Gobama!

I have officially cast my vote and now I can only hope for the best. If McCain wins, my wife and I are moving to Australia. That is all.

My Eternal Nemesis

For many, the long search for a worthy opponent is a greatly rewarding thing. Most super heroes learn a great deal about themselves when confronting their most feared adversary. As fate would have it, my arch-nemesis is a weatherman. Grant Weyman.

As the name crosses my lips, a bitter taste fills my tongue. Many angry, unheard (but certainly NOT unspoken) rants jump to mind. There were days when I didn't have my hopes dashed every morning at approximately 7:30 am. There were times when all the world was at peace because we knew what the weather would be like the next day. Partly cloudy, 72 degrees Fahrenheit.

My age old foe has brought with him a new weather forecasting style, however. The tyranny is as follows:

"Going to be a bit chilly the next few days, so keep those warm winter coats out! (as an aside, I simply refuse to quote the improper grammar. It's a miracle how low the standards for being "Literate" are these days.) Warmer, more seasonal temps by the weekend."

A few days pass.

It is now the weekend. 7:30 am rolls around and I'm on the computer, hoping against hope Grant Weyman hasn't betrayed the trust I so unwillingly give him. The forecast:

"Going to be a bit chilly the next few days, so keep those warm winter coats out! Warmer, more seasonal temps by the mid-week."

And my heart falls.

It isn't so bad now, after almost a year of unending, blatant disregard for the science known as 'meteorology'. My mind has learned to dull the pain by ritualistically adopting the same small hope each day knowing it will be blasted to pieces. Life is hard under The Weyman. All us peasant folk knows it too.

I fully realize this has gone beyond sane and normal levels of dislike. But if I were to have any wish granted me, it would be a sabre duel with the man on a bridge. I could then die happy, having truly lived.

In the words of immortal William Wallace "Every man dies. Not every man really lives."

Carpe diem.

Social Malfunctioniasis

Yesterday, a certain acquaintance of mine and I were having a discussion. He gets offended extremely easily by ANY sort of joking or sarcasm directed his way, and of course being the antagonist I am, this only encourages such endeavors from my end.

As our conversation went on I had one of the most brilliant ideas ever form. The conversation with the fellow, whom I will refer to as "Jim", went as follows:

Me: Dude, why do you get so offended about everything?
Jim: Don't even get me started. My childhood is a long tale.
Me: Childhood, huh? That explains a lot. You know, you may have 'Social Malfunctioniasis'.
Jim: That's not real! You can't just add 'iasis' on the end of 'malfunction' and expect me to believe it's a real disease.
Me: Look it up, man. It's real.

Now in a time of great need, you have to rely on your best and most capable friends. I knew exactly who to go to.

Me: Trapper, can you create a wikipedia article about a disease I made up?
Trapper: Sure, what's it called?
Me: Social Malfunctioniasis.
Trapper: Give me a few minutes.

As Jim proceeded to scour the internet for his fictitious disease, I bought time by arguing. In about 15 minutes trapper sent me the link. I would have just put it up here, but the article was only up 60 seconds before they took it down. Thankfully, it was enough time for me to give it to Jim; thus causing him to forever question his own mental health. I have copy/pasted the material below.

Social Malfunctionaiasis

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Social Malfunctionaiasis Classification & external resources
ICD-10	G47.4
ICD-9	347
OMIM	161400
DiseasesDB	8843
eMedicine	neuro/522
MeSH	D009290

Social Malfunctionaiasis is a neurological condition most characterized by paranoid behavior, angry mood swings, wiggling eyes, and an aversion to social interactions. A victim of social malfunctionaiasis will most likely experience disturbed nocturnal emissions. Sufferers of Social Malfunctionaiasis are commonly referred to as "somals" as the full term is considered too long to pronounce on a regular basis.

Contents [hide] 1 Symptoms 2 Causes 3 Epidemiology 4 Diagnosis 5 Treatment 6 Coping with social malfunctionaiasis 7 History

[edit] Symptoms

The main characteristic of social malfunctioniasis is erratic social behavior such as paranoia, mood swings, and the fleeting feeling of loneliness. A less noticeable effect is that of the eyes wiggling in a rapid fashion, typically caused by the fear of social interactions. When a stride of social malfunctionaiasis is encountered, the sufferer immediately wishes to flee his current environment and relocate to a more safe haven such as his bed or on the toilet.

