Pure-Hearted Warriors

I had a baby.

2008-07-24T16:42:00.002-05:00

His name is Finn. He looks like this.

High-School Poetry

2007-05-19T20:58:00.000-05:00

A recently-rediscovered poem I wrote in high school. It was so totally the leading entry in the Hopkins High School 1999 Literary Magazine.

My writing abilities have only regressed since this bright, shining, dazzling, sparkling, flaming (not in a gay way, but like, hot white flames and stuff) debut.

++++++++

"The Audience"
By Jeff Allen, Junior, 17

Who would ever really want to write a poem?
Not me
that's for sure, dude

"Poems" are for suburban kids who go to coffee shops
and smoke cigarettes without inhaling
and read from their tattered notebooks
and pretend that they're vampires
and vainly try to inject their lives with some culture

'"Poems" are for 12-year old girls who write about
their ex-boyfriends
and their divorced parents
"he kissed Suzy Wilkins behind my back!"
they write on tear-stained pink stationary paper

"Poems" are for retired, elderly women who have nothing to do
so they write about nature
and the second world war
and drink weak tea

"Poems" are for pretentious, art-house rock bands
who play at art galleries
and stick screw drivers in their guitar strings
and use reverb pedals
and sing about an "orange rhyming dictionary"

I'll take the rhythm and soul
I'll take the language
I'll take the feeling and melody
but you can keep your poems

++++++

Did that shit just blow your mind?

Hardland.Heartland.

2007-05-18T08:54:00.000-05:00

There is a “we” – did you know this? It’s true. We’re out there, pretty much everywhere. Minneapolis. Saint Paul. Chicago. San Francisco. Brooklyn. Chapel Hill and Iowa City and Las Cruces and Portland and beyond.

We’re not a generation. We can’t be defined by our age. Or the fact that we’re the children of a previous “we.” To tell you the truth, we’re a hard group to describe.

We live in old, warped mansions and shoe factories, carved into misshapen sets of three or four or eighty-four. We sit under sagging power lines. We ride bike. We drink tallboys. We smoke cigarettes. We traverse in alleyways that suture the city’s ancient and bloody wounds. We congregate in backyards, porches and stoops—lightly sweated, hoods down, backpacks full of warm six-packs, ears open. We don’t have landlines. We don’t pay for the internet. We don’t call our moms enough. We have too many student loans. We have unsavory debt-to-asset ratios. We have restless legs and arms and hearts and minds. We have things inside us that have to come out.

So we draw. We design. We write. We compose. We rap. We blog. But we’re not attempting to communicate. No, no, not at all. We are trying to stay alive.

We know the score—our own destruction is around the bend. We recognize that life is short, wild, fleeting, a precious and delicate bird just passing through. To waste even one minute of it letting ourselves be defined by the world rather than defining it ourselves is tantamount to death. To lose control of your destiny is death. To just be along for the ride is death. To answer to the whims of others is death. To simply trade time for money is death. Our friends become our new families because they understand this truth more than anyone else on earth. Our friends are everything we have, and they are our only chance for survival. Our friends are our last, best hope of staving off death for one more day.

And if this at all sounds macabre or overdramatic, then you’re probably not one of us.

So we fight, together, to carve out grand ambitions and larger-than-life dreams. We have to. We have to because the simple and important truth is that if we don’t do something massive and epic and powerful and fucking monumental and if we don’t do it right fucking now as soon as humanly fucking possible—well, then we die. We wither and we rust and we die. We’ll be dead by all measures that really matter and, and, and, and…

And this is what defines us, unities us, draws us to each other inexorably. We’ve each had our eyes opened to harsh truths: life is brief, mediocrity is tragic, and the status quo is a shallow grave. If you understand this, everything else is irrelevant. Creation is not a medium of expression, but a desperate attempt to survive. Medium and genre and message aren’t sacrosanct—they’re simply means to an end, tools to participate and prevent your one fleeting time in this universe from being a colossal and tragic waste.

So rappers are illustrators. Bloggers are composers. Photographers are designers. Sculptors are rappers. Architects are painters. Writers are bloggers. Designers are illustrators. Since creation is a tool and not an expression, it’s all a part of the same family. Empathy is king. We recognize the symmetry of desperation across boundaries. Collaboration becomes a necessity rather than an obligation. Combining forces makes us all stronger, more powerful, more effective in the struggle to survive.

But this isn’t a movement. There’s no ideology, no edicts, no rallying cries, no worldwide zeitgeist. We’ve seen that before and we hold it in respect and regard. But what we’re doing is different. This isn’t about creating a better future, a safer and cleaner world, a fair and equitable and just utopia. No, no, no, not at all.

This is a fight to save our very lives. This is survival. And we do it every day, everywhere, all the time. From coast to coast. From border to border. From hardland to heartland. And we can’t stop. Not ever. This is a fight to the death.

The Ubiquitous "Why I Haven't Been Blogging" Blog

2007-03-25T14:32:00.000-05:00

Don't get me wrong, I love the internets.

The way it's gradually transformed since its birth from a top-down communication tool for businesses to reach consumers into a topless and bottomless (just like the strip clubs in Montreal, or so I've been told) full-fledged interactive network where the collective intelligence (or lack thereof) of the entire globe is transmitted in an endless feedback loop is, to put it simply, fucking dope. Blogs, wikis, message boards -- I will go on record as officially endorsing their existence. A controversial position, I know.

But here's the thing most people don't talk about: keeping up with the blog-reading demands of this new world (wide web) order is like, super hard and stuff. For real, though. Especially if, like me, you enjoy having friends and maintaining gainful employment.

Which leads us here, on this very blog, to the now-officially cliche territory of the Blog Post About Why I Haven't Been Blogging Which Will Likely Not Be Read By Many People Because Not Many People Actually Read This Blog Except My Friends.

We've all seen these diatribes before. Maybe we've written one. They're the 21st century equivalent of explaining to our neighbors why we haven't been to church recently (suggested explanation: God created the world, cruelty exists in the world, therefore maybe God is cruel, hard to reconcile this troubling dichotomy, been eating waffles at home on Sundays in protest of mean-ass God). These rambling lists of excuses for absence from the blog world are usually the following: presumptious, self-involved, boring and (most importantly) endearingly human. Here's my attempt.

Reasons I haven't blogged lately:

Been writing this and the follow up to this

Been reading books about this and this and this

Been watching this and this

So there you have it. Mystery finally revealed. You can and should blame real estate, rock music, the new digital economy, grad school, John Locke and the NBA.

Just don't blame me; I love the internets.

2006 Year in Review

2006-12-29T10:14:00.000-06:00

2006 ALLEN FAMILY CHRISTMAS CARD

By Jeff and Alison Allen, St. Paul Minnesota

2006. Wow. Holy shit. What a year.

The above map was made by Alison. It charts all our movements in 2006 and, as you can see, it was the year we brought the Allen party nationwide. Special shoutouts go to our recently-engaged friends from Chicago, Bob and Urs, who had the map idea first. We shamelessly copied it (and maybe improved it? Oh snap!) cause we thought it was such a great idea.

With so many media sources giving you their lame "Year in Review" of the "important" events of the year, we thought we'd throw our hat in the ring and give you a rundown of the best stuff that happened to drunk, poorly-dressed people from the Midwest in 2006.

Consider this equal parts a) news-anchor-year-in-review b) Christmas-card-to-our-friends and c) sweet-ass-blog post.

The Trifecta of Awesome. The Trifecta of Allens.

TPC RECORD RELEASE PARTY

What a way to start the year. We billed it as the "Hugest Most Biggest Awesome Huge Party in the History of Ever" and quickly realized that we had a lot of work to do to live up to the hype.

