I've Rolled Up My Sleeves, I'm Plotting A Course Through Deep Green Sea, The Waves Crash And I Shake My Knees, They Won't Hold Me Back

--"Ivy On Stone", Pinewood Derby


Back at St. Rita's it was a rite of passage to visit the Queen Mary once you entered the Sixth Grade. It wasn't anything special, but in those days and field trip was a good field trip if it placed you miles away from class and yet another boring lecture, so I looked forward to it with all the usual expectations and excitement. I remember telling my friends how cool it was going to be because, being a fan of the ghost stories even then and hearing all the stories about how the Queen Mary was haunted, I was expecting to do a little bit of ghost-hunting while we were touring the ship. Of course, inside, I was scared stiff of actually bumping into one, but I wasn't about to let on to that tidbit. Outside, I was all gung ho to shake hands with an unholy specter.

The time on the ship, unfortunately (or fortunately) passed without incident. I am relieved to say that I never did see a ghost in our two hours on the ship. The closest I came to seeing a scary figure was spying on the ungodly sight of a forty-year-old woman trying to squeeze into the jean skirt and halter top of a twenty-year-old. I didn't care about the history of the floating memorial. I didn't care about the nostalgia that it invoked in everyone over a certain age. I didn't even care that it held a rather tasty cafe on one of its floors. All through lunch I kept telling my friends how disappointed I was. To be fair, they'd wanted to see something, anything, as much as I did, but the whole ghosthunting notion was my baby. And, at that point, it seemed like my baby had just perished. Even during the walk off the ship and back to the bus, I kept hoping that I'd see something I could report back to my brother. I wanted to tell him that I'd actually succeeded in viewing the paranormal because I'd scared him as much as myself with all the collections of ghost stories I'd gathered.

Years later, when I wanted something to get a reaction out of Sniffler when I saw her at church, I actually relayed that on that particular ship I'd honestly bumped into a spook. I'd been dying to say something, anything to her and telling her that I engaged in chatting up some specter--I don't know--seemed to be a rather impressive anecdote to relay to her. Now I see that it was yet another symptom of my disease of spinning yarns to get a reaction out of people.

However, the day was salvaged when it turned out that our trip had actually been ahead of schedule and we weren't due back to school for another two hours. That's when the teachers decided that a small train trip from Long Beach Harbor to Terminal Island wouldn't be too time-consuming. Besides, they told us, for some of us it would be our first train trip anywhere, which was enough to pique my interest.

We piled onto the train. I, of course, was unable to sit near any of the girls I liked. Even back then, I always thought of trains as being the most romantic means of transportation. I always envisioned having these meaningful conversations that would totally impress the girl of my dreams. I suppose you could say a great deal of my formative years were geared towards the notion of impressing my ideal of the girl next door and, ultimately, failing miserably. That idea, piled upon my earlier disappointment with not finding the ghost on the ship, seemed to invoke a melancholia that was plainly seen by everyone on the train with me. It's not that I didn't enjoy the scenery of the couple of miles we rode the local amtrak. It's just that the funk the idea of facing a future where all I faced was disappointment seemed very bleak to me.

I know it's not par for the course for a sixth grader to be dwelling on such thoughts. I blame it on my parents. They instilled a sense of dread about my future that I've never quite been able to shake. They always reminded me that the present wasn't so much about living for today as planning for the future. It's because of that idea that I don't think I really started living my life correctly until I was out on my own.

It wasn't until the train stopped and we disembarked on a desolate stretch of dirt next to a small train stop that I saw something which snapped me out of my gloom. There, beneath the foggy sky and overshadowing our whole group, I saw the bridge that would inspire many short stories to come. It was a bridge that arched seemingly into oblivion. Covered in mist and standing higher than I'd seen any roadway stand before, I honestly thought it was a bridge which led a ridiculous distance away.

"Does that bridge go all the way to Hawaii?" I asked my friends and eventually my teacher. I know she was merely fooling me, but when my teacher said that the bridge, indeed, spanned the thousands of miles to our fiftieth state I just about fainted in awe. To think that a bridge could go so far made my imagination immediately start racing.

