Monday, May 31st

::The Brak Blog::

Found Out About You


Hot damn children.
School is over, for now. I now have a precious 3 months to do all that random stuff I said I'd get around to doing over the summer. Like that's really going to happen.

Things I hope to accomplish in terms of site this summer:
The Music Review Section
The Movie Review Section
A Sickening amount of promoting.
Hogan For President (Still In The Works)

The first 2 are kind of self-explanitory, but the third one merits some divulgance.
I'll be the first to admit, I'm unsatisfied with the type of traffic I've been getting. I look at my site, which isn't that great, but it is on a domain (.Com), and the entries do actually feature some real content, as opposed to little 3 or 4 sentance rants.

That being said, I only get about half the traffic some of these fuckers on the damn Xanga get. This shouldn't irk me, because Xanga is the suck, but it finally got to me, so I'm fighting back. I'm waging an all-out ad war against the Xangas of the world. A couple fridays from now, I'm going to be down at the Plaza, handing out flyers. As soon as I get the materials, I'm going to start making stickers that are water resistant.

All in the name of telling Xanga to Go Suck a Fuck.

On my other magical list of stuff to tell you all about, first up is the Meteors. By now I'm sure I've probably at least told you all about this band, or if you're one of the unlucky ones, I've most likely forced you to listen to them. Initially, they were with some different people and called 'The Quintessential Pine Tree Brothers', and they actually made original music. After the Pine Trees broke up though, they briefly reformed to play a couple hilarious cover songs as 'The Meteors'.

[Download Their Music] I promise you it is most awesome.

The other day I was sitting in Algebra II class, contemplating how I no longer give a damn about sinusoidal functions and all that major crapola they dumped on us at the end of the year. I decided instead of taking an uncomfortable, unrefreshing nap on my desk, as I had usually done, that I'd write a little story. I drew inspiration from Ethan and Lizz as we were leaving World History, and I set to work as Mr. Kennedy began his daily banter.

The story that follows is the transcipt of that story. As always, I can't spell worth shit, but the story is somewhat entertaining, so here we go:


And thus begins the saga of Lloyd the space fish...

"Quantum thrusters are cleared for burn," Lloyd said aloud to no one. It'd been rather quiet on the Starship Micron since his parter, Cap'n Tuna, had taken a laser shot to the gill.

All Lloyd could think of was what he was going to do to the bastard who fired that shot when he found him. Punching in the star coordinates of Jupiter, Lloyd grimaced. His moment of pensive vengance was suddenly ended as his ship excellerated rapidly to HSLS, or High-Sub-Light-Speed. This quick pickup made the ship rattle, but Lloyd wasn't scared.

Nothing scared Lloyd. For god's sake... he was a space-goldfish...

A red light started flashing, this was bad. One of the two remaining subspace engines had burned out during the start-up sequence. Typically, were he traveling at any other speed, this would not be an issue; but he had been anxious to get to Jupiter and was traveling at Light Speed. Normal procedure for stopping the ship was to go from Light Speed to Subspace, then finally back to Standard Velocity.

This was rather difficult with only one Subspace Engine, being that the ship was designed to use eight normally.

"Fuck it," Lloyd thought, and he cut all engines. An explosion followed. Begrudgingly, Lloyd climbed into the escape pod and began to the decent to Jupiter's volcanic moon, Io, as the Micron broke up unto bits behind him.

And it was only 9:45... "What a day this is going to be," he thought.


That's my little story anyway. Last weekend Lizz and I finally decided to take a trip and pay hommage to the the Toynbee Tile of Kansas City. (For more information... [Toynbee.Net] has the most exstensive collection) Anyway, there's one of these curious little buggers at the corner of 13th and Grand Ave. in downtown KC. We took a fairly roundabout method of getting there, and it took forever to find a place to park, but it was worth it.

Initially, I didn't think we were going to find it. A little 5 inch by 1 foot tile was what we were looking for, and I wasn't even sure how accurate our location was going to be. After a little inspection though, we found it to be dead on. I didn't have my camera with me, so I can't show you pictures, but we've planned another trip, bringing Joe Heschmeyer in tow, and I can assure you I'll take some good ones.

Also last weekend, Sarah Stites had an acoustic show at her house. I brought friends so we could make fun of Ethan, and it was a really good time all around. I dropped fire on myself, which was good, and Conner/or/r [no idea how he spells it] and Mike Judge played the Whalefish Song. Three cheers for one of the most bitchin' live songs ever.

