200th Post: Clips Episode

Well, it’s hard to believe, but Land of Song has reached the 200-mark. I didn’t know what to do for this nice round number. I thought about it, and eventually I decided to do a “highlight montage” of the blog. So here it is, an arbitrary collection of the best and worst and weirdest and wisest of the posts and comments, in chronological order, taken out of context, and not attributed to their writers. Enjoy!

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I will try to keep a G rating for the diverse audience, but I'm not making any promises.

Question: Why aren't there any zombie operas?

Don't you think it's about time for a zombie opera? I do.

This is not going to start an opinionated rant. This is not going to be a tangent in favor of heralding one over the other. I'm keeping that sort of thing off my blog.

Somehow I get the feeling you're mad at me when I was only kidding.

I think it would be interesting if someone were to use paper, their finger and poop.

try as i might, i can't keep my blog out of the low-class register for long.

Now I'm back at my office, doing work. This is how my weekends are going to be, I'm afraid. At the moment, I feel a bit like Edmund Dantes--holed up in here while the world goes on outside these walls without me, laboring in solitude until I have my day.

I've been looking into an internship for next fall in Sydney. I'm going ahead with the application.

Dark times lie ahead in the world of film music. Until another hero arises, to remove the musical sword from the stone. Let's hope John Williams gets off his butt more often and shows these kids who's boss. "Help me, James Newton Howard, you're my only hope."

Ultimately you should rest easy, my son. Once you get out of academia you discover that you can find yourself being far less defensive about the music you write and enjoy (but you will suffer ME!!!).

Holy Cow. This blog is becoming just what I didn't want it to be, yet strangely satisfying. I've created a monster...

I'm already running ragged from this past weekend, working on my thesis until midnight every night. No social interaction. At all. The fever is setting in... the thesis fever...

On a reflective note, it was after the festival last year that I became inspired to compose a certain piece. I had a vague idea for it at the time, but I was absolutely determinted to make it happen. I started really conceiving the piece in February, but it wasn't until this summer that I decided I was going to make this piece my thesis.

The theme of the concert was "Rhythm and Death." Most of the pieces revolved around rhythm or some theme related to death, but I think the point was more that after so much rhythm, the audience will beg for death.

I understand these pieces. I understand experimentalism. I understand broadening our perception of what is music. Just because I am sick of this crap doesn't mean I don't "get it." If I may quote the same anonymous person as before, "Just because an idea is interesting doesn't make it an interesting piece."

This concert was the worst idea since Kingdom Hearts.

Did I mention I hate Toledo?

Time marches forward, and more work seems to get done somehow. Still more work piles on, and more conversations are spent over coffee in the basement lounge. More days pass, and more notes are written. Another day closer to dying, another day closer to living.

This is another great disappointment: all my friends are having a great time without me, and an occasion where all these people are together almost never happens anymore. If only we weren't all so busy, we could share our lives more.

I must have just been pushing too hard for too long. I think Indiana Jones said it best: "It's not the years, it's the mileage."

Now I'm just padding your responses.

A lot of things are coming to a head. The time between Thanksgiving and Christmas is always... interesting. Stressful? Sure. Relentlessly brutal? You bet. But this is what I do. I'm good at it. And I get to do it for another semester after this, too. After all, what else is there?

"The board is set. The pieces are moving."

I had some people over for dinner at my house--my tiny, tiny house. Seven of us fit snugly into the living room, and we had angel hair spaghetti with alfredo sauce and steamed broccoli, shrimp, and red wine. I didn't do it all myself, so we didn't get food poisoning.

Maybe this coming Friday we'll have that Christmas party. Or something like it. We should rewards ourselves more often. It's a rare thing to get people together and have a nice, relaxing time--and it shouldn't be a rare thing.

Another week later. I did some more stuff. Some other stuff happened. Now it's finals week. The last Monday.

I think my inner child needs ritalin.

Your inner child also needs a shock collar.

Yup. The first gay joke on my blog. It's aaaaall downhill from here.

I hate this blog. I do. Anymore, I post mostly out of obligation, which is apparently reflected in my tone.

I try to put a positive spin on things, believe it or not. My sister described this blog as “bleak,” whereas Dan used the word “embittered.” Ah, how easy it would be for me to turn this website into highly amusing yet belligerent prattle, such as so many rants that were had in the composition lab at Truman… I can already see Brad patting his fingers together, chuckling ,”Excellent… Tim’s blog is finally fulfilling its destiny!”

Wow. That wasn't bleak or bitter in the least bit.

Too Talls Two, that cozy little woody place where the only thing better than going in to sit down was knowing you could do the same thing the next night.

"Land of Song!" cried the warrior bard,
"Tho' all the world betrays thee,
One sword, at least, thy rights shall guard,
One faithful harp shall praise thee!"

Baseball and time travel.

You did it. You really did it. You should have saved yourself. Now the blog has you, too.