I became determined right then and there, that wherever that bridge led, I would have to cross it sometime in my life. Part of me knew that it wouldn't go all the way to Hawaii, but another part of me kept reminding me how righteous it would be if did, in fact, go all the way there. At that point, standing there with all my elementary school friends, I didn't care. I knew that bridge led somewhere awesome. I just knew it. And wherever that place was was somewhere I wanted to eventually end up at. For me, that bridge became sort of a symbol for the future. The fact I couldn't see where the road would end only served to make it all the more enticing.

The whole bus ride home I began concocting scenarios on how I'd eventually make it across that bridge. I never stopped concocting until I'd finally crossed it. Even then I knew my future, with all its prospects and opportunities, lay on the other side.

----

Yesterday, in truth, was the first time I'd actually driven myself all the way across the bridge. I was right, my future was entwined in my completion of that journey across the bridge. You see, that bridge, the Thomas Vincent Bridge, leads directly from Long Beach where the Queen Mary is docked to San Pedro, and eventually to Harbor City, where I now currently reside.


it's like you're 12 years old, and what if I am?

It may have taken awhile, but I've finally arrived at my future.

Yours Swimmingly,
mojo shivers

Five hundred, twenty-five thousand, six hundred minutes...

Okay, so considering this hot humid weather, this isn't exactly Seasons of Love. But I just saw the movie Rent last night and it got me thinking about how much I really didn't appreciate the musical. Probably because Doogie Howser was playing the lead... but anyway, aside from the good music the movie brings up a good point about the dynamic of a group of friends.

At first I thought it was don't kill the gay guy because he's the life of the party and no one will be happy once he's gone. But given more thought, I think the story of Rent shows that even though friends bicker and fight with each other, they're still friends in the end... no matter how F-ed up they are personally.

What's weird is that same day, I had lunch with two friends who said we need some new people in the group. Some new blood. Fresh meat. And considering all the sausage we have already, people with vaginal capabilities. I guess basically that even though we're all friends, most of us annoy the hell out of each other.

So here's my attempt at a solution. Read on...

http://losangeles.craigslist.org/sgv/stp/175709617.html

They Know My Weaknesses, I Never Tried To Hide Them, They Know My Weaknesses, I Never Denied Them

--"The Things You Said", Depeche Mode

Recently I broke my glasses or, more precisely, I managed to lose one half of them. This prompted the need to get my eyes checked and for a new pair to be ordered. What it also prompted was an impromptu evaluation that, as a specimen for the human race, I suffer interminably from deficiencies too numerous to even catalog. In the mad dash to just make it through the day sometimes I forget that I'm not exactly running at 100% these days (if I ever was truly running at such condition in the first place). I forget that I cannot do everything my heart desires and that there are certain physical feats that are just beyond my range of ability. Vision is merely the tip of the mojo iceberg.

It was funny--when I was a kid I used to think that I possessed extra-sensitive hearing to make up for my lack of ability to smell. I remember standing out in my parents' backyard, imagining I could hear birds ten miles away or that I could piece together conversations my neighbors were having in their homes behind closed windows. All the television and movie characters spouting the ineffable logic that, when an individual loses one sense, another gets heightened to make up for it had me believing that I could soon parlay my amazingly uncanny hearing into a superhero career. What kind of hero merely relies on hearing to save the day? That much I hadn't figure out, but I knew I'd eventually be slugging it out with criminals one day. Then, when, many years later, my eye doctor told me that I was a tad near-sighted in my left eye and that, when driving or working around computers, I'd have to utilize glasses, I began to wonder what skill or talent I'd pick up in compensation.

That's the way my mind works. In fact, that's the way I create characters, as if they were superheroes--chock full of supernatural ablities and perks, yet balanced by severe drawbacks. I even go through the effort of filling out a mock dossier I gleaned from a superhero role-playing game I used to play in high school. Not only does it list the physical attributes--height, weight, and the usual suspects--but it actually provides space for special powers and talents, fleshed out to such a degree that it cultivates some original ideas I would have never had, had I not gone through the trouble of filling out the form in earnest. Nominally, I'd fill it out with "real" powers when I used to write the superhero short stories of my youth. Lately, however, I've taken to placing the noble qualities and characteristics that the characters exhibit because, as cool as phasing and desolidification are, I think the ability to treat women like a gentleman and knows when to be gracious are just as awe-inspiring qualities to have. However, where I truly get to the meat of a character is when I start imagining their flaws. Nothing really points to the humanity of an individual as seeing them at their worst or most frightened. Not everyone knows what it's like to be Superman saving the day, but everyone of us knows what it feels like to be awkward Clark.