I mentioned something the other day that recieved an uncannilly receptive reaction. What I had said was that I can create a plethora of email addresses '@BrakBlog.com', and a few people kinda acted like they'd go along with some sort of activity that would get them one of those accounts. In the senseless hope that someone might actually want an email account @BrakBlog.com, I've set up a page where you can [request one].

I noticed that Alison commented on a previous entry of mine, and though I appreciate her visiting this site and leaving feedback, I'm now going to make an example by yelling at her:


"I actually kind of like the raging hormones, but then again, I'm not Catholic so I'm a little more accepting of things.
Also - Johnson County kids are not always that bad. I'm sure some of them say the same things about Missouri kids. -Alison"


1) I really wish I had a better excuse for hating the Raging Hormones other than religion... oh wait, I do. THEY SUCK. Besides, I'm not catholic either, so bite me.

2) Johnson County kids are that bad. I know a lot of my friends are from there, but I'd hope they have the common sense to realize what I say has some degree of truth. Johnson County is the 7th richest county in the nation, as of a week ago. You people have more money than you know what to do with, and it makes you come off as snobby. End of story.

I don't want to get into a big Missouri vs. Kansas thing, because that always ends badly. I'm not saying Missouri is all that great, or that Kansas is really all that bad, but A) Johnson Country is not an accurate representation of Kansas, so don't claim KS-Pride if you're a JoCo fucker and B) don't shit on Missouri because we don't have the money for new cars and houses and expensive TVs and so on and so forth.

3) This should be up with point #1, but boy does it piss me off when people bring religion up as an attacking or defending mechanism.

So the last day of school was this past thursday... and what a glorious day it was. I specifically recal walking out of Mrs. McCoy's room for the last time, and seeing Mr. Steinberg there, just waving good-bye to kids as we left. I saw him, and he saw me. I looked him dead in the eye, threw up my arms, and screamed "wooooo!" and ran off as fast as I could. 20 feet and 1 flight of stairs later, I see Rachel The Kleminator walking down the math hall alone. Typically, I'd wait for her, and we'd highfive.

Today was special though.

I threw down my books and took off running straight at her. She did likewise, and we had the best colision/hug I think ever was or will be. I somehow got home, and Ethan gave me back the bowl, which'll stay here for a portion of the summer. Which reminds me, I need to take a picture of the bowl, so you can all see it and bask in it's majesty.

Now I'm going to do something I'm not in the habit of doing with the blog. For a brief moment I'm going to be somewhat serious. I had a sort of wake-up-call thing the other day and I realized for the past week/month I've been kind of a, well, let's try a complete asshole. If you fall into that aforementioned category of people who I've jacked with, allow me to apologize. I don't like being a fucker, and I promise not to make a habbit of it.

On a lighter note, I figured with sophmore year behind me, a retrospect is in order. This year I began things interestingly enough. The first school-written entry was [Love Missle F1-11]. What I'm going to do now is make commentary on my own writings, so for any of this to make sense, read the above entry first. Do it now. I mean it.

Hour 1: Chemistry
This was my last final, and to be perfectly honest, I was a little sad. Mrs. McCoy, while weird as hell, was actually not that bad. Her little quirks [random 'meow' noises... I'll be she was a cat in a past life] grew on me as the year progressed, and while I'm relieved I won't have to deal with her trying teaching methods, I'm going to miss the fun strangeness of it all [I swear, you'd never seen so many empty cans of quaker oatmeal in your life].

Hour 2: Scripture
I hate religion classes in general, because 1) I never get anything out of them and 2) even if I tried, there'd be nothing to get. First semester, Mr. Sailler made up for this. Second sem. though, Hashman did not. I went up to ask him a question during the final, and all I could do was stare at his hideous soulpatch and skimpy-ass sideburns. *shudder* I think the final verdict on Hashman was that he'd be an OK guy... were he not such a fucker.

Hour 3: German
Provencher started out cool, and then kinda turned evil. Then there was this whole big mess about him getting fired for sexual harassment blah blah blah. I figured whatever, I didn't really care for the guy that much anyway. But on the last day of school, I couldn't help thinking of poor Mr. Provencher. He doesn't seem like the kinda guy that goes out and parties on the weekends... his job's like all he has. So I flagged down my counseler and started telling her that he was really a good guy and doesn't deserve to be fired and stuff... she just kinda smiled at me and said he was coming back next year. I felt better about stuff, and went on my way...

Mark my words: you just know that one's going to come back and bite me in the ass. Hard.

