Winter Camping

Very tired. Haven't posted much. Heading to Adirondacks tomorrow to learn the ways of the Snow.

Will return triumphantly with experiences and facial hair.

Keep on.

My Favorite Running Club

Hooray!

Grainfully Haggard and a Poem for the Pancreas

This is a poem for my pancreas (to be ready slowly and quite forcefully).

The muscular tunnels contract and bring to bear the acidic chyme--
scalding and foul, crawling sludge enveloped in a tangy shroud.

What teeming nutrients can be wrought from the lump? How?
Cruel fate! Turned fuel from fair to foul by the fearsome engine's heat.
The frame will be sure to follow.
And the carcass will serve as feast for the racoons and smaller stupid invertebrates.

But wait! For the door has been slammed in Death's face
as sodium bicarbonate expunges the acid. Through fortunate union the chyme is redeemed!
All praise be to the "-ase"s that flow from the sweet source--that spring meaning all-fleshy!
Pancreas! Pancreas! Hooray! Hoo-ree! Ha-rah! Ha-roo!
Give to us what was once stinky and sad but now great
and broken down, stripped to its innate goodness, free for all the flesh to grow and regrow again.

There was a Bird in the Dining Hall Today

It perched by the tofu until a girl went up and shooed it away.

I was reading this play for my Greek and Roman mythology class about this woman who falls in love with her stepson but he refuses her love so she kills herself and says that the son raped her and then the father calls up the ocean to kill the stepson with a giant water bull.

And it got me thinking about how we should take the time to appreciate the roles that we can give to ourselves. Because, I think we can define that sort of thing, it frees you in a way.

You can be a student- you can be someone whose job it is to learn and have thoughts and exercise your mind and devote your time and study to something that fascinates you.

Or you can be a friend- you can be a pillar of strength in someone's life and be a positive influence and be the kind of person you want to be around someone.

Or you could be a giant bull that lives in the ocean and come out to waste people who have crossed the line.

But you can't take those roles for granted. Try them out. Consider them. If it's what you want then always be exploring the limits of that role.

Butterflies that vomit snowflakes and robots that dance with shower curtains. Your life is important and starts by identifying what makes you, you.

Eat a basketball and type a letter to the President of Botswana. Casserole baking and liberal arts.

Pitchas

New Record! If you beat that, then I'll beat your record. And then it will be definitively over forever. I win!

Over break I found this creepy face in my sister's door. A door she's had since...always. Now she's afraid of her room. hahahaha

Someone got mad and ripped this toenail off their toe. Bet they feel pretty silly now. You can't just tape it back on!

Snowmans.

I took a folded up napkin and put two ham cubes on it. I call him Roosevelt. (pronounced ROOSE-VELT)

the last name is a funny name and the bottom word looks like bad text slang and gibberish.

glbblestddlejibblestuds

Another unicorn whiteboard. I made another one for Second City but forgot to take a picture or my phone was dead or something.

hehehe....friendly vandalism!

What Day Is It?

"Yeah! Yeah! And this old guy crawls out of a box wearing rags and shoes with the toes peeking out and he tries to stand but he's all hunched over and decrepit so he just drops to one knobby knee and he looks up and reaches out a gnarled, mottled fist and raises it as high as he can and says, 'The most important choice--the only real choice we can ever make--is to accept that which we deem to be true.'"

"But then Action Mike is all, 'These bullets choose your face for justice!' and fires a cloud of metal bees out of his transverse colon that descend upon the old man and when the swarm rises there is only a pile of brittle, broken bones."

PLAY THE THEME SONG!

Thoughts on the Best-Worst Tattoo Ever

I was getting lunch today when a girl sat down at a table in front of mine with her back facing me.

That's when I saw, on her upper-right shoulder, a tattoo of the cover of Pink Floyd's Dark Side of the Moon.



That thing ^. Except without the black around it. And, instead of having a beam of white light entering in to a prism and crapping out rainbows, she just had a thin rainbow going in with a bigger rainbow coming out...kinda missing the whole point of a prism.

But anyway, I immediately had a gut reaction to just hate it so much. What a terrible form of self-expression. And after sending my friend Justin about five or six raving texts while he was in class, I figured out what bothered me so deeply about it.

So, before getting to the tattoo itself, I realized that I think self-expression is like holding up a mirror. The things you decorate yourself with are designed to appeal to people with the same sensibilities and then they see a part of themselves in you. The goal is to identify yourself with a specific group or entity that people can see and relate to and then they feel like they can relate to you and you can relate to them. Friendship!