Like I said, it's not that I think myself perfect. Impeccable is not a word that springs to mind when I take stock of myself. I just forget that I have weaknesses. I forget that the last time I saw a gym was back in March. I forget that I don't exactly have the best track record in staying on my friends' good sides. I forget that every woman I've ever liked has been the wrong kind of woman or, at the very least, has landed me in a heap of trouble. I forget that I shouldn't be driving anywhere after seven without my trusty specs.

Of course, when it comes to patting myself on the back I'm the first in line.

It takes times like this, when I realize what an imperfect and stupid fool I am, to bring me back to Earth. Times like this I realize I get by, not because of those areas I think I excel in, because I'm sure there are other individuals much more talented in those areas than myself. I get by because, despite my shortcomings, I manage to persevere through. Everyone has qualities ugly and twisted, has deficiencies glaring, has moments they are not proud of. Everyone experiences doubts that who they are as a person isn't going to pass muster when the time comes. It's the people who rattle and hum on anyway that are happiest. Everyone can have a good day or two. It's the people who know how to string together bad day after next, and still manage a smile that are the most admirable.

"The Dude abides. I don't know about you but I take comfort in that."

Yours Swimmingly,
mojo shivers

La La La La...

I wasn't as fortunate as most of the kids I grew up with. Most of them had parents who supported them and told them they're capable of anything. My parents on the other hand were too busy beating me down for getting a B+ on that math quiz or missing the shot in the big soccer game. I tried a lot of different things, kids should do but since I was never the best, my parents' non-direct statements of, "You big fat loser! I want a blood test to see if you're really my son...” kind of had a negative effect on me.

So here I am two decades or so later. I've become a cocky asshole when it comes to certain attributes my parents couldn't beat out of me like video games and... Well that's all I can think of right now. But seeing where my life and career have been heading in the past five years, I've been trying to get better in the arts. Specifically this time, my current creative projects have forced me to write lyrics for a couple of songs.

Why you ask? Well I can't say just yet because I don't want to jinx this project. Usually I start crap and never finish it because 1) I'm too damn lazy and would rather drink myself stupid with my friends and get shot down by some chick who would look incredibly unattractive under regular daytime sunlight, or 2) The tears of failure and insecurity that my parents have embedded into my way of thinking have made it very hard to see my screen and see what I'm typing.

So yeah, don't ask unless I've told you already. Sssshhh! So anyway, this thing I'm working on has actually gone further than anything else I've started so far. And I've come to a point to where I need write two songs. But not just any songs, they have to be tied into this theme. And right now I'm struggling. If you've been reading this blog, then you must already know I'm not exactly the smoothest person with words. Like last Saturday when I tried to say something to the hot chick at the gym.

Fob: *stares at hot chick in the corner for hours until finally having the courage to say something* "Um... so... w-w-w-will... I..."
Hot chick: "Excuse me!!!"
Fob: "S-s-s-s-orry... B-b-b-but w-w-w-will I be in y-y-y-your way if I work out h-h-h-here."
Hot chick: "No... go ahead" *finishes work out quickly and moves to other side of gym*
Fob: *finishes workout and goes home to cry himself to sleep*

It's not exactly radio DJ material if you know what I mean. I've always had a hard time picking my words whether it be spoken or written. Take for instance this blog entry. I actually started writing this entry 13 years ago and just finished spell checking it.