Hour 4: English
This class made me realize I loathe the correct form the written word, hence why the Brak Blog comes complete with gramatical and spelling errors; two flavors for maximum displeasure. Edmonds did turn out to be kinda fun though, like McCoy. She's the kinda lady that if I lived down the street from, I'd go harass and demand lemonade from all the time.

Hour 5: World History
Not really any change here... I still get a kick out of knowing random factoids and having people stare at me with strange looks on their faces. I also get a kick out of Sullivan being a huge pinko.

Hour 6: Algebra II
I really just gave up and turned into a complete slob in this class... though it's not as if I had far to go. Math is only good for science. And science is only good for computers. And computers are only good for bringing me a constant source of porn.

Hour 7: Forensics
I bet I could be really good at this if I tried. Then again, I was never terribly good at the effort gig.

The music scene is still a mess, but I've developed a keener eye for finding what is good nowadays, as well as expanded my collection of what was totally kickin' way back when.

I actually had that radio idea again, independantly, forgetting that I'd written it down already. Sex ed is still lame. Funny story: "My parents think I'm planning on, or actually having, sex." Yeah... good one Tom, tell it again. I didn't go to the 70's mixer last year either...

Why?
Because the 80's were so much fucking better.

So passes yet another academic year.
One in which I've accomplished nothing but pissing more people off.

Same thing next year, cowboy.
I'll see you there.

As was prophesized by Tom at 06:20 PM CST
[Unique Link]


Thursday, May 20th

::The Brak Blog::

Mad World


Having been mildly smart, I had to take the PSAT a few months back. This translated later into the letting forth of a torrent of bullshit mail from universities I'd never want to go to ever. The mail gets divided up as follows:

Religious Oriented Schools: Shyeah. Right. Forward to trash.

Schools in the Deep South: I know it's not right that I threw these away, but if I'm gonna be stuck in college for the fuck of ever, I'm sure as hell not spending it in the swealtering heat of some conservative hotbed.

Schools I Can't Afford: Harvard, Yale... blah blah blah. I'm not going to pay tons of money every year to be made to cavort about in some insultingly lame suit and tie uniform thing. I spent 12 years doing that already. Or will have. In theory.

Schools With Crappy Names: You have a god damn college, and you name it something stupid like "Red Lands" or "Kettering"... any place lacking that much creativity would piss me off.

Schools I Wouldn't Mind Going To: Mostly Liberal Arts Colleges on the coasts... but damnit do I hate seafood...

All that being said, it should also be noted I have no idea what I want to do when I get into college, and that is a little scary. It's nice to know though that if I ever got down on my luck, I could always make it as a stand-up comic, right?

*Crickets*

I'm screwed...

On a related mail-note though, the University Missouri-Rolla will not stop sending me crap. It even has it's own pile now, the UMR pile. Just recently, I got another thing from them in the mail, but it was damaged. To notify me that this wasn't their fault at all, the United States Post Office put a little sticker on there telling me that it came jacked up.

[It Looks Like This]

I got to thinking, what if I had a ream of those stickers. I could read everyone's mail, and just check the "unsealed" box on the sticker, and they'd think nothing of it. OR you go to like... the CIA headquarters or something, and put it on important looking documents, so they think their secrets are all out now when they really aren't.

For your convenience, I've replicated the sticker for easy download. I'm sure this is some type of felony, so I don't really advocate it's use, but if you ever felt compelled, [knock yourself out].

I've also come to the realization that many of the things on this website might be incriminating to a great many people. I write about everything that happens to me, that's a simple fact. If you've ever gotten in trouble for something on account of this blog, then you should know two things:

1. I'm sorry for the inconveniance
2. But I gave you a loophole.

Scroll down to the bottom of the page, click the link labled 'Terms of Service'. If you read it carefully enough, it says in a nutshell that by reading the content on this website you agree not to use it as evidence in any way shape or form, and using it as proof is totally senseless, because all content on this website is to be regarded as scrictly fictitious.

There's also a masturbation joke in there, so you should read it for that too.

Last week Lizz and I were hellbent on doing something new for a change. A goal for a while had been to get onto the roof of a building, just for the cool feeling of being up all high and being outside or whatever. Turns out the roof to the free parking garage in crown center is really, really easy to get on top of, there's a ladder and everything.

It's about 4 or 5 stories, which is saying something, but I want more. I want to be like... 40 stories above the ground. I want to be so high up I could spit off the edge, and then jump after it, and race my own speeding bead of saliva to an all-to-abrut finish at the pavement. Yeah... that's be pretty neat.