Like today I'm wearing a Hometsarrunner hoodie because I like Homestar Runner and I want people to know it. Or my friend Justin wears a jacket from the video game Mass Effect. And snot-nosed little teenage kids buy stuff from Hollister with its logo plastered all over it to show they shop there and that makes them good at clothes...or something.

We all do it. And the trick is to appeal to a specific group while excluding others. You don't want to be alone but at the same time you want to feel special. You can only see into the mirror and see yourself if you're on the right wavelength...or some other analogy that makes sense. I don't know how light works.  But it's a balance. If you're wearing a band t-shirt, you don't want to have a shirt that just has the name of the band you and your friend made up in the eighth grade and produced one single of you two making fart sounds into the mike. That's not--no one can see themselves in that. That's just a weird murky puddle that doesn't make sense. Although, the name Sprink Weasel, definitely has a universal appeal. At the same time, you don't want a t-shirt that just says "Music Band" on it. That doesn't say anything about you. That could mean anything. Who cares if you like music bands? Do you also like food eats?

We're obsessed with who is doing it wrong and who is doing it right and who is so good at doing it wrong that they're right again and who is so right that they're wrong and with irony and sarcasm in play it can pretty much loop forever in a convoluted tangle.

And so, what angered me about this tattoo was that I saw it as a terrible attempt to appeal to people. I like Pink Floyd and Dark Side of the Moon, but they're old.  Our generation can't really relate to them. We weren't there when that music came out. It doesn't mean the same thing to us. But not only that, because it's such an iconic logo and enough time has now passed, what used to be edgy and experimental is now completely bland and mainstream. Dark Side of the Moon has reached the point where it just kind of blandly stands in for the idea of psychedelic stuff, without the social consciousness or rebellion that accompanied it when it first came out.

And because of that, what I immediately think about when I see that logo is how the only place you see Pink Floyd anymore is the t-shirt section of Wal-Mart. It's lost all cultural relevance for me and solely represents Wal-Mart's decades late attempt to capitalize on a thing that has become commercialized to the point of meaninglessness.

(sorry if this sounds  pretentious but this tattoo really bothered me and I had to figure out why. It ends hopefully though so please bare with me. Or not. this is for me. not you.)

So, to me, what the Dark Side of the Moon album cover represents isn't a love of experimental music, it just represents Wal-Mart. It just stands in for like "Rock n' Roll" or "Chuck Norris Joke". It's tired. We all understand it. It's had its time and its place. Let it rest. Stop bringing it up, please. That's what I've come to associate it with. I used to own a Dark Side of the Moon hoodie and when I remember realizing the logo was everywhere immediately feeling I represented a store more than a band,  And it's one thing to buy a t-shirt of it, but it's a completely new level to PERMANENTLY SCAR IT ON TO YOUR FLESH!  

I thought, "why not just get WAL-MART tattoo'd on your shoulder?" What's the difference? But then I realized, that would be funny. That would have an ironic awareness. To earnestly advertise Dark Side of the Moon is more like being Wal-Mart. It's doing as Wal-Mart does. Getting back to the idea of mirrors, the only thing I think your reflecting is "I love commercialism!"

from Don Hertzfeldt's Rejected

So, I'm left to wonder: why? Why would you take a permanent and intimate form of self-expression and identify yourself with a faceless, soulless behemoth that is practically synonymous with "cultural wasteland". To identify with that tattoo is to give up all sense of individualism.

"I'm just gonna eat myself into a coma with trans fat enriched bacon-cakes while watching 36 consecutive hours of Keeping Up with the Kardashians and whatever freak TLC is following around this season."

But, there's no way anyone could be that wrong, right? No person could be that lost. No person could lack that much uniqueness to just give in to whatever people trying to take their money will give them. Therefore, because I am an optimist, that girl had to be mocking the very process I was applying to her.

She's subverting the entire ridiculous notion of using commercial, mass-produced possessions as a form self-expression by taking on-- by diving head first into the pure black heart of non-expression.

Her tattoo is a thing that is so meaningless and failing to appeal to anyone conscious enough to think about what our clothes or adornments say about us that it breaks that way of thinking.

By knowingly adopting something so commercial that it couldn't possibly reflect on anyone, she's giving up any form of self-expression. It's the ultimate, "I don't care anymore! I'm not trying to impress you or make you associate me with something that isn't me!"

We don't get a mirror. We don't see ourselves in her through this tattoo because we can't. We can't really see anyone in something their wearing, no matter how much we want to read in to it to feel like we're not alone. She shows us something that forces us to reject that idea of mirrors and look away from it with shuddering horror. She's only her.

We're left with clear glass.

We become aware, through this symbol, that she isn't trying to reflect back on us and then we are forced to see her as a person. As a human being. And that's the most universal thing of all.