Once you journey down the blog path, forever will it dominate your destiny...

Thus, the famous line: "Thank you, Captain Obvious."

Theses=feces.

volition: (noun) 1 : an act of making a choice or decision; also : a choice or decision made
2 : the power of choosing or determining : WILL

Your anger has made you powerful.

And now, for an attempt at the "ideal" blog post, which should contain:
1) A current anecdote to illustrate my trivial existence
2) Minimal pessimism
3) An inside joke or at least an obscure and esoteric reference
4) Something to take with you

I'm starting to look at my "education" like the Yuuzhan Vong Embrace of Pain. Someone told me earlier today that she thinks I've been in such a serious state of worry for so long that I don't know anything else. It's like in the great stories, Mr. Frodo. The ones that really mattered. Full of darkness and danger, they were. And sometimes you didn't want to know the end. Because how could the end be happy? How could the world go back to the way it was when so much bad had happened? But in the end, it's only a passing thing, this shadow. Even darkness must pass. A new day will come. And when the sun shines it will shine out the clearer. Those were the stories that stayed with you. That meant something, even if you were too small to understand why. But I think, Mr. Frodo, I do understand. I know now. Folk in those stories had lots of chances of turning back, only they didn't. They kept going. Because they were holding on to something...

Well, I'll save the hindsight for a few months from now. I'm still fighting the good fight. I just wonder what the ultimate price will be. Irreparable psychological damage? Probably.

Besides, coffee is good for you. It's practically a vegetable.

What gets me is that she "suggested" I do some things compositionally in sections that 1) we had previously established were actually perfectly fine the way they are and 2) following these suggestions makes those sections do the exact opposite of what the material is supposed to communicate. The more you have someone look at a score, the more convoluted the original idea becomes.

I feel like the Rohirrim, after they think they saved the day only to hear the horns of mumac riders on the other side of the field. Reform the line!

I'm hellbent on returning to Kansas City, if nothing else than the simple reason that I can train with my old sensei and the gang for a couple years and really improve my life physically and mentally. I'll need that time of relative geographic hermitage.

Basically, my nuts are in a jar. Two separate jars, actually: one on display in Dr. Shrude's office, the other on Dr. Lillios' desk.

Ever notice that the emotions experienced during failure are disproportionate to those during success? Why is that? Hardly seems fair. And having talent (hate that term, complacent bedfellow of “creative”) sucks that way, too. It makes you feel inadequate. It’s a survival instinct. So you don’t rest on your laurels. The human mind is a cruel and twisted thing.

And don’t invest so much in a place or time or people to be your oasis. The comfort or discomfort you feel is wholly yours... whether you’re at home, Bowling Green or Kansas City. It’s all you. Don’t invest that responsibility in other places, people or things. I’ve wasted a lot of time being disheartened while waiting to be happy... when “I do this, live there, have that... achieve a state of enlightened consciousness far beyond human comprehension.” Whatever it was. As much as it pains me to draw from Cliche’s shallow well once again... “When Life gives you lemons” you have two choices - make lemonade or bean Life in the back of the head with the lemon and run away like a little girl, hopefully before Life sees you and calls the poe-lease. Whining about the fact that you got lemons instead of strawberry fields isn’t an option.

My lightsaber is red.

Actually, this rant was completely unprovoked.

Awakenings is for SATB saxophones, tuba, and piano. The length, the style, the instrumentation, and even the title was pretty much Dr. Broman's choosing. The tuba was my idea, though. I had a melody in my ear for a tuba concerto (for which I would have used four clarinets as accompaniment), so I figured this venue would be the next best thing to a concerto that I was probably never actually going to compose, anyway.

Did you think that the end of The Tonight Show was a little surreal with John Williams and Yo-Yo Ma shaking hands with Jay Leno, Terry Bradshaw and what's her name, the GoDaddy.com girl?

The burden grows. Now I feel like Kain at the end of Final Fantasy IV... I have to go into exile, and not return until I have regained my honor. So be it. Also, I can jump during boss battles and deal extra damage the next round.

I'm sick of reading about this thesis crap on my blog.

When your sense of vision is slightly shaky from sleep deprivation, combined with the way the sky is both cloudy and sunny at the same time, creating a silvery overcast, the way the half-melted snow lets the grass peek through, and the way the snow in the air floats around without ever really blowing or landing--it all looks like a Ridley Scott film. Play some Kingdom of Heaven on my iPod, and I'm taken completely out of reality...

We send in the world's best deep-core drill team, drill to 800ft below the surface, drop a nuke, and detonate by remote. As long as we can pull this off before my thesis reaches zero barrier, both sides of the committee will just float harmlessly past the atmosphere.

If I openly doubt the validity of this degree program, why am I obsessed with doing it? It's a meaningless title, so why does it even matter if I graduate? It is image? No. I don't know what it is, but I keep fighting. It doesn't make any sense, but I sacrifice without motivation. Is that good or bad?

