaching myself drums and guitar, and can suddenly write lyrics that make sense and sound alright. And writing, good grief. I've been writing collections of notes, philosophical cross-examinations of things, and some creative stuff. I used to HATE writing, for 17 years, until just now. It's completely bizarre. It's like a gust of wind blew through my head and dusted off the "right brain" that I didn't know was there.

So here I stand, at a huge fork in the road, and suddenly both directions look like they could have some hope. For now, I think I'll stick with M.A.E. and follow what I've been working up to. What do you think, should I be an Engineer or a Rock N' Roll star? Should I build jet engines or play the guitar?

Current Mood: Inquisitive

Listening To: "Should've Been A Rock n' Roll Star" by Tom Petty

The Olympics

The Olympics.


They only last 17 days every two years. But those are inarguably the most miraculous days of that time.

The Olympics are a time where dreams are lived, and others extinguished. It is a time when the world's best athletes leave their cities, towns, villages. They travel far from their apartments, suburban townhouses, farms, igloos and huts, to a common destination to pursue a common dream. They already stand as the world's best, as part of the Olympics, but it is there, at the Games that they strive to become the best of the best, the world's absolute elite.

But there is more to this event than simple athletic competition. It is known for this fierce competition and the battle to reign as world champion, yes. But it is also known as a time of unification, of compassion and goodwill. Bitterness and mistrust divides humanity at the invisible borders drawn by the longitudinal and latitudinal grid of a map, but somehow the enigmatic atmosphere of this occasion deletes those walls. Humanity is one.

This is in no way displayed better than at the opening ceremony. The people from all walks of life stride into the stadium, and each of them is cheered. Not one is booed. All are welcomed. And the tensions between nations are released, the guns are lowered, and the fists are eased. And they walk together, across the same ground, to the center of the same stadium, in the same city, the same country, the same exact spot on Earth. It is awe-inspiring. It brings tears to my eyes to see citizens of two hundred and four nations from across the globe standing side-by-side, together. The clothes they wear are different, the flags vary in color. But they flow in the same breeze, and from afar, they are one.

Comité International Olympique President Jacques Rogge stated at this opening ceremony to the people of Beijing, "You have chosen the slogan 'one world, one dream.' Tonight, we are one world." And he is right.

At no other time and in no other place is this possible. These games bring out the best in the human race, and after watching nine Olympics, I still find it unbelievable.

You should watch them.

Listening to the Olympic Theme, I can't help but see images of past Olympics in my head, screaming fans, slow motion cuts of Michael Johnson extending every ounce of energy through him to win the 100M, of Picabo Street destroying the mogul hill, knees folding at every turn. The excruciating pain of training, the indescribable flood of triumph, the devastating weight of defeat. I remember those moments of the past. It makes me want to dust off my track cleats and do what they have done, but I know I have no chance. I could at least sit there in the blocks and experience that familiar feeling of adrenaline overcoming every pound of muscle, the same feeling these high-caliber athletes feel before their shot. They are primed, loaded and cocked, ready to fire for gold.

Most won't win. Eighty-seven of those two hundred and four nations have never brought back a medal. There can only be one gold, one silver, and one bronze. But what matters is that they have participated in something greater than their individual achievements, the bringing together of the human race. They, collectively, have achieved what no government, organization, treaty, or negotiation ever will. They have achieved peace.

For this year's games, there will be problems. People will protest China's destruction of the environment, their relentless harassment of Tibet, of Taiwan (yes it IS called Taiwan, dammit,) and of their own people. The Russians invaded Georgia during the opening ceremony, killing hundreds of people. The fuckers. But the focus should remain on the fact that at least there, in Beijing, peace has been reached.

Adding to that, I must say that the Chinese did a damn good job with the opening ceremony for the 2008 Summer Olympics, the entire production was well-done. And the fireworks...if you ever need a fireworks show, go to the Chinese. They invented them. Very nice.

So here goes another Olympic Games...the Summer Games of 8/8/08! GO TEAM U.S.A.!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!



"That was spectacular. Tonight, the world was able to join in a magnificent tribute to the athletes and the Olympic spirit. It was an unforgettable and moving ceremony that celebrated the imagination, originality and energy of the Beijing Games."
-Jacques Rogge, President, IOC

Current Mood: Optimistic

Listening To: "Olympic Theme & Fanfare" by John Williams

Travel Part I: First Impression of New York

I'm sure many of you have been to New York City, and know at least a little bit about the place. Even so, I'd like to take down my first impression of the Big Apple.

