Thoughts on the Dominican Republic

The first thing I noticed after leaving the resort in Punta Cana was that, after catching an overpriced taxi from the airport to the bus station, and after embarking on a local bus that would "eventually" get me to Santo Domingo, was the seats that were always taken first (and therefore the 'best' seats) were the seats at the very front.  This contrasts with buses in Canada, where people space themselves out throughout the bus as much as possible.

According to my Lonely Planet travel guide, skin color gives an informal hierarchy where the lighter your skin, the more important you must be.  That didn't make me think they were metaphorically spitting on their king when I was snubbed by the locals.  Rather, I'm pretty sure it altogether had to do with my complete incomprehension of the spanish language, and in particular the extraordinary thickness of their accent.  This isn't to say I know not a word, for No habla Espanol is a nearly complete sentence.  I can speak some key words, and my comprehension is available, at times when I'm sober and people speak in one word sentences.  What I constantly found myself tripping over is when I feel like I've finally got my point across in a series of gorrilla-like grunts and gestures, and I feel like I can stride across that finish line of accomplishment, only to find the shoelaces of accent and talking speed have been tied together (and not in the good way).  I'm much happier not trying to speak the language at all, and consider myself a bit of a master of body language these days.  The Dominicans sour dispositions toward me only stings for as long as they and I are in the same room together.

The second thing I learned since stepping foot off the resort, which by the way is only full of "rich" white fatties and dispirited Uncle Toms - is that "friend" roughly translates into Dominican as "Whitey who will give me all your money."  Not to say that there weren't nice people, because I met plenty.  But they just don't seem as motivated as the tieves, hustlers, pimps and junk salesment to pick up the English language.  I was consistantly amazed by how few spoke English - it seems that an infinite amount of money (provided you place yourself in frequently Gringo'ed areas) can be made, and one can live a relatively easy life in an otherwise poverty stricken banana republic.  As it stands, the realm of English speaking Dominicans remains the realm of of every thug and lowlife eager for free pesos.  Take my last night there, for example, in a rapidly expanding town of Bavaro, about a half hour drive from the Punta Cana airport.  Punta Cana remains an anomoly in the Dominican weather system, knowing only blue sky and sunshine while the rest of the island chokes on floodwaters, floating islands of garbage, and backed up sewage systems.  Why until recently this has not been one of the more densely populated areas is beyond me.  But still much of it remains scrubland just waiting to be laid to torch.  More recently, however, every inch of its pristine white sands and sexy, picturesque beaches (that seem more real to me on a postcard than to be buried ankle deep into) is quickly being converted into overpriced resorts.  I can only assume the vision is of shipping more an more pasty North American and Europeans in, presumably with the end goal of creating some sort of island out of dollar bills that the owners of these resorts can build their own resort out of solid gold and spend their time on.

And it seems to be working.  Inside the Punta Cana airport, an assortment of gringos form long ribbons of flesh waiting to re-embark back to their country, or pour fourth from the arrivals section in waves, waiting to be whisked away to their relatively expensive home in the tropics for anywhere from 20 to 40 dollars american per trip.  I'm of mixed feelings of these resorts; after my experience I'm more than a litte bitter from "No habla Inglais" and a multitude of broken english variants of "give me money", and I can understand someone wanting to simultaneously get away and also not be confronted by these problems on vacation.
But this subsequently feeds back into the Domincan people a sense of elitiesm, that white people are collectively too good to be around them, and spending money in exclusive locations that they will only see if they are a meager employee of these institutions.  This happens instead of tourists spending money in the many, many local towns sprinkled throughout the Dominican (and always on the major roads).  This perceived elitiesm further frustrates the average Dominican, fuelled by American TV station dreams showing many, many nice things they will never be able to afford - and goes on to make them even more bitter towards the turistas that dare step off the resort property and try to interact with the population, despite the language barriers.  Which in turns embitters the visitors, choosing to isolate themselves on resorts moreso in a cycle that continues to continue.
(all my pics can be found at http://s111.photobucket.com/albums/n146/emaika/Dominican_Republic/)

