The Rage Index

Knowledge is power.

At least that's what I've heard. It's a hypothesis at best at this point, lacking any hard data to back it up. But if you say something enough, people tend to believe it. So, hey, fuck it. Knowledge is power. With that in mind, I need your help.

We're gonna get interactive in the name of knowledge and learning. Our lofty goal here is to harness your collective genius for the common good. What follows are ten phrases that describe a group of people getting together to enjoy each other's company. Each phrase is used in popular parlance to describe the same thing, but do so with varying degrees of, how should i put this...intensity.

They are:

Rage
Get Awesome
Chill
Get Wasted
Hang Out
Get Fucked Out of Your Minds
Kick It
Get Really Real
Some Next Level Shit
Get O.O.C. (Out of Control)

Please rank the intensity of these phrases from 1 to 10 (1 being the calmest, 10 being the most nutso) by either a) commenting on this blog shit or b) emailing me at this shit.

The results of your collective thoughts will be combined to create a Rage Index. This will be scientifically significant for two reasons: a) we can finally put to rest all those years of contentious academic debate between the Rage Studies Departments of Harvard and Yale and b) it will give me good, hard data for some revolutionary party-planning logarithims I'm preparing (to be discussed in future blogs).

The future is now. Your help is needed. Knowledge is power.

Or whatever.

A Legal Document

Okay then.

Before we begin on this journey together, this adventure in blogitude, its important to lay down some ground rules so that we both know what to expect from each other. Blogs require very serious commitments from both their readers and writers. Its almost like being married, what with the investments of time, effort, and network bandwidth you'll be making in this thing. The only difference is that we don't have sex and there are no tax credits when we have a baby together. At least until Congress pulls its head out of its ass and legalizes technosexual marriage.

The point is that you want to know what you're getting into. And I totally respect that. Really, I do. And quite honestly, I'll benefit from a simple declaration of intent, an identity visioning document, a set of formal business rules, just as much as you will. It'll help keep me focused.

In in the interest of legal objectivity, I'll refer to myself in this document as "The Blogger." Let's do this.

++++++++

Article 1: Pure-Hearted Warriors is a reference to the fact that at this moment in time and this place in the world, The Blogger holds an unshakeable feeling that there is a "we." A loosely-and-closely knit group if like-minded young hearts -- searching for purpose, hope, and accomplishment. These pure and innocent souls have grand ambitions, but honest intentions. The Blogger would like to recognize that yes, this does sound incredibly pretentious, but that no, its significance is not diminished as a result.

Article 2: This blog will not be of the heart-wrenching personal experience genre, in which every sad, tiny detail of The Blogger's life is recounted and published to the world. The Blogger recognizes that there is indeed a place in the world for such publications, and affirms and supports their existence, but will instead choose to go a different route. The Blogger consciously makes this decision for the following reasons:

a) The Blogger has a relatively happy life, complete with a strong marriage, supportive family, interesting friends, and an gratifying professional career filled with many personal development opportunities.

b) The "sad diary" genre is already fairly crowded and will only grow in size as the internet gets more awesomer and more accessible.

Article 3: Instead, this blog will feature discussion on a wide range of topics including, but not limited to: teleportation, the internet, friends, traveling, post-modernity, post-post modernity, mind-altering substances, music, whether or not you can physically eat three large soup crackers in one minute without drinking water (unknown as of press time), teleportation, NBA basketball, and teleportation.

Article 4: The Blogger recognizes that writing about these topics places him in danger of sounding positively Seinfeldian (i.e. "What is the DEAL with airline food?"), but is willing to take this risk in the name of science.

Article 5: The Blogger would like to acknowledge that his thoughts on these issues may, for good reason, be of no interest to anyone besides himself. This is not only possible, but probable. The Blogger would like to express how that's no skin of his back. This blog is intended more as a way for The Blogger to have an opportunity to write a bunch of crazy shit that he thinks is interesting more than anything.

Article 6: Despite the non-personal content goal, The Blogger reserves the right to reference his personal life in this blog without fear of retribution or legal entanglements.

