If Dreams Are a Wish Your Heart Makes, I Want a New Heart

Last night, I had a dream. Not uncommon since, according to all manner of medical evidences, we all dream multiple times throughout the course of the night. However, I find that it is a rare occasion that I will actually remember a dream. And in typical fashion, the dreams I manage to remember are of the most insanely off-the-wall variety. Today was no exception. So this, in essence and in pictographic form, was my dream.

Ewan McGregor was walking down the street with me. I don't really know where we were going or where we were, it was a post-modern village that appeared to be made of chocolate covered houses. It was sort of like that weird poem about Jesus on the beach except I could see him and we weren't leaving footprints in the pavement.

Suddenly, out of nowhere there was an opening in the street. A voracious manhole had opened itself and was awaiting the arrival of McGregor and myself. Reluctantly, and because there was no way around the gaping hole, we allowed ourselves to fall into the hole. Not knowing where we would end up or if we would be alive by the end of our plummet into darkness.

As Ewan and I plummeted farther and farther, deeper and deeper, losing our sense of direction and time in the ever deepening darkness, we became acutely aware that something was amiss. Of course, there was no way to know in the pitch blackness, but just as we began to think there was no end to our forever free fall there was a soft splashing sound and the sensation of being both cold and warm; like taking a piss in the public pool. We had finally hit the bottom, and had landed in a mud wrestling pit. Across from where we landed, there was a ninja holding a chicken.

Before we could react to the shock of being plunged into the darkness of an underground mud wrestling pit, Michael Buffer began ushering in the improptu bout with his forever classy baritone.

As the match began, we quickly learned that we were outclassed by our nimble ninja opponent. He was agile, strong, and lightning quick, not least of all because I happened to notice that he wasn't slogging through the mud like we were but was walking atop the mucky goo. In a calculated move, I sprinted left as Ewan feigned to the right and I tackled our ninja, knocking his hood to the muddy floor. I was aghast at what my manuever had revealed, we were mud wrestling dear old JC himself.

I felt a little bit bad about wrestling with the son of God, but not really. He started the whole thing, so I was defending myself. And then, once his identity was revealed, something happened that I did not expect. Not unlike a whiny, spoiled tool, JC up and rage quit. He started throwing mud everywhere and cursing, screaming things I had never even thought of before. I shouldn't have but I started laughing.

Eventually, Michael Buffer came into the ring and delcared me and Ewan McGregor the winners and offered us our tasty prize, a delicious cheesy bowl of magical macaroni. I enjoyed it most, I think, which was unfortunate. For unbeknownst to me, the more you ate and enjoyed the macaroni, the more likely it was that you would be transported somewhere else, somewhere unhappy.

And then it happened. Upon taking my last luxurious bite of victory pasta, I closed my eyes and found myself astride a My Little Pony and flying through the air. The air was stiff and hot and full of fire and I was strapped to the back of this stupid pony, flying faster and faster toward a strangely colored rainbow.

Unfortunately for me, this was no mere rainbow. It was the devil's rainbow, a rainbow so sinister and intimidating that the colors were not colors but the souls of different ethnicities collected as payment for unreturned Blockbuster DVDs. And thanks to my unexpected transportation atop the My Little Pony, I was closing in fast. We slammed into the rainbow and it exploded souls into the air.

All the souls melted together in flight, forming a super being. There before me, was a large golden Buddha holding a tennis racket. Buddha took one look at me and began swinging his tennis racket menacingly, laughing hysterically. The My Little Pony carried me nearer the devil spawned Buddha and I soon began to understand what was to happen, but unsure of eactly how it would come about.

With a mighty swing of his racket, held in a Western grip, Buddha smacked me off the top of my pony. I was hurled high into the air and saw fluffy marshmallow fields below me. I began to descend, rapidly picking up speed and preparing to slam to my death when I was hit once again with Buddha's racket. This time I was sent forward, lightning fast, and a soon passed out from the sheer force of gravity and speed I was fighting against. When I awoke, I discovered that I had entered into the Hotel California which I assume is what hell is really like since you can check out anytime you like but never leave.

...and then I woke up, hungry for a fried egg sandwich which I promptly made and devoured before getting ready for work.

Of Hollywood and Violence

I watched a film and I liked it. Not exactly a groundbreaking statement with the various ways one has to enjoy movies these days, but nonetheless there it is. And while I was initially skeptical of this film, it turned out to be much better than I had expected. Call it morbid curiosity, call it work-related research, or just call it watching a movie, the film I chose was a small, relatively unknown and unmarketed film from 2001 called Gang Tapes. While it was not widely known or even that well received, I liked it (like kissing a girl but without the cherry chapstick or big fake tits).