Afterwards we hit the park as usual. However, instead of just sitting around and making fun of stupid people playing frisbee or urging small children to jump in the pond, something interesting actually happened. We were sitting on the bench doing nothing, when Lizz said she thought she saw a bird fly into the pond. And by bird we're not talking ducks and geese, but something more of a sparrow.

When we found it the poor thing was spazzing out, ramming the rock wall that made up the side of the pond just trying to keep afloat. Lizz pulled it out, and we put it on a rock in the sun so it's feathers would dry off. It was really kinda sad, cause the thing was all shivery and blinking its eyes at weird intervals and whatnot. I was pretty sure it was a gonner.

So we just sat for a while and watched the thing, coming to the conclusion that it was a baby bird, and that's why it'd fallen into the water and was probably going to die and stuff. After a bit we just walked away for a while, and then we left, but not before stopping to check on the bird one more time.

It was still all shivery and pathetic looking, but I wanted feel what it felt like one more time, because normally birds are to fast and you never get the chance. Just as I'm reaching over, and Lizz begins to scold me for pestering it, it chirps really loud and hops away. I guess it was ok then, so we left. This was my good-vibes animal-humanist moment for the year.

oh fucking hell.
I got up to get the cordless phone for the next segment about the battery in the phone, and I somehow got disoriented and slammed my bare foot into the banister... there was definatly a sickening crunch as I straightened out my mangled foot-digits. Ow...

I still, however, refuse to wear shoes.
Hence the gaint calouses on my feet.
My goal is to get the entire foot so worn down that I no longer need shoes any more. That'd be pretty damn convenient.

I was hanging out with Lizz and some of her friends last weekend, and they decided we had to go see the end of this band's set at some coffee house. "Whatever," I say. I'm always open to a good session of rocking out. However, this was not to be...

As we approached the coffee place, I instinctively had a bad feeling. "What's the name of this band again?" I ask. They're called 'The Raging Hormones'. This does not bode well... Neither does the vision of a small coffee place, maybe 40 sq. feet of floorspace, crampacked with people skanking. I can't even hear the music at this point, but I know it's going to be bad.

We pull up, and go in. At this moment, the book "Stranger in a Strange Land" came to mind, because that's what I was. So many snooty rich kansas kids... all getting to excited over a medeocre ska band. It was like a scene from a crime drama, except without the proceeding pipebomb explosion from the bathroom.

I would have taken the pipebomb to what came next. "Gee Tom," you might ask, "What could be worse than getting the shit blown out of yourself by a pipebomb?" I'll tell you in one word: Schupener. He's this little fucker from one of the Shawnee Mission schools that thinks he's friends with some people on the Miege squad. Believe me, he isn't.

This isn't like school-debate-rivalry-bullshit, Schupener is just an asshole. So seeing him at the place full of people I probably wouldn't get along with, listening to music I really don't care for, was an unfortunate sequence of events.

At least the pipebomb would have stopped the music.

Anyway... back to my battery story that was so rudely interrupted by the crippling of my left foot: I was examining the cordless phone last night and I noted one of the stupidest warning lables of all time:

"DO NOT BURN OR PUNCTURE
BATTERY. LIKE OTHER BATTERIES
OF THIS TYPE, IF IT IS BURNED OR
PUNCTURED, IT OCULD RELEASE
TOXIC MATERIAL, WHICH MAY
CAUSE INJURY."

The image that this evokes is some stupid redneck community burning their garbage back in the 1960s and they throw in some old batteries and an explosion follows. That's reason number one why we shouldn't have warning lables: because trash-burning-explosions are awesome. Reason number two being that anyone stupid enough to puncture/burn a battery deserves, on the grounds of natural selection, the ensuing chemical burn; at that point, they've fucking earned it.

I also like how the warning-writers were so cautious with their wording. "COULD RELEASE TOXIC MATERIAL, WHICH MAY CAUSE INJURY." With odds like that, I think I'll take my chances. Hell, I could shoot a hole in the thing, and according to the warning it could possibly not release anything at all, and even if it did, that stuff might not even cause injury! According to that, the odds are one in three that you'll get hurt. Look at the possibilities, from best to worst:

Toxic material not released, therein no injury is possible.
Toxic material is released, but it does not cause injury.
Toxic material is released, and you get the shit burnt out of you. Bummer.

Hell I might even write the bastards...
Sanyo Energy (U.S.A.) Corporation
2055 Sanyo Ave.
San Diego, CA 92173

Dear Sanyo Energy Corp. of America,

A better warning lable would be:
"TOXIC SHIT WITHIN.
OPEN AT OWN RISK.
GAURENTEED EXPLOSIONS
FOR TEMPRETURES
EXCEEDING 456 DEGREES."

