Twilight

Last night I went to the silver screen to watch Twilight: New Moon.
I'm starting to wonder what's wrong with pop culture and modern society. According to friends of mine, the first day New Moon was out in theaters was the biggest day in box office history. History! Meaning bigger than Singing in the Rain, or Lord of the Rings, or Holiday or any other movie that has class that I can't think of at the moment.

I just found out that in the 1960's, the Beetles were asked to play

different roles in a potential Lord of the Rings movie,

featuring Paul McCartney as Frodo Baggins, Ringo Starr as Samwise Gamgee, George Harrison as Gandalf, and, of course, John Lennon as Gollum. I love how famous rock and roll legends are expected to be good at everything, like painting and acting.

The Jonas Brothers have their own tv show now. Stupid.

I'm starting to know what I dislike about Twilight. According to most every girl that I've talked to, with the exception of Hannah and I think Christy, the character of Bella gives insight to the nature of the female mind; her actions portray how most girls would respond in certain situations. Supposedly, she's very relateable; One of the most relateable characters who have ever been displayed in Cinema's, apparently.

I think this is scary, stupid, and terrible. If Bella represents how most girls would act, then most American girls are pathetic, clingy, and selfish.

For one, when Edward breaks up with her, fifteen minutes of the movie (and my life) are wasted away with Bella walking through the forest saying in a considerably low voice for an 18 year old girl, "Edward....Edward....Edward? Edward!!! Edward..." And then she decides to dramatically curl up into a little ball and try to die.

Then she spends...what is it...three months?... sitting in the same chair with a pathetically sad expression on her face, staring at a window, completely uninterested in life. Lame. And pathetic. Don't get me wrong, I can be sensetive to a hurting heart. But...well... I think girls should be a little stronger than that. I'm sure there are other alternatives than curling up in a little ball and dying when a guy breaks up with you.

And i think it's kind of funny. If Bella says she loves Edward so much, then why doesn't she respect his wishes  when he says that he doesn't want her to be a vampire? She's kind of just out to make herself happy, no matter what the person she "loves" says.

And apparently when you turn into a werewolf, you get to walk around without a shirt on and wear jeans that have been cut at the knee. Oh! and 1980 style tennis shoes. Only werewolves get to do that.

I'm ranting.

Twilight is pathetic.

My Favorite Day

For my cough that I despise I've been told to take this cough syrup medicine called Robitussin DM . Or is it MD. I can't remember. It's red and tastes nasty. If Hell was a taste and lived in a house somewhere in the suburbs of Detroit, Robitussin MD would be a close neighbor.

My conscience tells me that that might be a sacrilegious statement. I wonder if he's right.
Anyway, the stuff tastes terrible. Terrible.

I wondered to myself right before I swallowed my daily dose if thinking about the happiest moment of my life and reliving it in my mind would dampen the terribleness in the taste and make it a little bit more manageable.

The thought hit me then that I could not think of any happy moments in my life. I couldn't even think of a favorite day or even time period that was overall better than all the others.
This struck me hard-- harder than what I imagined it would, and I was shaken to the core. It was like I had just swallowed a whole bottle of Robitussin MD and could not find anything pleasant to drink afterwards to make my mouth taste better.

And then a second thought hit me: I wonder if all my friends have a favorite moment or a happiest day. I think knowing this would say something about said friend's character. I'd like to know.

Now I am on a mission. I will try to remember what day in my life was my favorite, and I'll get back to you. I have some serious reminiscing to do.
Maybe my favorite day hasn't happened yet. Maybe my happiest moment has yet to come. Like my wedding day, or the time I will be awarded the Nobel Peace Prize. Who knows.
What's your favorite memory?

Lol

Ever since I was introduced to that thing called msn online chat, i've developed a strong distaste for that three-lettered word that most of the population of America is addicted to... Lol.

What does it mean, anyway? Lots of Laughs? Something like that. I think that's stupid. Nobody except special individuals with absolutely no level of social skills would ever exclaim in the middle of a real conversation, "hah! That is funny! Lots of laughs!! Haha!" I'm sorry if you find yourself on the butt of my disgruntlement. If you do indeed say such things in a conversation, then I believe you must go visit a doctor.

Have a band-aid and see me in three weeks.

I'm sure other online chateers don't pay any sort of real attention to what Lol means, or even the fact that they use it incessantly after every sentence. Lol. Maybe they just believe in Nike. Maybe they just do it.

I'm not sure what my real problem with Lol is. Maybe it just comes across to me as something an illiterate and cheerleader-y kind of cheerleader would say. So, as you see, it's worse when guys do it. And it's even worse when my 40-year-old-and-up friends on facebook use it, too.

Maybe i'm just disgruntled and am looking for things to complain about. Maybe the fact that I'm complaining about something so petty (I am complaining about a feature that I don't like about the online world...online. On the computer. This is disheartening and overall sad.) gives some deep insight into my royal character of deepness.

Anyway, I'm sure none of this really matters. Lol. And i'm sure there are alot of people who like to use Lol all the time. Lol. And there's absolutely...lol...nothing wrong with them. I think it ruins a laugh. Lol. And it seems fake. Lol. But to him, his own, I suppose.
Lol.