I'm just slow like that. And this is something not that serious. For me to even attempt to try and write lyrics for a song is very brave/stupid of me. So I may be in a delusional state and think I'm capable of such crazy things. But f*ck it! I might as well be a failure at as many talents as possible…

It's All Cool Y'know Cos' We're Like Adventurers, We Are Adventuring, We Are Adventurers, We've Been To Every Place Anywhere In The World

--"Adventure", Be Your Own PET

Originally, I was going to write this post in a straight-forward fashion--well, straight-forward for me at least. I was going to start this post with how I was chatting briefly with my friend Carly and how we touched on why change is good, why staying in the same place is bad, and the usual rigamorale about how nothing endures but change. Blah, blah, blah. I mean--it isn't like I don't have a lot of ideas centering around this facet of life. It's just that try as I might I couldn't conceive of a way to make my thoughts on the matter the least bit interesting. What I ran into is the idea that I was writing about a topic so universally true that I don't think I could have added anything worthwhile to the discussion. It'd be like me starting off a post with this gem, "so what about that gravity, huh? That's some crazy, scientific law at work." Writing about change even sounds boring to me.

However, writing about videos where humans dressed up as bunnies get shot and eaten for dinner is right up my alley.

It's kind of funny but the video above is actually what got me ruminating about this whole topic of change in the first place. What, with the move and all, I had been attempting to classify what exactly this new chapter in my life is. It wasn't like a new beginning. It wasn't like a new hope for the future.

That's when I saw "Adventure" by Be Your Own PET while in the midst of doing a search for the band on YouTube. It was kind of decided for me that that was what I'd call my time living mere miles from the ocean, away from the valley, away from most of my well-known family and friends. Most importantly, it's kind of adventuresome to decide to room with someone I barely met a month ago for a whole year. I've roomed with people I've known for years. I've roomed with people I've even known all my life. To think that I could pack up all my things and share it with a newly christened roommate is a lot scary. But I've always prided myself on being remarkably impulsive. I've flown to places halfway across the country on a day's notice. I've driven eight hours away just because I was bored. And, yes, I've even met, talked to, had lunch with, went back to her place with, fought with, and broke up with someone all in the same day. However, I've never made a choice to attempt to get along with somebody for a whole year that I didn't have a vested interest in.

If that isn't an adventure tantamount to hunting wild human/bunny hybrids then I don't know what is.

But, again, this is not the post where I'm going to write about all that.

This is the post where I tell you how my illogical mind connects up all the random stuff I encounter. This is the post where I tell you that this silly, silly video has been stuck in my mind for the last couple of days. I'm a big fan of Be Your Own PET and a lot of it has to do with the fact that, from their songwriting to their videos, they do a lot of their work off-the-cuff. There's, dare I say, an edge to everything that they do that's raw and kind of haphazard. It makes for some unpolished, yet amazingly original material. They're not worried about how smooth something sounds or that the subject of their songs aren't these life-or-death dilemmas. They're just worried that everything they do speaks about them, about what they are, and what they do.

It's this facet, as well as the striking downer of an image at the video's end, that got me jumbled all up inside. That is how, when Carly mentioned that she was looking forward to what a new school and new surroundings bring, my advice suddenly turned to the aggresively impulsive variety. In the vein of the band's ethos, I told her that it's only with constant movement that we truly learn how to live and that, if we ever stop moving, we slowly die inside. I truly believe that. I know BYOP does too. I know this because I've been on both sides of the tide. I've been in situations where I jumped in with both feet with no parachute and blindfolded. I've been in situations where I waited too long or sat by idly for longer than I should have as well. Being in both circumstances has led me to believe that I've always benefitted more from not thinking too much about what I'm doing and just go with the flow. When I look back at all the decisions I've made in my life, it has always been the times I didn't look before I leaped that I've always been pleasantly surprised.

But, again, I don't want to talk about that.

Having had that mini-chat with her, it came time for me to write up this post. As aforementioned, I was going to just relay the events as they happened. I had this framework all mapped out where I'd tell you about the conversation, then I'd cue the layered harp music, and flashback to the butterflies in my stomach when I realized I was basically agreeing to put a year of my life as a wager against my future happiness. That's how I normally do things. But then I got to thinking that, whatever the topic I write about, it always starts with music. That's what I wanted to reveal a bit about. People constantly ask me if I arbitrarily decide what lyric I choose to title my pieces with. Sometimes, but most of the time it's thinking about how a particular song has affected me or initiated the brainstorming process that allows me to post extensively about my life. Listenting to music, dissecting lyrics, is the catalyst by which a lot of my creative process is allowed to happen. It's the same with Breanne. We're kindred spirits like that.