Almost as good as that lable is the one on the battery cover of the phone, which reads "IMPORTANT: The handset battery MUST be installed and charged prior to use." Thanks for the heads up guys... BECAUSE THERE ARE SO MANY CORDLESS PHONES THAT RUN WITHOUT ELEC-FUCKING-TRICITY. Geez...

That's all for this week. The next blog you read will be the first official blog of the summer, and we're kicking it off with my very own presidential campaign... because god knows there isn't anyone else qualified enough for the job.

Were I to ever get in a duel
-which cowboys frequently do-
I'd want to duel on top of a building

As was prophesized by Tom at 06:14 PM CST
[Unique Link]


Thursday, May 13th

::The Brak Blog::

Playground Love


So as of right now I'm printing off all 33 pages of [The Numbers]. To fill the time I decided I should probably get around to writing an entry.

So I know you're all hanging in suspense as to how last week's espisode was going to turn out with the play and all. Well, I'll tell you here and now it sucked. Cues were missed, lines were forgotten, and Daschel would not turn off THAT GOD DAMN SPOTLIGHT. Grrr. I was frustrated because I know that with an extra 2 days I could have done a better job by tenfold.

Whatever though. I got 23 service hours out of the deal, all just for me to play with some switches and buttons. Fwee.

Last weekend Lizz and I comandeered the tower in Shawnee Mission Park. That's right, they have a tower. Were a spontaneous war to suddenly break out, and I was forced to revert to gurilla tactics, I'd hole up inside of this thing with explosives and sharp objects. It's all fortressy and 3 stories high and it sways when other people are walking up the stairs. It's also very, very windy, and home to lots of graffitti. My favorite is the *Ronaldo y Rosa 4ever* inside of a heart. Not only does it use the spanish article for and, but it then spontaneously shifts not just to english, but to internet-lingo/slang-english.

And that's not something you see every day. From up there we saw this one biker chick who pulled up to the base of the tower, and just hung out. A biker guy showed up later, and after what we assumed to be a transaction of money in exchange for drugs/sex, they both took off.

Minutes later another biker guy showed up, we suspected, for a similar deal. Except nobody else came for Biker #2. He was getting ready to leave, and we waved jokingly. He saw us and waved back. It was a moment. Oh-!

Just seconds ago the full copy of The Numbers finished printing. All 33 pages of it. It's coming with me to school tomorrow, for the sole purpose and bemusement of myself. I'll spend all period just pouring over them, and when asked what I'm looking at, I'll snap

"HAVEN'T YOU SEEN THESE NUMBERS?! DON'T YOU UNDERSTAND WHAT THIS MEANS?!"

The looks I'm going to get will be Polaroid-Deserving [and not many things are worth a Polaroid, being that Polaroid is run by Nazis and charges fucking millions for a pack of film]. Some other fun options are just leaving it in random places, letting people think what they may.

It'd be worth printing off and binding a whole 'nother set just to leave it on the shelves of the media center with the following message:

"To the Finder:

I finall cracked the secret Soviet code. For years and years I've studied their signals, and I finally decrypted the transmissions. I've enclosed all the necssicary materials to decode any more intercepted messages in the form of this chart.

These 33 pages hold the key to unlocking the mystery of the SSMDS, or the Secret Soviet Missile Defense System. My life has run too short, but please get this to the nearest branch of a Federal Information Agency, lest time run out and all my efforts be in vain.

-Randolf Sivotral
Stalingrad, 1982"

How kickass would that be? Very, I think. Perhaps I'm having to much fun with the numbers... but perhaps not. Besides, how many people do you know who can continue to find interesting uses for a 33 page encoded RNA Polymereas?

Back to my earlier story though, after our moment with the biker, some random family decided to have a fscking party on top of my Gurilla Tower of Doom [it's emergency code name]. Lizz and I left after this, but on our way out of the park, we ran into our old friend Biker #2! He pulled in front of us and went really slow all the way out of the park... and Shawnee Mission Park is pretty big. This would even be one thing, because Lizz and I started with our usual shouting of profanity and insults for the slow-goer, but it was made especially bad by his turn signal.

Normally turn signals are a good thing, they let other people know what's going on, and they protect you on the road legally and stuff, so good vibes all around. Unless you're the stupid biker man and you leave the god damn turn signal on for 5 miles! He had his right signals on for 3 miles, then we got to an intersection, and it changed to the left. Then he went straight! So after another 2 miles of blinking agravation, he finally turns for real. We finished off whatever string of curses we were on, and both get kinda quiet and look at eachother.