The flight was quiet, unnaturally quiet for a five hour ride on Delta hell across the country. I've been back and forth over the states countless times, and this topped the list as the calmest and most relaxing. There were four to five kids sitting around me, but I swear I thought they were dead, none of them made a sound.

Fast forward past 2500 miles of terrain, two Great Lakes, and a Pierce Brosnan movie to the tarmac. There was a huge double-decker Emirates plane at one of the gates, which I later found was the first A380 ever to land in the U.S., and it had arrived 2 hours before us. Kinda cool. John F. Kennedy International airport is a fun little hairball. This particular terminal reminded me of the salt mines they have in Switzerland: hot, tiny, winding passages with low ceilings. The only difference was the addition of some marble flooring and mirrored pillars, and some really nasty looking security personnel. But seriously, for a city of this size, the place is like a municipal airport. We managed to escape the JFK labyrinth, and got in line for a taxi.

This is where it really starts getting interesting. A brand new Ford Edge taxi pulled up and the trunk popped. I was a little confused, because I had to work my bag into the trunk, wedged next to the subwoofer. This is a taxi, remember, not a limo. Out gets Rodney, he was the driver, in black 87 jeans, white Nikes glossed with at least three full bottles of polish, and a New Era Yankees hat, Navy with white pinstripes. He opened the door for us, and after hopping onto immaculate white leather seats I noticed the polished wood paneling on the doors…and the blue neons under the seats. I did all I could to keep from laughing…this thing was like a pimp taxi…Seriously, it had more neons in it than I have in my tuner, TV screens in the headrests, and Usher playing through that woofer in the back. This is a New York Yellow Cab, or at least from the outside.

But that was nothing, the fun started when Rodney turned this thing on. You know, they say New York City hardens you after a while, but let me tell you I was hardened before I got off of Long Island. Between JFK International and the Mariott on 53rd and Second, I nearly died on several occasions.

He began the ride by laying rubber for about 30 yards and burning out of the JFK arrivals taxi lane like a dragster off the line, and then proceeded to swerve between shuttle buses like a slalom skier. At the same speed, too. I think he had just finished a game of GTA IV and was continuing it in his head.

Before I continue, I need to explain New York drivers. New York drivers are not idiots, like Bay Area drivers, and they aren't maniacs like they are in Boston. New York Drivers are just assholes. If they want to be in that lane now, dammit, that's where they're going to go. But the thing is, unlike in the Bay Area, EVERYBODY is an asshole. This is good, though, because it puts everybody on even ground, so even though everybody is an asshole, nobody notices. To be considered an asshole driver in New York, you need to be like asshole squared in Bay Area terms.

But, back to my story. So, we're cruising along…by which I mean screaming through stopped traffic…and my dad decides to strike up a conversation with Mr. Perrie, that was his last name according to the taxi registration.

"So, what kind of things are there to do in this town?"

Mad dad figured he'd just rattle off the usual list of sightseeing activities that every tourist does. He has been here numerous times, he was just trying to talk to the guy.

"Uhhhh…aw…well…hmm"

He acted like he didn't know what there was to do in New York, one of the most active places on the planet. I almost reached up front and backhanded him. Go to Pleasanton, you bitch, and then you'll know what it's like to have nothing to do.

"Uhhh…well there's some nice clubs in Mid-Manhattan…"

My lungs collapsed. I could feel my ribs cracking as I tried to keep from laughing. I'd been in New York for less than an hour, and there I was, sitting in a neon-filled taxi, and the pimp driver is suggesting that the two very white tourists in the back seat go clubbin'. Keep in mind here that my dad is still in his business suit, and I look like I'm fifteen. I almost died from asphyxiation, trying not to laugh.

Now I will give the dude credit, New York has a highly energetic nightlife and club scene. There are nearly as many clubs in this city as there are Starbucks in Seattle. I actually would not have minded going to one of them, either…but it really isn't something you expect to hear suggested by a taxi driver. At least not where I'm from.