I Have A Joke

What type of bag did Johann Sebastian Bach cary around all the time?

A Bach Pack

Why I Will Never be a Secret Service Agent

Today was my first day back from school. It was nice for a change of scenery. That's about all I can say; not much more is noteworthy. School is school.
In government class, Mr. Murray had turned the Projector on. It was displaying the American Banner of Red, White, and Blue upon the white board. We don't have smart boards in my school. You know, the boards that act as huge touch-screen computers and require passwords and teaches the class about Algebraic algorythms, thus rendering the teacher completely useless. No, we don't have those. Only rich people in Seattle use those. We have white boards, and we write on them with these smelly no-brand Mexican markers that smell like old Papaya.
Anyway, everyone knows that if the projector is on in Mr. Murray's room, it means that either we're going to watch a movie, or he just decided to simulate this chapter's section of notes on the board.
It was a movie. A National Geographic Informative Film, as the title screen says; it was indeed informative. It was about the Secret Service.
When I was a kid of about 10 I used to think that I'd grow up to be an Air Force Pilot or a Secret Service Agent who lunges out into the path of bullets to save the President, because the president is important. I would be the adventurous guy that could tell his children's children about all of the cool James Bond-like adventures that he had. Tell them how I was one of the lucky ones, how I jumped onto a plasma grenade (this is in the future, so plasma grenades are common...and deadly!) and survived; how I was captured by the enemy and was tortured for weeks, but never gave up any infrmation, because I was just that cool. I would be the type that drinks coffee black because I'm too busy saving the president and being tough to think about sugar or cream.
Now, at seventeen, things are different. I aspire to maybe make it to twenty-five without getting married. I shall get a major in English and a Minor in Music. From there, I shall write books about heros who drink black coffee and save the world. Perhaps I shall get ill from some sort of disease, and live the rest of my life snivelling in front of a computer screen, writing and daydreaming about the guy I was supposed to be, but was too lazy and perhaps uninterested in modern government to get out of bed and enlist or something.
I'm quite content to let other guys with authorized rifles to protect me and my president while I type on a silly keyboard or twang on a silly guitar. Protecting people is what they want to do, and making words an music is what I want to do. This is nice. I like this.
Anyway, as the movie played, I kept having flashes of what life would be like if I was still into that kind of Secret Service thing. I would probably be playing sports now, I think. I wouldn't spend so many nights alone in my room trying to record a song, but rather research the best way to scout out potential sniper spots in the city. I would wear sunglasses and go to church in a black suit with a black tie, because black is what we wear. I would be unstopable.
Rather, when I'm thirty-five, I shall wear open polo's with big hawaiin flowers on them and kahki shorts, a big Nikon D-40 strapped around my neck, and I'll go visit the white house like the amazing tourist I am.
Oh to be an American.

Nine Days in Bed, One Day out on my own

I spent nine days alone in my house. I was sick. Perhaps you could call it an incarceration. I would just call it the unfairness of destiny. It was the flu, and not just any flu...The flu. My throat and nose were clogged like three public toilets; my entire head stuck in that stance that you get in right before you sneeze. My chest was on fire, and so were my ears. Nine days of this. On the first day I was going into the sickness with my head held high, determined to make it through like a gentleman who hadn't yet lost his dignity. Day three, I'm in the shower for thirty minutes, bashing the wall with my feeble fists, pleading to God to take this terrible thing off of me; why me...why me? Day five, I learn to live with it and start on a little homework. Day seven, I decide I am quite literate and finish Blue Like Jazz. I am thus encouraged by said book and continue on in this sickening state with a happier perspective. Day eight, I surprise myself, the walls of my confinement, and my dog, by actually singing a few stifled notes from Somewhere Over the Rainbow. My voice is coming back. Day nine, today, I actually get dressed (for eight days, my attire had been that of pajamas and a bath robe) and go to Starbucks and spend an hour and a half doing more homework (I have so much homework to make up...). There were some girls that kept staring at me. I didn't mind. They were cute... but they can't have me.
From there I decide to go to the mall. I can drive now, so the world is at my disposal. If I want to go to the mall, I go to the mall.
"I'm so mature and grown up and independent," I think to myself as I hand the one hundred pesos to the gas pump guy at Pemex. They weren't really my one hundred pesos; they were my parents'. They gave me the money... you know, for gas. I don't pay for my own gas. That would be stupid. But I'm still very mature and grown up and independent, even if my parents do pay for my gas.
The mall is filled to the brim with bustling mexican people. Some of them are here with their families, others with their soul mates, and others simply by themselves. I'm one of those.
It was a beautiful feeling, standing in such a crowded space, feeling people around me again. After spending eight days alone, you start missing people. A man's not meant to be alone. People are supposed to interact with people, even if it's just a brush of the shoulder or a passing smile. It's just the way we work.
I was hungry, so I did what I always do when I'm hungry in Mexico. I buy a burrito. There are burrito stands all over the place in Mexico. I think it's a Mexican law or something. The government makes sure that its citizens gets a sufficient burrito intake. I think this is a good idea.
I went to the nearest burrito stand and ordered one. I also got a coke in a can. It was expensive, but i dont think there's anything quite like cold Mexican coke in a can. Or maybe it's a can of coke. Either way, it's delicious.
There was nowhere to sit, so i contemplated sitting on the ground next to a wall. But the wall was facing the entire congregation of people, and I wasn't sure if I wanted everyone staring at me as I dribbled Mexican burrito extras all over myself. I'm a very messy eater.
I do it anyway and decide not to feel foolish.
A family walked by me as I sat there. The kids stared. I guess nobody had taught them yet that staring is bad. I waved the peace sign and smiled. The parents frowned at me. They don't like peace.
I finish my burrito and look around. It's still light outside, which is weird, because usually I went to the mall at night with my friends to watch movies and wink at girls.
I miss my friends very much. Most of them are gone now, and I think part of the reason that I went to the mall today was to remember them. We had fun at the mall. We had real fun.

