Logic

I like this famous person. A lot.

She is pretty.*

I don't like this thing:

She is an alien.*

*confirmed by a panel of smart dudes.

Dear Night...

It is, for all intents and purposes, nighttime. Sadly, I'm not tired. I fucked that up. Those people that lived before electricity had this thing where they went to bed at dusk and rose at dawn. Man, were they out of the loop. They probably sat up half the night with their spouse/goat and imagined a time when they could stay up late, get up early, not get as much sleep as a consequence, and LOVE IT!!!!

I don't love it. The internet is great and all, but it represents a severe lack of anything substantial in my life. I retract that last statement. The internet isn't great and all, it was invented by Al Gore, who surprisingly has a sense of humor.

Yes, anyway, the internet is evil.

peace, love, and chlamydia

The One Dealing with T.V.

I have a penchant for British television, or telly, as those bucktoothed fools refer to it. I say that with love. It's like if I called my wife a "paunchy little squirrel." The origin of my fondness for their grotesquely underdeveloped television (they only have one CSI type show! what's up with that?*), I can recall and trace quite vividly. It all started a good 7 or so years ago...As per my usual Saturday night ritual, I would sneak downstairs to watch MADTV at 10:00, because my parents did not approve. During the commercials, I would channel surf and eventually land on the heaven of all tv programming for 13 year olds, PBS.

Quite spectacularly, their Saturday night line up consisted of British shows. And rather olde (intentional) ones at that. Keeping Up Appearances was my first exposure to this cavalcade of dusty humour. This show follows the exploits of the notorious social ladder climbing Hyacinth Bucket (bookay, as in bouquet), and her trying to deal with her wacky relatives who don't fit her picture of the appropriate family. Oh my, it's a laugh riot.

Naturally, my appetite expanded to all the Saturday Night BBC programming including Are You Being Served, a delightful late 70's romp through the fictional Grace Bros. department store with such lovable characters as Mr. Peacock, Mrs. Slocum, Mr. Humphreys, and the senile womanizer Mr. Grace (only one part of him ever left that wheelchair).

For quite some time, I was stalled in my quest for a decent British t.v. show for the lack of any decent British t.v. shows. It was only later, once my parents had gotten Netflix, that I stumbled across As Time Goes By, starring Judi Dench as a mixture of M from the James Bond movies and something less likely to saw your johnson off.

Then, I reached the height of British telly with the refreshingly irreverant vicar of Dibley, Boadicea Geraldine Granger. This is comedy. Watch it, while drinking tea. MANLY, MOTHERFUCKER.

I find it odd that I'm blogging about watching t.v. And I can't even claim that it's "culture." British culture is about as different from my own as a wheat thin is to a cheeze it. America just has more cheeselike product. Maybe next time, I'll frighten you all with an introspective look into imitation crab meat.

*made that up

Pastimes

I will record on the interwebs what I do in my free time. On the record, this is for posterity. Off the record, posterity doesn't give enough shit to fill snake hole and I'm really doing this because I misplaced my glasses, so watching t.v. is out.

Last night, I attended a show at Ames Progressive to support mi hermano. I don't know why I wrote that; he's white. He's pretty good at the whole "music" thing. So yeah, he was at this show in Ames and did quite well. And much to my surprise, everyone else did too! This is not my usual experience with these "local" band gigs. I usually go for one particular act (such as in this case) and then the following bands just blow like Louisiana did four years ago. Not so, I say! Everybody made it up to "Will listen again" on my Suck-o-meter (a little above halfway).

While at this show, mi hermano (white) was relating to me his merchandising idea for his band. It's scarves. Who doesn't love a good scarf? No one, that's who! And incidentally, I know how to knit. So, I'm all like "Skellee (name changed to protect identity), I'll make you some scarves!" and he's all like "shut up, you suck." But I persisted and he relented. So after the show, I started a scarf. The next day, I finished the scarf. With just me, an empty schedule, and a good half season of Arrested Development, I made a really good scarf. That was anticlimactic.

now taking preorders. 12 dollarsish.

i also watched every show in nbc's thursday night line up. so lame. so funny. need a life. Btdubs, I drank six cups of tea today. I'm not talking prissy tea set cups. I'm talking pints. almost lit'r'lly. I have to go bleed the dragon. gu'bye.

Bloody Politics

Once again, I've taken it upon myself to lie in the title of this post. However, it is a half truth and therefore only a quarter lie and a quarter grey area. My feelings towards politics generally are in the hue of "bloody," but I was referring instead to the most foul excuse for a book any tree hugging, bullshit Stanford degree-having, retardess could come up with. I am, of course, talking about "Blood Politics: Race, Culture, and Identity in the Cherokee Nation of Oklahoma," the book I'm required to read for my cultural anthropology class. Doesn't that just make you wanna take out the flail and have at your backside?

