clear rants

Have you ever run into those profile pictures where you just can’t help but click on their profiles? What is it about the picture that makes you just want to find out more about them? Aside from the obvious ‘attractiveness’ cue, there’s one thing that always gets me: the chin-and-below-shot.

You know, that picture that frames their chin, neck, and below. Well, sometimes they include a smile too, which is not an unwelcome addition. No, I don’t have a chin or neck fetish. It’s the mystery of not knowing what the rest of their face looks like. It’s a subtle tease and it makes you want to know more. I think it’s the fact that I can’t see their eyes that draws me in.

There’s nothing sexier than a bit of mystery.

Hi, my name is Clarence, and I’m addicted to video games.

I thought I had kicked the habit years ago. But the dragon has come back. And I have to chase it. My current addiction is Call of Duty 4, and it looks like I’m in for the long haul. I haven’t played this much since my glory days back with CS. How awful. How old am I again? And with Grand Theft Auto 4 looming over the horizon, it looks like I’ll be spending a lot more time with my 360.

A thought occurred to me the other day, though. Am I substituting video games for a girlfriend? I remember when I wasn’t single, aside from the casual game of minesweeper here and there, I didn’t really play any video games. But now, it seems like it’s all I want to do–perhaps, from lack of a satisfying alternative? I don’t know. But playing video games every waking hour that I am not at work sure takes its toll on my creative juices. I mean, what am I supposed to write about? The twenty eight terrorists I killed in one round? Great. You’re life is just chock full of fun times isn’t it, Clarence?

In other news, I wrote a couple paragraphs of something. It was kind of supposed to be a short story, but maybe I want to make it longer. Who knows? All I know is that it’ll probably never get written due to my sickness. That’s right, addiction is a disease.

A asked about the Mosquito Sound last night at dinner. I remember senior year, listening to the sound myself, and being overjoyed that I could hear it. Then I subsequently forwarded the song to everybody and their mother. A lot of people my age could still hear it, while people younger than me couldn’t. It was nice to know that I was still young, and hadn’t gone over the hill yet. I was still one of those rambunctious youths meant to be kept from loitering and committing acts of tomfoolery.

Two years have passed since then, and when A brought it up last night, I was curious as to whether I could still hear it. It’s supposed to be a teenage-only thing and here I was, long out of my teenage years. I’ve been feeling the weight of my years slowly, and still being able to hear the sound would have boosted my self-esteem a bit. We listened to the sound on youtube later on, and much to my chagrin, I couldn’t hear it. Nothing at all! But I was determined not to let this get me down, youtube is infamous for their joke videos.

Tonight, I looked up the mosquito sound. I rechecked the BBC article (a reputable source!) where I had originally found it and listened to it again. Thank God. I’m still young. Although I do believe listening to the sound now starts to give me one hell of a headache. I guess I am getting old–but not too old.

Listen to the sound here.

I had no electricity for a little over an hour last night.

I was sitting on the toilet when i heard the telltale *bwwoooop* of the lights going out. Thank god that I had just, in that moment, finished wiping or I’d have a hell of a time telling if my butt was clean or not. But enough about my sweet, sweet cheeks.

Now I had to figure out what to do with myself without the internet and without a computer. Sure, I could write, but writing by flashlight is soooo 1990s. I mass-texted a bunch of people and called up a friend instead. It turns out that phone call was mutually beneficial for both of us. For H, I guess it was somewhat therapeutic, for me, it gave me some laughs and helped pass the time in the dark. I guess C had a point, sometimes it is better just calling somebody up.

After writing yesterday’s post, I went through a bunch of my old xanga posts and got nostalgic for the good old days. You know, I was a popular blogger back in the day. It’s true. But what really got to me is how many regular commenters I had that I don’t talk to anymore. I’m going to try to reconnect with some of them, but to those that have been lost in the wind, I have nothing but regret for having let those relationships fade away.

Marion Liou (I think that’s your last name), I know you’re probably out there married and successful, but just in case you like to google your name from time to time, and happen to stumble on to this page, drop me a line. You were a cool chick to hang out with and I miss talking to you.

In other news, I have forgotten how to use commas properly.

I used to have a rep. I used to be somebody. I was that dude.

I was that dude that got 60 eprops per xanga post. I was that guy who people would ask, “Are you aznsaint?” I shit you not, people actually knew me by my xanga username before they met me. I was famous. I used to have a rep.

I used to be a writer. I used to be free with my ideas and my words. I’d write about anything and everything. People actually commented on my writing; they told me they loved it and couldn’t wait for more. I’m not really sure what happened along the way, but I have a hypothesis.