At one point, our entire apartment was filled with still-wet paper mache volcanoes, thirty industrial garbage bags filled with balloons, a giant TPC flag, two smoke machines and 4 confetti cannons. All the hard work paid off and both shows sold out. One of the best nights ever. You can see the end of it all in the video above, thanks to our friend Isaac.

JANUARY HOLD STEADY TOUR

The day after the release show, TPC hit the road for three weeks opening for the Hold Steady. Jeff was stoked that Alison was coming along for the ride. TPC had toured before, but never on a tour of this magnitude where the shows were usually full and the band usually got many, many drink tickets.

Suffice to say, we had some really amazing times on this trip. We accomplished a lot, including building up a inhumanly high tolerance for alcohol. See video for evidence.

TWO ARMS TWO TATTOOS

To commemorate this crazy year and its crazy adventures, we both got inked this year. This was a first for both of us and we're glad we did it. Both of us had it done in New York, at the same parlor, by the same guy -- but six months apart.

The artist ended up being someone that Jeff had played a show with a year ago. It was a friendly face. Shout out to Myles!

TWO OCEANS, ONE GULF

The Atlantic - Florida

Gulf of Mexico - Florida

Pacific - California, and Oregon

The ocean is as old as time, bros. Wrap your noodle around THAT jewel.

ST CLOUD AND DULUTH

In May, we did a weekend tour of Minnesota's hidden jewels: St. Cloud (aka tha 320 aka the Granite City aka Shots Cloud aka The Home of Anti-Semitism) and Duluth (aka Vision Quest Portal aka the Air-Conditioned City aka that 218).

We took our dawg Coles with. Along the way, some ravenous sea gulls stole our pizza and Coles and Alison kept a drinking ledger. Rapper nugs are "xtra credit," apparently.

NYC FRIEND TRIP WITH TUBS AND JAWS

Later in May, we took a friend trip to New York to pick up the new van that TPC was buying and drive it home through the coalmountainrustbelt of middle america. Our good friends Tubs and Jaws came along.

After raging in NYC for a few days, we headed home, stopping in Pittsburgh (inexplicably Jeff's favorite city) and Chicago to see friends on the way back. We slept on Bob's roof deck in Chicago and considered this an important achievement.

THE HOTTEST WEEKEND OF THE YEAR

I mean, seriously, it was wicked hot, as they say in New England. Nasty humidity. To beat the heat, our guy 50's took us up to his parent's lake place in Cross Lake, MN. There was boating, tubing, adventure, homemade pasta-making and a lot of sitting in the warm water in a plastic deck chair while drinking High Life from cans.

TPC AT FIRST AVENUE

In July, TPC headlined a show at the infamous First Avenue Mainroom (ever see Purple Rain? We haven't either, but you get the point). They were crazy nervous that no one would come, but it ended up selling out. This was hard to comprehend.

There was more confetti cannons and handmade stage prop mischevity. That is not really a word, but tevs.

MANY MANY LOST PARTIES

Somehow, everyone we knew (including us) discovered the television show "Lost" in 2006. It was crazy addicting. Lost Parties gathered where we would all sit around Cam and Beak's plasma-screen and dissect each episode with the precision of a ninja and the passion of a hobo.

END OF SUMMER TOUR AND ALL NIGHT DESERT DRIVE

There are times in life where you feel like you're winning. It's hard to put it another way. You're just winning. You've won and you are continuing to win. Somehow, these moments often come when your sleeping schedule is on the opposite spectrum as the rest of the civilized world.

In August, we drove all through the night from Austin, Texas to Tucson, Arizona. It took 18 hours. We felt the cool desert air at night through open windows. We saw the sunrise and head truck stop breakfast at 5AM. We won. We were winners.

SAN FRANCISCO BAY TOUR

If you've never been to San Francisco, then you are most likely an incredibly depressed person. Seriously, its like no other place on earth. While on a TPC west coast tour in September, we took advantage of a day off and had a tourist day on the bay.

50's made a camouflage friend.

GUITAR HERO

A continuing story line throughout the year was Guitar Hero. In case you haven't heard, Guitar Hero is a video game that lets you play lead guitar on some of the world's hottest and most famous jams including "Carry On My Wayward Son" by Kansas, "Free Bird" by Skynyrd, and "Killing in the Name of" by Rage Against the Machine.

There were countless Guitar Hero parties, including some formal competitions. Here, McTubbins is a pirate rocker. Alison's band, Jazz Nugs, has won many accolades from The Daily Dose on their awesome shows.

WE BOTH TURN 25

Quarter of a century. In September, Jeff celebrated his ascent into manhood by throwing a kegger at our house and partying with the visiting Thunderbirds Are Now.

In December, Alison celebrated her ascent into womanhood by hanging at Mancini's, driving to Iowa City to see a show, and throwing a friend feast party at our place (photos of that to follow).

CMJ NYC w/ Colez

In November, TPC was on an East Coast tour to hit up CMJ. Alison flew out with Coles to take part in the craziness of the weekend festival. We went to 100 billion shows, 300 trillion bars, 225 million restaurants and walked 800 trillion city blocks to do it.'

FRIEND FEAST '06

The last of Alison's birthday celebrations and the first celebration of holiday spirit. A ton of people came over, all dressed in Holiday or Cosby sweaters, to rage in the name of J to tha C (aka tha madd sin absolva aka Jesus).

50's made everyone a delicious feast, Coles and Chips brought Greenie Mix, everyone else brought beer, the iPod brought the dance party pain.

So, that was our year. Obviously a lot of other things happened that aren't discussed here, much of which was experienced without being drunk, rest assured. But these were the highlights. The highlights of what was easily one of the best years of either of our lives.

We hope 2006 treated you kindly as well. 2007 should be pretty alright too. Maybe. Probably. Most likely. We hope. See you there.

The Hibachi

2006-12-14T09:15:00.000-06:00

In recent Gilbert Arenas Blog news, he has taken to hissing the words "The Hibachi!" after every shot he makes.

As in, his game is so hot that he's got the hibachi grill out. As in, the traditional Japenese grill that gets really hot (note that Gilbert's forays into Hibachi slang have already been noted in the Wikipedia world).

His recent postings on the subject:

I brang out the hibachi against Dallas. That’s when I first started saying it, that I was the "hibachi."

It was some legal terms with one of my teammates. I had to buy the name from him. Brendan Haywood, he takes all the good names and waits for someone to buy it, so I had to buy the hibachi grill from him.

He’s been saying it, like if somebody did it to us he would be like, “Oh man, you got the hibachi grill tonight.”

AND

Me and Antawn turned on the hibachi grill and we was cookin’.

Every time I make it, every time I shot the ball, I screamed out, “Hibachi!”

Important note: he is willing to pay ca$h money to his teammate for the rights to a sweet catch phrase in order to improve his marketability.

More important note: he is willing to scream the catch phrase he paid ca$h money for at the top of his lungs in sold-out arenas while being broadcast on national television.

Question: Is there a more interesting player in the NBA today?

Answer: I think not. I will keep you posted on all things involving The Hibachi and The Takeover. Even if you're really not that interested.

What Would Piss You Off More?

2006-12-03T20:28:00.000-06:00

Introduction: Choose to Lose

Making decisions is fucking hard. Can I get an "amen" from the congregation? For serious.

It wouldn't be so bad if there wasn't so many of them to make every day. White or wheat? Cream or sugar? Paper or plastic? College or a job? Shrooms or ayahuasca? These are the questions that run endlessly through our collective psyche. Its exhausting.

One of the most unexpected and underexamined* human conditions is the overabundance of choice that has piggybacked on the evolution of modern society -- terrible, horrendous, paralyzing, soul-sucking choice. Okay, this last bit may have been an overdramatization. I will cop to being prone to such habits. But the basic thrust of my point is true.