Good news everyone! Brad Pitt's gonna be okay!!!!

i know everyone who gives two shits about pop culture has been wondering the same thing about their favorite popular celebrities (or perhaps even the ones they love to hate) that i have:

whats going to happen to this poor, oppressed peoples once the financial hardships of depression, recession, or maybe some new kind of ion sets in.

well it wasn't easy, but after struggling through some research related hardships of my own, i came up with some answers.  as it turns out, hollywood was barely affected by the great depression of 1929, compared to EVERY OTHER INDUSTRY.  for some ungodly reason, americans maintained their movie going habits and chose to watch escapist movies about 'fantasy' and 'hope' and 'love' rather than face reality with a few extra trusty cans of beans in their side pockets.  hollywood knew what people wanted MORE AMERICAN DREAM crammed down their throats with an extra helping of patriotism and optimism (for lube).

thats why i plan to take full advantage of this, should stephen harper get re-elected and careen our figurative economic b-52 on the 'same steady path' towards wall streets awaiting AA guns.  thats right, i'm going to use my ultra ghetto budget skills to set up a stage at my own house and perform plays using paper mache and sock puppets.  maybe i'll dream up some never thought of before screenplay and then sell it to hollywood later after they realize my mad cashing-in-on-the-depression skillz.  or i may just do some hipster puppetry remakes like resevoir dogs or boondock saints.  better yet, i'll just rip off movies they already made in 1929 and the early 30's before hollywood gets a chance to, then sell their fat asses back to them.  all this misery and sufferings gonna make me some mad green.

Only the beginning...

Something I haven't wanted to do for a while now has been to write on my blog about the impending economic crisis, what is going to happen, and how David Icke may or may not have known about it. Then, after a week of my not posting on my blog, I realized it may be on my mind for some years to come. Unfortunately, I may not have 2 hot wires to snap together to connect to the internet to continue writing, but if that happens, you DEFINITELY will not have a different set of wires to read it. That and most likely you will add to the increasing number of google searches for "Where is there food in " or "Where is there jobs in ".

Most of my life is about having a catostrophic view of life, the world, and virtually everything that anyone with power does in this world. You could call me cynical or jaded, but I'm just another animal, man, doing my animal things like I do best. You could call me the metaphorical polar bear in the zoo with the compulsive head sway. Some would question the bear and ask him "What are you doing? Stop swaying, dammit!!!" but I'm just gonna say "The bear lived his whole life in a zoo, and he doesn't speak any fucking english, so cut him some slack plz."

So now that your mouth is a-water with prospects of me talking about North American Unions and Neo Great Depressions, I suppose I can hold the information from you no longer. I've built up the suspense as big as it can go without the inevitable drop in attension span. Here's something that may not occur to you, and certainly hasn't occurred to those FAT CATS on WALL STREET:

What's going to happen to all our celebrities? Nobody will be able to afford cameras, television cable, movies, or gossip magazines. an entire branch of the WORLD economic secter will cease to exist, at least in our soon to be impoverished nations. What will the Brad Pitts and the Angelina Jolie's and the Jennifer Anison's do without having paparazzi (who i presume will be too impoverished from malnutrition to lift their pencil in question) hanging off their every move.

Also, celebrity money will be worthless too, so they won't be able to buy the latest fashions, and whatever else celebrities spend their money on. I realize your mind has just been blown, so before I bombard you any further, I will let what has already been said give time to penetrate to the WHATWHY part of your brain, and I will begin to at least attempt to answer this monolithic problem in my next installment.

Imma go home and practice dancing after i write this

If you know me you might know that I've been spending far too much time reading a lot about Michael Jackson, in my attempt to capture his essence and cram it into a ganster rap song. We're not here today to talk about my mania, or the irony of my obsession over pop culture, but instead we're going to talk about one of my other obsessions: dancing. You see in Michael Jackson's video/movie career, a common theme develops.