The whole premise is fairly straightforward, a young boy in search of his manhood, and himself, aligns with a street gang in South Central LA and, through the ever-present eye of his home video camera, documents the life he chooses to lead and the relationships he forms with those of his set. Along the way, our young protagonist becomes mired in some next level shit and seeks to avenge (7X) his fallen homies only to succumb to the inevitability of the path he hath trod. At least that's my synopsis of the plot.

The official description, as noted on Netflix, is a little less than truthful. The claim is that the tape is 100% legitimately genuinely real and that the boy captures all the stuff on camera and then it somehow ends up in the hands of the LAPD and leads investigators to bring down all the people involved in the crimes that were documented. While I understand that Hollywood is in the business of making up shit that sells, how the fuck is that not A) false advertising since I assume they marketed this the same way 10 years ago B) why are there no regulations on the type of bullshit you can claim is true? To each his own I suppose, and really that is neither here nor there since the film only tested in major markets and was so ill-received that it was sent straight to DVD.

As far as the movie goes, it was decently entertaining. Storytelling was fluid and made a lot of sense, well as much sense as being a gangbanger can make I guess. I figured I would have a problem with the use of Handicams to make the movie, but it was well done and actually served to keep the illusion that it was all a home video (unlike that insufferable Blair Witch Project that was so damn jumpy and epileptic that I think I actually had a seizure without knowing it since the screen was bouncing just as much as I was).

That being said, I do have some contentious points to make about the stroy in a couple of places. Whilst I myself have no knowledge of actual gangbangery, I find it hard to believe that a thirteen year old boy would be taken to a bedroom by a 30 year old prostitute to have his virginity stripped off him like a peeling top coat of bad paint. For starters, even though sluts have zero morals or brains I'm fairly certain that even they would draw the line at pedophilia. I could be wrong though, maybe I will ask my ex about that.

Secondly, there a scene near the end of the film that, while I don't want to ruin much of the movie just in case any of you want to rush out and find a copy after reading my raving review, just strikes me as completely implausible. Again, I've no gangbangery in my past but I can surmise from sheer common sense that when one who chooses to enact a violent retaliation goes to do so it is not on a bicycle. For starters, that is the most inefficient way to get anywhere. Riding a bike is good exercise but not exactly a great way to traverse many miles without feeling like you are made of jello by the end.

Then there is the logistics of carrying a sidearm. Gangbang enthusiasts often carry their weapons in one of two places, the front waistband or the rear waistband. Both of these places are stupid for a couple reasons. First is the fact that if, okay WHEN, when you had to draw down on a rival or a grandmother or a cop, there is absolutely no secrecy to your intent. So if you were trying to draw on the sly and get the drop on someone, you would be fucked since they would see your overly ridiculous move to the crotch or the ass crack. Secondly, if you were a gangbanger riding a bicycle and strapped you would either impale your penis repeatedly from the pedaling motion or the gun would fall the fuck out your pants so many times that it would be a week before you got where you were going.

These two facts alone are enough to bother me within the closing minutes of the film but are not, by far, the most insane. That is reserved for the following: South Central is crawling with gangs and is thus used to the sound of gunshots, true. However, if you roll up on some nigga's hood and start tango blastin' like some dumb ass Dirty Harry, I can guarantee (through learned inference of gang culture) that the chances of no one from that hood or set coming outside with a piece in his hand and firing wildly in the direction of the first shot are slim to none. Retaliation and "protection" are a big part of the criminal world, so the fact that the protagonist camera child just walks in, guns down a guy, and then rides his one speed back out and safely to his house is fucking stupid.

But overall, the movie was a decent exploitation of former gang members (aka most of the cast) and the depiction of life in a gang even if it was written and directed by some white Jewish guy who probably shat himself every day they were filming in Watts.

Dancing With Myself

There is a man outside my office window. He is huge, if I had to venture a guess I'd say around 6'4, 'bout 2-fiddy lbs. If I had to describe him to the police, I would say he was HUUUUUUUGE! Somewhere between this awkwardly shaped Chinese guy and the Empire State Building. Not a very helpful description, but I would pretty much be shitting myself if I met him in an alley somewhere, not least of all because I know he is a convicted criminal.