Most of the time it's the lyrics that gets me thinking.

However, with "Adventure", the actual philosophy of the band figured in a lot of what this post would be about.

Because, like all changes in life, writing itself is an adventure and I'll be damned if music isn't the perfect soundtrack to that adventure.

And, yes, I know I said this wouldn't be a post about changing and changes and, essentially, that's what it became. But, sometimes, I believe, it's in the attempting to change what you want to happen and failing that provides the biggest growth and the biggest adventure of all.

Now bring on the bunny sausages!

Yours Swimmingly,
mojo shivers

Life's Like This, And You Fall And You Crawl And You Break And You Take, What You Get And You Turn It Into Honesty

--"Complicated", Avril Lavigne

I was talking to my new roomie Amber the other day and she was discussing how even she had to learn to dig holes for her time in Iraq. I told her about how in my time with the Boy Scouts we used to have dig holes large enough for an individual to be buried in them. While we never actually tested the dimensions with a live body, I do remember creating some damn large excavations in my years there. I don’t know if it’s a particularly useful skill, but it is a skill I know nonetheless. Preferably, like any skill taught to you by a fine organization like the Boy Scouts, digging is supposed to serve a important function. In the case of scouting, we had to dig holes to bury our biodegradable trash, to put out ashes that may or may not still be lingering, and, of course, to serve as latrines. But, like many skill sets I learned growing up, digging also came to be corrupted for nefarious purposes.

It all started rather innocently. Having not much to do between chow time and other sanctioned activities, we invented a lot of events to pass the time. Thus were born such crowd favorites like “Drink a six pack of Jolt Cola and go chasing after cars down the highway” and “Let’s throw the boomerang around and go chasing after it when it inevitably failed to come back.” It was also during this time that we started digging holes for purposes of recreation. At first, it was merely to pretend they were foxholes. In these hideaways we would scurry in a more realistic simulation of playing soldier. In this capacity as well, we began to use them as places to go to hideaway or relax when being surrounded by the same ragtag group of dirty, familiar faces began to become too much. However, it wasn’t too many camping expeditions later that another purpose began to take shape.

We began to dig holes to see if we could catch some sort of wild animal in them. I think it started in Cherry Valley when we saw wild boars running around and thought it would be cool if we were able to actually somehow trap one of them. That’s when we started to excavate these giant pits, often with three to five guys working on the same hole for a couple of hours, until we thought they were big enough to catch them. Over this we would lay twigs and small branches. Over that we would place leaves. And over that we would place some loose dirt. All of this would produce the desired effect of making a hole three or four feet deep and about six to eight feet in diameter unnoticeable to the naked eye. We became so proficient at creating these traps that there may be some holes we failed to fill back in at a few campgrounds where we stayed. I don’t think we ever caught any beast in them, but I do believe we came mightily close a few times as we would find some holes caved in and definitive claw marks where the animals must have climbed their way up and out.

Naturally, this led us to the next logical step, trapping creatures of the human variety. I don’t know about you, but I think walking along and falling into a crevasse deep enough to swallow you whole is probably the biggest surprise one can encounter. And, as every good practical joker knows, making people fall is pretty darn funny. We started small, making holes intending to injure and not completely trap our prey. Having been on both the giving and receiving end of a big, black hole, I can tell you from experience the basic set-up worked to a tee. We became so adept at insuring the hole blended into its surroundings that we literally had to draw maps to remember how many and where we had paced the damned things. Fairly soon, the outer edges of our camp sites became reminiscent of a mine field with all the various craters in their assorted development process. For eight to ten hours a day we would be out creating new holes to catch somebody unawares when we weren’t out falling into holes ourselves. Granted, it wasn’t the most productive use of our time, but it was still an entertaining type of battle nonetheless. It reminded me much of the Spy vs. Spy matches, except in our case we knew the surprise was coming, but we still fell for it anyway.