All you have to decide is what to do with the time that is given to you.

Ay, there's the rub: the longer I work on my thesis, the more ways Dr. Lillios finds to "improve" it... that's why I don't recommend anyone trying to be an overachiever and starting so early.

Clearly, this blog is a love-hate relationship.

I feel like I've been on a philosophical crusade the past two years. I'm not alone on this, though. There are other soldiers and generals riding under the same banner.

So, the tide has turned, as tides always do. As a teacher, I've noticed this before: students are bound to turn against their professors, because their professors profess what made the deepest impression on them when they were students. The Cage/Babbitt revolutionaries are now undergoing a revolt against themselves. This is the way the world turns, and it's a good thing--otherwise nothing would ever change, and we'd be still be composing like Vivaldi. Or Telemann. Or the anonymous churners out of chant. Zeus murdered Cronos; Jung turned against Freud; the son destroys the father. The generations move forward; mankind is redeemed. There's only one case in which the Father killed the Son.

Now my objective is to save face, and get out of here with a modicum of dignity, and to do so without actually hating the past two years of my life. That is my task now.

We were brothers once and young. Loyal to a fault, and seeking only each other’s banter. Tomorrow night, I shall drink one for all of my old comrades. For old times, though the best is yet to come. While we separate from each other by geography as well as the nature of “settling down,” we will still leave no man behind.

No way. No way am I devoting a whole academic year to my thucking fecis. That’s just disgraceful.

It sounds like Dr. Lillios is the snake to your mongoose, or the mongoose to your snake. Either way it's bad.

So here I am, teetering on the edge of my spring break, looking down the slope that is the rest of the semester. There’s a turd in my sled.

When I get out of here, I’m washing my hands of the academic philosophical crusade. I can’t wait to be done with the intellectual masturbation of composition seminar. I’m tired of the double standards and the hypocrisy. Today’s seminar was another colossal, insulting waste of time. I want a week to do nothing but play Frisbee and video games, and I want to do it far away from the vast expanse of revelers who spent all day so far today drinking green beer in their yards. Then I’ll compose some real music for a change.

It's a good thing I have that high school chemistry book in the trunk of my car...

We had to do some study of "feminist" musicology (and by extension, gay "theory") in Bulen's history class. There are people who spend their entire careers devoting themselves to the study of both "feminist musicology" and "queer theory" trying to state that the music of women and homosexuals sounds different from that of straight men. I've only had to scratch the surface of it but those involved in the arguments usually get very vitriolic. Personally I'm not convinced. My advice? Run away.

My piece, Returning, went well. I got a lot of compliments (in some cases, even adulation), which didn't flatter me at all for some reason. I mean, I was glad to see that the audience was affected in the way I intended, but I was pretty detached after a long, melancholy day.

Amen, Reverend. One way or another, it'll all be over soon. I'm glad because I sure do miss the Shire... Remember how we used to get into Farmer Maggot's crop? Those were the days. Before the dark times. Before the Empire.

This week in review: a bunch of crap.

Two more weeks until the final gamelan concert. I can't wait to be done. The novelty wore off after the first concert. I'm still glad to be in it, but... man. I went through a lot of Excedrin this semester.

Apparently substance means nothing to the faculty here. Given the kind of “music” they write, that seems to be an adequate synopsis. I’ve lost all faith in this program. I’ve lost all respect for the faculty now, too. And no one can blame me. What I said about hoping to get out of here without thinking it was a total waste of my time—forget it. It’s too late for that. What I said about getting out of here without being bitter—too late. Now I just have to get out of here.

Herr Vogler was right: I’m becoming a martyr.

What all that means is that I did too good of a job, and nobody expected it. I’m a better writer than the faculty, and it cost me. I realize that now. That’s not arrogance talking. Yesterday I was shown some of the faculty’s writing. It’s true.

The faculty believe themselves infallible. They have become all but ineffective in their role in society. This maelstrom has awakened the student body. While everything I’ve talked about is strikingly similar to other students’ grievances, my story is the highly-concentrated epitome. Something is happening… the rift between the faculty and the grad students has been ripped wide open. My experience has galvanized the others into a sort of mental insurrection. Thus, I have become a martyr. Faith in the establishment is toppling over like a drunken game of Jenga.

Grad school is 100% bullshit (from concentrate).

My fate is sealed: both my thesis defense and my analysis presentation will be during finals week. How fitting. The end comes not with a whimper, but with a bang. I have been cheated out of my entire semester. From here on out, I will not veil my contempt.

I have made my judgement, alongside many of my comrades: Bowling Green State University is beyond salvation.

Buy Camp Slaughter. It'll make you forget all your problems.

And it sounds like this Beerman is a coward.

I regard much of my experience as not nearly worth the cost of tuition, the stress or the suffering at the hands of frustrated professors that were just sad-sack industry hacks that couldn't cut it in the Real.



May you have fonder reflections eight years out than I do.