Let's break this down:

The title starts out like it's going to rock your world. "Blood Politics" , YEAH! How bitching is that? This book is going to inform me about the darker side of politics with all the assassinations, hidden agendas, and secret societies. Alas! It was not to be. It only goes downhill from here and that hill just became mountainous because Little Miss Author thought to trick us with her clever eye catching title.

Next comes "Race, Culture, and Identity." What the hell am I going to do with that? Once that first word is out of the gates, like the stallion ridden by the jockey from hell (Gilbert Godfrey), you know the previous two words were utter falsitudes.

Race is a word that only works when used with dogs...or rats. Otherwise it's just the another word to tell me that I should feel guilty for an act of the world decades ago.

Culture, in and of itself, does not bring up horrible connotations to my mind. So...meh.

Identity. Here's a tough one to figure out. On one hand, identity theft, which is cool if you've got to infiltrate a Soviet bunker as James Bond. On the other, if this is about all that "finding yourself" identity, I may upchuck. Projectile upchuck.

If we view this title as a steep playground slide into Hell, we have already slid into the heat and can just now feel the flames licking our toes. Because now we've reached "in the Cherokee Nation" on our whirlwind tour of this macabre title. I cannot describe in sufficient eloquence the horror, the undulating waves of terror and pain that accompany that phrase. As a people, I have no problem with the Cherokees. As a topic of study, I will murder them. Without mercy. Sorry Cherokees.

As the title moves on down the slide, past the first high plateau of "blood politics" then down the curve to "race, culture, and identity" to the small depression at the bottom "in the cherokee nation" we, as a figurative idea, fly off that small depression and sail through the air, like a missile from a medieval trebuchet, straight into Beezlebub's gaping maw with the discouraging, hope draining, warmth stealing phrase "of Oklahoma." Fuck me. Oklahoma? Really? No one honestly sees that word and thinks, " Hey! I love that place! I'm a real sucker for tumbleweeds."

I'm just trying to avoid reading it. A scathing criticism of the title seemed like the best way to go about it. Anybody watch the season premiere of Heroes? I did. I like it, generally. Basically a modern day X-men, in the way that Latter Day Saints are modern day Lutherans. Which is to say, more crazy.

Introductions are in order.

Dammit. I already lied.

To begin with a sweeping (meaning probably untrue) generalization, most blogs are created as an outlet for truth (oh, the irony). Truth of all kinds, be it an accurate account of one's day or taking on the big bad corporations/media/government/what have you, or even the truth of your own thoughts. Aaaand to swing it back around to why I lied; the lie, you see, is in the title of my firstest blog post. No introductions are in order by the simple fact that if this is read, I will have told the reader quite explicitly to come here and fucking read it. I've also just assumed I'm going to tell you to read this with profanity. It's a possibility. Watch yaself.

Yet...yet maybe not. Do you know me? Maybe the truth of this matter is that I'm an unknown. Maybe not as an acquaintance, but as a person. Sure, I'm a name you've heard (extremely famous: my brothers' have a band. nbd) but WHO am I? Here goes:

My foremost (current) passion is for the Byzantine Empire. That's epic. . And I'm not even joking. I recently acquired a trio of embossed folios detailing the history of Byzantium. Suck it.
I'm a reader, which is due in no small part to my crippling habit of being an introvert. People freak me out. Mainly, I freak me out, which has (upcoming boast!!) given me a surprisingly awkward/insightful way of observing the world with an apathetic detachment. I analyze everything but fail to communicate my findings with those that would be interested. This is, I suppose, because of my introversion. And the reason for this asstastic blog.

To move on: I can now justify watching t.v. with knitting and have a recent perverse attachment to tea. Please don't read into my use of "perverse."

My purpose in constructing this pleasure dome, this brothel of thought, this harem of hype, this Xanadu, if you will, is entirely selfish. duh. Please inform me if you ever think of a plausible reason for blogging that does not have a root in downright self-centeredness. This is essentially a stopgap measure. As I am at university, and am righteously underachieving it, free time abounds. I could continue to watch every video on the good ole interwebs and lose myself in video games, or I could commence an activity that is halfway constructive. Make sense?

Despite the previous egotistical paragraph, I do hope you are, at the very least, entertained; whether that's because I've related some topic that appeals to you or you happen to be a stalker. I haven't quite decided what path to take my blogging down. It will most likely be a compilation of intensely interesting historical exposes and profound insights acquired by living my life. Either way, it promises to be better than your Grandma's blog.

Thanks Guys.