Our troubles came to a end, though, when we pulled off possibly the greatest trick involving a hole ever. After exhausting the possibilities of exploring various sizes and shapes (including originating the diabolical “hole that dumps you into another hole” trick), we were stagnating on new ways to humiliate and impress our troopmates. In fact, people started becoming extra careful when stepping out into No-Man’s Land where everyone knew the majority of the holes were laid. It wasn’t too soon after that that people just stopped being caught unaware. In short, it was becoming less fun wasting our time digging up the countryside. That’s when one of us—I forget who—hit upon the idea to lay a trap in a place sure to get a lot of foot traffic.

Dig a hole by the latrine.

We planned it our perfectly. We dug a five foot hole in a horseshoe shape around the whole northern edge of the latrine. Not only did we implement the usual twigs topped with leaves topped with dirt blueprint, we also went to the extra step of stepping lightly on top of the dirt to create the effect that someone had recently tread across its surface without falling in. You see, it became a tell-tale sign there was a hole lurking when the surface of one was devoid of any tracks or vegetation. Next, we made a big deal about how we had just gotten back from digging a hole out in the boonies where somebody out for hike was sure to fall in, so far it was from where the concentration of traps set. We hoped this would throw off suspicion from the fact that our snare was set so close to where camp was set. We couldn’t have succeeded more if we had tried. Not only did the hole succeed in catching our victim by surprise—he had managed to scream very loudly when taking a step into the abyss—but our hole had resulted in a result we couldn’t have imagined in our wildest dreams. Our prey, who turned out to be the Troop Leader’s younger brother, did not just fall. He had managed to fall not in the hole….

He had managed to fall into the latrine.

Needless to say, a ban on all hole-digging for purposes of practical joking was instituted.

Yours Swimmingly,
mojo shivers

You're all still alive

Haha... told you! Contrary to opinion, I am not the evil spawn of Satan. It's now 6-7-06 and as falsely predicted, all you jerks are still alive and I didn't rain hell on Earth.

And if you don't know what I'm talking about, then you probably don't know me very well but I'll explain anyway. My friends, roommates, and small countries seem to think I'm the evil omen, devil child that was suppose wreck havoc killing me people, raping horses, and crash the internet.

But seeing as everything is still around, and I'm still stuck in this shitty cube at work listening to my boss tell me how much a moron I am, that I am not the son of Satan. Yeah, I'm a jerk. I've kicked a few puppies and stolen candy from mentally challenged kids. But I'm not pure evil.

And as proof, I'll be at church this whole weekend! Yup it's time for my annual appearance. Our church fair, the only time they let me in. Of course it's only for manual labor but hey, I can't complain. I'm just hoping the holy water doesn't burn my skin this time.

I Am Softer Than My Face Would Suggest, At Times Like These I'm At My Lowest Ebb, Now I Can Confide In You

--"Happy New Year", Camera Obscura

I know it's not the manly thing to announce, but I have a tendency to tear up with more ease than your average individual. Do not mistake me, I am not prone to spontaneous crying jags at the sight of a plastic paper bag being blown in the wind. Nor do I particularly seek out painful and heart-wrenching bouts of personal torment all for the sake of making myself feel worse. But it is my belief there is an honesty in exploring oneself at one's worse than at their best. I've noticed the correlation between how I am feeling and how well I am writing. Often times my best writing is preceded by a particularly emotional memory or event. Conversely, I've noticed that I suffer writer's block only in those instances where I am too delirously happy to think straight. Call me sensitive, call me weak, but I tend to cry when somebody else wouldn't.