 It's so inclusive that we can't help but reject something that everyone and anyone can take part in-- because we love to exclude. We end up excluding ourselves from the one thing we can all share just to make a more narrow connection based on something we bought or consumed.

And the only way to break that is let the light in, and watch rainbows fly out of our butts. 

Fushes in the Grass

These guys are called Fushes. One Fush. Two Fush. Red Fush? Oh, hush.

They live in the grasses of Andalusia and New Kitty Hawk, Westylvania.

Look at 'em. Aren't they cute? They carry a whole host of diseases that affect plants, animals, and even inanimate objects. Have you ever pulled a shirt out of your drawer and been like, "Why does this smell like Chinese-Food Pizza?!" That's cuz of Fushes.

But they're pretty friendly regardless. They're very social...hmmm,

There's a lot going on in this image of them so I don't know if you can see it...but...wait...I'll get a close up.

That should do it.

One Fush is giving the other Fush a prison tattoo that says "I Love Momma and Grease Fires"

Some of the Fush rituals may some strange to our human eyes, but to the Fushes' ultra-sensitive eyes, the whole world is a giant flaming ball of chaos and reflected light.

So, the next time you see a Fush...just keep on moving. There's nothing you can offer them. They don't need you! Unless you wanna get jumped in? Huh? Buddy?

You looking for trouble? You wanna be a part of something bigger than yourself? How much are you willing to give? 150? 300%? This isn't Bingo at the Senior Center. This is Bingo in the Dark Ages. One wrong move and I pull a broad sword that will slice your neck clear through in about 7 to 10 hacks. We're Fushes! We roll fast and out of control! The adorableness is in positive correlation to our ruthlessness and inability to take guff, crap, or nonsense from anyone. As one increases, so do the others in equal amounts!

Beneath the Coffee Mug Tree

The coffee mug tree is the greatest tree that has ever taken root in soil.

Every morning, the Coffee Mug Tree sprouts a fresh batch of coffees, each in their own pristine ceramic mug. Every flavor and spice is available--vanilla bean, hazelnut, mocha, pineapple, orange, oregano, cinnamon, popcorn butter, cheese, arthritis, technical foul, and peanut. All the flavors.

If you find a Coffee Mug Tree, lay yourself down beneath its bland expression and bask in the rich wafts carried by the wind as it rustles through the manila leaves.

You may not ever find true happiness in material possessions or physical sensations, but relaxing under the Coffee Mug Tree is pretty pretty pretty close.

...imagine the gurgling of the babbling brook...gurglegurglegurglegurglegurglegurgle...babblebabblebabblebabblegurglegurglegurglegurgle

gurglegurgle

gurglegurgle

the soft sounds, not unlike the sound of a person quietly choking to death on their own saliva, will carry you off to dream land where you can dream of Gorilla Bank Clerks and a world where everyone is bald except for giant plumes of hair that fire out of their knee-caps.

Coffee.

Stygian Quacks

When the world was gaseous and green, and the mountains rumbled, and the rivers bubbled, and the vines were thick and writhing, the fanged ducks roamed the lands.

Amorphous balls of muscle, purely predatory, wrathful beasts with calls and screeches that reverberated deep within the valleys of shadow.

"QUACK!" "QUACK!"

They were seated firmly at the top of the food chain and no environment was safe from their insatiable hunger. They ruled the mountaintops. The ruled the lowly ponds of scum. They ruled the clouds and the hills, and the tall grasses, and even the prehistoric public restrooms.

Their feet could easily disembowel a male Bull-Sloth in under thirty seconds. They could outrun a full-grown Jagopotamus. But what truly made them the most feared beast of the Lost Ages was the imperious stare from the milk-white saucers of their eyes. Any chance of escape was lost when the portentous glare ensnared its prey.They did not lose focus. They did not blink. No compromise. They could only target and pursue. In an instant, the prey knew that the ducks wanted to hunt them down more than they themselves wanted to escape.
------------------------------------------------------------------------

But, you can stare as much as you want at an asteroid that's about to collide into your planet and wipe out the entirety of your species--asteroid's not gonna mind one bit.

"QUACK!"

Spastitude

What we have here is a textbook case of a green, pink-pants'd dinosaur man about to do battle with a disgruntled and sentient pile of spaghetti.

This kind of thing is happening all the time.

But some of you might be thinking, "Andy, sweet boy, don't you think this is a little morally ambiguous and irreverent to be the most lasting and significant contribution to our culture in the last 300 years?"

And to that I say, "Listen, turdblossom, before you cry your pants, you have to think about this as allegory!"

ALLEGORIZE!