(*well at least to my extremely limited canon, only Chuck Klosterman has examined it, but I am admittedly ignorant to pretty much all academic work ever created. So others may have touched upon this subject already, and likely with better skill)

As we glide effortlessly along the warm and fuzzy yarn line that is Father Time, I will readily admit that our lives are indeed continually improved by technology, science and human reason. Obstructions to progress and human endeavor are cleared away like fresh snow. Long-standing tyrannies are removed, eliminated.

The tyranny of distance? Gone, thanks first to ocean vessels, then trains, then cars, then airplanes, and then the internet (and hopefully teleportation sooner than later).
The tyranny of schedule? Vamoosed, thanks first to VCRs, then TIVO, and then YouTube. I'll watch kids play around with Diet Coke and Menthos when I want, thank you very much.
The tyranny of aging? A thing of the distant past, thanks to the practice of injecting fucking poison directly into one's fucking face.
The tyranny of small boners? Done, thanks to all those awesome pills I read about every time I open my email.
The tyranny of not knowing what its like to be the drummer for Blink 182, the bass player from KISS, the blonde dude from Backstreet Boys, the not-ugly one from 98 Degrees or the clock-wearing guy from Public Enemy? Kiss it goodbye, thanks to glorious cable programming.

You see don't you? Yes, yes, you do. It is obvious.

Everyday in every way everything is getting better all the time forever and ever and ever amen until the end of time always better. Onward and upward in a perfect heavenly trajectory, reaching our humble but honest hands towards the stars, into the beautiful and immaculate and unwrinkled and large-bonered future.

But, alas, not all is truly perfect. In addition to all the obvious improvement, we've also afforded ourselves the dubious gift of constant decision-making obligations, accompanied by persistent and boner-shrinking anxiety as we ponder what choices to make and then wonder endlessly after the fact if we made the right ones. Thus negating the advances in boner-building technology. Big or small, life is a series of unrelenting choices.

Let's start small. Take food for instance. In the Middle Ages your choices were relatively slim for dinner: gruel or gruel. During the Great Depression, it was cabbage soup or cabbage stew. Nowadays you could eat Red Peppers, Green Peppers, Orange Peppers, Banana Peppers, Jalepeno Peppers, Habenero Peppers, Pepperoncinis, Pepperoni Pizza, or Dr. Pepper. And that's just the pepper family.

Let's think big. Take post-adolesence. In the Middle-Ages your choices for how to spend your young adult life were restricted to metalsmithing or dying of the plauge. During the Great Depression, you could either hop trains or build bridges for a cripple. Nowadays, you could drop out of high school, work retail, sell drugs, go to college, join the armed forces, travel, build gravity bongs, join a fraternity, or play in a shitty band -- each with formative effects on the rest of your life on this planet.

While this staggering explosion of options certainly affords us more opportunity to carve out our own identities, it also eats up most of our time. We spend more time deciding what to do than actually doing it. Its hard to ignore how simple and uncluttered life was back in the proverbial day. The role of unrelenting choice in the postmodern anxiety boom cannot be understated. We are now constantly reminded that we could have had it the other way, the way we didn't choose.

What if I told you, my dear friend, that there was a way to make the correct decision every time, all the time. To avoid this existential paralysis. To always choose the path that leads you to the best outcome, from the tiny to the grandiose. From the question of scrambled vs. poached to the eternal conundrum of whether or not to believe in a higher power.

Always the right decision.

Well, I figured it out. It's a game called "What Would Piss You Off More?" and is relatively easy to play, assuming you have a working knowledge of college-level algebra, a scientific calculator (preferably with graphing functionality) and a little patience. Actually, a lot of patience.

But the rewards will justify the learning curve, trust me. Here's how to play.

++++++++++++

How to Play "What Would Piss You Off More?"

For the purposes of explaining the method, let's just pretend that we are a young, uneducated youth (unless that is already what you are, in which case this will be a relatively easy and salient exercise for you). We have dropped out of high school. We are dumb and/or lazy. College is not an option.

We mull over what to do with our life and have narrowed down our options to two real choices (*note: we are narrowing it down to just two only for purposes of simplicity. Most life decisions will offer you many more options to analyze).

Our options are to a) work at Wal-Mart or b) sell cocaine for money.

Sucks to be us. Obviously, there is no easy answer to this question. Each option seems to have its own pros and cons. With the help of "What Would Piss You Off More?", we will find the decision that best suits us.

1) First, we must recognize that all decisions we make have countless possible outcomes. For instance, if we choose to start selling cocaine for money, many different things could happen in the long-term. We could:

a) Be Very Successful And Buy A Lexus
b) Be Very Successful And Buy A Lexus With Spinning 26" Rims
c) Get Busted By the FBI
d) Get Shot And Die
e) Get Shot And Live
f) Leave The Game Unceremoniously And Then Record A Critically-Acclaimed Rap Album About Our Experiences
g) Leave The Game Unceremoniously And Then NOT Record A Critically-Acclaimed Rap Album About Our Experiences

These are just a few examples of possible outcomes to selling cocaine.

2) Second, we must recognize that some of these outcomes are more desirable than others. Obviously, this is a subjective matter dependent on the individual making the decision. But that's okay. That's the point. To play the game properly, every individual should be able to examine a healthy cross-section of the possible outcomes and determine their relative value to themselves. For our purposes, I will personally rank the outcomes described in #1 from most desirable to least desirable. Your rankings may be different.

Leave The Game Unceremoniously And Then Record A Critically-Acclaimed Rap Album About Our Experiences (best)
Be Very Successful And Buy A Lexus With Spinning 26" Rims
Be Very Successful And Buy A Lexus
Get Shot And Live (perhaps aiding a future critically-acclaimed rap album? Think of the glory!)
Leave the Game Unceremoniously and Then Do NOT Record A Critically Acclaimed Rap Album About Our Experiences (meh)
Get Busted By The FBI
Get Shot And Die (worst)

3) Third, we must quantify these outcomes on a numeric scale. How much is Leaving The Game Unceremoniously and Then Recording a Critically-Acclaimed Rap Album About Our Experiences "worth" to us relative to Getting Busted By the FBI? How much more do we want it, numerically speaking? This is called the Desirability Ratio (DR).

DRs are rated on a one-to-negative one scale (1 to -1) and all outcomes rate on this scale. Positive one (+1.00) is the best possible outcome, zero (0.00) is the halfway point where we're relatively indifferent to the outcome, negative one (-1.00) is the worst possible outcome.

I will now give our possible outcomes a desirability score:

Leave The Game Unceremoniously And Then Record A Critically-Acclaimed Rap Album About Our Experiences (0.97, every hustler's dream)
Be Very Successful And Buy A Lexus With Spinning 26" Rims (0.90)
Be Very Successful And Buy A Lexus (0.85)
Get Shot And Live (0.11, would be lower if the possibility of a future critically-acclaimed rap album didn't seem so feasible)
Leave the Game Unceremoniously and Then Do NOT Record A Critically Acclaimed Rap Album About Our Experiences (0.09, meh)
Get Busted By The FBI (-0.49)
Get Shot And Die (-1.00)

It is important to note that the possible outcomes to a life choice do not have to perfectly dovetail with the scale. For instance, getting shot and dying is not only the worst possible outcome of selling cocaine but the worst outcome possible in the entire world, therefore it would rate a -1.00 (lowest possible). But the worst possible outcome for a different decision like choosing to eat a bowl of cereal instead of a slice of toast may simply be an upset stomach due to using expired milk on your Kix, which, to me, would only rate a -0.13 (slightly below indifference, but still not a desirable outcome).