"That guy was a major dick... with the turn signal and all."
"No kidding."
"But you know... I still-"
"Kinda liked him?"
"Yeah..."

So we came to the conclusion that though Biker #2 was slow and stupid with the turn signal, we still really liked him and he's mondo cool.

A few months ago my sister decided that my section of the bathroom wasn't organized enough for her liking. To solve this problem she found a little tiny cardboard cup thing... I don't know what else to call it: [Think a cup, make from really thin particle board]. In any case, to encourage me to use this think to keep all my stuff in [meds, hair brush, whatever], she glued picture of all of my favorite stuff on there so I'd deem it cool or whatever.

Case in point: The Cup is Awesome. It features: "Cowboy Bebop, Cake's Fashion Nugget, A Cup of Ramen Noodles, Brak, White Cheddar Cheese Cheeze-Its, and OddTodd." These are a few of my favorite things. It got me to thinkin' though, about how that totally does nail exactly who I am. Food, Music, and Cartoons. That's me in a nutshell.

Except it's not a nutshell, that's who I am. Anything else is merely an extrapolation of one of those key features. It kinda bummed me out then though, that all my modivations and hopes and dreams [what's left of them anyway] are based on Cartoons, Music, or to a lesser extent, Food. But then I realized it could be a lot worse; look at the other combinations

Sex, Drugs, Shitty Music
School, Homework, Masturbation
Republicanism, Religions Extremeism, [Pick the other most shit-riffic ISM]
Being Popular [No room for anything else]
Drinking, Porn, Smoking

I mean come on, of all the thousands of elements I could be based off of, I think I came out releatively well off, compared to some of the other options. If you have a particularly good or especially bad combination yourself, drop it by in comment form. [Which nobody will, because those of you who do read this don't care enough to play along, which is cool.]

My birthday was 3 days ago, and it was perhaps one of the coolest birthdays I've ever had. First things first, let's cronicle the shit people gave me.

Rough Night in Jericho- Ethan claims to have boughten this movie purely on account of the name, but after carefull viewage by me and Lizz, we've decided he's a closet Western fan. And this movie also sucked major, no thanks to Ex-Deputy U.S. Marshal Dolan AKA I HAVE THE LONGEST FUCKING TITLE IN THE WORLD...

I'm Giving You a No-Honk Gaurentee- A most excellent mix, props for this one going to Matt Jenkins.

Ride 'em Cowboy Pinball- Why Lizz's mom felt obligated to get me something is beyond me, but it is in fact a pinball game with a cowboy theme. It currently beats out 3-D Pong for "Worlds Most Able Game at Pissing Tom Off", so subsequently I play it all the time.

Ben Folds CD- Laura Thomas supplied some Ben Folds goodness. I could rock suburbs if I tried.

Breakfast Club Theatrical Poster- Ethan redeems himself after the Rough Night He Had in Jericho with this totally awesome poster. Mom said she'd take it to be framed and all that jazz, and it's going to hang with all its majesty right next to my bed. "Here's my impression of life at Big Bri's house..."

Sex, Brains, & Star Wars- Yet another totally awesome mix, featuring 'Stairway To Heaven', which I'm finally not denied, thanks to Rachel Klem.

The title of her mix reminded me of when Tim and I were doing tech for the Vis play, and this asshold Kieth Gard comes up and starts talking to us. We talk about how the school spent so much money on buying the Hollywood rights to such a shitty play. I suggest that if they're going to spring for something big and expensive, they should at least get their money's worth, and get something bitchin', like 'Star Wars'. I mean come on, who wouldn't go see the stage production of the greatest movie of all time?

Anyway, Tim agrees, and ol' Keith says to us "You know... that's why you guys are here doing tech stuff, and not out on dates tonight. That Star Wars thing... it'll always get you..." KEITH GARD CAN GO SUCK A FUCK, AND I MEAN IT. You do not insult the Star Wars ever. Besides, I could never love a woman who doesn't recognize AWESOME when she sees it. Or even if she didn't like it, you don't insult it for god's sake, it's like the Holy Grail of EXCELLENT.

Skinny Black Tie- In some sudden freak accident of good will, Lizz decided to get me a thin black tie since I've wanted for like the fuck of ever. She found, like I did, that procuring one of these is impossible. For some reason no one makes them. So she made one, out of like tie-material or whatever an all that. It's totally rockin' and I'm just pissed forensics/debate is over so I no longer have an excuse to wear it.