And this guy, this behemoth of a man, is standing outside my window watching mun2, probably to see the bikini clad self-esteem deprived women with daddy issues dancing around like the disease addled lesions of society that they are. This is not an uncommon occurrence in prison. The men routinely awaken at 5AM because there is a program dedicated solely to people, predominantly whorish women, dancing in what could only be described as a swimsuit in the loosest possible definition since it more closely resembles kite string holding together handi-wipes. Such is the life of a prisoner I suppose, get it where you can and sear the image into your brain for late night gratification.

While I am now very accustomed to the various habits and practices of those locked away from the world, sometimes they do something unexpected and it makes me giggle. That's right, I said giggle. It's not a girly word, shut up. Anyway, so this bear of a man has done just that. I am trying hard not to laugh visibly for fear he might stop his actions, and they are funny. Through my slightly opened door I can hear the music playing on the TV and while I'm so damn sick of the song, Katy Perry's Last Friday Night, the visual foreplay I'm watching is worth the trickle of bloo coming out my ears. This large black telephone-pole-shaped man is singing along with the musical abortion which is entertainment enough since he is, it appears, tone deaf, but he is also dancing. And dancing awkwardly, it's eerily similar to the way I would convulse and shimmy on the dance floor if I ever danced (which I don't because I'm whiter than Wonderbread). I am half expecting him to, at any point, bust out the Carlton and start singing Tom Jones.

I can't tear myself away, and I really need to since I have much work to get done. I guess it can wait until he decides to stop...oh, now we've progressed to some Nicki Minaj song and a modified version of my personal favorite high school show choir move the step-ball-change. Oh, that recall is being announced and my entertainment is now about to have to leave. Maybe he will be back this afternoon but I doubt it. He looks like the sort that enjoys playing dominoes in the noonday sun.

My Writing Demon

I wish I could get paid for reading. That would be awesome, and I would probably be moderately to amazingly more affluent than my current situation indicates depending on how much I would get paid per page. I imagine it would be comparable to those people that do the medical record transcription stuff from home, and while it's not more than maybe 15c a page, I could bank that shit away like a boss. I love to read, always have, and I constantly keep a rotation of at least 3 novels at all times. And I don't mean idiotic drivel meant to ensnare hormonal young girls or their desperately-seeking-validation-because-I'm-in-a-loveless-marriage-to-a-secretary-banging-manwhore mothers by perpetuating some farce that interspecies love is not only right, but life-alteringly beautiful and "deep." Nor do I mean I stock an insipid e-reader with the bestsellers list or a collection of pre-modern propaganda and philosophy because I simply must rail against the consumerist society through the ironic means of buying anything with a piece of chrome fruit affixed to its side. I mean honest to god paper and glue, tangible, wonderful smelling books. Currently, my rotation includes the Mitch Rapp series by Vince Flynn, Dostoevsky's Demons, and Mentor: A Memoir by Tom Grimes.

Along with that, I read a lot of blogs as well. Some good, some bad. Many are funny on some level, either intentionally or because I have a twisted sense of humor, and a few provoke actual thought. And some, well if I'm being honest, I just started following at random for the hell of having something to read and they hold no particular spot in my heart or head. Recently, I came across one that has both proved humorous and made me think by way of appealing to my literary and alcoholic nature. And it really got me thinking about myself as well since the co-authors of the blog are both semi-professional(?) writers.

I have always been, in my own mind, somewhat of a writer either because I have something to say or simply because I can craft numerous words in a relatively short amount of time that makes sense on some level. While I am narcissistic, I'm not so much so that I think that everything I write is amazing, funny, or worth reading, but then I am my harshest critic as I think most writers are or have to be. For me, every word, each sentence, every paragraph or story needs to be as close to perfectly crafted as possible or it is a monumental failure. Perhaps that is why nothing I have ever written, save a couple poems in grade school and this blog, have ever been published in any true form. Usually I will bang out thousands of words in the course of a day or two, feel good about it, and then I read what I have and figure out where to take it. I write on impluse or at some impetus and don't actively have to think about what I am saying, it just materializes in my brain somewhere and out it comes (not unlike the way I speak).

Once I hit the point that words don't flow, I start to edit and critique and question exactly what it was I was trying to say in the first place. That, more than anything, is probably why much of what I write has a terrible conclusion. I spend far too much time doubting my premise or searching for a different word to sound more polished than I should, and when I try to wrap things up, as untidily as possible, it fizzles and sends me into a sneaky hate spiral that can derail my magical yarn train. Part of me then spends weeks festering in that seething, brooding hatred of what I have done that I start hating my mother for having grown up Catholic and passing on that sense of shame and guilt down to me.