Now, yes, yes, you're right, you could concievably argue that death, the worst outcome in the entire world, is a possible outcome for every decision. This is hypothetically true. You could die from eating cereal by choking on a Kix or some shit. That is why outcome probablity is so crucial to the game. Read on, you impatient jerk.

4) Fourth, we must identify the probability of the various outcomes. These are called Probability Ratios (PR). In this game, probability is measured on a positive one-to-zero scale (1 to 0), and all outcomes rate their probability on this scale. Positive one (+1.00) is the most probable -- there is literally a 100% chance that an outcome will take place if you make the decision. Zero (0.00) is the least probable -- there is literally a 0% change that the outcome will take place. It should be noted that a 0.00 score is merely a theoretical construct. In real life, anything and everything is possible. So you should never score an outcome probability that low. Duh.

I will now give each of our identified possible outcomes to selling cocaine a probability score:

Leave The Game Unceremoniously And Then Record A Critically-Acclaimed Rap Album About Our Experiences (0.02, very unlikely despite the recent success of Clipse and Young Jeezy)
Be Very Successful And Buy A Lexus with Spinning 26" Rims (0.15)
Be Very Successful And Buy A Lexus (0.15)
Get Shot And Live (0.31)
Leave the Game Unceremoniously and Then Do NOT Record A Critically Acclaimed Rap Album About Our Experiences (0.43)
Get Busted By The FBI (0.68, fairly likely)
Get Shot And Die (0.62, ditto)

5) Fifth, we have to quantify the total value of each possible outcome by taking into account both the desirability and probability of each one. This is called the Outcome Value Ratio (OVR), and is scored on a positive one-to-negative one scale (+1.000 to -1.000). Here is the equation:

Using this equation, here are the Outcome Value Ratios for all the possible outcomes for selling cocaine:

Leave The Game Unceremoniously And Then Record A Critically-Acclaimed Rap Album About Our Experiences (0.019)
Be Very Successful And Buy A Lexus With Spinning 26" Rims (0.135)
Be Very Successful And Buy A Lexus (0.128)
Get Shot And Live (0.034)
Leave the Game Unceremoniously and Then Do NOT Record A Critically Acclaimed Rap Album About Our Experiences (0.028)
Get Busted By The FBI (-0.332)
Get Shot And Die (-0.620)

So the net value of all the possible outcomes has been quantified. We multipled the desirability by the probability and whizbangboop there they are. As you can see most of the outcomes have OVRs above zero, which means that their overall values are positive. For instance, even though Leaving The Game Unceremoniously And Then Recording A Critically-Acclaimed Rap Album About Your Experiences is a highly unlikely event, it still has a positive overall value (however small) because of its high desirability.

There are only two outcomes with negative overall values -- Getting Busted By the FBI and Getting Shot and Dying -- but five positive values. Does this then mean that, overall, choosing to sell cocaine is a good idea?

No. It does not. Read on, dipshit.

6) Sixth, we must calculate the Aggregate Total Value Ratio (ATVR) for choosing to sell cocaine for money. This marries all potential outcomes, their respective desirability and their respective probability into one cocktail of genius, giving a final and definitive value metric for choosing to sell cocaine. It is also ranked on a scale of positive zero-to-negative zero (+1.000 to -1.000).

Here is the equation:

For selling cocaine, the ATVR is calculated thusly:

If you're doing the math at home you'll see that the ATVR for selling cocaine is a very low -0.628. That's an extremely negative ATVR. This tells us that independent of any other options we might have at the table, oh we the uneducated youth, that selling cocaine is a not a good idea for us. The simple and beautiful laws of algebra have proven that conclusively.

How can this be when most of the possible outcomes were positive? This can be, my friend, because the two negative outcomes were very low on desirability scores but very high on probability. In other words, the risks involved with selling cocaine are very high, and very likely to occur, enough to negate and overpower any possible positivity. In other words, cocaine dealers are more likely to end up incarcerated or dead than liqudated with bread.

We're not done yet though.

Consider this: yes, selling cocaine is a bad idea. -0.628 of a bad idea, to be exact. But we still haven't measured how bad or good of an idea our other option is: working at Wal-Mart. It could be even worse. We won't know until we calculate the ATVR for it.

I will spare you the gruesomely uninteresting details as you already know the mathematical process. I'll simply tell you that my ATVR for Wal-Mart was -0.435. This means that like selling cocaine, working for Wal-Mart is a bad idea independent of our other options on the table.

But, and this is important, it is a slightly less horrible idea than selling cocaine for money. See here:

-0.435 > -0.628

While both options suck (it is not looking good for us, we the uneducated youth), selling cocaine would ultimately piss us off more. Thus, we say that working at Wal-Mart is the Most Optimal Decision (MOD) because it would piss us off less.

There you have it.

+++++++++++++++++++

Conclusion

This is, obviously, a very complex approach to making decisions.

Instituting "What Would Piss You Off More?" into one's daily life would prove difficult and require dedication and, yes, a quality calculator to effectively implement. So, I understand completely and will not be offended if you choose not to utilize this powerful and exciting tool in your decision-making activities.

But really, I think you should consider it. Cause I'm getting sick of you whining about your life.

Ultimately though its no skin off my back. I'm a little busy writing my coke-rap masterpiece to give two shits about you or your little "fear of making decisions."

Take a vitamin or something. I got snow to move.

++++++++++++++

Post-Script
Additional Thoughts on Accidentally Plagerizing Economic Theory

I think about stuff sometimes, as you can maybe tell.

I tend to invent odd conceptual frameworks for viewing the world that make sense to me. And I usually do so with no consideration given to the possibility that other people have thought of these things before. Its one of the blessings of reading so rarely and knowing so little about contemporary academic thought.

As such, I will occassionally encounter someone, an established someone, who has written at length about a subject that very much interests me, and with an idea or voice that very much mirrors my own on the subject.

I'm not sure yet whether to feel validated or disappointed when this happens. On the one hand, it means that on my lonesome I came to the same conclusions that well-paid and well-respected people around the world have -- which is sweet because it means I'm a total fucking genius.

On the other, it means that my capacity to become well-paid and well-respected for these ideas has been eliminated because someone has beat me to it -- which is fucked because it means I am a poor and underappreciated total fucking genius. I'd rather be a rich and reknowned total fucking dumbass.

The "What Would Piss You Off More?" idea is one I've used in my own life for some time now, though admittedly in a simpler, internal monolouge format. I fancied it revolutionary, novel, unique, exciting, new. Then I discovered that economists and mathematicians have been discussing and dissecting this type of idea for decades, and have since moved on to greener intellectual pastures. It's called "Decision Theory".

Ha. Hows about that.

This has happened to me on other occasions, most notably in 3rd grade when I inadvertently invented a working model for what would later become TIVO while working on a school project. Naturally, being ten years old, I did not patent this idea, and have since lost out on untold millions.

Which is, to put it quite simply, fucked.

Pittsburgh

2006-11-25T17:25:00.001-06:00

There are only two places that I’ve ever had a sustained yearning to live in besides Minneapolis.

Don’t get me wrong, there are a lot of places I love to visit. And on certain perfect nights of alcohol, communion, and warm wind blasting in through open car windows on the way to the next bar, I can catch a mental glimpse of myself picking up stakes and making a new life in a new place – anonymous, lost, a brand-new baby bird.

But only Chicago and San Francisco have had real staying power in my psyche as places where I actually belong. Like I could and should have started my life there but have just chosen to live another one back in Minneapolis for 15 years instead.

But there’s a reason that home is home. And my lust for these two rubies isn’t hearty enough to roam. I also honestly love Minneapolis independent of the fact that I’ve lived here since I was 12. Right now especially, what with the Water Park of America opening right next to the Mall of America. Having those sorts of American amenities close at hand makes it hard to leave.