The strange fact is the bulk of the time it stems from an experience that doesn't even involve me. I can read something that is sweet or romantic and it'll honestly make my eyes watery. Or I can hear a melancholy lyric and start reflecting how it may apply to my life which, again, gets the waterworks flowing. Or I can see someting on the big or small screen and I'll have to hide my head behind a pillow because it's just gotten to me. Avonlea was the worst offender of the bunch. There were key episodes and scenes from that show where I would be reduced to a blubbering idiot. Like Trent says, "it wasn't so much for what was going on, but [I] had my own thing going on." Nonetheless, whenever that show came on I came to expect to be depressed at times out of my skull. For instance, there is a scene that I'll never forget from that show where Sara's telling Davey about how Davey's parents are up in Heaven waiting for him and his sister, where she starts softly crying. It plays on three levels. One level is the fact that Sara, the character, is feeling sad for Davey because he doesn't understand that his parents dying means he can't see them right now. He thinks that, if he gets a tall enough ladder, he'll be able to climb up there to see them. The second level is that Sara, again, the character, lost her own mom in childbirth so she is sad that the only way she'll ever get to know her is when she sees her up in Heaven herself. The third level is the most intriguing. It's the fact that Sarah Polley, the actress who played Sara on the show, lost her own mother to cancer only weeks before that scene was shot. It's a testament to Sarah Polley's acting skills that the audience is able to catch a glimpse of her playing three levels in this scene. I even read that even after they yelled cut on the scene, Miss Polley continued to cry for a good ten minutes after--so wrapped in the scene was she. I think it remains the single greatest display of crying ever filmed. Hell, even a song from that show causes me fits. To this day, that show's theme song remains the only theme song besides "The Theme From The Incredible Hulk" that makes me tear up on hearing the first few notes. As such, I've made it a rule never to play that song unless I'm actually viewing an episode.

Or writing a post on what makes me cry...



if I cry to set the mood oh please could you cry too

I also possess a weird, some might say, fetish when it comes to crying and beauty. I believe that any woman is at her most resplendent fresh after crying. I don't know if it's the color to their cheeks, the brightness to their eyes, or merely the overall effect of the tenderness intertwined with the unmistakable display of emotion that does it for me. All I know is that I never feel more in love with someone than when I'm either consoling them or apologizing for something I've done to cause them to cry. It's the notion that they're not afraid to show their fragility and how passionate they are about what they feel that endears them to me.

I just never understood the taboo about crying in public. It'd be one thing if we were all walking around, simpering like idiots all the time. But I think, if the situation warrants it, crying should be encouraged. I mean--when we encounter a funny situation, do we not laugh? Or if we encounter something scary, is it not our immediate reaction to startle? Why can't someone's first instinct be to cry if they are honestly touched by sadness or tragedy? It really boggles my mind that we're always told to hide behind our courage. I think it is possible to be strong and brave, and half a million other commendable qualities, and still be able to let people know that you're hurting. It doesn't necessarily mean you're begging for consolation or guidance. It doesn't mean you are incapable of handling your problems discretely. All it means is you're human.

Frankly, I think it's our ability to feel to such a degree that we do cry that differentiates us from mere beasts. Yes, other animals experience sadness, but no one creature was ever made to suffer like mankind.

Especially after watching Avonlea.

Yours Swimmingly,
mojo shivers

You Come Here!

Why? Why you ask?!?!

Because my nuts were a mess this past weekend. It was hotter than hell in SoCal and knowing my dumb ass, I decide to head inland and bake my nuts to a crisp.

What do ya know! It's a 100 degrees and my family decides they don't need the AC on. And that's when my panties get all moist. But I'm not talking about the good kind of moist. Where you see a hot piece of ass that you wouldn't mind tappin'. Yeah sure, the girl next to him isn't that bad either.... But anyway, really hot to where my nuts were a sweating bullets.

So since I don't know any girls who'd date me, I don't have to worry about any potential females reading this nasty blog. But the rest of you bastards can come visit me from now on at the beach. We can chill, do nothing, drink beer, and watch girls in bikinis go rollerblading down the pier. Who's in?

But You've Gotta Make Your Own Kind Of Music, Sing Your Own Special Song, Make Your Own Kind Of Music, Even If Nobody Else Sings Along

--"Make Your Own Kind Of Music", The Mamas and The Papas

I've been noticing that lately a percentage of the blogs I used to read have been folding left and right. I don't know if this is due to extenuating circumstances, a growing sense of disdain for the medium, or simple ennui. Whatever it is, it brings on a sense of despair that so many great writers have chosen to abandon their craft. I know it's not considered an art form and doesn't gain the respect of many people in search of profound thought or colorful discourse. I'd be the first to agree that, for most bloggers, most sites stem from the need to entertain rather to educate. Most writers are not experts in their field, wielding their knowledge for the betterment of society. Most people writing here on the blogosphere are just "normal" individuals blessed with an opinion and compulsion to share it with anyone who is willing to listen. I'd be the first to agree that the majority of what a reader takes from reading blog after blog, site after site, isn't going to have an all-encompassing impact on their day-to-day existence.

