Recap

Sorry about the lack of blosting. Been, busy...

The whole fam was in town, and by whole fam, I mean my sister Kellie and her two kids, and Heather and her potential husband, my potential brother-in-law. I guess it's more future than potential... I don't consider it official unless I see it happen, and the chances of that happening aren't good. As I mentioned, the whole busy thing.

I will be very glad to be done with school, and if I'm smart, I'll never go back. It's not the worst thing in the world, it's just there are a hundred other places I'd rather, be, a thousand things I'd rather be doing. I don't like to expend effort when I don't care, and that's what school is. I can be really motivated if I'm all in, but I see no reason for school. I'm actually making my final paper for my English class on how going to college isn't the best idea in the world, which makes me a little bit of a hypocrite, but that's nothing new. Also, that paper will more than likely never be finished, because before we finished it, the professor went ahead and told us what we're doing next, which just happens to be fiction.

These have nothing to do with this blost. I made Ben take these because we haven't had pictures in awhile, and I though the blog needed some color. I intended to get to what we did today on here, and I might do a part two of the recap.

No constraints other than it has to deal with fear. Taft doesn't care how long it is, whether it's really fiction or nonfiction, or a mix of both. And see, that I can, and will write, with gusto. But all the other papers we've had to write... I'm not hear to persuade anyone on anything. I don't want to illustrate a point, or compare or contrast a damn thing. I really don't want tell someone the causes and effects of a certain problem. I think that's all the papers we've done. Anyways, I'm here to tell a story. That's my purpose, I do that, and then I can die, happily. But I have no reason to write anything else. Mostly because I don't care about any of these other things.

But now of course, he told us about that last project, so I won't finish my paper that is actually critical to me passing English 101H because I'm doing the next paper that may or may not have any effect on my grade. And that's just the thing. Grades. They're so arbitrary, and it's just so depressing to see how much stock everyone else puts in them. It's not important. Passing isn't even that important. The money I wasted on these classes, even less important. None of that stuff matters unless you make it matter, and I can't find a reason to even try anymore.

Also, my film class. He just gave us another paper to do, that isn't due for two weeks. Just write a scene for a movie, or I guess television would work too, in the proper screenplay format. It has to be two pages, and deal with teenagers, but other than that, no restrictions. That I can do. That I want to do. My old neighbor, Korry, just finished or is about to graduate from Full Sale down in Florida, and I think he wants to be a director, and he's promised me a movie. Now's as good a time as any to start preparing for that. And Korry, he's someone who has benefited from College, and I'm glad he did. That's the issue I'm having with that paper, because my premise is go to school if you want to, but don't if you don't want to. It's very true, but not very conducive to writing a six page paper, especially when I'm writing important things.

I guess that film scene isn't preventing me from doing another assignment in film, but it is do in two weeks, and he's pretty lax on the whole turning things in on time thing, which is wonderful, but Rather than doing that one later, I'm putting off my whole semesters worth of Spanish homework, which is just tedious plug and chug. A whopping 714 pages of tedious plug and chug to be exact, which is due the end of this month, and we've had all semester to do, and I started yesterday. The part that gets me is how little this is helping me with Spanish.

Spanish is another one of those classes that remind of why I never wanted to go to school. Ironically, it's the class I'm doing the best in. My professor, who's name I don't even know, (my fault, admittedly, not his) isn't really a teacher, in that he doesn't really teach, or do any of the things that a teacher is supposed to do. He comes to class, but as far as teaching goes, we basically read the textbook out loud for an hour twice a week. Every once in awhile, for grammar, he shows us a PowerPoint he didn't make. And the tests, those that we have, are generic multiple choice tests he got from the book. When he's too lazy to grade the tests, he has a blog, where ten questions are listed, and students are to comment the answers at their leisure, because he let the class decide when it's due, because he runs his classroom as a Democracy.

Last Wednesday, I was in a hurry to get home because Kellie had just gotten there, so I almost skipped Spanish, but I went, and that was a mistake. We were having a test, on of the in class generic scantron ones. Fortunately, he said that as soon as you were done you could go. I was one of the first done, so I hand in my test and head for the door. He stops me, and tells me to pull up a chair because "we have to make a key". So I ended up being there longer than I would during a normal class, and in that time, of the forty questions, I managed to eliminate ten of them because the multiple choice could have multiple answers. Seriously, one of the most poorly constructed tests I have ever seen. Then, because despite the fact that he's a terrible teacher, he's a pretty cool guy, and given the rest of the class, I'd rather talk to him, so we talked for awhile, and at first, it seems that he wasn't that different from me, until it came to my attitude for school. He was surprised, saying something like "What I see doesn't match what you are." I guess that's true. Deception is my oldest game, and a game I play well. That's something I've gotten a lot at FCC. I still project the guy I was pretending to be in high school I guess, before I let the mask fall off and revealed how little I care about things that I don't see as having any point. Then I thought, no, I really am a lot like this guy. He's a teacher who tries very hard to look like he's a good teacher, when in fact, he lets the book teach his students a whole language. He gets his awful PowerPoints, which have no more information than the book, from someone else, his tests are from the book, tests in which I can eliminate a quarter of the questions because there are multiple answers, his other tests when he's too lazy to grade scantrons are done on a blog, graded by his student aides. The only difference between me and him, I'm not trying to be someone I'm not.