Interestingly, it’s the place that I’ve had maybe the least desire to actually live in that has intrigued me the most in my travels, has crawled inside my brain and refused to leave. Hands down, that is Pittsburgh. Disarmingly beautiful, with a storied past, a bleak present, and an uncertain future. The Jewel of the Rust Belt. Home of the 2006 Super Bowl Champion Steelers. Hell With the Lid Off.

The Topography Quotient

I don’t think people who’ve never been to Pittsburgh understand how striking and unexpectedly gorgeous it is. I know I didn’t when I first went. Western Pennsylvania is just the beginning of miles upon miles of bumps and bruises and breaks in the earth that comprise this region.

So the approach by car is obscured by foothills and valleys and gives you no indication that you’re actually nearing the city center. Then you turn around a bend and it’s RIGHT FUCKING THERE, and you’re almost right in it, right in the belly of the beast, with no warning or provocation, and its big and its terrible and its terrifying and its epic and its ancient.

A mangled and beautiful mess of hills and valleys, drops and curves, sudden and jarring inclines and declines in elevation, leafy and unlit passages, ancient trees and unforgiving roads, jagged angles and startling vistas. Bricks and mortar and concrete and sagging foundations, dense row housing placed carefully and cautiously wherever it won’t fall over from harsh gradients. A city built in-spite-of rather than because-of.

Sutured and connected by bridge after bridge after bridge over three troubled waters, three converging and colossal rivers that meet together at the tip of the center city, as old as the earth and death and time, worked to exhaustion carrying decades of coal and steel.

When driving on high-arcing roads perched precariously far above the winding rivers, one can look out on the whole horrible and gorgeous clutter all at once and get the unshakable feeling that they are not tethered to this earth, but rather flying with great velocity and confidence through the air. At the summit of Mt. Washington, minutes from downtown, looking down upon massive skyscrapers as if they’re children’s playthings, you are floating effortlessly above the city like an angel on silk wings.

I guess my point is that it looks kinda cool.

The view from the top of Mt. Washington (photo by Alison):

The Shame Quotient

There was a time when Pittsburgh was On Top Of It All. People will tell you this and it will be true.

Steel and Coal were King and Pittsburgh was Queen. Jobs plentiful, homes abundant, schools full, beers cold, skies black with coal smoke, but hearts content. Like Detroit, Cleveland, and every other city in the Rust Belt, everything changed as manufacturing production moved overseas in search of cheap and unregulated labor.

After Big Industry left town, water and air purity went up. But job opportunities, apartment rents, municipal revenues, and spirits certainly went down. This marked the true beginnings of a palpable Pittsburgh Shame.

Defining Pittsburgh Shame with precision is a challenge as its not shame in the purest sense of the word. There are no hung heads or long faces. Its more akin to a knowing smirk while shaking one’s head and tossing back another Iron City, a shared collective humor built on celebrating the absurd and comical elements of one’s hometown. While most Pittsburgh residents – current or former – probably harbor some semblance of this consciousness, Pittsburgh Shame is most prevalent in those born after 1980.

There’s a reason.

Unless you’re going to Carnegie Mellon or UPitt there’s not a lot for people under 30 to do (beyond develop a sizeable drinking problem). Some of my favorite people in the world are from Pittsburgh, and most of them left after high school for cities with, you know, other young people in them. They speak about their old hometown with the dark and self-deprecating humor that is the hallmark of Pittsburgh Shame.

They explain that Allegheny County has the second oldest population in the entire country, second only to some coastal Florida county filled with retirement communities. I’ve never actually checked Census records to confirm the veracity of this statement, because that’s not the point. It doesn’t matter if it’s true. It matters that their Pittsburgh Shame leads them to believe its true.

Drunk and/or stoned after 3AM is usually the best time to talk to them about these things.

The Pride Quotient

As insistent or moreso than Pittsburgh Shame is Pittsburgh Pride.

Pittsburgh Pride is the kind of indignant and slightly resentful dignity that can only be forged in places that are overlooked by mainstream media and the majority of the country (see also: Flyover Country). A unique, insular sort of pride that shows wild and enthusiastic support for all things local. Hometown heroes and sports icons, mostly.

Hometown Heroes
In Oakland, just to the east of Pittsburgh proper, there is a huge wooden sign standing firmly and confidently in the midst of a quiet residential neighborhood. The first time we ever visited Pittsburgh, my friend Ryan made a point to drive us to this sign during our tour of the city. He thought we should see it because it represented something significant about the Pittsburgh Experience™.

It meant little to him personally (his Pittsburgh Shame caused him to find it more hilarious than inspirational), but he knew it was a meaningful symbol for the lionization of hometown heroes that is endemic to Pittsburgh Pride.

The sign (photo by Alison):

Sports Icons

There are probably very few things in the world more awesome than being in Pittsburgh and being Mario Lemieux or Bill Cowher. This is because if you are Mario Lemieux or Bill Cowher and you are in the Pittsburgh vicinity, you are a Golden God.

You have both pulled your respective franchises (Pens and Steelers, duh) from ruin and placed them among the league elite. You have consistently performed at an extremely high level, with the utmost class and professionalism.

Perhaps most importantly, you have never expressed an interest in leaving the Pittsburgh area and you have consciously chosen to make Pittsburgh your home. For your loyalty to this city, a city that so many denigrate and so few understand, you have been anointed as saviors by the soldiers of Pittsburgh Pride. Congratulations. Yinz done us proud.

SECTION DELETED.

Yinz Gon’ Dahn-Tahn?

As I said before, I really have no desire to live in Pittsburgh. But something about it is undeniably compelling. It rose to glory and fell from glory – a fallen angel, a dashed dream – but stubbornly perseveres with equal parts grace, shame and pride.

Visiting it reminds me why I love cities. They’re the massive, intricate and ancient representations of our hopes, fears, needs, and wants all laid out together – raw, urgent, complex and hopeful – in a physical, built form that took centuries to grow.

Blurhackppthbht. Oh shit, sorry, I just threw up in my own mouth. A natural gagging reflex to my own pretention. My bad.

Go Steelers.

Post-Post Modernity and America's Funniest Videos

2006-11-21T22:50:00.000-06:00

When "America's Funniest Home Videos" premiered on ABC in 1989 I was 7 years old, single, living in Brookfield, 8 minutes to the west of Milwaukee, under the watchful and Lutheran eyes of my parents. It is now 2006 and I am 25 years old, married, living in St. Paul, 8 minutes to the west of Woodbury, under the watchful and perverted eyes of the Level III sex offenders who live in the apartment building across the street.

Communism has fallen in Eastern Europe. Two Gulf Wars have been fought. A new millennium has started. Jesus Jones, EMF, and Eve 6, came and went, unceremoniously. I graduated elementary school, then junior high, then high school, then college.

America's Funniest Home Videos is still on the air.

It is less a television show and more a social institution. Irrepressible. Ancient. Forever. No beginning and no end.

Its impact on our cultural world is deceptive. Its about more than the face value, the sledding accidents, the funny dogs, the stupid babies tripping all over themselves. There is something significant underneath it all related to how we view human creation. It's about a new way of looking at the world called post-post modernism.

Let's take a closer look by examining first the common perceptions of AFV.

Perception #1: AFV is 100% Horrible

I know what you're thinking. You're thinking that I could/should poke fun at AFV (*ed. note: the show was changed to an acronym in the early 2000s in the interest of greater efficiency). You're thinking that the humor is simple, infantile, predictable. You're thinking that the host (Saget, Fuentes, Bergeron - take your pick) and their riffing and quipping are rote, safe, and unfunny. You're thinking I'm going to rip AFV the proverbial new asshole.