However, I think that there are real opportunities for discovery in both the creation and dissertation of thoughts expressed on-line. You get whatever you put into any experience and it is my belief that, if one searches diligently enough and if one can discern hit from shit, personal growth and entertainment are both possible, if not probable.

I may not be the world's best speller like the kids in the Spelling Bee. Hell, I think I've forgotten more about punctuation and grammar in the last five years than I've remembered. I don't write anything of real interest to the majority of the world at large. Most times I'm lucky to get forty or so people passing through my site a day.

Yet, despite all that, I'm still proud of the fact that I continue to write here. I can't imagine my life if I didn't have this outlet. It allows me to express all the joys and sadness, the foibles and accomplishments of an otherwise un-noteworthy life. I don't think the subject of me require a vast library or four-hour documentary. I'm simply not that interesting. I wouldn't know what to do with that amount of focus on, as Breanne says, little 'ole me. There are far more engrossing and definitely more important sites out there in terms of social significance. In fact, everyday I come from Miss Cooper's site feeling like I've gained ten IQ points just by reading it. I'm not the prettiest, smartest, or most charming kid on the block. I'm sure B. would tell you the same. I do think that I deserve this, this small corner of the world to show off the cliff notes version of my life and a bit of my magic. I take pleasure in being able to share what little I have to offer, which is basically all the stories I've lived through, the times I've both tried to remember and forget, and getting at the truth of what it means to be me.


"I write
-Not for the sake of glory
-Not for the sake of fame
-Not for the sake of success

But for the sake of my soul."
--Rachel Joy Scott

I have no plans to give up this rare gift. Not for anything and not for anyone.

(except maybe for season tickets to the Red Sox...)

Yours Swimmingly,
mojo shivers

What the hell Yellow People?

Certain things I've come to accept. Well, maybe not accept. More like my soul and spirit has been beaten and I've lost all hope. But there's other things. Things that I think at the time, "Oh come on! You can't be that fresh off the boat?!?!" And although these things are completely retarded and constantly happening, I still tend to be surprised each time I see an Asian person do something that should get them deported.

Again, I'm not talking about your average stupid Asian things. For example we all know their bad drivers. That's a given. I've come to accept eyes half closed are meant only to view things their hands can touch. Like a calculator for instance. But decide for yourself. Take an afternoon drive through Alhambra, CA and if after 15 minutes you're not ready to kill someone or looking at your airbag then more power to you. You must be a buddhist monk or have been married for a very, very long time. The force is strong with you.

Anyway, I'm talking about the new and improved things Asians think of that'll get white people laughing at them. Like I'm sure you may not have seen this with your own eyes but may have heard rumors around the water cooler.

Chet: "Hey Sven. Bra, I was surfing down at Mosa when I saw the craziest thing yo!"
Sven: "Bro, what was it man? A black guy?"
Chet: "Nah... dude. Did I say Africa???"
Chet & Sven: "Hahaha...."
Chet: "But fo-reals do... It was Orientals... At the beach... Wearing slacks with dress shoes!"
Chet & Sven: "Hahaha...."

Lets forget the fact that we're already pasty yellow. But come on! At least pretend you know how to dress when you go to the beach and wear jeans and flip flops. You're killing me Smalls!

But it gets worse. At least in my opinion it does. I was at the gym this weekend working out thinking, "Alright, at least I'm not going to see any Asians doing anything dumb here. We're too busy studying and playing video games to work on our physical appearance..." When what do you know? There's an Asian girl working out. In a dress and heels!!!! WTF???? I mean what do you say to that? The only thing I can think of, is it hurts my soul and every time I see a Yellow person do something that puts us as a whole to shame, I cry a little bit inside. *tear*