Continuing on the trip to the hotel, at least a third of which was spent with Rodney's hand planted firmly on the horn, we had some very close calls to catastrophic collisions. I got used to it quickly…I think being here for a while is going to give me nerves of steel…California is going like cake compared to driving the streets of New York. We were hurtling through lights and suddenly Rodney mashes the brakes, not like he wanted to shed a little speed, but like he was hell bent on coming to a standstill. Halfway through the 50 foot long skid (no way that thing had ABS,) I looked up and there was another taxi turning through the intersection in front of us, completely blocking our green light. We stopped, I swear to God, three feet from him as he completed his turn through the red light. That was as close as I've ever gotten to getting destroyed in an auto collision. What an asshole. Squared. And Rodney let him know, too.

Driving into Manhattan from Long Island, it feels like you're entering the guts of a machine. The buildings pack up against the waterline like they are held back by some invisible barrier, a black wall against the river. The glittering lights of the towers pierce the densely bundled mass of concrete, glass, and steel, and as you enter, you can hear the hum of this urban machine. The low churn of car engines echo through the city's canyons as the river of yellow taxis flows over the grid of pavement. The various pitches of horns pierce the monotonous drone. Major kudos to New York drivers for using their horns.

They are very stilled at honking, indeed. They have some sort of Morse Code of horns; alerting other drivers that they are moving in and cutting off with a series of short beeps (in addition to blinkers, which they actually USE.) Longer honks mean "what the hell," or "you are a tool, GTFO." It's an interesting contrast to California drivers, who only see a honk as a rude gesture, like a finger and a dirty look. Here, it's more of a form of communication.

Anyway, after crossing the river, we tailgated a cop for a few blocks, and then after running over 20-30 pedestrians, he dropped us off at the hotel. I gave him a decent tip, and told him to get some more shoe polish, and maybe a turbo for his taxi-ricer. It was the best taxi ride, ever…like one of those IMAX things where you're in like a crazy mine ride that makes you feel like you're going to DIE. Epic.

We dropped the stuff off at the hotel, and then went out to walk around. Out in the glamour and the grit. That's all New York is, glamour and grit. It's pretty and it's dirty. And it's pretty dirty. New York is like the Terminator with eyeliner, very stylish, sexy, and hardcore. Mmm actually, that's kind of gay, San Francisco is the Terminator with eyeliner, New York is more like…the Terminator…in Calvin Klein. There.

Well we start walking and we got, oh, fifty yards maybe before I caught the scent of pot smoke. Funny, I thought that was more of a West Coast thing.

Walking down Second, we went to Subway to get a sandwich. I sat out on a bench next to the entrance to the 33rd Street station, on the very subway system that inspired the sandwich chain where I had just purchased my dinner.

As I ate I watched the city breathe. And the city had bad breath. It was trash night in Mid-Town when we got here, and it had just rained. New York isn't the prettiest scented metropolis, and the wet trash sitting out by the ton on the curbs did not help. There were some nice cars that passed by, though. New York has some damn nice cars. A black Rolls Phantom, a yellow Lambo Murcielago, red F139, Aston Martin DB9, and Jeep. What the hell, a Jeep? Fire engine red, four inch lift, 35 inch MUD terrains, with the top down and a massive winch on the front. I guess so he could offroad on the sidewalk and winch a fire hydrant out of the ground, or pull himself up the Chrysler building like a Spider-Jeep. A Jeep in New York…yeah it's a Jeep thing, blah blah, no I don't understand, shutup. Jeeps do not belong in New York Fuckin City.

I took out my iPod Touch to see if I could get a WiFi connection to check my e-mail. I found forty-seven different networks. Yes, that's 47 networks in an eighty foot radius. Hey, it's the city.

So there I was on a bench, soaking in the city. Soaking in the smell. The reason it's not a clean city is because it's so large and uncontrolled. People here do what they damn please. If that cigarette is running low, it's going to drop to the ground right where they're standing. If the light says "Don't Walk," well that's only a suggestion. If there aren't any cars in the immediate area, they're going to cross the damn street. No mater that there are three cops there watching…they don't care either, they have much more important things to do, like tell each other dirty jokes with New York cheesecake-thick accents.