I suddenly remember that my sister's 8th grade graduation is coming up, something I should get dressed up for. A very opportune point to test out the grade of awesome of the skinny black tie, which I've already ascertained to be a perfect 15 on the Awesome Scale.

Bowie Tickets- My parents bought me tickets to go see David Bowie in concert. Bowie. Live. *Joygasm* It was un-fucking-real. Noteable songs played were: "Rebel Rebel, Fashion, Little China Girl, The Man Who Sold The World, Heroes, Ashes to Ashes, and of course... Ziggy Stardust." I got a T-Shirt and a button and it was possibly the best day of my entire life. For Serious Dudes. [Note: The coolness was upped times 80 because the 'rents stayed home and I took friends. Sometimes they can be cool, those parentals...]

The other night I was really, really bored, and I made the mistake of clicking onto the "One Tree Hill Season Finale" ad on AIM... Why I don't recall. The site itself uninterested me, but my eye caught a link to the 7th Heaven page. 7th Heaven [also known as the show that presents unsurpassable drama in the first 23 seconds and magically solves it with the remainder of the hour] sucks totally and completely. I noticed there was a comment forum, so I felt inclined [to do my worst]. Look for the May 11th Entry.

Porn, Drugs, Homework...
A Cowboy craves not these things;
Only with Food, Music, and Cartoons,
A Cowboy will you be...

As was prophesized by Tom at 11:14 PM CST
[Unique Link]


Thursday, May 6th

::The Brak Blog::

Bowl of Oranges


As of late, shit has been hitting the fan like no other. I got all uppity and thought I was pretty cool for posting 2 blogs in one week, and then I go a whole nine days of nothing. Case in point: I'm lame.

Let me bring you up to speed as to what's kept me so busy:

Visitiation School Play- I did tech for all 4 Vis plays we had during my Jr. High years, I was the light man. I kicked ass at my job, but was mostly just glad I got out of class to play with a bunch of switches. Anyway, a few weeks ago my sister tells me that Vis is desparate for tech people, because last year's 8th grade didn't teach this year's 8th grade how to run any of the equipment. Fuckers.

Why are they fuckers, you might ask. I'll tell you: Because they made more work for me. So now I've had to haul my ass down there every day after school for the past 2 weeks and work lights for this crap-riffic play. The new kids they've got to help us are annoying as hell, and just in a more general sense, I'm doubting that the entire ordeal will end without a violent outburst from me.

There is a plus side though: I got them to let Dixon do sound. During the golden age of Tech, Tim was on sound, I was on lights, and we did Groovy: A play about the awesomeness of the 70's. Regardless, it was good to have someone around whose head wasn't up their ass. Secondly, I've been getting service hours out the wazoo, which means I actually get to graduate. [Not that I'm terribly excited for another year of highschool, but getting held back sure would suck.] We also get to boss around the abnoxious little terds that help us out.

John Smith- I think that's his name. That's what I call him anyway. He helps me with light, and is also kind of a total spaz. He gets all uppity and shit, but he's really helpful, so I don't hold it against him.

Daschel- Operates the spot. He's all spastic too though, so he's constnatly turning the spotlight on when it isn't needed, and when it is, he uses random and unnessicary color gels... I've threatened to stab him in the neck with a pencil numerous times.

Elsey- Her real name is Kelsey. One time I accidentally called her Chelsey, and she got all pissy, so I said "fuck it. You get NO prefix on your name. Now you're just Elsey." She's really uptight like John, but with Ishmael and Ross [directors of the play] bitching her out every 20 minutes, you can't really blame the kid.

Anyway, the play is going to suck, but there will be Van Hellsing action afterward, so it all evens out. Onward with crap that's keeping me busy.

Failing Honors Allgebra II- Actually the failing was easy. It's the Not Failing that's been taking up so much time. I've lowered myself to actually staying awake through classes and doing homework assignments. Passing with any sort of low B at this point would be something of a miracle.

Looking for a Job- My parents have been really getting on my case about this. I really do plan to get a job... eventually. I just really don't want to bag groceries or work with food of any kind. They tell me the money's good, but I don't give a shit. I'd sooner be poorer than dirt with an enjoyable job than all pissy 24/7 and have lots of money.

A while ago, Lizz and I were milling around Loose Park like we always do, and we see this random guy throwing ropes into trees. He was like weighting them and acting like an Indiana-Jones-Wannabe by swirling them real fast and throwing it up into the tree. Upon closer inspection, we noticed that he had constructed a small platform, suspended by one of the ropes he got up into the tree.