Camping. June. You’re in your brother's boat. Have fun capsizing.



If your brother ever posts here, he should certainly choose The Mao as his id.

Zombie... chicken?

I know not of what the Other speaks.

In the darkest hour, the tiniest spark of hope is a radiant flare.

Every time I've been screwed over, every time my time table has been delayed, every time I've sacrificed an opportunity for a good time, every time I've been misled, cheated, and condescended to--all of it gives me the focus to endure today. Tomorrow is the culmination of past obsessions, ones that have resulted only in disappointment. I have nothing left to gain. At this point, I just want out.

Leave the apostrophe behind, my friend. It is a call back to a simpler time, when some punctuation was thought of as witchcraft and devilry.

People come and go, and the most anyone can do is to make a positive impression on others’ lives. Now we’re all going our separate ways; that is the way of things.

Wander, my friends.

It’s time to take what I learned and make it my own. I never again want to be swept up in someone else’s insecure, existentialist ideological debate. I never again want to be told what a composer should do. I never again want my own intentions to be questioned. Now I close the door on the endless waste of comp seminar, and bid farewell to the clashing ideologies.

I got to see their new beagle, Jack. He's an attention hog, and I love him.

Overall, though, I thought it was a good effort for a score that was written in such a short time. I'm also very glad that both John Powell and Harry Gregson-Williams are able to get away from the Zimmer sound and compose a little more ably than certain other cough, Trevor Rabin, cough acolytes.

I don’t want politics anywhere near my blog. Everyone in this country thinks they are so clever that what they have to say is well said, and they are so self-important that they think it’s worth everyone’s attention. That’s why everyone and their dog has a blog. That’s not my motivation. My blog is about “what I’m up to,” not what’s wrong with society.

Grounds for Thought, I must say, is one thing I will miss about BG. The other best parts of this experience would have to be going to a few other dining/coffee establishments on the same street. I will also miss playing Frisbee with the K-man, putting some balls, and going to the lake. Fortunately all these best parts are still going on for the summer.

I’m not going to Anchorage in September, as was the plan. I’m also obviously not taking a train to Montana this month. Every potential road trip I could have taken this summer seems impossible as well. And I’m fairly certain I’m not going to Australia after all.

I love this game. That was the year, man. How I miss Woody and Vina and Matheny. The A-Team. But, yes, the streak is over, and we've got a lot of catching up to do if we want to keep that division lead.

At any rate, if they try to sing that stupid birthday song to me at dinner, I will have to overdub them with the refrain to Waltzing Matilda. Don’t underestimate my ability to be obnoxiously loud.

Being a musician leads to a hazy future. Some people call it adventure. Others call it insecurity.

iLove my iPod.

Put-In Bay, Kelley’s Island, and Cedar Point are all within eyesight of each other. Having been to all three, it was especially interesting for me. I could see the other two sites from a very new angle, and realize I’ve fully experienced the entire area. It’s like in the Final Fantasy games, when you’re nearing the end of the story, and you are just about done with the entire world map. You come full circle to the beginning, or something. You see how everything fits together geographically closely, yet chronologically far apart.

Sure, I'd suppose it'd be all rainbows and sunshine when you got back to drivin your rusty old truck and lovin' with yer faithful wife in yer trailer... until the night that man's best undead friend comes home.

Then the screams start.

All through college, I had been preparing for the “real world,” which is, in fact, little more than a fantasy. Every stupid little exam, every struggle, every pointless meeting—all endless conflicts in the epic College Wars. I have gone through about four or five lightsaber color changes. Finally that “someday” came when I am done with school, and it’s a strange feeling to go home again and see the world througha different filter.

I’m sick of having to defend to people why I’m going to Kansas City. “Why Kansas City? What’s in Kansas City? What are you going to do in Kansas City?”

dirka, dirka, dirka...

All right. [sighs] All right. [bows head in resignation]

Obviously, having read the entirety of this series during my second year of grad school, the Yuuzhan Vong invasion will forever be associated by parallel with my own personal war at BGSU. Now that I’m finished with the last of The New Jedi Order, I feel one last bit of relief from the conflict.

Here’s to reprising old alliances. There is no such thing as “good-bye”… only a curious smirk and hopeful glance down the road not taken.

Also, I'm beginning to think that you should start writing your own series of works set in the Star Wars universe. Your knowledge (and ability to converse fluently in its language) astounds me.

I want a career, and money, and my own place, and a blog that makes sense. I also want the first three seasons of Scrubs, a magna doodle, the December 1984 issue of Playboy, a box of birthday candles, chrome polish, a gallon tub of low-fat-low-carb lard, a snorkel, a President Millard Fillmore latex Halloween mask, the CD box set of Bachman-Turner overdrive's greatest hits, a translation of the book of Deuteronomy in Polish, a prosthetic ring finger, a pair of size 6 womens grey corduroy pants, and steak cut in the shape of a trout.