Article 7: The Blogger recognizes that this whole "articles of intent" exercise smacks of Dave Eggers and apologizes. The Blogger would like to acknowledge that he does not usually read fiction, and therefore has a limited literary skill set.

Article 8: The Blogger recognizes that TBS starts their shows at :05 and :35 past the hour, and hopes that you'll plan accordingly if you were planning on watching that Atlanta Braves game or rerun of Everyone Loves Raymond tomorrow night. The Blogger is only looking out for your best interest here.

The Blogger looks forward to establishing a positive, open, and honest relationship with his readers and would like to extend a warm welcome. Please accept an olive branch of peace in the form of this striking mosaic:

Past Lives, Future Noise

So, I'm starting a blog. The motives behind this new venture are multiple, varied, and I assure you, purehearted and true. I'll post more on this in the near future, but for now, just to get the ball rolling, I'm moving all my old myspace blogs over here.

Bam.

Thoughts from 2002 III

5.3.02

I've been having delusional, strange fantasies lately where I punch total strangers in the face. In these dreams, my hand never hurts as I'm sure it would in reality, and the people I punch never fight back as I'm sure they would in reality.

Instead, in one quick motion, my strike seems to teach them some unknown lesson they needed to learn. They come to sudden personal revelations. They have grand epiphanies. All thanks to my violent jabs to the face.

My clenched fist, propelled by its own personal manifest destiny to teach, is the concrete equalizer, the masculine prophet of wisdom.I imagine my victims (students) after a moment of brief shock following the punch, smiling widely and excitedly. Kind of like they just remembered where they left their keys after searching for them for a long period of time. Then, they look to me with wonder in their eyes and say: "Oh! I get it now!"I nod, knowingly. "Yes, you see why I had to sock you on the jaw? You're learned something haven't you?" The world is now a better place.

I imagine rearing back and just nailing my stoic, fat, smug, shaved-head busdriver right where his nose meets his glasses. No blood is drawn, only knowledge. He realizes that when passengers on his bus thank him for the ride that he should at least return the favor with a labored "Have a good one."

I imagine just knocking the living daylights out of the frat dudes behind me at the Twins game last night. Straight down in a row, punched. Their immature, lame homophobia and public disorderliness is finally revealed to them in its full grotesque form. They are reformed thanks to my swift, painless (for me) violence.

Yes, it is both a blessing and a curse, I imagine -- this gift I have been bestowed with. The gift of socking the living shit out of someone's face to promote positive social change. But every man has his cross to bear, his path to follow. For now my path lies in helping my fellow man.

I just happen to achieve this by fucking wailing on people's fat, stupid heads.

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
Thoughts from 2002 II
10.19.02

A tragedy is slowly unfolding in my Algebra lecture.

A balding, gray-haired man of importance sits in front of me, writing notes and critiques of my professor, Clement Popescu Radu, and his teaching abilities. I imagine Radu is up for some sort of review to see if he is skilled enough to keep his position as a University of Minnesota mathematics professor.

Radu, to me, is an intricate and endearing character, his daily lectures striking an odd balance between frustrating teaching errors and his own befuddled good intentions. He is not from America originally, but I am ignorant of his actual origins. His mastery of the English language is minimal, characterized by a thick, omnipresent, middle-eastern accent and a constant misuse of certain helping verbs like "be," "have," etc.

I like Radu and am sympathetic to him and his plight I have imagined for him.I see him as a genius, overwhelmed by the fast-paced, impersonal void of American higher education. He is an honest man of ideals and sympathetic notions of good and evil, struggling in vain to not be trampled by bureacracy, cell phones, and fast food, clutching tightly to his love of mathematics and it's inherent logic and sense of right and wrong with clearly-defined borders. I imagine he misses the sights, sounds, smells, and tastest of his home, wherever that is. He is a stranger in a foreign land, paid to teach American children of priviledge in a language he must struggle to understand.

The giggling white kids from rural Wisconsin who sit near me are constantly conferring with another rudely about Radu's inabilities to teach Algebra. This makes me angry for two reasons.