It's fun to watch people. There are some relatively interesting people in New York. In San Francisco they're just flat out weird, but here they're interesting, diverse. This is by far the most diverse place I've ever been, at least half of the people here speak a different language (granted, it is a weekend in the Summer, peak tourist season.) You can distinguish the locals from the tourists. The women from out of town, for example, are easy to spot because they have trouble with heels on uneven pavement. They aren't as aware of the numerous subway ventilation grates, either, and those are especially nasty when combined with spike heels. The tourists, in general, are always looking up at the buildings, have shit hanging around their necks, like a camera or ten, and are entirely draped in New York apparel. They wear cute little shirts that say "I Heart New York," among other things. You know you've got a local when their shirt is solid black, and has in white, bold letters: "NEW YORK FUCKIN CITY." Other than that, the furthest New Yorkers ever go is a Yankees hat.

I was eating a sandwich a while back…about finished with it now, so we walked a few blocks to the first building I wanted to see here. Located at Fifth Avenue and 58th Street, the famous Plaza Hotel is an architectural work of art that was been featured in dozens of movies and TV shows, from Home Alone to the Sopranos. But what I was really looking for was across the street: the Fifth Avenue Apple store. A striking, illuminated, glass box that rises from the plaza between the CBS studio and the hotel. Two Apple bouncers in black suits with white ties and secret service-style earpieces guarded the door, like it was some kind of exclusive club. Entering through the glass doors, and descending in an entirely glass elevator, you find yourself in what resembles every other Apple store. Light birch tables, white walls, associates in brightly colored shirts with white, rectangular nametags. The only difference is that this one happened to be beneath the streets of New York, and it was ten times bigger.

I browsed around for a while, though I'd already seen everything in there a million times. As you may know, I'm pretty good with Macs, and everything related to them. I know Apple stores like the back of my hand. It's actually kind of sad.

After sending out a bulletin to y'all from a very sexy 3G iPhone I was playing with, I left the glass box through the glass elevator, glass walkway, and glass door. Jesus Christ, who cleans all of that glass, I hope they're well-paid.

I was getting tired so I went back to the room to catch some shuteye on a very puffy Mariott bed with 200 pillows.

And that was my first few hours in New York City.

Current Mood: Accomplished

Listening To: "New York" by Richard Ashcroft

Travel

Okay, ready?

I did a little bit of writing while I was out of town, and I've decided to post it on the blog. It's kind of long, 20 to 25 pages, not double-spaced, so I'm breaking it up into pieces and posting them in order. I haven't finished everything yet, so the posts will be delayed. The first one will be up in a few minutes.


Some of it's funny, some of it's sad, some of it is boring. If you think it takes a long time to read, think of how long it took to write. I took notes everyday and processed them into these posts each day I was gone--I was up until about 4 to 4:30 in the morning each day completing them.


Here we go.

Current Mood: Accomplished

Listening To: "Everybody" by Richard Ashcroft

Gender Gap

Sometimes I look at life as a whole and laugh really hard. When you sit back and watch this ball of dirt spin, it's like watching billions of people running around in a three ring circus. It's ridiculous.

There are several "gaps" in our society as a whole, and that's what raises the level of confusion in life exponentially. You know, culture gaps, generation gaps. You can see how they cause a problem, and usually, the resulting chaos is laughable. For example, I know a few Swedish people who speak English but haven't picked up on all the slang and nuances of the language. One of them was sitting in a gas station filling up, and some nice gay black guy walked up and commented "Hey man, that jacket's hella clean." "Yeah," he said, "I just washed it." No, no, no...culture gap.

But the best one of all, in my opinion, is the gender gap. It's always been embedded in human psychology, and it always will be. And it causes a lot of fucking problems. You may wonder why I bring this up...it's because I'm having to deal with it more and more myself, and see other people getting caught up in the hopeless barbed wire fence of the gender gap.

We're not talking GAP, ok, this is not the difference between men's and women's clothing. We're talking the disparity between the psychology of two different groups of people, and that is a gap that cannot be bridged.

Normally when I write, especially in a two-sided topic like a debate or whatnot, I try to see things from both points of view. This time that will be difficult due to, uh, a uh...lack of...some hardware...that qualifies me to explain what both parties have to say. So I'll just give you my side, and kind of make up the rest. I'm not transgender, you know, and already you can see how these social gaps can cause problems, especially when you're trying to write about them, dammit.