I'm also putting off my math homework due Monday morning. Online classes were a good idea in theory, and I'm sure for someone else, they work fine, but for someone like me, who doesn't self motivate for things like that, terrible, terrible idea. I've done exactly half of the homework assignment, leaving my grade at just under 50%. If I do this weeks, it may or may not raise my grade to a D, passing. I'd do the math, but you know, then I'd be doing math. Apparently I'm good at math, which is the funny part. I tested great back in elementary school, and somehow, got a 4 on the Calc I AP test. Now I'm failing precalc, and I only have the grade I do now because the online homework quizzes tell you the answers after you get it wrong, and if you retry the questions enough times, it starts to repeat the same numbers. I'm just kind of hoping that I get like a C on the final, and then I can get a credit, which I'm pretty certain I will never attempt to use.

I guess the point I'm making is once, I let people convince me that eventually, I would grow up and be ready for school. Either I'm never going to grow up, or I already have, and realized that I was right all along, even if for the wrong reasons. I kind of want to be a motivational speaker. Go around to high schools and tell the kids that if they don't want to go to school, they shouldn't, and even if they do, with access to the internet and a hunger for education, you can learn more than you ever could in a college, and save yourself so much money. The problem is, society is convinced that college makes you a better person, and as much as I'd like to, I can't change that. Not with my unfinished six page essay, and definitely not with my stories.

Real Men Of Genius

Today we salute you, Mr. Real Men Of Genius Ad Writer.

I was driving home from work when I heard this:

I've heard them before, but I though that I needed to salute the saluters of these great American heroes. So I checked online, and turns out, there are over a hundred of these.

Here are some of my favorites:

These men, all of them, the ones in the jingles, the guys writing these, the dude doing it, the guy in the background (Especially the guy in the background. He sells it.), they are all men deserving of respect and appreciation.

I'm pretty sure that if I ever have to a get a real job, this would be it. Advertising has reached the point where I often times won't buy products because the commercials are terrible. I guess that point is moot, because, I don't buy Bud Light, but I appreciate the work they do.

"The Monkey House" Part II: Cake, King, and Matthew Burke

So, I talked about the Monkey House, and said that that isn't it. The house itself is more the classic haunted house. Rundown falling apart old house, near the ocean, a place kids go on dares.

One of the other big influences was actual Stephen King's "Salem's Lot". The book was pretty good, for a vampire book. I enjoyed it a lot more before they really revealed the vampires, and the characters just knew there was something going on at a house much like this one, the Marston House.

An apology, about the song. It's happened before, where it only plays the thrity second clip, and you have to go to the sight to listen, and more likely than not, sign up. Not that I;m against signing up for Imeem, it's a pretty awesome site, and I'm not complaining about the service. But since Ben pointed out the first few times it has happened, I always check. So when I saw it yesterday, I tried to see if there was another version of the song, but of course, there wasn't. I briefly considered using a different song, but I wanted to use that one, not only because it was fitting, but because I was listening to a lot of Cake when I first discovered "The Monkey House". Not the actual house, but the story.

Music plays a big part in what I do, and most of my stories have a general theme, or even a soundtrack. Most songs actually have a specific seen. That song, "Palm of Your Hand", is huge, for both the story itself, and the protagonist. But I'm getting ahead of myself, I'll get back to him.

The story itself stems from mainly the feeling of that house, combined with my fixation with both water and other worlds and dimensions. The house is actually a portal of sorts, or really, it houses the door, a stained glass window that looks into the She'ar, a world between worlds, a wasteland that separates one dimension from every other.

The She'ar, and all other dimensions, and what can generally be termed as existence, and the Kaleidoscope, they aren't so important to this story. "The Monkey House" is basically an introduction to this concept, a stepping stone for more important stories.

