Your Space.

So lately I have been neglecting this blog because of my Myspace. The thing is addicting, pointless (much like this blog, but to a stronger degree). I basically am posting to let the world know that a book review of Tremor of Intent should be coming soon: I am nearly done with the book. I might also post my Personal Statement as graduate school application deadlines are coming up, fast. I might also post a story that I am supposed to be working on, the deadline for that is December 31, 2005 at 11:59 p.m. This year (and my life) is almost over. And, while on the topic of what I might post, I might post pictures that my sister took while she was India (if there are any good ones). Bug me in the comments section if you particularly want to see something.

So many goals. Higher, higher, low.

An Anniversary for the Annals

So it has been one year since I have started this blog. One whole year. I could look back and see what terrible posts I have written--maybe highlight them here in traditional self-loathing fashion-- but instead I sunk to a new low: I got a myspace. I think that exemplifies the steady (exponential?) decline in brain cell count, and encapsulates my general descent into madness.

I'm a Thief, I'm a Weirdo...

I hate my job
I hate my job
I hate my...

Six in the evening here I am
(Turning blue)
I'm staying late working late again
Bourbon can't clear my mind from this
Voice in my head
I hate my job
'Cause it makes me
Think about the smile that I'm faking

I hate my
I hate my
I hate my
I hate my job
I hate my job

Yeah, that's the scene that I am in
Lying
At odds with every bland image
How many assignments can this
Fool ask me to do?
I never cared
There is no end
Only misery and uninterest

I hate my
I hate my
I hate my
I hate my
I hate my
I hate my
I hate my job

I don't care
I don't care

This Unbalanced...

I got Resolve today. It came on a Monday that was a train wreck after a grueling weekend, betwixt a credit card bill and a bank statement (I owe them...). Before I get further into this, I would like to outline my Monday.

Before I outline my Monday, I'm going to highlight my weekend: I took the the "Literature in English" GRE. It was the hardest test I have taken in recent memory. My mother and older sister left for India on Sunday night. Their flight was out of LAX, and was not scheduled to leave until 11:30 p.m. I went to see them off, and I did not get home until around 11:30 p.m. So I did not get to sleep a whole lot. Now, to Monday.

First, I had to drop my brother off at a financial aid meeting at school this morning. I was late getting him there. I did get to work on time, but today I had to take care of several important documents that were due today. One of them required me to copy 500 pages in exhibits. The other involved me meeting with the client today (the day it was due...service is complete once the documents are in the mail, thankfully), and arguing with him over minutia. While I was focusing on finishing preparing these documents, I was dumped with more work that is awaiting my response tomorrow. My boss did not show up for one of his appointments, and when the finally called me, he wanted me to tell the client stuff regarding his case, and somehow that ended up in a half an hour appointment where the client was complaining to me about things that I cannot possibly change nor control. I needed the associate attorney's signature on some other documents that had to go out today, and, because of a late appointment she had that went extra long, I did not get that signature until 6:30. The credit card terminal ran out of journal tape, and it didn't take just normal tape, but "thermal" tape, which I had to get the office manager to get. The office manager returned with her daughter, and that was just a distraction (helping a high school freshman with English homework, and answering personal questions while I'm trying to get things in the mail was distracting). This was all on top of the normal phone calls of people yelling at me, getting the mail, and scheduling appointments. I did not leave the office until after 6:30 p.m. (6:45? 6:50?) It sucked, to put it mildly.

But I got home, and there was the package from Fat Wreck Chords. I opened it up, and there were the usual freebies (a poster for some band called "Consumed", a Strung Out sticker, a Dillinger Four sticker [which rules], a little ad advertising Lagwagon's Resolve (on one side) and Western Addiction's Cognicide (on the other), and a free compilation called Rock Against Floyd), and Resolve. It was not wrapped in plastic. There was no impossible-to-open-sticker sealing the CD in air-tight paradise, completely inaccessible to those of us who have fallen. I opened the case, and found the signatures of the band on the back of the CD booklet. These are not fake signatures. Leon's signature is in silver, Joey's signature is smeared a bit on the J, Dave's signature is kind of faded. I smiled as wide as the girl on the cover of Let's Talk About Feelings (I probably looked that beautiful too). My whole day changed. I thought "even if this album sucks, it rules that I have their signatures on this CD booklet." The album does not suck. I have listened to the album twice so far, and, like I usually do with new CDs, I'm going to post the lyrics from a song on it, but all this needed to be said.