The basis of this particular social gap is simple, men are stupid, and women are insane. Very, very insane...you do shit that would confuse us even if you explained it. I just decided I'm going to refer to guys as "us" and girls as "you." So, actually, I'm not even going to try to begin guessing as to what the fuck greases the gears of your thought process, I'll just explain how our simple brains work. We really do have simple brains. Everything is interpreted literally. I've heard a lot of you say you don't understand us, that we're confusing, complicated, and weird. I'll give you the last one, we're pretty weird, but the reason we come across as confusing to you is that you contort our intentions. When we say something, we mean it, literally, word for word. But you tend to get a really simple statement, and add logic, meaning, and rainbow sprinkles, and you end up with a complicated, and usually incorrect interpretation of what we said. So there's tip number one, think very literally.

I hope that confuckingfused you out of your mind. Now for number two.

This is a very important one, so listen up. Since everything is literal to us, you have to be extremely careful. When we're looking for something, dammit, we're going to find it even if it's not there. Don't say or do anything that could in any way communicate a message that you don't want to send across. We will look for meaning in eye-to-eye glances, body language, what you're talking about, hell, even your profile song. If you want one of us to like you, don't add "I Hate Everything About You" to your profile. If you hate our bloody guts, don't keep glancing over your shoulder, you're shooting yourself in the foot every time you do. And you're gonna run out of feet real quick.

The biggest problem with the gender gap is that males and females don't just SAY something, they play these little games to try and "send messages." Everybody is guilty of it, guilty as charged and sentenced to total confusion. I might not practice what I preach, but I'll preach it anyway. Ideally, if someone is bothering you, don't send messages that they need to go away. Tell them to FUCK OFF. You can be a prick about it. Actually, that was a bad choice of terminology...be a bitch about it. We will understand that way, and will eventually get over it. Or maybe not. Either way, you won't have to deal with it anymore.

Life is so twisted that I just have to try and straighten it out every once in a while. Reading over this, I think I just made it worse.

I don't think I accomplished anything here. One of those blown tires of writing that starts as a great idea and ends up as a bad game of twister. Oh well.

Current Mood: Confused

Listening To: "Far Away" by Nickelback

Alcohol

The college experience has changed a lot over the years, the difficulty of classes, the most common majors, the housing. But there is one thing that has remained as part of college culture for the past million years. That would be the drinking.

Being a college student now, I need to make this very transparent before my own university adventure begins, because a lot of people ask me questions about it for some reason, and a lot more will.

I don't get stone cold drunk. I just don't do it. I don't see any point at all in getting drunk, and I have infinite reasons why I don't. People ask me about this, why I don't drink, and quite frankly, it pisses me off. But instead of telling you to shove a bottle of Smirnoff up your ass, I'll make a list of reasons why I don't drink much, and will refuse to in college. Maybe you can understand my logic.

First off, before you mock me for being dry, excuse me if I tell you to fuck yourself, because, ironically, I have been drinking for years, maybe decades longer than you. Confused? Although I am one myself, I look at young Americans from an foreigner's point of view. Having lived in Europe, where there is no legal drinking age and children can consume alcohol, I am absolutely disgusted with young America. I am completely ashamed with the sickeningly high percentage of American kids get fucked up on booze because they think they're hot shit. I can't be kind about this, because it gives ME a bad name, residing in this group myself, a group that is represented by stupid, drunk IDIOTS. People from other countries do not understand why you, and I say you because I refuse to associate myself with the grog-happy population, drink so excessively. You see, when it is legal to drink at any age across the pond, they don't have any reason to use the stuff much, because there's no "fun" in getting it illegally. So, having lived in that culture, I don't have any reason to sneak it out and feel cool, because I'm allowed to drink whenever I damn want anyway. I know a lot of people who would be out flat day in and day out if they had that privilege, but that's why I have it, because I have a little bit of what they call SELF-CONTROL.