Anyways, the basic premise is, as a boy visiting his cousins in South Carolina, on a dare, he goes into the house and upstairs, where he finds a stained glass window of a great red, four eyed snake wrapped around a sword. That part right there, I hadn't realized until now what the stained glass window was of, but of course, it makes sense now. I'm going to have to reign this post in soon, as I just got really excited. I have much work to do.

Anyways, I was talking about Cake, and mentioned the protagonist. Matthew Burke, who annoys me now because Matthew is the name of another character from another story. They might have at one point been the same character, though they're quote different now, but anyways, it's too late to change their names now. they are who they are, and so far as I know, they never meet.

That aside, Matthew is, well, I don't really like him. He is a good portion of the problem I had with my parents back in high school. Most if not all my characters suffer, and there is a part of me that idolizes that. What they gain from that experience, I want that, and for a time, I hated my life because it didn't suck. I dragged a lot of Matthews problems into my real life, and well, even now, having got past that, I can't help but say that it was wonderful. To hate that much, to be that bitter, I'm getting chills now.

I've managed to separate myself from Matthew a lot. As I said, I don't really like him all that much. Later, he redeems himself a little, but never one of my favorites, Mattie Burke.

Anyways, while in that house, he finds that window. The window is broken, and he can't help but to touch it, impaling his right hand on the broken shard. A small sliver is embedded in his hand.

The shard lays dormant in his hand for eleven years, while his life goes to hell in New Jersey. Finally, with nothing left, but only an instinctual impulse to go back to South Carolina, one of his last memories before his mother died. He hitchhikes down to that small town near the coast, full of southern hospitality, hicks, and of course, the Monkey House.

Close proximity to the rest of the window awakens the portal, allowing beings from the She'ar to come through the window, and also, giving Matthew strange powers through the shard embedded in his hand.

The portals power in Matthew's world is linked to air pressure, and as the air pressure drops as it does before a storm. beings for which I have no name for are able to pass through the window, but in this world, they need a form to inhabit. They generally possess animals living around the Monkey House, more powerful beings being able to dominate larger and larger animals. This possession also mutilates the host, it's body unable to contain the being possessing it. The first thing Matthew encounters as he's drawn to the Monkey House is a giant frog. Matthew of course kills it, and then, while trying to figure out what is going on and his place in all of it and the power flowing through the palm of his hand, he sets up guard around the house, stopping whatever comes out of the house. He eventually figures out the air pressure thing, and that adds the deadline of hurricane season.

As I said earlier, the music of Cake was a big inspiration. Of course, there is "Palm of Your Hand", having to do both with Matthew eventually having to destroy the house, as well as the shard stuck in the palm of his hand. Another one, the accompanying track for this blost, "Frank Sinatra" was big. Also, "Guitar Man" had a lot to do with a character introduced later, as well as a little with Matthew. "No Phone", as phone booths later have a lot to do with things.

I'll continue to blost about this. I haven't revisited this story and awhile, and it's doing me some good. I'll probably break it up a bit, hit you with some other going on first, not that I ever have any.

"The Monkey House" Part I: The Original Monkey House

Probably the least of the "Core Stories," I will introduce "The Monkey House".

First, a little background. My sisters know what I'm talking about already, probably better than I do. Well, definitely better than I do, as what I remember is probably mostly my own imagination at this point.

To the point, somewhere in North Carolina, near a river, where at one point, some relatives who I haven't the faintest clue how they are related to me other than the fact that they are on my mother's side, there was at some point in the past, though may or may not still be there, a house.

Yes people, a house, which my sisters and various relatives who I can't even remember what they look like, called the Monkey House. I have no idea why, but to call it anything else now just doesn't seem fitting. It wasn't even that we believed there were monkeys living there, or at least I didn't, and I'm more unaware of the story than I thought. That explanation is too simple, and quite frankly, lame, for me to except, so Kell and H, if it is, keep it to yourselves.

It wasn't really a haunted house either, but that is pretty close. Creepy yes, but haunted, no, and I don't think I ever believed it was. The house itself, well the picture I imagine now, I see a skeleton of a house, with a front put on to make it seem like a real building from a distance. But from the sides, you can clearly see that there are no walls, just the framework. Inside, the floor is covered with dead leaves, but they don't smell. They should smell, a hint of that fall air smell covered by a rank scent of death from years and years of leaves left to rot. There really aren't any rooms. There is what might have once been a bathroom, but now, there is just a toilet, standing alone, by itself. It's surprisingly clean and white, and without lifting the lid, I know there is a dead frog inside, though for whatever reason, be it just freshly dead or preserved by some foul means, it hasn't begun to decay.