Resolve

Don't leave me in this room
The walls are closing in
This is the space I used to say
The line is drawn for you each day
But every day you show
With sound of caving walls
Some day this song will have no pulse
And I'll cave alone
But there we are
Waiting for your answer
Your arms speeded elation
Beating out your salvation
But when the tape stopped you were gone
A half measure from home
This week I recreate
Edit you back into
The blare that could define you
Coveted by few who knew
The phone rings without pause
This grief wills everyone
All I have is our shitty song
How could it ever be enough?
Here we are in our final accord
A mortician and his tools
Sonically bury you
You could have chose another chord to resolve on
~Lagwagon

It's Not Going Anywhere

He was thoroughly convinced he was not a good person. There were moments--recurring, and often so--that seemed to prove this conviction. There was that moment (how long was one?) when he had popped that girl's balloon with a pen, vindictively, instinctively, and with such satisfaction that if the girl had several more, he would have gone (hypothetically, against and contrary to the fact, the history, but of such sure conviction that he called it true--made it so) on a(n) homicidal spree of flying rubber and ink. Her mother, standing by, innocent as the child, was so shocked, her mouth was a agape. The accomplishment fell to bitter ruin with the tears of the child. She must have been six or seven, the age where one can comprehend evil and fear, but had no idea that these things were real. His heart sank. He wanted to cry with her and apologize, but it seemed pointless. He should not have done what he did, and the regret could not be washed off with something as common as an apology. A carnival (for that is where they were, and the clown from whom the girl received the balloon, a few yards away, clucked bitterly, condescendingly at the scene before him) was simply not a carnival with a girl crying. But, ironically, and he noted this with the pen still protruding from his clenched fist, sword-like, he was simply saying farewell to the sins of the flesh. Destruction of oneself and others (and, by extension, their property) was a sin of the flesh, ingrained and part of the human condition, and though there was no lent--and hence, no purging, he... he could not justify it. He walked over to the clown, made a gesture to the jester, which the clown understood immediately. The jester gave him another balloon, the same color, and he gave it to the crying child while the mother stood, anger aging her skin with a thousand wrinkles. Why did he do such a thing? Why did it feel like victory? Why did he feel so bad afterward? He did not know, but only knew that there were more moments, and, incidentally, more incidents which proved his utter worthlessness to humanity.

A Tremor of My Intent

"We were both drawn, during the interim time, to the only community we knew; we went back to school."

~pg. 17

This sounds like me and a couple of people I know.

There Was Only One Catch...

I'm posting because I'm trying to avoid studying for the GRE Subject Test. This whole process of applying to graduate school is long, drawn-out, oppressive. But every day that I go to work I realize more and more that I should not be doing this yet; that I do not want to be a "Legal Assistant" (what the hell is that anyway? Why do crummy jobs always have the vaguest names?); that the only thing I have known in life is school and that is where I feel most comfortable. But how do I turn that into a "Statement of Purpose"? How do I write a "Personal Statement" about how I am running back to a womb (maybe not a fetal womb, per se, but certainly a more youthful day--a child-like state, at least)? I am not an academic man, though I try to be. I do not read as much as I should. I do not remember half the things I learned in college, and I barely remember one-eighth of the things I learned in high school. And other than trying to escape from the nine-to-five, I do not know why I want to go to graduate school. I have nothing to prove. I have no real academic goals other than getting a Doctorate in Philosophy and possibly teaching (though praying for a good publishing contract). All I know is that my friends say I have changed, I feel I have changed, and I am not happy where I am. Is that something some stiff in an admissions office in some accredited institution wants to see? I doubt it.