As we crept closer and closer, curiostiy all buzzing and stuff, the guy waves all crazy like for us to come over. We walk over to him, not knowing at all what to expect, and he starts telling us about his swing. Swing? You mean the platform-string-deally? Yes. Turns out it's a little trampoline suspended from the tree by mountain climbing gear. He had it set up so no matter how you swung it, you couldn't hurt yourself, which comforted me as I got on it and Lizz swung me around like the psycho she is.

It was very cool, and I hope we meet Swing Man again. Anyone who goes to parks and sets up swings for his own personal enjoyment is excellent in my book.

I was watching TV a while ago and I saw a commercial for Kitchen Fresh Chicken. I laughed to myself, realizing that they'd totally ripped off the acronym for Kentucky Fried Chicken, or KFC. Come to find out, the commercial is about KFC, as in the chicken place, they just changed the the KF meant. That really weirded me out, because for a second I got freaked out that maybe it'd always been Kitchen Fresh and I was just some crazy weirdo who made up a fried chicken company.

Fortunatly, this is not the case, but I'm still a little creeped out. This is vaguely 1984-ish, changing ones motto and pretending I'd been that way since the dawn of time. Next thing you know, Pepsi will be called Coke, and there'll be no such thing as Vietnam. 2+2 will equal 5, and we'll all be willing so sacrifice our lives for the All-Knowing Donald "Big Brother" Rumsfield.

Scary thought, isn't it?

We went to the Brookside Art Fair after State Fest/Champs, to see what there was to see. We made the mistake of bringing along Kate, the worlds biggest art critic, who has something to say about everything. Kate is all HighAndMighty to art just like Ethan is all HighAndMighty to music; no wonder they get along so well. Anyway, we just browsed through most of the exhibits, skipping the jewlery & clothing because jewlery & clothing aren't art... morons. I remember one painting in particular though; It was of Thoreau being chased out of the woods by a characterized picture of Nature. This seemed appropriate for Mrs. Edmonds, who has this freakish obsession with 'Henry David'. Too bad she's not a little older, they would have gotten along well.

After I got back from the Art Fair I turned on the TV to just hang out and eat popcorn and be lazy. This was a big mistake. 5 minutes after I run out of popcorn, I'm out like a light. I wake up, the taste of popcorn curnells in my mouth all gross, and every inch of me aching. Note to self: Do not sleep on the couch.

The next day, I get home late. Turn on the TV to watch some Comedy Central Stand-Up and eat some chips. I wake up on the couch again, very, very pissed. Why I won't just go upstairs and sleep in my bed, I do not know. I figure it's good practice though, being as were I ever to be married, I'd be spending 4 out of 5 Business Nights on the couch...

Random Though: EMO children! Quit your bitching. EMO is only for people who lack the ability to improve their situation. If you can't do that, you might as well stop crying and jump off a cliff, 'cause it's not going to get any better until you put on a pair of real glasses, wash your damn sweater, and get a job/some friends.

I was searching for a lyric to a song that I couldn't remember the title of the other day... I never did find the song, but I did find [This Weird RNA Stuff]. I saw it and started to wonder maybe these people at these universities are really doing all kinds of crazy exspirements on people, and making super-humans and stuff, and it's all on the internet for people to see, but no one understands it.

I'm convinced that I've inadvertently stumbled onto one of these sites. I took the liberty of printing some of that document off, but it's 33 pages long and ink is expensive. I've got the first 5 though, and I'm going to try and break their secret code because finding out a conspiracy about university-made super-humans would be totally bitchin'. In all practicallity, I'm doubting that's ever going to happen, but having random pages full of seemingly random numbers can make for all kinds of fun. Like:

Attaching a sheet of it to your resume. They'd never know what to think.

Walking up to someone on the street and ask them to read the whole thing to you because you lost your glasses.

Pretend you're Richard Dreyfus from Close Encounters of the Third Kind run around insanely screaming: "This means something! This is important!"

Road trip to the college it came from. I checked and it's the University of Washington in St. Louis. We could totally show up there and be all "WTF?^^ Mates!"

Seriously, I feel important just holding them. I recomend everyone print of a page or two, and leave them in random places, just for the sake of confusing others.

Does anyone remember that show "The Weakest Link"? Of course you don't because it sucked major. I was just thinking about that the other day, and it's the first show I specifically recall coming into existance, being hated, and dying, all complete and stuff. Even though I despised the program, witnessing the miracle of life in the TV industry was kinda cool.

Freedom is slavery.
Conservatives are morons.
Cowboys kick total ass.

As was prophesized by Tom at 05:54 PM CST
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