A) They don't understand Radu like I do. They are ignorant of his daily struggles with American culture and his honest, true compassion for the discipline of mathematics.

B) They are right about him. Radu's ability to effectively convey algebraic principles in understandable communication is small.

This brings me full circle.The balding man of mathematical importance sitting in front of me is scribbling on a yellow legal pad what he feels about Radu's lecture today. I am looking over his dwarf shoulders and cardigan sweater and can see the disappointment which awaits Radu when he recieves his performance evaluation. The man has written things like "he is late" (he was) and "makes a big decimal error" (he did). Occasionally, he will shake his head in something between disappointment and anger. This leaves a sinking feeling in my stomach.

I desperately want Radu to succeed and forever prove the absurdity of the "American Dream." People from around the world can flock to America for economic opportunities and succeed. Radu is the personification of my desire for such an outlandish idea to be true.

Unfortunately, the math bigwig in front of me does not share my delusions. He is taking Radu down.

And it is a tragedy.

+++++++++++++++++++++++++
Thoughts from 2002

I used to keep pretty regular journal entries when I was a sophmore in college. An analog blog, you could say. I reread these while on tour, and realized that I was a sassy little 19 year old asshole.

4.26.02
My height is impressive. Simply put.

My natural ability to be tall makes me an extremely good person, in all the ways in which one may be.

I am an angular gazelle, a graceful swan, endowed with grace and confidence in all movements. I float effortlessly from place to place, as long strides propel me with birdlike grace.When playing basketball, I easily block opponents' shots, and dunk when called upon by interested small children at the park.

Simply put, it is impressive, my height.

I often retrieve cereal bowls from the top shelf of the kitchen for my girlfriend. I can water hanging plants which are perched far beyond the reaches of other inferior, much shorter people than myself. I tower over many of my professors, which must place me in some sort of position of power despite the usual trappings of teacher-as-god, don't you think? Yes, I think.

At grocery stores, frail and elderly women, shriveled and shrunk with age, ask me kindly if I can retrieve jars from high shelves for them. "Oh this jar right here, ma'am?" I ask politely. I do not shamefully draw attention to my action. I am nonchalant."To procure this high-shelved jar for you is not an action which causes me to be concerned. To do so would imply that it would be somewhat difficult for me to get the jar for you. This is unneccesary due to my impressive height. Do you understand?"

I am tall. An athletic giraffe who can do things which others cannot.

To call this height a priviledge would imply that I may be spoiled by my height. Priviledge certainly carries with it a stigma of elitism and silver spoons being lodged in one's mouth. This obviously does not describe me. Rather, my height is a gift. From whom, I don't know. A charismatic middle-aged black man told me on a city bus once that my long legs were a gift from God.

Is this true? Immaterial.The source of this gift is unimportant.

What is important is my unique ability to touch tall awnings on the fronts of downtown buildings.

Put simply, my height is impressive. It is inconceivable but undeniable. I am a beautiful bird who can dunk on a regulation size basketball hoop. I can kick and trip people from long distances.

+++++++++++++++++++
Sunday, June 11, 2006
Super Mario Bros.

I had the distinct pleasure of drunkenly playing all three of the original NES Mario Bros. games on Friday night at my good friend Nicole's house -- truly a great evening. I was thinking though, while playing it and crushing infinite brews, that the concept of the game is pretty much fucked. Hear me out.

Two brothers, both Italian immigrants, possibly twins, wearing near-matching overall jumpsuits and communist-era Stalin hats, plumbing being their main trade and source of income, not standing an inch over maybe 3 feet tall (except when they catch a magic mushroom and grow another foot to the size of oh, maybe a twelve year old) -- are traversing through dangerous and mysterious worlds full of turtle-birds, reptile bosses, magical question mark boxes, and giant fucking venus fly trap plants leaping out of musty oil pipelines sticking out of the ground -- armed with nothing but their wits, Italian ingenuity, and the occasional mysterious ability to throw white-hot fireballs from the hands if they're lucky enough to collect a glowing flower that sprouts occasionally if they ram their heads into a special floating box.