I get up from my spot on the ground and start walking. I'm right next to a huge McDonald's sign that stretches across a wall to my right. I remember this sign. One time me and four other guys took turns putting our faces right where the L was in McDonald's, thus creating McDonads. We took pictures. It was very funny at the time. I still laugh at it.

I chuckle to myself as I touch the L with my fingers as I walk past.

Time changes things. And I think it always will. We're not supposed to stay the same; we're made to change as time changes. We get older. Get fatter. Grow beards and shave them off. Make friends and say goodbye to them. It's just the way life works. Sometimes I wish it didn't. This is why I love the holidays so much, because everyone from the states come down and we all go to the mall and put our faces in front of the L in McDonalds and laugh at it, and everything becomes normal, the way things are supposed to be.

All of this runs through my head as I make my way back to the car. It's getting late, and I'm not supposed to be out after dark. But really, I still am very mature and grown up and independent, even if I do have a curfew.

Fix You (Coldplay Cover)

So I was bored and slightly sentimental last night. So I recorded one of my favorite songs. My voice squeaks a couple times...and the guitar picking kind of messes up here and there. it's a live recording, so it's not perfect. Fix You. By Coldplay. Enjoy
You can listen to it here.
Enjoy.

DO I Really Love God?

I realized I never answered my own question. It was late. I was tired. I dont even remember asking it.
Do I love God?
I'd like to think so. But in my heart I know I don't. I love myself more than I love Him. I love music more than I love Him. I think I even love Lost the tv show more than I love him. Petty?
Extremely Petty.
Where's my life going?
I want to love God. I just don't know what it means. How do you fall in love with somebody you don't see? It's like falling in love with somebody on facebook or myspace.
No, God's bigger than that, i guess. And who am I that God should show himself to me?

Maybe God's like music. To love it, you need to put yourself into it. Listen to it, feel it, move with it, and in time, you'll learn how special and amazing it is, which will make you want to learn more about it, and then more and more.
Who knows.

Do I Love God?

It's the times that I'm most lazy with my life that I start asking questions that matter. Today, I woke up, read something, got ready to wash the car, then forgot, watched a movie, played piano, tried to record something, failed, then got on the computer, and here I am. A terrible day. Nothing worthwhile in it at all. I did absolutely nothing of consequence. I probably could have simply skipped today and never have noticed.
All this to say, when I have days like this, I start feeling...i dont know. Pensive? Almost depressed, but not quite so extreme. And I start asking all the questions that most people (including myself) blow off as irrelevent and unimportant. Not really the whole "Who am I?" junk. More like "Is swearing bad?" What's wrong with physician-assisted suicide?" "Do I Love God?" "What does loving God even mean?" Do i even care about my relationship with God?" Is God even real? Is it silly to believe in Him? What matters anymore? Etcetera, etcetera...

Do I love God? I don't know. I mean it's a nice idea. I love the idea about loving God. What is this love, anyway? It's more than words. More than actions, even, because good actions can have bad intentions. May
I was asked to pray over supper today. It's funny how my family does it. Sometimes we pray with our eyes open, alreay eating (at least i'm already eating). Sometimes we just ask eachother "Are you grateful?" and sometimes we do it the old-fashioned way--heads bowed, eyes closed, holding hands, that sort of thing. My dad asked me to pray. So I did.
"God. Thank you for this meal that we're about to eat. I pray that you'll bless it to our bodies." yada yada yada... Honestly, I didn't know what to say. Everything was going good in my lie. nothing wrong at home, nothing wrong with NTM, nothing wrong with my sisters back home. Everything was fine. So i just ended my prayer at that. Then I remarked something like, "if more things were wrong right now, I'd have more to pray for."
At this my mom looked at me and quickly responded. "You can always just talk to God about God."
I felt very...what's the word...foolish? To me, God had become some sort of Geenie (sp?) that I pray to only when good or bad things happen, and I praise Him or plead to Him accordingly. God wasn't a person anymore. He was my own personal Santa Clause.
Loving God consists of more than just praising Him when good things happen, and pleading to Him when bad things happen. Loving God means celebrating God, no matter what happens. Good or bad.