So what do I do? Find a new job? That certainly is an option, but there is the gamble that I will run into a worse job than the one I am currently doing (it is hard to believe, but I am sure there are worse). I also promised my mother I would further my education. And honestly, I do want to go graduate school, it is just applying for it that is so burdensome. It is also hard to leave a small office when you have worked there for a while. Things could fall apart; you are not so easily replaceable. I am Mr. Guilt. I somehow think I would feel less guilty if I had to leave work because of graduate school than to leave work for another job. Maybe they would understand better, I do not know.

Really, I know in my heart of hearts (as the sole-practitioner lawyer who shares office space with us says) that I should just buckle down, suck it up, and, as a co-worker says, "get 'er dun'!" (Another reason to leave...) But it is far easier to come home from work and do nothing than to study, or contact professors for letters of recommendation, or rifle (me) through old boxes looking for the last ten page paper I wrote to be submitted as a writing sample, or trying to get my official transcript, or sending GRE scores to schools that have not received them yet. I'm not lying, I'm lazy.

It's as Bart Simpson says, "You're damned if you do, and you're damned if you don't."

The Answer Is Still No.

Both this picture, and the caption above ("Sell your house and buy gold"), were taken from the Radiohead website. Who knows where they got them from.

Intuiting Verticality

On Colombus Day--a day that has long since been destroyed as a holiday because of "multicultural" issues--I finished The Intuitionist, a racial allegory (if the cover is any indication). And, like any book that deals with race, it left me confused. It does not define race, and it does not attempt to solve any issues, though it does seem to play with certain philosophical issues.

There's of course the Intuitionism versus Empiricism debate, which is the major issue of the book. These elevator inspectors (yes, the book is about elevator inspectors) are awaiting the new elevator of the future, entitled "the black box." Whether the elevator is indestructible or not, the book never tells us, but the creator of the black box, a James Fulton, is the originator of the Intutionist movement. The main character of the book, Lila Mae Watson is, in a sense, a disciple of Fulton, and she encounters a problem: Elevator Number Eleven in the Fanny Briggs Building, an elevator she inspected, goes into a total free fall. What ensues is a complicated mess that, at times, I wondered if I cared what was going on.

Now farbeit from me to criticize a writer who is actually published (while I have not yet submitted anything, nor do I have anything ready to be submitted, to a publisher), but when race is the driving factor, it makes it hard to care about it. All the characters are governed by their race--all the white people act in a certain way, and the black people act in a certain way, and nothing changes that at all. Even the Fulton is dominated by his race; I guess that makes it a racial allegory.

There are other issues as well. There's a religious issue which hinted to in the appearance of the black box, which will bring about the "second elevation" and new cities and a new life, thanks to this new version of verticality. There are political issues brought about with the impending election--who gets to be the new head of the Department of Elevator Inspectors? Will it be the Empiricist Chancre, or the Intutionist [I forget his name and I can't find it]? I did not really care, and I do not think it was a major factor in the book, but it was there. There was also corporate issues, what with United Elevator Co. and Arbo vying for dominance in this unnamed city during this unnamed time period. All these things blended together, which makes for a nice complex story. So it is not all bad.

It is just the racial aspect that pervades the story, and the complimentary racial language (i.e. "modernity," "verticality," etc.) which I cannot, for the life of me, find any meaning to that just makes this a frustrating read. Lines like: "In the last few days she has learned how to read, like a slave does, one forbidden word at a time" (p. 230) calls into question a lot of things, and provides no answers for. Lila Mae Watson already knows how to read throughout the story, what kind of "reading" did she learn the second time. A racial reading, perhaps? The reference to the slave seems to say so, but I cannot be sure, and that vagueness is frustrating.

Ultimately, the book tries to veer away from race (and I would explain, but I would be ruining the book for those who perchance want to read it), but it is so stuck in that quagmire that it cannot possibly extricate out of it. The final message seems to be: Look past the color of skin, white people! That kind of message is confusing and dissatisfying, and that's what I generally got from the book.

This isn't the review I intended for the book, but I have run out of time. I'm going to be really busy this month, so I may not post all that often. I'll post when I have a chance. Other than that, I'm glad I finished the book, and I'm sad that my holiday is nearly over. Despite what others may say, I'm glad we have Columbus Day.

New York Threatened...

Islamabad levelled.