Life is so unfair.

If these “serious” composers can hear past their own rhetorical masturbation, they would hear the sound of reason coming to a screeching halt. They are guilty of karmic stupidity, willfully propagating the very strife I have been dissecting ever since my arrival in Ohio.

And, for my own defense against the muddling and irritation of the Academics, my afore-mentioned “cold shoulder” becomes a shoulder of Absolute Zero: I must place NO stock in the values, advice, criticisms, or maxims of those who are essentially the Dark Side of composition.

Sometimes I forget my brother is a philosopher.

Dean and I are back in business. We met at the plaza, talked about past and present, getting each other up to speed on what has happened in our respective spin-offs. We have great aspirations for Big Boss’s dream—Outer Heaven.

There’s a reason the Salamander is “Silent”… you’ll find out when you cross the jungle and find nothing but a naked, dead Filipino man. You’ll never see it coming. It will be like looking in a mirror. You’d better bring a good cardboard box.

The coffee sure is good today… thank God for Saddam Hussein.

So I found a new place. It’s called Scooter’s. It’s a coffee shop around the corner from Panera, on the plaza.

That's what she said... g'hehe heh...

I have no words of encouragement. They would be more than trite at this point.

You might also have to scrub my scrotum from time to time.

Well, if nothing else you could sit around all day and play World of Warcraft - until some asswipe with no life comes along and starts killing everybody for no good damned reason!

Perhaps I'm just being your naive gardener here, but I don't think you're alone at all. I think that you're in a great position to surround yourself with likeminded folks who can help you recharge your batteries after having the life drained from them for the past 2 years.

Girl #1: “I like Schoenberg.”
Girl #2: “I do, too.”

This could be my big break! The Hollow could rocket everyone involved to stardom!! Or at least mediocrity.

I swear on Buddha's brazier that I will never score another cheap drama about an unwanted pregnancy. Two is enough for me. It's a lousy, feel-bad premise that is always the go-to script idea for people who have no talent, no resources, and have to resort to filming most of the movie in a dorm room. Just because you have a camera and a couple of theater majors with some down time doesn't mean you should make a movie.

Have I already mentioned how I long for such focus full-circle coherence from my students? You sure does write good, big brudder.

You know, I think I would like to have Kenny Rogers' dirty cheating hand mounted on my t.v. I would also like to have a picture next to it of the moment it was lopped off his body to catch that initial excrutiating pain.

How ironic...a guy who bears the same name as the country singer ("I celebrate the guy's entire catalog") who became famous for playing a gambler, cheating!

THE CARDINALS WIN THE WORLD SERIES!!!

Anyway, I was wondering… if John Cage’s music is music—that is, if anything can be considered music, then… are we all really mushrooms?

If a mushroom falls in the woods and no one is around to hear it, does it count as a piece of music?

Battle-axes kick ass...or how about a nice pointy mace!!! Yeah, that'd be cool, and messy...blood, BLOOD, BLOOOOOOOOD!!!

Here is a massive project I’ve started, to be an ongoing side project. Other than The Hollow and another indie film (more on that later), and other than the various “serious” or “academic” or “publishable” compositions, I will be working on Fantascapes.

I like how I find out about your life through the blog, but on the phone we only discuss Seinfeld and superheroes...

If you're General Discontent, can I be Captain Eternally Cynical?

If idle hands are the devil’s workshop, then I must be regional manager.

Timmay.

You know, when I don't have anything to post about, I just don't bother posting.

One time I swallowed a quarter and pooped five nickels.

I hate this blog. Have I ever said that before? I can already hear Dan laughing at the revelation… how typical of me to say.

Hm. Interesting problem you have there sir. I will meditate, and then destroy you.

I'm still going to put a booger in your hair when I see you this weekend.

After stuffing yourself with turkey and such, you’re nestled all snug in your pile of pillows on the couch. Your sweater is warmed by the fireplace as you pour your attention into reading your Calvin & Hobbes book. The lights from the Christmas tree dance in the glass of egg nog by your end table. In the background, there are sounds of everyone else doing other festive things—playing board games, baking cinnamon rolls, and watching that Charlie Brown Christmas special, or maybe A Christmas Carol with Patrick Stewart. Somewhere outside, jingle bells are heard as a horse-drawn wagon full of drunken carolers turns onto your street.

Seriously, though, you should be able to wish someone a Merry Christmas without getting your ear chewed off. You can still wish a Brit a happy fourth of July, right? They don't have to celebrate, but they CAN have a good day, can't they?

I have to get out of this neighborhood.

A scientist doesn’t gather all the king’s horses and all the king’s men and sit them down to watch them toss potassium into a vat of KY jelly, followed by baking soda and vinegar. “Look at the reactions! Hail, the mighty power of science!!!”