Secondly, people who drink, tend to drive. They do not think clearly when they are drunk. Correction, they don't think at all. I know this first hand, because I have literally dragged drunks out from behind the wheels of their cars kicking and screaming because they don't have the sense to get a ride. That said, to let you know, I would gladly knock all of your teeth out of your mouth and break every bone in your body before letting you get behind that wheel. Sounds sadistic and violent, yes, but considering the damage done to people I know by drunk drivers, I would gladly murder the drunk driver with my own two hands and ten fingers than allow them to kill another innocent victim of the bottle. Were you not watching at the every 15 minutes presentation? Didn't you hear the messages that have been pounded into your head for the last six years? If you didn't, I must say you are a blind, deaf, ignorant fuck, and I have no hope or sympathy for you whatsoever. I have known people shot through the head by the bullet of excessive drinking, who I can no longer speak to because of fermented hops and a bad decision. I can't bring them back, and so I do all I can to prevent others from joining them in the early grave.

Thirdly, there is always the risk of dependency. I can see people I know right now who are plunging into the bottomless pit of alcoholism, and it is torture for me to watch them fall. It is a drug, and it will destroy you if you don't use it wisely. It will destroy those close to you as well. Alcohol can grasp a normal, happy family by the neck and throw them through the meat grinder. Not all drunks are happy drunks, and those unhappy campers murder their relationships with people they love when sober. I have seen this as well. Sticks and stones may break your bones, but booze and words will shatter connections with those you care for. This doesn't happen, of course, when you've had a few too many at a party, but it can still be one of the most adverse effects the drink can have over time.

Number four is a reason that I feel especially strong about. I am mine. I control my own life, everything from what I think to what I say, to which way I'm going to turn my head. I make decisions every second that change the path of my life's journey. I drive a metaphorical car of my life. And if the driver of that car were under the influence, I could metaphorically crash that metaphorical car, do something, say something, whatever, that I would later deeply regret. You do not control yourself when you are drinking, and dammit don't even try to tell me otherwise. I like to be in control, to be on top, and dammit that isn't meant to be funny. I refuse to let anything wrench the driver's seat away from me. I don't do Chinese fire drills in my metaphorical car. I am in control and will stay in control.

Here's number 5: it's expensive. It's nearly 27 dollars for a 1.75 bottle of Smirnoff. Why? Why would I pay 27 dollars, plus alcohol tax, for a bottle of gasoline? That shit is so concentrated that my unleaded 4-cylinder can't run on it. Think of what you can do, or what you can get for 27 dollars. Where is that money going? You are buying yourself an evening absent of thinking or memory, and a searing headache. Great economic management.

Another reason is...I don't get it. Seriously, what the fuck. If I am going to go to a good party, I want to remember how much fun I had, how awesome the music was, and who I talked to. I want to remember her phone number, not how much I regret meeting her in the first place. I do not understand why I would want to walk around like a giddy idiot, say really jumbled, retarded things to people, throw up a few times to add to the fun, and spend the night passed out with my face in the shitter. I want to wake up tomorrow with good memories, not with a migraine. I don't get it.

I don't need it. What most people don't know is that the endorphins produced by the endocrine system in the human body are immensely stronger than any synthetic drug, alcohol included. What does that mean? It means that I get a much stronger rush out of going 65mph down a ski slope than from drinking a bottle of Strawberry Bacardi. I'll also burn a load of calories and build up those hunky muscles too. Granted, if it's a mogul hill, I might need some Jack & Coke at the bottom to ease the burning numbness in my knees. People come up with all of these phrases, "_____ is my anti-drug." I don't need anything to consciously keep me away from the junk, I am happy enough with being alive and having fun that I don't need to drink. I guess you could say life is my anti-drug.

This resolution will stand. You can try to bribe, convince, or otherwise change my determination, but I'll save you the trouble by telling you now that I am much too headstrong for any of that to alter my philosophy of life and how I live it.

Don't joke about my decision. It could save you a lot of trouble. If I were you, I would take advantage of my stubbornness, and hand me your keys. I'll gladly sacrifice a night of my time so you can have a good time and not have to worry about anything except the massive hangover you'll have the next morning, while I go skiing. I don't mind you drinking, as long as it doesn't totally control who you are, or try to control who I am. Because at that point, you are no longer yourself. You are a faceless bottle, like hundreds of thousands of other American kids. I'll still go to the parties with you, sure, but I won't let any amount of liquid wash me of my individuality, ideals, and resolve.



Cheers.

Current Mood: Irritated

Listening To: "Another Good Reason (Not to Drink)" by Alan Jackson