The Greenosaurus represents the irritability, irrationality (represented by his pink pants), and immense hunger brought on by low blood sugar. Because, the human body's biological response to low blood sugar is to turn you into a cranky, unstoppable food warrior. If we couldn't stabilize our glucose levels, yes, we would all be doing amazing feats of strength, but we would also lose our ability to hug.

The spaghetti monster represents the dual nature of complex carbohydrates. We need good sources of carbs to stave off becoming wiry, unscrupulous, ninjas. But, at the same time, as the waistline of America grows larger and softer and full of processed pork, we have to keep our battlings with giant piles of food in moderation. We can never slay the pasta-beast, only...kinda-slay. semi-slay
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And that's what that's about. If you have an alternative explanation, post it in the comments.

Here's one, in honor of Kai, the homeless hitchhiker.

"If you wanna scarf some loaded nood-uh-lays, that's cool. Just remember to get a sweat slick before you stuff your tubes, 'sall I'm saying."

The Great Algonquin Skunk Moose

The Monsters of February

This noble and bloodthirsty creature is the Great Algonquin Skunk-Moose of Northern Two-consin.

Although it has the appearance of a three-legged spider with a fist on its butt, grasping at a cheap gold chain it hangs from the Bruffulum trees, it is actually part of the Skunk-Moose family.

There have been several attempts to rename the Great Algonquin Skunk Moose to things such as the Thrider or The Old Birthday's Revenge, but these attempts have failed to catch on because the Skunk-Moose has a surprisingly large advertising budget.

Naturally, the Great Algonquin Skunk-Moose feasts on children and baby lambs, but you should really withhold judgement before learning all of the facts.

The Great Algonquin Skunk-Moose has a supernatural mastery of the elements. The specific sphere of power the Skunk-Moose inhabits is that when you're in a social situation, the GASM will sneak into the room and suddenly make it okay for everyone to talk about their poops. It can lift that inhibition with its presence but after a while, it will wait for the one person who hasn't contributed to the discussion, who looks like they're finally going to have the chance to say something really cathartic. And just when that person is about to speak the GASM flees the room, stifling its tiny laughter with a tiny leg, and immediately makes it not okay to talk about that anymore. Just as the person finishes their exclamation and rises to their feet,

"--LIKE FIVES TIMES YESTERDAY! AM I GONNA DIE OR SOMETHING?"

The Great Algonquin Skunk-Moose wins again. And if you really embarrass yourself, it will rip off your foot in the middle of the night and fill it with candied yams.

Well, that's enough of whatever that was for today. Be wary of people suddenly being cool with talking about their BM's.

and Sharm!

Napkin Rapkin Tapkin Flapkin
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A Brief Myth of Creation-

In the beginning there was only slime. There was only a great green ooze that spread across the void, consuming the nothing with effortless expansion and flow. And from this massive boiling rolling wave of ever-changing steaming stew, seething with energy, came a procession of strange beasts. Weird creatures were enveloped in a cloud of acrid mist and marching forth from the viscous muck to lay claim to the land of the sun. These shifted shapes and slopping structures may take hold with roots springing from their loopy limbs, they may grow towards the light. Or they may shrivel and sizzle, lost and unequipped for this world in this time.

But one thing is for certain, the crashing tide will never be without the monsters wrought from the perilous deeps of the sea of slime.

IT'S!!

You should desire only to be free.

Last Monday I did some deep-breathing exercises and it got me really energized so I was standing around in my empty apartment, gyratin' and shimmying and doing all kinds of wacka-doo.

Then I went for a run and yelled, "I'm in a manic state and need to burn off my energy with cardio-vascular exercise!" But my chest started hurting real bad so I yelled, "Excellence begets excellence! I'm gonna have a heart attack." But I think what had really happened was that I had pulled a shimmying muscle.

Then later in the week I got a whole bunch of dry-erase markers and drew unicorns on a giant whiteboard in the middle of the Student Center.

Then at my job I followed a kid around at the before-school program I work at and sang in a deep voice, "It's the story of Kilbor"

Then on Friday, in thirty-degree weather I stripped down to my shorts and a t-shirt, yelled, "You are all witness!" and ran a really hard mile and hurt my lungs from the cold.

Today I ran for 2 hours, fell in some mud, yelled at cars that didn't sufficiently pull over, and thought about how life doesn't feel like I'm on the edge of a cliff anymore.

I feel like a snowflake, caught in the sudden drafts of a storm cloud, flying to and fro at incredible speeds. And from a distance, I'm an invisible speck in a blanket of calm grey.

You're only chance at happiness is to be like the ping-pong ball. Complete, sturdy, and able to reflect and fly with the energies of the universe.

...came up with that while sitting on the toilet.