The guy, like all guys, has problems. But he solves his problems by DANCING and making his enemies his allies by dancing with him and producing some badass complicated coriography in the process. He however maintains total control, being the head dancer and still way better dancer than his adversaries, they merely following his lead the best way they can. Sometimes they exaust themselves by dancing without proper pre dance stretching, but most of the time after they dance a little while they just realize what a great guy he is and how can they kill a guy after he adds some boss moves to their repitoire. This isn't just an isolated zombie related incident, I mean the guy solves problems in outer space and everywhere with this One Size Fits All solution.

So I couldn't help but think of how much like real life this was. If my boss were to fire me for not doing my job properly, if I were an amazing dancer, I'd just be like

"Oh yeah, my performace has been somewhat atrocious Mr. Chu, but what do ya think of this?"

And then proceed to bust out in an uprock routine where I show him and whoever else happens to be in the room all sides of my feet before going into some downrock power moves before a one handed air freeze finale.

I guarentee you he'd forget all about what I did wrong and think only of the last experience he had with me, my amazing dance moves. Then he would offer me a raise and possibly try to stuff dollar bills down my pants, which I would accept out of politeness.

I'm a fan of quoting Johnny Cash, one line in particular "Get rhythm when you get the blues". I can guarentee you that in 1993 through 2006 amidst all the pedophelia accusations Michael was getting, that he was glad he was such a great dancer, because when you're nervous about showing up in court the next day or a 25 minute strip search, sometimes you just need to dance the stress away.

Dirty Meat

I had to buy pizza for lunch today since I forgot my money at home, and I have no FOOD at home, so I had to go home to get money for food. Since it takes me my full lunch hour to get home and back to work, I could only get something to eat that was:
-on the way between my home and work
-something i could eat while walking
I know what you're thinking and, its true I do come up with some wicked problem solving ability when I'm in a pinch. Not eating is also not an option since I get REAL cranky when I haven't eaten for a while.
So I go to the pizza place on the way whose pizza drastically resembles pizza you probably bought ate and loved as a kid: greasy, crunchy, not particularly good, but not Sarpinos (ZING) and as usual I get whatever is freshest, which at this particular wrinkle in time, was meat lovers. I would say I am a meat lover, even though what passes for meat in our society does not mean ACTUAL meat. So i'm eating this greasy chunk that may or may not have been some type of slug, and I have a flashback to Canada day.

Canada day was a pretty good time. It wasn't an amazing time, since I like most other Canadians had to work the next day. But I did get to go see the freemason lodge during their open house (which in Victoria at least is every Canada day between 10am and 3pm) and hung out at various points in town with my homies. But what stands out at this Canada day was our trip to John's Place.

John's Place is what I can only call the most overrated breakfast place in Victoria. While most breakfast places in Victoria are both overcrowded on weekends and overpriced, this one in particular also has some of the worst food I have ever eaten in a breakfast place that wasn't fast food. I had eaten lunch and dinner at this place before, and I was actually impressed with the food at that particular time. So I followed the logic that "hey, the dinners are good, if this is a breakfast place, the breakfasts must be GREAT". I was never more wronger in my life.

I ordered the eggs benedict, because I love eggs benedict but am far too lazy to make my own hollandaise sauce. So when I go out to breakfast, I can generally justify dropping $12 on some eggs benny because that is the only opportunity I have to eat them. What do I get? oh the eggs benedict are there, the hollandaise is present, and the english muffins are as english as english muffins can be, but here they have a friggin sausage mcmuffin chunk of bloated grease fat RUINING EVERYTHING. I have never wished I had thrown up in a restaurant more than the day I ate that meal. And I only ate it because of the starving people in Africa. I hope they appreciated it.

Who is that ravishing...oh. Could you put your hat back on?

I am not normally a fan of hats.  They have their place, like ski hills and other cold, windy climes, but in general, my head enjoys breathing.  Kind of the same reason I keep my hair fairly short.  If I even have my bucket helmet on for an extended period of time, it sends my follicle cells and sebaceous glands screaming for oxygen.  

The damp, clumpy mess that it leaves behind is also not attractive and hides my otherwise awesomely awesome hair style.  How any guy with a baseball hat attracts any women at all leaves me in sheer amazement of how low people's standards will drop for someone with conversation skills.