Moment form, based on what I learned from Dr. Beerman, is more about arbitrarily throwing together distinctly unrelated cells and giving it no organic growth whatsoever. This seems contrary to what I just took from Stockhausen a minute ago. When I tried to explain this concept to Brad on the phone a while back, he thought it sounded suspiciously like bullshit, and I agree. "Moment form" is a free pass to do anything? That's free form, isn't it? Moment form is not a blank check. No, there has to be a better definition. You'd think in two years, I would have been able to understand what the hell they were talking about. But no, it's our fault. It's the students' fault for being confused by unclear, contradictory terminology. Where's Josh?

Hmm-hmm. Sure. I know. Of course.

"...I like the kitty."

Moment form is authentic and specific, although it has been nebulously (mis)applied by BGSU faculty and students to many things that are not written in moment form. Free-form, organic form, through-composed... nay, moment form is not those things. Stockhausen created/coined the term, not Ligeti, and not theorists seeking to cover their confusion over such pieces. Moment form is and remains a structure that ties together "cells" of a piece which are organized by some "higher level" but only the composer understands. I hereby blame the BGSU composition studio for creating a labyrinth of confusion and shifting, misleading quasi-definition in a sad attempt to justify that which is ultimately arbitrary and shapeless. All that time, and nobody said "Stockhausen" and "moment form" in the same sentence. I had to Google it to learn that basic fact.

2007 is off to a lousy start

Speaking of drunken rambling, have Brad tell you the story of how he and I met sometime...funny shit!

Heh heh... you said "oral"...

It's amazing how the most pointless blog posts turn into message boards. I don't even need subjects anymore.

The Captain bites it in a glorious fashion: swordfighting undead Nazis atop a crashing zeppelin high above a sea filled with prehistoric sharks.

And the crashing zeppelin has to be on fire. And there must be several hang-gliding mummies throwing knives at Captain Obvious.

Undead Nazis with chainsaws... for hands!

Incidentally, I'm unable to escape my honey roasted demise (that's right, filling the Capital Dome with two million gallons of honey was part of the undead Nazi plan all along) because of the sad fact that my atomic jetpack's gy-rom-eter was sabotaged during the Madrid campaign by none other than the White Fox herself, Parasol Monday, Swiss double-agent.

Seriously though, let's get back to the exploding monkeys for a minute.

My poo smells like medium roast...

Ok, so seriously now...which one of you guys is Oscar and which one is Felix. I can't tell, really!

Along with your enjoyment of good music, did BGSU destroy your sense of humour, too?

We can grab a bite to eat, put on some iTunes, and strip down for a naked peanut butter fight.

...what? Apparently my farts smell like Dr. Pepper and Hello Kitty.

2007… you’re a dick.

It’s the urge to seize the summer before it even hits. It’s the urge to grab a rapier and a tri-corner hat. It’s the urge to ride off into the sunset. It’s the urge to be unfettered, free, sailing into the eye of adventure—and danger. It’s all that and a bottle of rum.

Live Free or Die Hard... Live Free or Die Hard... Live Free or Die Hard...



INT. BEDROOM - NIGHT


Dan violently wakes from sweat-soaked nightmare. A German stereotype stirs next to him.

At another street, at another intersection… more bunnies. Holding baskets of… red paint, I kid you not. Red freaking paint. Why?! Suddenly, you realize it’s eerily quiet at this intersection of the plaza. Okay, that’s a little unnatural. You are more aware now. You do a double take at the bunny statues. Did one of them just move?! I think it turned its head towards me! A shiver runs up your spine and you keep your eyes to the pavement as you begin a brisk walk to the next safe haven. That bunny… it’s wearing human clothes… it stands at human height… it has a human first name embroidered on its basket… it’s unnatural! Abominable! It’s… somehow… very, very… wrong.

There is much to be said on this topic, but at the moment nobody has the wherewithal to begin to think about approaching the idea of how to initiate the discussion.

Then I'm going to use better punctuation. Then I'm going to wax Brad's nipples. Then he'll do mine.

Since then, my state of mind has been vaguely Quinlan Vos-esque, pursuing an abstract sense of redemption, the same sort of tunnel vision that tricked me into a labyrinth of dissatisfaction during Thesis Hell.

My head was spinning, and it wasn’t an aftereffect from the crash. It was the bewildering storm of emotions sent through the Force by Jedi on worlds everywhere. Something was happening. Jedi were dying. Lots of Jedi.

Sunshine and kitten farts.

If I ever do reuse a title, and you point it out to me... I may actually have to lick your balls. I think that's the FCC standard.

At that point, I started theorizing with Aaron that my life is actually written by J.J. Abrams, only boring. I told him I suspected Kansas City actually consists of only 23 people or so, and everyone else is just CGI or something. All these crossovers… it’s just a gimmick for May sweeps. This never would’ve happened in January.

The Reverend, the Captain, Starbuck and... Tim. All these great things could comprise a really boring comic book.

It's true that when you're a creative artist there is going to be dogma everywhere. It is unavoidable. It's merely a matter of degrees based on the insecurities of those with whom you are working.