You are kind of right.

Perception #2: AFV is 100% Hilarious Due to the Fact that it is Horrible

I know what else you're thinking. You're thinking that I could/should talk about how AFV is actually quite hilarious because of just how ridiculous it is. You're thinking it is an ironic-comedic gem, what with the zany sound effects, bizarre "funny" voices from the host and horrible theme song with its awkward and obvious refrain: "America, This Is You."

You are kind of right.

Perception #3: AFV is 100% Sincerely Great

I know the final thing you're thinking. You're thinking that I could/should cut AFV a break because in all sincerity it is a funny TV show filled to the brim with funny videos that are actually funny for real reasons related to the fact that they're funny in reality for real. You're thinking that there is something undeniably compelling about watching a man get hit in the penis with a baseball, and you're thinking that you are tired of feeling guilty and/or unsophisticated for thinking so.

You are also thinking that this singing cat is better than most things on television.

You are kind of right.

The Real Shit

The real shit, the heart of the matter, is that you are right on all three accounts.

1) AFV is horrible.

2) AFV is so horrible that its hilarious.

3) AFV is actually really great.

Reading those statements, do any of them strike you as inaccurate? More likely now than ever before, none of them will, despite the fact that they're contradictory to one another.

How can this be?

This can be, my friends, because we have evolved as a society to the final stage of arts and entertainment appreciation: post-post modernity. We are beginning to see that all human creation can be understood on no less than three levels simultaneously, with levels contradicting each other but still working in concert. It's post-post modernity. A subtle and nuanced experience. That's the real shit.

The Real, Real Shit

And the real, real shit here, the key to post-post modernity, lies in the exploding resurgence of sincerity. It's back. And it's better than ever, a newer and more evolved level of sincerity forged in the flames of what's come before.

It is again okay to genuinely and honestly appreciate human creations despite the fact that much of society shits upon them. This can be done without fear of retribution from our cultural elite (i.e. writers for Pitchfork, your cool cousin with the tortoise-shell glasses) because post-post modern appreciation is coupled with a healthy appreciation for irony and critical thinking. It is the perfect amalgamation of the naive sincerity of modernity and the unrelenting, exhuasting irony and detachment of post-modernity.

It is the Post-Post Modern Age of Enlightened Sincerity. We are finally able to recognize the ugly and uninspired and awkward, and the pure and graceful and daring -- all in the same places and at the same times, with equal reverence given to each.

That's the real, real shit.

America's Funniest Videos is but one example. Everything can and should be viewed with enightened sincerity.

Here are but a few other examples of cultural items that can be easily appreciated using the post-post modernist approach:

My Chemical Romance
Top Chef
Coldplay
Michael Bay Films
The VFW Bar on Lyndale and 28th, The One with Karaoke

I am no established cultural theorist, mind you. No semiotic credentials. But its unmistakable. Post-post modernity is here, and here to stay.

Throw away your ironic mesh trucker hat and throw on your ironic-and-sincere-at-the-same-time mesh trucker hat. AFV is up next.

++++++++++++

Post-Script
Some Additional Thoughts on AFV and Bob Saget

In 1989, when AFV hit the air on ABC, The Oakland Athletics were in the process of dismantling the San Francisco Giants in a four game sweep of the famous Battle of the Bay Series, hiccuped and sutured in the middle by the massive Loma Prieta earthquake that shook the entire Bay Area just as Game 3 started. A huge fan of the Bash Brothers and the dominant Cy Young season of Dave Stewart, I held a rabid interest in the series, as well as the San Francisco metropolitan area. Moreso than most 7 year olds from the Upper Midwest, at the least.

This poster hung above my bed:

Another equally enthralling and socially important event at this time was Full House, an extremely popular television show about a bunch of middle-aged dudes with feathered mullets (related? they might have been related, but maybe not) taking care of three precocious and annoying children (retarded? was the baby retarded? the baby might have had down syndrome, I can't remember) in a large row house on a steep San Francisco hill overlooking the city.

I absolutely fucking loved this show. My brother and I did not miss an episode. The Friday night adventures of Michelle ("Don't Have a Cow, Man"), Stephanie ("How Rude"), Uncle Jesse ("Have Mercy"), Uncle Joey ("Cut. It. Out."), DJ (no catch phrase) and Danny (ditto) were heart-warming, charming.

Between the earthquakes, the baseball, the large-muscled (probably steroid-juiced) baseball players who hit many home runs and dressed like SNL characters I had never seen, the Tanners and their wacky neighbor Kimmy, the milkman, the paperboy, the evening TV, shibidoop dwop dwa dow, it's easy to see that the San Francisco Bay Area loomed large in my conscience at this time.

As such, when Bob Saget, Danny Tanner, host of Wake Up San Francisco, was tapped to host the maiden edition of AFV, the show could not miss in the eyes of this towheaded and rambunctious Cream City sprite.

The key point here is that I may be somewhat biased about the greatness of AFV due to my own personal history.

Please take my endorsement with a grain of salt.

The Baltimore Connection

2006-11-16T23:01:00.000-06:00

He ambles over. This is it. He is really coming over.

Bright, shiny, round, ample, redfaced, lightly-sweated, fucking glowing like fucking Santa Claus. Outfitted in logoless black sweat pants and a matching black sweat shirt - a retired, out of shape Ninja. A 5' 5" black, rotund monolith with white New Balance hightops, a daring and unashamed contrast with the rest of his getup. A Guinness pint in his massive right hand. Smiling.

George Fucking Wendt. In Baltimore.

"Hey man," he says, amicably. His voice is the voice of Norm. Norm from Cheers. He reaches to shake my hand. I extend mine out in return, as if I somehow deserve to touch the hand of Norm. Norm from Cheers. "Really hot set tonight, man. No, really, great stuff."

Blushing? Did I blush in response to Norm? Norm from Cheers? Yes, that's it. My initial response to Norm from Cheers was to blush, to make my face red. "Oh wow, thanks a lot man! Thanks for coming!" He nods and ambles away, back to his friend and their conversation.

I lean over to the dude I was talking to, our eyes lock and bulge in unison. We return to our previous conversation. We are nonchalant. To the public, we give the impression that this shit is cool. This shit happens all the time when you are in a professional touring rock band. This is what happens at "gigs." This is par for the proverbial course. We are unaffected. Nonplussed.

On the inside, I can only think one thing. "Thank God that shit with me and Wendt is cool again."

+++++++++++++++++++++

Let me start at the beginning by telling you that playing a rock show in Baltimore on a Monday night, if you are not from Baltimore and do not possess hundreds of old friends and family members that want to see your rock band, is an inherently bad idea. People will not come to see your rock band play music. This is possibly because people are too busy trying to not be murdered to come see your rock band. Really, being anywhere in Baltimore on any night is a dicey proposition.

I exaggerate. Baltimore is actually quite beautiful on the approach. But I exaggerate for a reason. When the first band begins on this night, there are exactly 2 paying customers present at the show. No one is really that upset because, actually, this is normal, in Baltimore at least.

Slowly it becomes a known fact among the bands that good god holy fuck george wendt is here yeah norm norm from cheers the fat one yeah the one that always drank, oh yeah that one was he also the one who was the mailman who knew all that trivia no that was cliff cleven oh yeah right oh okay yeah holy shit there he is at the bar what the fuck this is nuts dude.

Let me interject here that famous people do not come to see rock bands of our size play. It is not something that happens in life.

He's with a friend, of similar age and disposition, though not famous, at least to me. They are drinking Guinness pints together and seem to be having a good time. This is a mystery on par with Stonehenge. Did they wind up here by accident? Do they know the owner and drink for free? Maybe the most interesting question: Does George Wendt live in Baltimore? Who would consciously choose to retire here? The questions are endless. Ryan starts talking to him and his friend. They are taking for a long time. It seems friendly. Ryan is actually talking to Norm from Cheers and his not-famous friend and it is going well. Holy shit.

