Shall it be called,

In the evening’s fading glow, life appears to make me whole,

As the leaves disintegrate, gone are hatred and disgrace,

Without mourning comes my night, starry curtains stay my fright,

Here lies no regret or pain; here lies no hate or disdain,

Save my self-loathing, I live; free of boundaries now I give.

Loosing peace upon the lost, killing death despite the cost,

She relieved me once for all, no last beckoning or call,

He inspired ignorance, safe from knowledge and romance,

Sheltered deep within the field, ever running, Ever kneeled,

What are mysteries to me? Merely specters, friends indeed,

Once ignored, they are embraced, bringing salve for flesh displaced,

Broken dreams and humbled hearts compose my victorious parts,

For life commands us all to grow first to si and last to know.

– – –

Song of the Night: For the Beauty of the Earth

In Other News

I’m so close to having taught myself to whistle super loudly like Randall. In fact, I can let out a really piercing one, but only (seriously) after nine at night or so. Incidentally, I’ve only thought about demonstrating my new abilities during the daytime. This leads to failure and mockery. Those hurt my heart.

I’m beginning to feel like the guy who can only turn invisible when no one’s looking.

Blogosphere, Shmogosphere

It has become apparent to me that despite the diversity found in the world of web logging, most people usually have one of the following styles running through their little corner of the internet:

The Look Ma, it’s a real website! blog. This often begins as a running commentary on some issue or group of people or tv show that you care way too much about. Once enough readers are visiting the site, the blogger then treats the blog as he would a business. Comments are limited and/or blocked, posts are very regular and curiously oriented advertising starts to show up. If the site doesn’t soon after lose its webhost in the URL, the blogger is a cheapskate who takes himself too seriously. Basically the super-niche magazines for enthusiasts. Subscribe at your own risk.

The Oh no, don’t read my diary! blog. Despite the “Web” part of “Web Log,” these people still put up their relationship problems and familial issues for everyone to read. It has something to do with the desire to pour out one’s feelings coupled with the desire for sympathy. Basically, it’s emotional prostitution online. No normal person wants to hear about your deep inner struggles with some old girlfriend’s comments on your Myspace page. We just don’t care, so stop putting it out there. These are essentially the unedited letters to the editor in any issue of Seventeen magazine, except with more grammatical errors.

The Everything and everyone is stupid (except me) blog. Basically an unending string of “the stupid @#($!*@ gas companies are $#!#*@!$ me over because I can’t buy my !@#*!@& case of Corona and drive out to Newport every day anymore in my raised Silverado, man.” There’s also the “I was at the grocery store today, and the $@*! checker totally overcharged me like those #$*!$@*# always do at the !#@$))(()((( grocery store, wtf its like u no i jus wanna buy food not pay like 50 bux for your stupid mistake you !$@*$!@.” Read solely by your loser friends, these blogs are like the smelly homeless people of the internet.

The I may not be cool but you’re even lamer blogs. These are generally run by egomaniacal people with just enough intelligence to occasionally say something interesting. Unfortunately, this is much more of the exception than the rule — everything else is just pointless tripe that is both self-deprecatingly and bitingly sarcastic. You might get a chuckle out of these on occasion but beware of complimenting the author, as it often gives his already unhealthily-sized ego reason to grow. These are like the yuppies who drink their Kopi Luwak coffee and talk about how America should be burnt to the ground and rebuilt like Switzerland, except with less freedom and more coffee. Everyone in the world is an idiot, but the author not-so-secretly hints at how much less of an idiot he is when compared to the masses of idiots around him. Kind of like the Michael Moore of blogs, except they hate America more.

The I write what I want, please care about it blogs. These guys are usually a little pretentious but it’s only because they don’t value their readers enough to filter themselves more. Kind of like Newsweek in that they are written because the authors think they need to be written, but no one really thinks of them as anything more than a mildly interesting place to get headlines from. People that know the author personally will visit every now and again, but the blog could die a quick death and nobody would be terribly disappointed. They’re usually started simply because the author thinks highly enough of himself to dole out his work upon the unsuspecting public in hopes that they’ll be enlightened by his infinite wisdom and debonair good looks. They should also send this author money whenenver they get the chance, because then he’ll buy stuff that will lead to more wisdom for them to read.

–  – – –  –

I’m sure I missed one or two, but if you think your blog doesn’t fit into any of these categories, let me know and I’ll be sure to prove you wrong. Pretentiously, of course.

Things that make us wince

Watching your karaoke performance on video.

Realizing how much money you spent in one mediocre evening after being stingy all week.

Not being able to remember how that mustard stain got there.

Daring your friend to go hit on a girl two minutes before her boyfriend comes to pick her up.

Stupid stupid heat.

–

Let’s just lie on the floor while the heat goes away,

Let’s just play in the sprinklers day after day.

For The heat cannot touch me while you are around,

The sun cannot singe me when I hear the sound

Of your voice.

Song of the sometimes: Anything by Phil Collins

Providence, Roads, Islands

I had a conversation with a friend tonight about why people hurt each other. (Incidentally, it was an extremely helpful conversation for both of us.)

To apprise you of what we spoke about:

-How often the hard thing is the right thing.

-How being a man often means going forward without understanding or being in control of our situation.

-Loneliness, and its dangers and opportunities/When to be sociable and when to seek comfort and repose.

-How eternally formulaic people can be.

Some days, you just need to get away from it all, y’know? And then there are those times when the presence of one person can be exactly what you need.

– – –

What crimes have you committed, demanding such penace?

Couldn’t wait for five more minutes, and a cry for help,

Because this room is so peaceful and this room is so quiet,

And I hate the silence,

I hate the silence.

-CC

When(ever) the growing gets tough?