But what I do like are what I can only describe as sausage hats.  While not really looking like a sausage, they do look like what I imagine a super large sausage that had a cross section taken out of it would look like.  The cross section would then be hollowed out in one side, and a low hanging rim affixed.  The ones I see are usually dark colors, green grey or black, and do they make girls look CUTE.  I never thought I would be a sucker for a hat, but even an average looking girl look like an Electra-house sex kitten mouse fox. 
The thing that makes me sad, however is the fact that its a current trend, and for a brief twist of time, a good one.  I can only hope, but not expect that what follows it will be better, even though this may not be in actuality possible.

John A. is not my homeboy, because he's nowhere to be found

This picture shows it all. Lady Liberty can find no ten dollar bills. Today I made two seperate purchases today, less than $10 in total value, and I of course paid in yuppy food stamps ($20 bills). Both times, I was given 2 5's, never a ten. I thought about it a bit more, and its true - tens are an endangered species. Is it just a mathematical anomoly, or some sort of Riplian coincidence?

This is the part where you expect me to do math about average purchases and what people tend to pay with, showing you that $5 bills are the only one worth carrying (you don't have to carry 20's because every schmuck pays with a 20 and so you end up having piles of these very quickly if you run any type of reputable business). I'm not going to do that though, because, really, most people pay with >>DEBIT CARDS<<

I hate debit cards. Sure, in the 1990's it was all the rage, people oohing and aaahing as they run the metallic stripe down the slider like some sort of flattened skinny penis. I guess people who didn't have credit cards wanted to know what it was like to 'pay in plastic' and next thing you know, we will soon be using magnetic chips implanted in our arms and eyeball scanners with built in GPS devices and enough explosives to terminate your heartbeat. But maybe now I'm being the romantic one. I guess the point I'm trying to make is, if you run a business, try to find some way to get a lot of 5's, because it seems like getting change after 5pm in the evenings and quite often on weekends is a pain in the ass.

And what the fuck are you supposed to do if someone is trying to give you money (ie buy something) and you can't change their bills? I guess you should have thought of that before your (insert witty type of shop) shop.

Anyone got a cigarette?

Anyone? Believe it or not, I have a difficult time sitting down and watching entire episodes of television shows. This probably stems from some of my painfully lame childhood watching the high end classic TV shows like Family Ties and Wheel of Fortune, sometimes while standing on my head or maybe while mowing down a freshly microwaved process cheese and wonder bread sandwitch.
And I can say, in all unbiased objectivity and free standing open mindedness, after watching nearly four episodes of the high budget, acclaimed show Mad Men (I slept through half of episode three and did a bit of a workout during episode four), I can make a series of bullet points about the show, that is, a portrayal of life in the 1950s as follows:

• offices used to be dominated by men
• people were still as big of assholes as they are today (or are portrayed as such)
• hairstyles and clothes were terrible, except for mens suits which look suspiciously close to present day cuts
• men were pimps and playas
• women kept their mouths shut if they knew what was good for them
• people could smoke anywhere, and its a good thing too because it was hard for them to keep those tobacco flavored tubed out of their cake holes for more than ten seconds at a time

Now people that know me know that I really don't care who smokes, how much, or why. I don't smoke because my grandparents disgusted my with constant chain smoking in their houses, and my subsequently not wanting to ever set foot in them. All I'm saying is GOOD GOD SON GIVE IT A REST. Sexy, important, famous, wealthy people all smoke cigarettes non stop. Got it.
Thats really the tip of the iceberg on this show however. I really enjoyed the first couple of episodes, with a nice mix of character development and dark humor. But unlike some sitcoms that turn into dramas after so many years the original writers have become dessicated dusty remains and the characters with their witty one liners desperately trying to continue qualifying themselves as an 'actor' and not a 'typecast version of themselves', the show went a massive two episodes without changing the formula to a full blown drama full of backbiting, lies, deception, intrigue, promiscuous sex, etc. that the average couch potato eats up but sets me adrift upon Lake Daydream in short order.
You almost had me there though Matt Weiner. Taking the popularity of the office and turning it into a 1950's cigarette commercial with an extra helping of boring, bravo.