How could Nintendo have possibly chosen this as the plot to the flagship game of their fledging new entertainment system? Why not Somalian masonry specialists who can fly if they lick a hallucenogenic toad? Or Russian gravediggers? Mongolian hobos? The Japanese only know. I mean, the possibilities are endless.

Regardless, my point is that playing video games after you've had 14 Miller High Lifes is great. Also, Miller High Life is the new PBR -- the cheap, delicious, domestic beer that you drink faster than water and pee out even faster.

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++
Monday, May 15, 2006
Welcome to My Myspace Page

Oh, I'm sorry. How rude of me. We've been friends for awhile now and I consider us to be close -- shit, maybe you're even in my Top 8. I really should give you the official tour.

I'd like to formally welcome you to my Myspace page.

As you can see here, this is not only Myspace but it is MY space, dedicated to ME. If you look to the left you will see afantastic picture of me doing something either hilarious, ironic, macabre, or ironically macabre to the point of hilarity. Please enjoy these pictures, my friend. I have posted them for your pleasure, of which I know you will find much when visiting my Myspace page.

Further down on the left hand side, I have conveniently posted some fascinating information about myself that I am confident you will find worth your while. Here, you'll find information about my interests -- be they general or related specifically to music, movies, television, books, or heroes. This, I think, will provide you with a scintillating portal into my soul, my heart, my thoughts, my je ne sais quoi. You're welcome.

If you look to the right you'll find my blurbs, where I will delve with no trace of hesitation into the meat and potatoes, the very heart of ME. Sometimes these words will be sincere, while othertimes sarcastic and irony-filled. The onus will be upon you, friend, to determine which one! Oh the delight you will have at my Myspace page.

Further down, you'll see my TOP 8 friends. These are the individuals that I have hand-selected to receive the life-changing gift of being one of my TOP 8 favorite people. This is an exclusive club, and like a hot night-club or Ivy League university, demand for entrance far exceeds available slots. Don't fret though, friends! There are many spaces available in my general friend queue, just not my top 8. If you haven't yet befriended me, you may want to hurry up, though -- slots are being filled quickly with bands that I have never heard of from Eagan, MN with a new demo they'd like me to hear.

If you look down further you will see the breathless and lauding comments of my friends. See what they have to say about ME. Often, they may reference a recent experience that we have had together, outside of the internet. Take joy and satisfaction in these comments, my friends. Learn of our fantastic and unique adventures.

Finally, I'd like to thank you for visiting my Myspace page. I trust you found your experience enjoyable and worth your time. The internet can be ascary place sometimes --what with the sexual predators I've recently heard about on NBC, CNBC, MSNBC, CNN, FOXNEWS, CNN1, CNN2, ESPN, and LIFETIME and the pop-up ads degrading your penis size and sexual endurance.

Consider my Myspace page to be a peaceful refuge, an oasis in the desert of digital scally-waggery, a place you can visit often, to learn about ME.
+++++++++++++++++++++++++
Photo Blogs

Hey my wife is making a totally boss photo blog.

I think photo blogs (or "phlogs") are far more interesting than regular blogs because as the phrase goes "a picture is worth a thousand words" and you really can't argue with that kind of efficiency.

Well, i guess you could but it would be irrational and quickly dismissed by those with common sense. I mean, one thousand words for only one picture. That is pretty impressive.

Mathematically speaking, if she posts 4 pictures, I would need to write 4,000 words on this regular blog to equal the interest garnered by the photos. That is a tall order, and I am quite simply not sure that I am up to the task.

Here's the link. Check it.www.deucecities.com/blog!

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
Sunday, February 26, 2006
Tour

Tour is a study in physiological extremes.

Wake up in the morning dehydrated and with a headache and a scratchy voice -- pickled and cured from a night of filled with multiple cheap beers, secondhand smoke, 30 minutes of sweat and yelling onstage, and an inexplicable need to talk loudly for several hours to complete strangers after the show.