These are crazy times.

You Listen to Coldplay

Thanks, Tony.

[He quoted the Network.]

Lies, Lies, Lies

"Omer -

Thanks for your order with CD Baby!

Your CD has been gently taken from our CD Baby shelves with sterilized contamination-free gloves and placed onto a satin pillow.

A team of 50 employees inspected your CD and polished it to make sure it was in the best possible condition before mailing.

Our packing specialist from Japan lit a candle and a hush fell over the crowd as he put your CD into the finest gold-lined box that money can buy.

We all had a wonderful celebration afterwards and the whole party marched down the street to the post office where the entire town of Portland waved 'Bon Voyage!' to your package, on its way to you, in our private CD Baby jet on this day, Monday, September 26th.

I hope you had a wonderful time shopping at CD Baby. We sure did. Your picture is on our wall as 'Customer of the Year'. We're all exhausted but can't wait for you to come back to CDBABY.COM!!

Thank you once again,

Derek Sivers, president, CD Baby
the little CD store with the best new independent music"

Even though I don't believe all that he wrote, it was still nice getting an e-mail from the president of something.

New Monkey

New Monkey

Here come the sidewalk boss again
Telling me how I can't cave in;
That I'm a study in black,
Need a pat on the back
I looked up and smile
A picture of dissatisfaction
That he can only see as a junkie.
Though I might be straight as an arrow,
He's busy shaking hands with my monkey,
Busy shaking hands with my monkey.

Well i go in the car,
Straight to the bar
Where my sweetie pours the beer
For the millions of fans ignoring the bands
He's in my ear,
Wants me to live in denial,
Says you've gotta settle for something
Though it might not be really living,
Anything is better than nothing,
Anything is better than nothing.

No actor action man gonna move in to take my place,
I'll be pumping out the product
Just a total waste.

Look at your hands unoccupied
Look at the lengths you'll go to hide
You're under the veil,
Pretending to fail.
Gotta whole lot of empty time left to go
Now you've gotta fill it with something;
I know what you can do, don't you know,
Anything is better than nothing.

No actor action man gonna move in to take my place,
I'll be pumping out the product
Just a total waste.

I'm here with my cup,
Afraid to look up,
This is how i spend my time,
Lazin' around, head hangin' down;
Stuck inside my imagination,
Busy making something from nothing.
Pictures of hope and depression,
Anything is better than nothing
Anything is better than nothing
Anything is better than nothing
Anything is better than nothing.

~Elliott Smith

Isolate, Imitate

Wake up at 6:00 ante meridian, groggy, tired. Go downstairs to relieve yourself, as you know the upstairs bathroom would soon be occupied by your brother. Find The San Diego Union Tribune, in all its Old English Font-Face glory, and decide to read the paper from Tuesday (September 20, 2005) because that's how behind in life you are. Find an article entitled "History rewarding for UCSD teacher." Become intrigued. Look at the picture of the UCSD teacher, a homely woman surrounded by blurred books. Read the caption, "Emily Thompson, an associate professor at UCSD, is working on a book about the transition from silent films to talkies." Find your interest somewhat dissolve. Read the sub-headline. "She is one of 25 to get $500,000 'genius grant.'" Have your interest pique again. Read the first two paragraphs. Stop in disgust. Here's why: "Just a couple of years ago, I was an out-of-work academic eyeing my bank account wondering when I'd have to give up and become a paralegal [italics mine] or a bartender..." Throw the paper down. Flush.

Go about your day, bitter, groggy, tired.

Realize this will go on your blog.

Return to said bathroom to relieve yourself once again, this time knowing you will read the entire article. Read the rest of the article, fully braced, and become upset... again. "Her first book, 'The Soundscape of Modernity: Architectural Acoustics and the Culture of Listening in America, 1900-1933,' was published in 2002 to critical acclaim..." Hate Emily Thompson for doing nothing and getting $500,000 ("Like most winners, Thompson has no idea how or why she was chosen or who nominated her because the process is secret"). Flush.

Emily may be odd, but she always gets [an] even [$500,000 over a five year period].

Post this on your blog.