Whats in a name?

My parents have interesting thought processes. Rather than give me a name based on something in my heritage, relatives, or because they thought it sounded cool, they ended up giving me my name because it doesn't rhyme with anything. My name also means Kingly, which is pretty badass compared to most people's names. Apparently my mom wanted to call me Jason, but my dad thought Jason was a dogs name. This strategy, they determined, would be enough of a personality shelter to stop kids from making fun of me. Therefore, I would be the most popular kid in the school. I guess thats what they thought.

What they didn't count on was the sheer industriousness that children possess. Their fertile minds, like the River Nile have no end to a bounty of figs and pommegranetes. To their credit though, in all the years they only managed to come up with one really horrible name that rhymed with mine. So horrible in fact that I will never tell another soul what that name is. The happy ending to this story is that they SAID they tried to do the same thing for my brother, Larry. But I guess they didn't realize that EVERYTHING HORRIBLE YOU CAN SAY TO MAKE FUN OF A CHILD rhymes with Larry. So what I'm really thinking was that they deliberately gave him that name so

he would attract all the picking on two years prior to my arrival, so I would have guarenteed clear sailing. Thanks mom and dad!

Blinded by Noise

Listening to construction workers drill, jackhammer, saw and tear the concrete in the parking lot 2 floors below me has got me thinking about noise in general. I like the crisp industrial sounds as much as the next person, but I do notice one or two people complain about headaches, or a general ability to use it as an excuse why they can't get their work done. Now me, I'm a hard worker and will gladly slave over a hot computer to get the job done come hell or high water, but sometimes I can relate to that feeling of malaise that there is something interfering in my brain.



Its easy to demonize our hard working safety toe booted friends downstairs for our unproductivity, but lets seriously stop a minute to consider some things that don't immediately occur to us, because we don't "hear" them in the traditional sense:

• Radio waves from radio towers
• Cell phones (probably classified as radio waves)
• Vibrations from computers, monitors, TVs, etc. (you usually don't notice this noise until you shut the computer down)
• Vibrations from lights
• electrical energy from other humans

Yes its true, we do have a lot of sounds and science has told us they seem to be harmless, but lets face facts, if science told us all these waves are bad for us, everyone would probably freak out and probably stop going to work. And if they aren't going to work, there's no way in hell I should have to go to work.
It also sounds crazy that other people could cause interference in your brain or disrupt your cells in some other way, but lets face it, our neurons are powered by an electrical force, even if it is very small. Again though, it doesnt' seem like something that would really be worth researching since it would cause mass hystaria and take away from important things like bird flu and AIDS. I would love to see a study where they checked identical twins and one had an abundance of human contact and maybe the other one grew in the woods raised by pigs or maybe his lonely uncle shared a shack with him in The Pas. But with all the confounding variables it just seems like a lot of work and possibly no chance of figuring out what effect there is if any. I should probably just start the Church of White Noise and give sermons on the evil dark noises. Yeah thats definitely what I should do.

Click here for self indulgent nausea

Most of the time I am able to keep myself preoccupied with a combination of random hobbies, such as rewriting archie comics, tailoring a leather jacket and of course conditioning my body for break dancing, but I still get this overwhelming urge that I am still not doing anything cool with my life. And by cool I guess I mean something productive I will be able to look back on with a feeling of accomplishment. No I don't have the complete inertia that I have seen in many people, who are content to hang out and indulge in whatever their addiction happens to be.

Paradoxically, I end up reading about people who have done some really interesting things despite the fact that their life seems many times more pathetic or bizzarre than mine, such as getting mixed up with people who think they are harnessing the souls of video game characters (http://www.demon-sushi.com/warning/mee.html), globe trotting fashion obsessed cross dressing homosexuals (see: Bryan Boy), and these kinds of stories, which happen to all be on the internet because noone can stop me from browsing this particular venue. What they seemingly accomplish in the tidal wave of humanity's existance is quite small, or may even be small once I add up everything I've made (I've dabbled in painting, music and other styles of art, but never seem to go far past 1 or 2 pieces before I lose interest) over the course of my life, but it seems to me like something is still missing.