I used to be a very shy guy. I’d keep most of my feelings bottled up and wouldn’t talk much. Back then, I used my writing to express what I thought and how I felt since I found it hard to do so otherwise. I remember this one time, I met a friend of a friend, an avid fan of my xanga. He told my friend he couldn’t wait to meet that witty cat who wrote under aznsaint. After that meeting, he told my friend he was kind of disappointed: I wasn’t as funny as I was on my page, in fact, I didn’t really say much at all.

Nowadays, you’d find it hard to get me to shut up. And that’s why I think I don’t write as much anymore–because I’ve found another outlet for my thoughts and feelings. However, now I feel like I’m taking the easy way out. Because as much as I found it easier to write instead of talk, I didn’t just do it because it was my only avenue. I liked being able to put words to a page–I liked the feeling of sitting back and reading through a  completed piece.

Now, I’m not going to make any more promises, because every promise I made about writing regularly has gone to shit. But I’m going to try. God so help me, I’m going to try writing again.

I was at Barnes and Noble today to pick up a certain book. I stole away to the section I knew it would be located in. I wanted to be there for as little time as possible. It certainly wasn’t a place I wanted to be seen. I quickly made my way to the M’s. I quickly scanned the spines for the name, George R. R. Martin.

“Oh, there’s McMarrow,” I thought to myself. I looked a shelf higher. And looked and looked some more. There wasn’t a George R. R. Martin in sight. I started to get nervous. This delay might cause me to be spotted lingering in that section. I started to look at every single spine carefully. There was no George R. R. Martin. Impossible. He was a popular author, they had to have at least one book by him.

Dejected, I was about to walk away when a thought occurred to me. Could it be possible? Could M-A be located after M-C? I checked the next row over–after M-C. Aha! Here are all the missing M-A’s. And there, on the shelf below, George R. R. Martin’s A Clash of Kings. I quickly grabbed it and got the hell out of there.

Is M-A after McSomething a common convention in organizing things in alphabetical order? I think I may have missed a memo.

The biggest lesson I learned today about surfing: wear a wet suit or similar-materialed t-shirt.

Why?

Becuase if you don’t, your nipples will chafe and you will feel pain like you have never felt before.

by Alan Watts

In music, one doesn’t make the end of a composition the point of the composition. If that were so, the best conductors would be those that played fastest. And there would be composers who wrote only finales. People would go to concerts just to hear one crashing chord, because that’s the end! But we don’t see that as something brought by our education into our everyday conduct.

We’ve got a system of schooling which gives a completely different impression. It’s all grading. And what we do is we put the child into the corridor of this grade system. With a kind of “Come on, kitty kitty kitty,” and yeah, you go to kindergarten, you know, and that’s a great thing because when you finish that you get into first grade. And then come on, first grade leads to second grade, and so on.

And then you get out of grade school, you go to high school. And it’s revving up, the thing is coming. Then you gotta go to college, and by jove, then you get into graduate school. And when you’re through with graduate school, you go out and join the world.

And then you get into some racket, where you’re selling insurance. And they’ve got that quota to make, and you’ve gotta make that. And all the time this thing is coming, it’s coming, that great thing–the success you’re working for. And then you wake up one day about forty years old, you say, “My god! I’ve arrived! I’m there!” And you don’t feel very different from what you always felt. And there’s a slight letdown because you feel there’s a hoax. And there was a hoax, a dreadful hoax! They made you miss everything!

We thought of life by analogy with a journey–with a pilgrimage, which had a serious purpose at the end. And the thing was to get to that end: success or whatever it is, or maybe heaven after you’re dead. But we miss the point the whole way along. It was a musical thing, and you were supposed to sing, or to dance, while the music was being played.

Awesome.

It’s too hot. Can’t think. Can’t write. I’m even afraid to go take a shower for fear I’ll just start sweating again the second I step out of the shower.

It looks like this story I promised is getting postponed another day. But let’s make this a little fun: would you like to read an experimental (for me) story about ball pits, a story about an old lady baking a pie, or a man’s experience with the piano?

Yes, this is a way for me to fish for comments. But it also makes this site interactive. How fun!

Every once in a while I come across a phrase I like so much, I decide to slowly incorporate it into my daily lexicon. The phrase of the moment? “You magnificent bastard.” It has such a glorious, ironic tone to it, no?

Past phrases have included, “that’s a bit dodgy now innit?” and “queue.”

Feel free to be like me and be eclectic and weird. And just a bit of a Bri’ish poseur.