There is an elevator. Really, it is just a square section of floor hooked to a wall that raises and lowers. It has no walls or ceilings, and it is clear of the leaves, as though this is the only part of the house someone bothers to clean. Very well might be. The controls, you can see them from the semicircle window on the front door, are very simple; a red arrow for up, a yellow arrow for down. They are dull now, but I know they have lights in them, and for that matter, the whole elevator has electricity running to it.

The elevator goes up to the second floor. It's the only way up, now that all that remains of what must have been a beautiful spiral staircase is the rotting remains of the first three and a half steps. The second floor, well, you can't really call it a floor, because it is just a series of crisscrossed beams. Considering the condition of the house, you wouldn't think they'd hold, but they're sturdy. Why else would the elevator still have power.

This is probably nothing like the house we actually saw. It doesn't particularly matter though, as I will likely never see it again. I'm pretty sure my relatives don't live there anymore, and the house was probably destroyed in a hurricane. And more importantly, it doesn't matter because this isn't the Monkey House I'm writing about.

No, this bizarre structure may have a place in another story, but not this time. I took the name, because as I said, I don't know why it has that name, but it fits. Also, the feeling. That feeling I remember when I saw that house. That's what it's all about.

Anyways, it's late, and this is going to be a lot longer than I originally thought, but here is the tip of the iceberg, just one of the many inspirations that is going into "The Monkey House". I'll try to finish tomorrow, or at least continue. At some point, Ben might have some pictures and stories from Chicago, but it's unlikely, since he's; A. Ben, 2. he forgot his camera, and D. he's worthless when it comes to actually posting.

(I am pretty sure I will not have any stories or pictures from Chicago, but here are some more reasonable reasons for that: I am 700 miles from Chicago, I have never been to Chicago, and I have no plans in the near future to be in Chicago.) ~Ben

Funny The Way It Is

I heard the new Dave Matthews Band song on the radio, and immediately had to come home and download it for Jo. She loves her Dave. Pretty good song though; the new album comes out June 2.

Still though, Dave Matthews reminds of traveling with Jo. She's pretty belligerent when she doesn't get her way, and for awhile even Giz wouldn't give me back the CD changer, and of course, the three CDs in there at the time were all DMB, and Pittsburgh radio is pretty terrible, so I rocked mostly Dave for a couple of months. It got old, but I can imagine worse things.

That 200 miles of road between my old apartment and my parents' house holds a lot of memories for me. Asides from when I'm running, I do a lot of great thinking while driving. Especially once I'm on the highway, set the cruise control, and just sit back and dream, focusing only enough attention on the world around me to keep me alive.

There was meant to be a point to this blost, but it's gone. For someone who only wants to tell his stories to the world, I'm rather selfish with them. I think I had started writing this because the Dave Matthews song had me thinking about Graham again, and I'd really love to tell his story. I've told a few people a little bit, but I need get over this possessiveness. It's not like it's mine.

So, I'm going to start by giving a gist of the core stories. These are the ones that I've seen play out thousands of times, the ones that are the most important to me, and to each other. I'm going to do it over the blog, onto the internet, for my whopping eight followers, and whoever else happens upon my blog. It ain't much, but it's a start.

Of course, having decided this, I need a run to clear my thoughts, so I will postpone this, but I will hopefully start tonight after my run, provided I don't go straight to bed. I'm tired.

Until then, look forward to it in anticipation.

A Walk In The Park

So people hate me.

Not true, old people, kids, and most dogs like me just fine. Just, gay dudes and chics want nothing to do with me. Not that I want anything to do with gay dudes. Not that there's anything wrong with that, either.

So, after a delightful meal at China Panda, we went to Baker Park. We walked around the park, and it's funny, because I was under the impression that city people are less friendly than country folk, but everybody and their brother was talking to us.

Then, we decided to go for a run around the park, and after stopping after only a mile or so for a shameful walk (like most sequels, "Orange Chicken II; Chillin' In The Back Of The Throat And Awkwardly Mingling With Citrus Mint Gum" was terrible), we resumed our walk.

At some point, a couple of girls said hi to us. We of course ignored this. There was a second hi when we didn't immediately respond. After a third, I figured they wouldn't stop until they got a response, so I returned a hello. They were quick to inform me that they were talking to my friend, presumably Ben.

It was kind of a slap in the face. I mean, Ben? Low Blow. Fortunately, they weren't particularly good looking either, so it wasn't the worst thing in the world, and some jogging dude, presumably gay, said hello, presumably to Ben.

Needless to say, I'm never talking to strangers again. Chances are if I did, even if I was alone, I'd get a "We were talking to that squirrel." Oh come on! The Squirrel!