I've studied a lot of Biology, and one common theme in evolution comes from generalists vs specialists. Specialists do well, better than generalists in fact, when the resource they happen to use is in abundance, wheras generalists have higher survivability overall since they are not reliant on any one thing.

Maybe my goal in writing this entry is that, by having no predetermined topic in my head, I was hoping to see what would fall out, and if it was useful. Lets just call me a scientist and this a failed experiement. Next time I won't try to write without a topic.

This might just be the stupidest, whiniest piece of tripe I have written to date, and it sickens me. More to come.

aww, crackie, aww

Let me tell you about Victoria. Victoria is a lush town full of many types of plants. Apparently the British loved it so much because plants grow so well here, so they brought their plants from all over, which tended to spread all over the place and spill out into our sidewalks, ocean and yards. That was hundreds of years ago, and not much has changed. Only in addition to flowers there are hundreds of crack lovin' street dwellers keeping it real the only way they know how: with the hardest drugs available on planet earth.

Where am I going with this? Flash to this morning, I'm walking to work downtown, going through the "sketchy district" which, compared to any other city on earth is a lot like wandering around an amusement park. An amusement park with Crackies!

I'm not trying to be derogatory by calling them Crackies. I love the Crackies and I think they add a lot of atmosphere to an otherwise overpoliced, dull city. Don't be misled by the picture though; they lack both Dave Chappelle's charm and also money to spend on really nice clothes. Real Crackies don't dress in pimpin' sparkling new threads. They wear the rejected bottom of the barrel second hand clothing. Again, this is not their fault and I applaud them for wearing clothes I wouldn't even consider for an oil rag.

This particular Crackie I passed by was doing just one variant of the crack dance - and there are many. This one involved the back and fourth sway, while chanting rhythmically to the unseen Creator, or perhaps one of the many gods of the crack pantheon. Actually I'm not sure if crack has an entire pantheon dedicated to it, or just one god of the drug pantheon. I'll get back to you when I get a chance to consult my Theologist.

The guy in the middle of his crack dance trance, as with all dancers, seem to be either reliving painful memories or maybe dreaming up new painful memories that never happened. Maybe they are doing something important or fulfilling. Someday I would very much like to write stories about what is going on in their dual worlds, kind of like that new movie with Jet Li and Jackie Chan, except not as crappy. This will be difficult, because, as you may have already noticed, I'm not a very good writer. But, like the Crackies, I bravely dance on.

Mogwai is coming to my home city of Victoria, and I couldn't care less. I have a lot of friends who insist they are a good band, and I can certainly see why they have appeal. I watched a video of theirs, with a series of very charismatic animated insect type things flying around. There's nothing not to like about them as far as bands go.

I could even have seen myself liking them back in the day when I shaved my head and thought dancing was facist (moshing being the only pure form of showing appreciation for music) and I thought hipsters were the center of the known universe. But let me tell you this little known secret about them: they're not.

Not to change the subject to something that makes me wretch less involuntarily, but I feel - on some instinctive reptillian level - that there is something very wrong with band names being pop culture references.

It could be that its some sort of game to pick something that is a semi-obscure reference, that everyone agrees sounds cool. Or maybe they picked it because they think it sounds stupid. Maybe they picked it as their own way of corrupting something as humble and pure as a mogwai. What they forgot of however was the Aristotlean engagement to test a theory and that is to imagine if the reference would make a good Jeopardy question. These are the furry happy creatures that turn into Gremlins if fed after midnight. YOU LOSE. There is no way I'm giving them my money.

Lucidity, I hardly knew ye

Don't ask me how, but by some miraculous event, as I trudged through the high school which also seemed to resemble a run down factory, complete with grating walkways and large metal silos (probably reminiscent of the Vancouver Island breweries tour last week) a thought did not escape me: I AM DREAMING. Of course then all hell broke loose, if you consider hell to be a place where I can shoot lightning from my hands, fly and seduce beautiful women with a charming wink. I will say this as a tip for aspiring lucid dreamers: think and talk about it as much as possible, your afterlife may depend on it.