Some people deal with it and get past it in order to do their own thing while others choose to obsess about it and let it be paralyzing and become a self-fulfilling prophecy of inaction.

Heh heh. That’s what she said.

2007… you’re in a lot of trouble.

"It's gonna take a mon-tage (montage). Even Rocky had a mon-ta-age (MONTAGE!)"

Like… running with an egg across my lawn while British actors who played teachers in the Harry Potter films loose hell and werewolves at the behest of Underworld director Linn Wiseman who - having read my dreams, and finding displeasure at my general discontent with the concept and his helming of a fourth Die Hard installment – dispatch them to destroy us.

If I get a MySpace account, my journey towards consumer whoredom will be complete.

Well, the captain has an idea for a zombie cowboy movie... but I can't speak for that.

How about Evil Starbuck? Also, what makes you assume that it was the Good Starbuck that perished? 

Perhaps it's merely Slightly Less Evil Starbuck that survived, and there never was a Good Starbuck in the first place! Or Good Starbuck was offed in a previous episode, and they're airing out-of-order?

Way to confuse your audience, jackass!

No wonder no one's watching...

I think it would be appropriate if May ended with the dramatis personae in the style of Predator or Con Air, wich each of the characters grinning, one by one—including those who never smiled. Just to add a finishing touch of surrealism.

Why is it that the most inane posts rack up the most comments?

Seinfeld and SoCo?

There is choice. There is action. There is consequence. Choose, and act. Act, and accept the consequences.

However, I do believe in "bad apples" - those individuals who are, ultimately, unredeemable. Who happily thwart others, with total disregard towards the impact of their choices on others. And it isn't all or nothing... low-level bad apples mask their true nature (consciously or subconsciously) to get along in so-called "polite society", amongst the genuinely good folk.

That guy that lives/works down the hall from you - that was a real jerk to you last Tuesday - probably is just a jerk period. Not having a bad day. But, when he smiled an held the door this morning, he was pretending so that he would have a little currency amongst the better side of humanity. He is still an jerk at the core.

I'm not here to judge. I'm just here to condemn.

Well, it would seem I just took one big giant shit in my food dish.

I feel like Frodo Baggins, working on his book, having succeeded in his quest, but forever changed by the experience, the burden, and the near-corruption from the One Ring. And with a wound from the Nazgul that never fully healed. Not dwelling in the past, but scarred by it.

I wouldn't spare a drop of piss if you were on fire.

I’ve tasted life in the real world. It tastes like flat Cherry Coke tainted with cheap deodorizing soap. Not good. I’m not getting any younger, either. Seize the day. Be like water.

I don’t really know what I’m doing for the holiday. Hopefully it involves at least three of the following: fireworks, bratwurst, cigars, streaking, cotton candy, donkey lassoing, ice cream, medieval alchemy, dumpster diving, caber tossing, Klingon opera, beer, and baseball. I’m sure Chuck Norris can find his way in there somehow.

And then, the lower, darker clouds began to swirl ominously. I could tell that a low-pressure zone was trying to establish itself beneath the greater storm. I uttered the famous last words, "Uh... that ain't natural..." Somehow, it all seemed very amusing to me to imagine an F-1 tornado breaking out in front of me at that point. It seemed like the next logical step.

It occurred to me, while on the road, that the interstate transit is becoming almost better than these events themselves. I guess the older you get, the fewer and fewer things you have to live for. Yup, that about sums it up.

Would it be possible for you to limit your posts to 1000 words, or less?

I only have an eight hour day with which to read your blog.

Thank you.

Find your center. Be like water.

I suppose it's a bit like the boy who cried "wolf," only replace "wolf" with "pubes."

I remain ever vigilant. I remain ever discouraged. I remain ever hopeless. I remain... ever expendable. For I am the character who dies with a Wilhelm.

*crick!*

HA HA HA HA HA HA... AHHHH HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA!

Captain Planet. What's the point of the five kids' powers when they can't get anything done by themselves? Why wait until the last two minutes of the episode to put their rings together to summon Captain Planet? Just call him right away! It's not like he has anything else going on. Seriously, those kids are like the retarded foster children of the Green Lantern.

Oooh. That's the eighth book right there! Harry Potter and the Dickery of Spoilers.

Eh... I think it's time for a new post to sully.

There’s no need to talk about it, but I will say that I am not a happy camper. In fact, I’m the camper who comes back from canoeing to discover that someone broke into my tent and left a steaming poop on my air mattress.

Starbuck engaged in a quick-thinking action extravaganza that would make Sydney Bristow look like Mr. Bean.

I'm a bit disturbed at turning the Kobayashi Maru into a night prowler, but I'll play your little game.

Should Mantra be the composition project I hit hard next? Or should I work on adapting it into a sci-fi action book series?

TIMMY

[cackles madly]

You fool! You cannot defeat me with Southern Comfort! It will only empower me, and you will see me in my TRUE form!!