Hop in the van, stop at the closest convenience store. Drop $2 on a huge red Gatorade with the intent of rehydration. Drink it as fast as possible. Then, switch to the already-used-and-refilled water bottles rolling around lazily on the van floor. Even day-old and sun-warmed, water still offers the much-needed nutrients you need to survive. Sleep for an hour or two while the wind comes in through the windows and the Spoon record gets played on the I-Pod for the 48th time this week. Jordan is driving. Again. Use it as an excuse to rest up. Get your body right, as rappers would say.

Wake up in the next city, rested and rehydrated and well-fed and able to speak with a quasi-normal voice again. Feel good. Talk to each other about how tonight will be different -- not gonna drink so much -- gonna take it easy -- tour is a marathon not a sprint -- yeah you're totally right -- we should just take it easy tonight -- you know, play the set, play some pool, sell merch, not get too crazy -- yeah totally -- i might even take a nap after we're done in the van -- yeah not a bad idea -- sure, tonight will be chill.

Load into the venue. The promoter immediately hands you 20 skee-ball tickets that represent twenty free domestic beers or well drinks. 5 tickets a piece.

It would be wasteful to not use these right?

Fuck.

++++++++++++++++++++++++++
Monday, January 02, 2006
2006: Friends and Grand Designs

There are moments in life where I seriously can't even fucking contain the pride and affection I have for my friends and the hopelessly ambitious and unique things they try to do with their lives. I've had the distinct honor of witnessing or taking part in a shit ton of these grand plans in recent years. Quantitatively speaking, a "shit ton" is defined as more than a thousand, but less than a million.

Drunk on youth, pride, ambition, vision, and usually some sort of alcohol, my friends have done some momentous things with their youth.

Started countless bands, some of who have made a large impact on many people's lives. Thrown two-day farm parties attended by more than 1,000 people in the middle of Iowa. Cultivated and maintained a "party prime." Sold out the Varisty Theatre and the Bowery Ballroom. Self-produced films that are shown in festivals around the country. Written movie scripts. Toured the entire country, Canada, Europe, Austrailia, Japan. Shown movies in their own backyards. Started successful businesses. Built glorious websites. Put on hundreds of shows in their own basements or venues so that bands from around the world would have a place to play. Filmed music videos. Exhibited their photography. Moved across the country on a whim. Dived headlong into architecture. Invented new forms of sports betting that turn the world on its ear. Worked on "exquisite corpse" comic books about futuristic assasins (bear with me here, just learned that term recently).

All of it is so ridiculously grand, so transparently passionate, so awesomely risky, so fucking awesome. Not to get all Pop Psychology on anyone here, but our generation will be defined by our willingness to be active and creative participants in life. To any friends who may read this, I tell you: so far, so good. Let's keep it up.

Here's to 2006 and ambitious friends.

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++
Monday, October 31, 2005
San Francisco

The City looks like it could fall over and break at any time. Old, fragile, slanted, jumbled, barely holding together, but fucking gorgeous.

I can't shake the feeling that in my lifetime I'll be having a New Orleans/Katrina moment with SF where I mourn its loss after its destroyed by a massive earthquake.

Also, there was a story in the San Francisco Chronicle when we were there that tracked the number of suicides off the Golden Gate Bridge for every year back to 1938. Most suicides take place on the east side of the bridge that faces Downtown SF, Oakland, Alcatraz, Sausalito -- rather than the west side that simply faces the ocean. I think that means something profound, right? Suicide is an inherently lonely act, but given the option most suicidal San Franciscans choose to look out at a panorama of humanity when they end it all, rather than that asshole ocean.

Hmm, maybe that's not so profound after all.

Either way, there are a lot of gays in that town. And Asians. Gaysians.

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++
Sunday, October 16, 2005
New media! Now! Current!

Current mood: quixotic

Yeah! New Media! Now! Current! The old way has come to an end and the new now time of the new has arrived! Right now!

Blogging! Information! Wireless! Now! Current topical information! All the time! Wirelessly! Right now!

Check out my emoticon so you can really know how I'm feeling! Right now! At the present time! Wirelessly! On your PDA! Synched wirelessly to my blog! Now! It's all happening all round you in the current new now!