In this documentary series I'm watching, Magical Egypt, they talk about death as a crossing over (assuming ancient Egyptian knowledge might actually be true) and that when you get to the gate or door, there is your spirit guide watching over it. Apparently he asks you what his name is, and either you know it or you don't. I already know mine is Time, since I met him a few years ago when I passed out for some unexplained reason at my friend's place.

The difficult part however is not knowing its name - it might very well accept whatever you think its name IS. But, the important thing being you are in a dreamlike state when you are crossing over, and unlike the majority of dreamers who seem to passively watch it all happen, you have to have the presentness of mind to be able to interact properly.

I've lucid dreamt a handful of times before, and its always the same problem. Either everything seems really contrived (although with the way I bitch about that in waking life you'd think I'd be used to it by now) or I get bored and can't think of anything to do. Maybe there is another level to it that I havent' figured out yet, and the solution is to go seek someone or something out, because I only seem to think about doing something, not go somewhere. And somewhere is really where I should be trying to go.

People need to tell their own story

How many times has this happened to you: You're taking a shower, scrubbing with your favorite loofah, minding your own business, when suddenly a good idea hits you! "Awesome, I love good ideas!", you think, realizing you have no pen or paper to write your idea down. "Oh well, the idea is so good I'll remember it later under less soggy conditions."

Sometime later, maybe its the next day, maybe a week later, you remember having that idea. Maybe you even remember the catch phrase you thought of to help remember the entire idea. But it is at this point reality sets in, and you realize that one of the following has happened:

1. You forgot your idea


2. Your idea was incomplete and never "good" in the first place

What I'm trying to say now might be that a waterproof pen and some writing surface is a sorely needed invention for the shower.

But what my point was, was that everyone has a story to tell; even if they shy away from it or prefer to talk about other things like religion, their favorite sexual deviancy, or politics, there is a story deep down inside them about where they came from, the unique encounters they've had in their lives, and of course, lots of information about their parents and the methods of coercion they employed. They may or may not want to tell you about these things, either because they are uncomfortable with themselves, or they are uncomfortable around you, but it is better for everyone to help that person express themselves and through anecdotes convey their personality. Maybe you can do that with a well worded question, or perhaps it can be accomplished upon your excusing yourself to the bathroom.

Untyped communication

I'm easily distracted by a variety of topics, but let me tell you about two things that distract me more than girls, shiny metal objects, and eating:

1.Nonverbal communication (including but not limited to body language)

2.Internet culture

Of course, the more I think about these two seemingly opposing aspects of our society, I can't help but try and combine them in some way.  As a result of studying people's body language, facial expressions, tone of voice, and reactions to things I say, I find myself occasionaly frustrated by the internet.  Not since the telephone has something so impersonal been placed between two communicators; that is to say, a computer.
Still, I think if you examine how people present themselves online, it will become apparent that there are some clues about the type of person they are.  Aside from prose (all important in forum posts and blog entries) and where they are actually posting, there is other information being conveyed, such as:

• Time/Date stamps
• Font type and size
• Use of images and other formatting
• Clutter vs minimalism (ie facebook apps)

Of course, any successful internetter knows that brevity is the cornerstone of any post and they have long since found something else to read.

Verification codes, and my lack of ability to read them

As tempting as it is to push the little handicapped symbol beside the series of purposely scrawled and jumbled numbers and letters, I have to step back and admit: willpower has always been one of my strong points. In fact, I even regard it as a challenge, trying to figure out what exactly it is that has been randomly generated for my decryptifying pleasure to unlock the next level of whatever account creation verification I happen to be in the mood for signing up for.

Sure, they'll probably sign me up to the internet purgatory of spammed advertisements, but I can take it. Maybe I even hope, in some small way, that one will escape the mighty maw of Microsofts state of the art spam filters and find its way into my Inbox, which is always overflowing with legitimate, life affecting emails (I'm super important). But I'm not here to brag; instead I do find myself on many occasions wishing that all verification codes had a "generate a new one" button, for one simple reason.

My keyboard does not have a backwards C.