Actually, I’ve been scared by how easy life has been the last few weeks.

I’ve been working 30 hours a week (with an inimitable sleep schedule to boot) that I get paid for while also doing my best to keep the Seahorses afloat in the world of soccer publicity.

I think I could use some lifeguard training.

Today, I got a call about even more work — Henry got my name from someone or somewhere and wants me to interview a bunch of Christian Music Artists at the “Somebody Loves You Crusade” in LA next weekend.

Of course, it would be fulfilling a boyhood dream to get to talk to Jaci Velasquez one on one…

The catch? The pieces are all filmed on camera — whether or not I would be on camera was unclear — when I asked Henry that exact question, I found it hard to communicate to him that I was simulataneously hoping that I would not be shown while also sounding grateful for the offer in the first place.

I’ll let him know on Saturday. I’m leaning towards doing it right now, if only because it’d be a once-in-a-sometime experience. I mean, let’s be honest– how many people get the chance to interview the rocking band P.O.D. (Payable On Death — I’m sad that I know that) and get PAID for it?

Sail Away

While together you make fire

Once picked up seven comes after

Put together bring me higher

Placed behind abate all laughter

–

What am I?

Silvard

I actually don’t like this one at all. It kept getting muddled and I kept having to make compromises, and I didn’t care enough about it to cut where I should have. Nevertheless, I’m putting it up here for my benefit, hoping to fix it someday. Or not.

– – –

Crouching in fear as the leaves crack

Only by hiding can she survive

Once seen by him she must go back

She has vowed not to return alive.

Coiled legs prepare to spring up

His breath penetrates this hallowed ground

Seeking to end her, most abrupt

To show her death’s mysteries profound.

Shall some saviour appear? Shall none?

Unless one does she is undone.

The grey-black beast him overcomes;

Saved from death by death’s old son.

– –

Looking out for numbered ones

I was telling some friends tonight about how I used to be a fanatic baseball card collector. My brother and I would go up to the same card store all the time and buy cards (I always loved Fleer best) and Trolli Sour Brite Crawlers, then rush back home to methodically open our packs. It never seemed weird to me that John bankrolled most of these trips, although I began to help with the funds as my paper route career began to take off.

Anyway, we always hoped to find “inserts” within the packs — these were special cards that were part of some series of usually only a dozen or so star players. The cards had cool designs and were often holographic or die-cut.

However, the most sought-after cards were the ones with their own serial numbers. I still remember my Frank Thomas insert that was one of only 500 like it in the world. I was ecstatic to pull it, and even got some decent money out of it later on when John decided to sell high (an incredibly wise and gutsy move at the time) and got something like $80 for that particular card. (I think I later used that money, along with some other funds, to buy my paintball gun setup — good times)

Nowadays, however, numbered cards only hold significance if they are one of, like, five of their kind. The baseball card market was running on a lot of inflation in the 90s apparently, and it has been crashing in the last ten years or so. I think John and I finally decided our card-buying days were mostly over when a pack of Fleer hit $5. That’s just insane.

Of course, this was all fueled by the fact that my dad had collected baseball cards right around the time of their inception. He would routinely browse through our Beckett card value guide and point out old cards with way too many numbers left of the decimal point under the “value” category. We suspect that Grandma threw them out in some random box without realizing it, as a couple of separate forays into the depths of her house have yielded nothing to speak of aside from cobwebs and old portraits.

I’m still susceptible to buying a random pack of cards now and then, however. Old habits die hard.

Especially when they’re selling Fleer in the grocery store check out lines for $4.50.

Gratitude Adjustment

Today was hard.

One of my good friends gave me a Nintendo Wii for my birthday.

I gave him a t-shirt.

Sure, it was a cool shirt (obviously), but it doesn’t let you play virtual bowling with Ryan when he’s in Castro Valley.

The problem, I quickly realized, is that I am just terrible at accepting gifts. Part of this comes from having been raised in a pretty frugal environment, in which anything nice was usually paid for very visibly. As in, “We’re eating at Carl’s Jr. tonight so we’re not buying dessert this week.”

Straying from this mentality is painful for me. I am so conscious of the sacrifices that are usually associated with gifts that I would almost prefer to just do away with large-scale giving so that I wouldn’t feel guilty when I see the cost. This probably unhealthy extreme is in contrast to that of a few people I know, who both enjoy gifts and expect them at the “appropriate” times, even budgeting the money they know they will receive from friends and family weeks before their birthdays or Christmas, usually oblivious to the idea behind the gift itself.

Obviously, the mean is somewhere between these two mindsets. I know that most every person who gives me something does so because they want to, not merely because they feel any sort of obligation. It’s wrong for me to cringe in the face of their gifts because I fear their resenting me when they later feel the effects of their gift. In fact, it’s probably downright arrogant of me to think I know what they can afford to give better than they do. Even if their gift does end up costing them more than they anticipated somewhere down the road, that’s their issue, not mine. As the one receving the gift, my job is simply to be grateful and to enjoy what I am given. Being conscious of their sacrifice is fine, for it can certainly enhance our appreciation of the gift; when I become so conscious of their sacrifice that it starts to take away from the gift, however, I am judging their actions as wrong. Essentially, I am saying that they were wrong to give me something, that I don’t deserve it and that I resent them for putting me in such an awkward spot.

How perverted is that?

For now, I’ll keep trying to assume a demeanor of unadulterated joy when opening presents until the time comes when I don’t quite have to fake it any more, even when the gift itself makes me want to crawl in a hole and denounce my self-worth.

And, unless Christian subculture has lied to me, there is a pretty clear parallel here to the grace of God. Romans 6:1 pretty clearly denounces the second extreme of thankless expectation; I don’t have to look any farther than common courtesy to find a reason to abhor the first.