Just Deserts

About four years ago---No, not that long ago. It was Labor Day weekend. I had the Monday off (thank God...) and headed up to visit the former roommates. We had quite the time. Part of the time was spent playing ping-pong and darts, part of the time watching things that I needed to watch (viz. Cakeboy, Violent Femmes videos, and other strange videos by some dude named Michel), and then part of the time was spent out in the desert, road hunting, cruising, whatever. These are pictures from that.

Ping-pong and guns, ping-pong and guns

Boy was this sign wrong!

This was out there

Time to ride the snake

The biggest banded gecko... ever

D(ead)O(n)R(oad)

Nature abhors a vacuum

No animals were harmed on this trip

I Got Sold Out

I took a nap at 4:30 post-meridian today (my half day) and woke up a little after 5:30 post-meridian. I woke up disoriented and looked at the time. I first thought it was 5:30 in the morning, but it was too bright outside. Utterly confused, I realized that it was the evening, and immediately thereafter I thought I had slept through work. I got so mad at myself at first, then scared I would get yelled at or something. Then I realized that I had just taken a nap on my half day; I had already gone to work.

I wonder why I got so mad, and then scared, when I had thought I had slept through work.

I think I got sole doubt.

New Link

I d0 not know how long this was going on, but Julia apparently has a Xanga. I've linked to it here, here, there, and here. And it's on the side-bar.

Just discovering this, and 100 other small things that transpired yesterday in a heat conducive to perspiration, adds up to making me feel like an idiot. Not just an "idiot" but an idiot (with all the connotations and intonations of Napoleon Dynamite).

Today, it's 10:15 am and it's 102 degrees Fahrenheit outside.

Happy Birthday To Me

It's my birthday and I'll do what I want to
Fuck you, it's my birthday.
A special holiday only for me,
So do what I say.

It's my party, I'll make you cry if I want to...
Or leave.
Fuck you, it's not your birthday,
So do what I say.

For 24 hours you're wishing me well,
364 days I'm in hell,
Oh well.
Happy birthday to me

Alone, on my birthday,
I'm going to Denny's 10 times today.
No tip! It's my birthday,
So do what I say.

Thanks mom you didn't have an abortion,
Or my birthday wouldn't be today.
But I guess it's my good fortune,
My birthday's today, OK.

For 24 hours you're wishing me well
364 days I'm in hell
Oh well.
Happy birthday to me.
Happy birthday to me.

(Spank me.)

Oh well, happy birthday to me.
I can't believe you forgot my birthday.
It's my birthday and you're wrecking it.
Now it's just like any other day:
You didn't do what I say.

How could you forget my birthday?
That's really immature.
Fuck you for forgetting my birthday
You didn't do what I say.

24 hours no wishing well,
Now 365 days I'm in hell,
Oh well.
Happy birthday to me.

~The Vandals

You Can Try to Save My Soul

Though written poorly, the latest post on my sister's Live Journal brings up an interesting topic. The comments are especially worth noting because a nascent argument arises between me and my sister, the idealist. (Note: if you cannot tell from my blog heading, "Exspectamus Pessima" means "Always Expect the Worst.")

Pot-Pour-ee

I've started reading The Intuitionist because I needed a book to read, and another Burgess book might have been over-kill. Sometimes one needs to torture oneself. I thought of posting quotes to prove why I do not like the book, but I'll gather it together later when I've read more and have a better understanding of the book. See? I'm open-minded (whatever that means).

I've just finished watching Napoleon Dynamite, which is a very interesting movie. Devoid of drama, it takes a rather typical high school movie (albeit with very interesting characters) and makes it original. I don't think I've seen a movie quite like it. In a way, it was kind of like an episode of Seinfeld, except in high school, and with more bizarre characters (believe it or not). A definite must see, even if it's out of curiousity.

I also saw The 40 Year Old Virgin, but that's not really worth a comment.

And this guy was about how old I am. Death can come at any time (in case you weren't aware of that before).

I haven't done any real editing to my story yet, but it will eventually be posted on Ochius! So if you want to read it in its entirety and don't feel like searching through blog posts, then head there soon and it will be up. I just don't know how soon.

And that's all I really feel like posting.