It is discovered by those of us who are not-too-subtly eavesdropping on their conversation that George Wendt and his friend are a) big fans of underground music b) used to go see shows together all the time in L.A. "back in the day" c) have heard of Thunderbirds are Now, the band Ryan is in, because the not-famous friend has a son who is a big fan d) are coming to "check out" the bands. Also, George Wendt is in town doing Twelve Angry Men at the Hippodrome Theatre in Downtown Baltimore and his friend is a TV critic who now lives in Baltimore.

Word gets around. The realization sinks in that George Wendt is like, sort of, like, one of us. He is down with the "jams." Excitement builds. Imagined comfort levels are raised. Shit will be cool with us and George Wendt.

Murmurs begin floating around between a few of the bands about dude we should get a picture yeah you're right but wouldn't that be weird yeah probably a little awkward i don't want to be that guy that's all like yo dude can i get a picture yeah but when's the next time norm from cheers is gonna be at your show yeah good point i should get a picture. I mean, George Wendt probably gets asked for his picture all the time, right? He's used to it, and maybe a little honored and touched? Especially considering the imagined kinship we now feel due to rumors of his interest in the rock music we are going to play tonight. He would be down, right?

This is what I tell myself when I decide to ask for a photo. Matt will be the cameraman. I will be in a picture with Norm, Norm from Cheers and it will be triumphant and pure and something for the ages. A document looked back upon by historians and scholars, surely. We walk over to Mr. Wendt and his dude.

I try to sound polite, eager, interested. Maybe too much. "Hey there, sorry to interrupt, do you think there's any chance we could take a quick photo?"

A pause. Oh god. The pause is interminable. Will he ever respond? He is not responding. It's easily been 3 hours since I asked, right? Fuck. I shouldn't have done this. This was a mistake. I never wanted to be that guy that asks for the photo.

Finally, after epochs of torture he responds, unsmiling, annoyed. "Yeah sure."

I am the scum of the earth. I am a pariah, a parasite, a desperate bitch in the eyes of Norm from Cheers. He has no respect for me. I am the guy who asks for the photo when he is just trying to chill, down some brews with his homie, and watch some jams. The evidence is clear:

On the left, you'll see Norm from Cheers stifling his anger and resentment through a mask of stoicism. On the right, you'll see me disguising my self-loathing and regret through a stiff, terse smile. No teeth. Halfheartedly raising my beer to some sort of communion of souls that never really took place. Striking, really, this image of dashed dreams and ugly ambitions gone wrong.

I thank George Wendt for his time and walk back backstage with Matt. We both know that what went down was not right. Awkward. Not right. We feel dirty. Ashamed. The one time in our entire lives that we will be in the same room as Norm from Cheers was spent being the guys who ask for the photo. He hates us. Despite my initial hopes, shit is most definitely not cool with me and George Wendt and probably never will be. The guilt and dread is monumental. I resign myself to this destiny.

A funny thing happens though.

Despite the small crowd, my band plays our rock music on this night with some chutzpah, gusto, hoohah, whizbang. Sweat flies, blood runs free on fret boards, legs are kicked in the air, amps are turned up, hearts are set afire, ears are left ringing. I'm not ashamed to admit that we kinda brought the pain on this Monday night in Baltimore. Maybe Wendt was the catalyst, I don't know. His presence may have ignited a passion, that next gear.

While packing up guitars and moving amps off stage for the next band to start, we are told that George Wendt, Norm, Norm from Cheers was moved enough by our flailing rock boom to actually leave the stools he and his friend were sitting on at the upper bar and head down to the main floor to watch us from a closer vantage point. This did not happen for other bands on this Monday night in Baltimore. This, this, this is something. We moved Norm from Cheers off of his fucking BAR STOOL, which, if you're at all a fan of the television show Cheers, you know is where he spent all of his time. Getting him off his stool was difficult on that show. It was a task.

We fucking did that shit. Read em' and weep, Vera (Norm's unseen wife on the show who was often unsuccessful at getting Norm to come home from aforementioned bar stool). I begin to wonder if maybe, shit is cool with me and George Wendt again. I hope. I pray. I go to the bar for a beer, Budweiser bottle. Start talking to my friend Michael.

That's when Norm, Norm from Cheers, George Wendt, ambles over to me, right hand extended out in a show of friendship. I am redeemed, forgiven, absolved, triumphant.

Shit is cool with me and Wendt.

Gilbert Arenas - The Takeover

2006-11-14T09:23:00.000-06:00

Hands down, I have a new favorite blog.

Do you know Gilbert Arenas? If you don't you should.

He's the starting point guard for the Washington Wizards. A two-time All Star. 29 PPG last year, good for fourth in the league. Wears the number "0." Takes off his jersey at the end of every home game and throws it in the crowd before walking into the locker room shirtless. Gives bizarre but disarmingly honest quotes after games. On former teammate Larry Hughes' return from injury in 2005 remarked: "I don't want to see him come back like Ma$e did and be a flop."

This man has a blog and it is the most compelling thing I've read on the internet since that one time I saw that one message board where people talked about stuff.

His blog is a lot like his game: creative, eccentric, daring, exciting and completely self-absorbed (though what blogger isn't?).

++++++++++++++

On the upcoming 2006-2007 NBA season, a season he has publicly dubbed "The Takeover":
The Takeover is just about everything. From taking over the city, I'm trying to take over the league, taking over sponsors, taking over you know ... Just the industry of everything ... Getting buildings in my name, getting leagues in my name ... This is the time where, you know, me as a person is gonna go get bigger.

On the fact that he wore a robe (yes, a robe) to opening night this year:
I was planning on doing it last year, but I just thought the way this year was going, it's just The Takeover. I'm trying be mentioned. If I came out in that robe and had a bad game, they was gonna make fun of me. That's how I was getting pumped for the game. I want all of this to come back on me. A lady made it for me for my birthday two years ago. I used to use it when I used to beat Chucky Atkins in dominoes. I used to come out to the gym after I'd beat him and I'd say, "I'm the king!" and I'd hold the belt. And Chucky used to die laughing from it.

On his recent charity work in Washington D.C. and his future political aspirations:
I'm doing a thing for the D.C. metropolitan area called Scores for Kids, wait, no, Scores for Schools, so every point I score at a home game, I donate a hundred bucks to that school. So, if they would have added up the home games last year I would have owed them probably $120,000. It was just for me to help better our public schools and our private schools out there. You know, help them fund to keep kids in school, keep kids wanting to come to school because you know, it's the young generation that's going to help us grow old so we have to better their lives.

James Brown was excited to be a part of the whole movement that I call The Takeover that I'm trying to just ... One day run for mayor! In Washington, but that's a long way, that's 30 years from now.

On his other business ventures:
Right now, me and DeShawn Stevenson are collaborating. We're going to start a talent agency called 0-2 Talents and we're going to start it out by having a model calendar.

We're going to have female models, we're going to do little kid modeling calendars. Just, we're trying to do everything with little kids, and with AAU teams, we're going to have a lot of AAU teams. We're just going to be a talent agency, just me and him. We're starting it off, we're kicking it off by having a calendar of some of the top celebrity women and models out there.

We'll include whoever we think are popular, good role models. I don't want to confirm names yet, because we're still in the process of doing that right now. I don't think there's been any NBA player that's ever did this, that were actually basically agents while they were playing. I'll be busy, but that's why we hire people to run our business.

On the new Wizards uniforms:
I like them. It's 10 times better than that, what is it? Aqua-blue?