Sensei’s admonishments and advice from the evening echoed numbly in my head until my cigar was finished.

I might as well just let Bill Shatner manage my blog, because it's always going to come back to him anyway.

I shall call it:

Ballenlickenmusik.

Oh, for fuck's sake.

VENDOR
Listen, fellas. I've got a whole bunch of horses in the back here that I've got to beat to death, and then beat some more - into something resembling the horse meat treat that you've just flung to the ground in disgust. So, if you don't mind—

Dude, you totally need a gameshark. You can use mine. I try not to use it too heavily though. I've so far been using it for infinite fuel and reducing the MP cost of spells to zero.

I also used it to turn my hair bright purple. Just 'cause.

The letter changes nothing. I would have rather they just taped a turd to my doorknob.

I'm telling you. Zombie horses, man. Think about it. It's like you said, you can't very well have a zombie horse sneak up on you. I mean, you can't be putting milk back in the fridge, turn around, and be mauled by a brain-hungry, undead equus. That's what makes it so AWESOME!! Nobody EXPECTS IT!!

You're watching TV at night, and a freakin' ZOMBIE HORSE is watching from the bushes outside your window, with its decayed, red eyes... waiting for you to go to bed...

This Halloween... saddle up for sheer terror...

This is certainly true. I've just recently rediscovered from antiquity these things called triads. I'm secretly replacing many of the more dissonant sonorities in my music with them. I even started writing augmented chords and non-functioning seventh chords! Boy are those academic types gonna be steamed! I'm a crazy man I tell ya! Crazy!

I would especially want to relive the moment at the end of the two-year program, when my fellow grad students escaped in their pristine white jumpsuits, when we overpowered our captors and ran out into the desert, when our eyes held that first glimpse of a real sunset, when we looked uncertainty straight in the eyes and knew we were truly free.

Wait, that wasn’t grad school. That was The Island. Oh. I always get those two mixed up.

You know, the subjects of the posts don't even matter anymore. I could just post about different brands of dog food and we'd still end up talking about the same random crap.

Captain Planet sucks.

I'm kind of amazed that the phrase "celebrity fashion blogs" was written with 12 parsecs of this blog.

Pokes head in. Realises nothing of great import is going on here. Walks away.

I'm saying that people who fawn over the "genius" and "total fulfillment" of the seventh Harry Potter book need to read more.

Measure the sarcasm with a really big stick; which means you'll have to find one elsewhere (WHACK!).

Well, I can tell you one thing for certain: I am not going to waste another minute trying to salvage Volition. I have better things to do.

Fuck you, Bowling Green.

Until that glorious day, quitcherbitchin and get on with it.

Your expectations, talent and technology will eventually meet each other. It may be an uneasy meeting, but there will be sexual tension. By the fifth season they'll move into together, taking the series to a new place that half the fans are wary of, and the other half don't give a shit about. God, sitcoms suck.

Okay. Got it. So basically you've given "experiment" status to what I do every night after work to relieve stress.

Only you do it in your bedroom. Alone. For eight minutes.

Ahem. Oh, the places you'll go!

Oh my. This is getting almost as disturbing as the concept of being date-raped by the Kobayashi Maru. Where is Starbuck, anyway?

Oh, they've encased her in a graduate program! She should be well-educated... if she survives the thesis process, that is.

Next year, Dean and I want to go as Plunkett and Macleane. Who would be which? Oh, that's easy. I would be the gruff, testy, head-butting, every-man-for-himself Will Plunkett, and Dean would be Captain James Macleane, the short-sighted debonaire who abuses his noble status to get women and pull off heists.

It seemed somehow cinematic, imagining it from the bartender’s point of view. It’s Sunday evening at the bar, and there are a few handfuls of boisterous locals in Chiefs apparel (there was a game that afternoon), and in strolls yours truly with a loosened tie and rolled-up sleeves, wearing a distinct look of defeat. As I waited for my burger, staring at and fidgeting idly with my bottle of Killian’s, the bartender/waitress asked, “Do you want a newspaper to read? Or do you want to sit and think?” I have to wonder what she thought my story was. At that time, the Beck song Derelict came on the speakers. I had to smile at how perfect an ending it was to the weekend.

I had a dog once.

Life is an unremitting series of boss battles and no save points.

Whew, I'm breaking out in a sweat. I need to stop consuming the souls of my dead pets.

I guess it’s part resolve, part responsibility, part jaded self-reliance. No more reaching out—time to withdraw into my own goals.

I need a cool facial scar.

IT TASTES LIKE HAPPY!

It only went downhill from there. We are awesome.

You know, I'm starting to think that your life is occasionally so *accidentally* funny that you couldn't possibly begin to make it up.

So, somewhere there's Jason Statham's body walking around with the brain of a four-armed female robot in it?

I lost my job today.

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Well, here’s looking at another 200 posts to come.

God help us all.