I should really not bother with editing my words, I can find someone else to do that, but damn it all I like coherence and perfection too much to let it go. In my head the perfection of a piece of written word is like winning the US Open (any of them, just insert your favorite sport) and I'm a competitive motherfucker so I have to win no matter what. I'm like Charlie Sheen without the crazy. See? Even there, I couldn't stand that crass, culturally relevant but overused cliche and now all I can think of is a rant about how Charlie Sheen has ruined being able to draw out metaphors and similies about winning shit. Fucking Sheen, even when he isn't playing he fucking wins.

Then again perhaps my penchant for perfection, and my adept ability to articulate alliteration, is a strength. In fact, I think it is. If I were not so persnickety (finally I have worked that word into one of my posts), I wouldn't be a writer-esque person. If I just pounded the keyboard or scribbled with my pen and didn't care to notice structure, flow, or word choice, I would be no better than a Stephanie Meyer or any number of willfully ignorant dolts hu sp33k li3k d1s, or a kitten walking on a keyboard.

A Passionate Cry

There is a ridiculously prevalent idea pervading and perverting the landscape. An idea so vile and loathsome that it makes me cringe every time someone says they are doing something, and in the back of my mind I can't help but think, "Dear God, that is (or will be) awful." I blame it on MTV perpetuating this idea that if you are a chronic drunk, a whore, or so stupid that the even more stupid public would think you being totally incapable of a functioning thought is hilarious, you can be famous. This idea is really more of an intrinsic feeling from the person choosing to pursue an end, and that is passion.

Yes, passion. That oft mentioned, overutilized and misguided feeling of attraction toward someone or something. And while there is no denying that people are passionate about anything in this world from animals to assholes, both literal and figurative, to me it is often completely absurd. Call me a cynic, call me pessimistic, call me whatever you want, but it just doesn't seem to me that passion is worth anything. Simply saying that you have a passion, to me, is indicative that while you might actually really, really, think something is fantastic, there is no reason for you to try and pursue that which you have a passion toward.

For instance, last night I came across someone who, on a whim, has gotten together with 4 obese gangbangers (probably in every connotation of the word) and they have created what they are calling a "hip hop/hardcore rap/blues" group. They have created a website, a facebook fan page, ringtones (WTF for I don't know), and, I was told, are making a self-produced record. Great, just what people want to hear, shit music that doesn't make sense to anyone but them that will sound as if they recorded it in their bathroom on an 8-track. So after all the "fun" of making the technological aspects available to a completely unaware and uncaring public, they seem to think their passion is going to just will them to amazing stardom or some shit.

I visited the website for this asinine project and first read the "About Us" section. And the thing that stuck out to me was, of course, that they said "we have a passion for music." That in itself made me want to gag and shoot a duck out of a slingshot, but then I ventured to take a listen to some of what I guess is loosely considered music. There were sounds in the background and some sort of vocalized atonal speech mixed together with insufferable tinny noises. And that pretty much confirmed my position that passion doesn't amount to shit.

Passion for passion's sake doesn't amount to anything if you have no discernable talent for that which you profess to be passionate about. I love tennis, but...no, that's not a good example I'm good at tennis. I have a passion for cooking but I can't even...no, no, I can cook something fierce, self-taught, I'm pretty amzing. Ummm, huh, I'm actually having a hard time coming up with something I don't have some sort of talent for. Oh, I know! I am passionate about reading but I don't go around recording myself reading books and trying to sell them to elderly people or the blind or people who don't like to read, not because I don't read out loud well, but because I know that my voice, when recorded, doesn't hold the right timbre or flow to be appealing. And it's that simple.

And before you go thinking, "Well who the hell are you to judge what's good or bad or complete shit? You don't know everything." You would be right, I don't know everything but I've been cursed with soemthing called common sense and a background in music. I may not know every facet of it, but I know what sounds like total garbage and that passion will never pay the fucking bills. Passion is important, but so is talent. And it's true, you can work on something if you are truly passionate and become good. I have no problem with that but in this case, knowing what I know about the one person in this musical atrocity and can infer about the other based on the person I know and the people she associates with, I can say with 100% certainty that they have no drive to learn and they all suffer from delusions of perfection stemming from unchecked narcissism.

Oh, a last funny thought. The website has menu buttons that are locked until they get X number of 'likes' on their facebook page. The page has been up for at least a year and they have amassed an impressive 36 likes. Not even their entire families like them.