On vitamin water:
I'm signing a deal with Vitamin Water. That's all I drink is Vitamin Water. I'm making deals, I'm making progress.

+++++++++++++

In all sincerity, no sarcasm, this stuff is enthralling. At least I think so.

Not in the way that you might assume, though. I'm not here to mock his grammar, braggadocio, or intelligence. The troublesome cultural notion of "boy, professional atheletes sure are stupid and irresponsible" is usually race and class condescension miscast as innocent fun. I don't intend to perpetuate that.

No, what I find interesting is that he carries himself more like a self-promoting rapper than a basketball player. Most NBA players will pepper their public quotes with stock, rote, boring images like "we really competed as a team tonight" or "we need to execute down the stretch" or the dreaded invocation of deity: "I just gotta thank God for helping me throw down that vicious dunk on Speedy Claxton's head tonight."

Gilbert isn't interested or capable of talking that way. He's more akin to Damon Dash, Jay-Z or 50 Cent than Lebron James or Carmelo Anthony. Vitamin water, starting a modeling agency, signing deals, making progress, eventually being the mayor of Washington D.C.

I like this. I've always liked this personality, the hustle, the paper chase. It's honest and revealing. It's easier to identify with this type of millionaire than those that don't seem to outwardly acknowledge their money. Also his name is Gilbert, which you can't help but like.

I've got a link set up to The Takeover for you on the right. Bookmark it and learn what its like to Gilbert.

The Rage Index Redux

2006-11-12T16:51:00.000-06:00

Well.

It took three weeks and 476,893 text-messaged votes (standard texting charges + $0.99 per message) from all 50 states and however crazy many crazy provinces there are in crazy Canada. Guided by the same faultless, perfect, universal logic behind focus groups, futures markets, American Idol voting, and McCarthyism -- namely that collective intelligence is always right, all the time -- we finally have a fully-crystallized Rage Index, ready for public review.

Behold, the Arctopus:

1 - Chill (3,1,0.2)*
2 - Hang Out (3,1,0.2)
3 - Kick It (3,1,0.2)
4 - Get Wasted (5,4,0.1)
5 - Get Awesome (9,4,0.5)
6 - Get Out of Control (O.O.C.) (8,5, 0.3)
7 - Rage (10, 6, 0.4)
8 - Get Really Real (9,6, 0.3)
9 - Some Next Level Shit (10, 7, 0.3)
9.5 - Get Fucked Out of Your Minds (10,8, 0.2)
10 - Vision Quest**
*(maximum score, minimum score, range of response)
**added later due to irrefutable logic and intensity of personal experiences with evenings described as VQs

As my sociology professors always said: "Let's unpack this."

The first thing worth noting is that the bottom three choices (Chill, Hang Out, Kick It) all had identical minimums, maximums, and response ranges. They scored similarly enough amongst all the responses that we could easily interchange them to refer to the same thing. "Let's chill tonight," Let's hang out tonight," and "Let's kick it tonight" all mean basically the same thing, usually involving the drinking of less than or equal to 4 beers and going home by midnight.

The item with the lowest range of responses was Get Wasted. It's a known quantity, with little confusion or consternation surrounding what it "means" to be Get Wasted. Most people put it halfway or just below halfway on the scale. As a society, when one says "I got wasted last night," there is no uncertainty about what one means. We can easily envision what this person did (drank at least 7 beers [or 5 beers and 1 Sparks [[or 5 beers and 1 mixed drink or shot [[[or no beers but at least 3 mixed drinks or shots and any combination of Sparks]]]]]], saying some funny shit that makes only tangential sense, possibly freestyle rapping over "The Black Album" with your other drunk, white friends) without asking additional questions.

The item with the highest range of responses was Get Awesome. It was voted as high as a "9" (extremely rageful) and as low as a "4" (almost halfway), which ultimately is close to where it wound up ("5"). This indicates that while most people probably consider Getting Awesome to be one step above the low-key evening described a few paragraphs ago, a select few equate it to an evening licking uncut cocaine off a Honduran child prostitute at a masked orgy. Where does the cultural confusion persist for Getting Awesome? This deserves further academic investigation from my colleagues in the Rage Studies community.

Another item with a high range of response was Rage, the very word the index is named after. While everyone placed it above the halfway mark, some made it a "10" (the most intense parties of all time, think ritualistic sacrifices), and some made it a "6" (one step above Getting Awesome, usually involves puking in a stranger's toilet before passing out on the tile while others knock angrily on the door because they have to pee and can't figure out why this asshole is hogging the bathroom). Like Getting Awesome, Rage deserves further analysis from the Ivory Tower of academia.

But this is about so much more than academia. Knowledge alone can't pay the mortgages on my Bermuda timeshares. I need THE PAPER, as the rappers would say. So, I've got a Rage Index business venture in the works.

Party-planning logarithims.

How does this work, you may ask? Let me explain.

Example 1: Mr. Wilson and Ms. Phillips would like to throw a party to celebrate Mr. Wilson's recent job promotion. They want a fun party, but don't want it to get out of control. Why? Because they are fucking pussies. Their motivations are besides the point though, the point is that they don't want to get too crazy.

So they take a look at the Rage Index (trademark*) and decide that they want a "3" -- in other words, they would like to Kick It. They input this request into the software and are immediately given 3 scenarios for how to create the party atmosphere conducive to Kicking It. See below.

Database Query Results for "Kicking It"
a) Alcohol: BYOB, only one 12-pack of high-class imported beer available as back-up
Drugs: One bowl of marijuana, shared among all guests to disperse highness
Food: vegetables and dip
Music: Dave Matthews Band
Orgy?: No
Size Limit: 8 guests

b) Alcohol: Red Wine, only four large bottles
Food: Chips and Dip (two bags, one jar)
Drugs: None
Music: Quasi-urban (i.e. yes to Justin Timberlake, no to Three Six Mafia)
Orgy?: No
Size Limit: 10 guests

c) Alcohol: Mixed drinks, one bottle of high-class vodka (tequila prohibited)
Food: Full Dinner, to counteract effects of hard alcohol
Drugs: None
Music: Ani DiFranco
Orgy?: No
Size Limit: 10 guests

Do you see how easy this makes their party planning experience? Let's look at another scenario.

Example 2: Mr. Hall and Mr. Oates are successful trial lawyers in the midst of a mid-life crisis. Their wives are out of town for the weekend. They want to almost die in the name of raging over this one weekend of sweet freedom. They look at the Rage Index (trademark*) and decide they want a "9" -- in other words, they would like to Get Into Some Next Level Shit. Beep, boop, ding, zing, the computer tells them what to do.

Database Query Results for "Some Next Level Shit"
a) Alcohol: 3 bottles of absinthe
Drugs: Cocaine, Marijuana
Music: Spank Rock, The Rapture
Orgy?: Use best judgement
Size: 20 guests

b) Alcohol: 4 kegs of low-grade domestic beer
Drugs: Cocaine, Marijuana, painkillers
Music: that one song about "sucking on my titties like you wanna" played on repeat
Orgy?: Yes
Size: 30 guests, preferably masked and physically attractive

c) Alcohol: Gin, neat
Drugs: Shrooms
Music: Grateful Dead, Pink Floyd, Phish, other hippy shit
Orgy?: Probably impossible
Size: Hard to tell, everything so hazy

I mean wow! What a powerful application! How much would you be willing to pay for such a revolutionary, life-changing product?

My bet is at least three installments of $99.99 (not including shipping or handling).

The Rage Index

2006-10-24T18:21:00.000-05:00

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

2006-10-22T15:04:00.000-05:00

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.

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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

2006-10-19T15:23:00.000-05:00

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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.
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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!

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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!