[edit] Causes

While the cause of social malfunctioniasis has not yet been determined, scientists have classified it as a neurological defense mechanism stemming from possible bullying on the playground and having to wait for the popular kids to get off the swing set.

In 2004 researchers in Australia induced social malfunctioniasis-like symptoms in mice by injecting them with antibodies from social malfunctioniasis humans. The research has been published in the Lancet providing strong evidence suggesting that some cases of social malfunctionaiasis might be caused by autoimmune disease.^[1]

Despite the experimental evidence in human social malfunctioniasis that there may be an inherited basis for at least some forms of social malfunctioniasis, the mode of inheritance remains brown.

[edit] Epidemiology

This section needs additional citations for verification. Please help improve this article by adding reliable references. Unsourced material may be challenged and removed. (March 2007)

It is estimated that as many as 3 million people worldwide are affected by social malfunctioniasis. In the United States, it is estimated that this condition afflicts as many as 200,000 Americans^{[citation needed]}, but fewer than 50,000 are diagnosed. It is as widespread as Parkinson's disease or multiple sclerosis and more prevalent than cystic fibrosis, but it is less well known. Social malfunctioniasis is often mistaken for depression, gigantowussion, or the side effects of medications. It can also be mistaken for poor sleeping habits, recreational animal abuse, masturbation, or mastication.

Social malfunctioniasis can occur in both men and women at any age, although its symptoms are usually first noticed in teenagers or young adults. There is strong evidence that social malfunctioniasis may run in families; 8 to 12 percent of people with social malfunctionaiasis have a close relative with this neurologic disorder.

Social malfunctioniasis has its typical onset in young adulthood. There is an average 15-year delay between onset and correct diagnosis which may contribute substantially to the disabling features of the disorder. Cognitive, educational, occupational, and psychosocial problems associated with the excessive daytime pushiness of social malfunctioniasis have been documented.

[edit] Diagnosis

Diagnosis is relatively easy when all the symptoms of social malfunctioniasis are present. But if the pushy attacks are isolated and cataplexy is mild or absent, diagnosis is more difficult. It is also possible for cataplexy to occur in isolation.

[edit] Treatment

There is no known treatment for social malfunctioniasis.

[edit] Coping with social malfunctioniasis

Learning as much about social malfunctioniasis as possible and finding a support system can help patients and families deal with the practical and emotional effects of the disorder, possible occupational limitations, and situations that might cause injury.

Support groups exist to help persons with social malfunctioniasis and their consistent and repeated failures.

[edit] History

Social Malfunctioniasis was first discovered in 1914 in the amber waves of grain of Kentucky by Chaos Dr. Gregory Bloods.

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Now this may seem cruel, but if any of you had this idea and the means to see it through, you would have done it too. Don't even try to pretend you wouldn't.

The Great Creativity Drought of '08

It seems there is a huge lack of creativity these days, especially in the entertainment industry. Think about it. When was the last time a movie was made that was truly great? 1994, Mel Gibson's Braveheart. The last time there was a widely liked, truly good band? Again with the early '90s we have Nirvana. And who knows how long it's been since there was a new TV show idea. Ever since American Idol, Survivor, ER and CSI came out, everything aired since has been carbon copy after carbon copy. Now I'm not saying "these are the only good bands, movies, etc". There just hasn't been, in my opinion, anything truly moving since that era. Why is that?

It has been said that there aren't any new stories told, we just re-tell the same ones over and over again. If this is true, why have I not previously noticed an overwhelming influx of the cliche same old stuff? I'm notoriously picky about these things; I think it would have come up. My hypothesis: quality standards have dropped exponentially.

Consider, if you will, the advent of emo-music. In a wikipedia article on the subject, it is described as "lyrics founded in deep diary-like outpourings of emotion". Now I'm all for writing in one's diary. If that's your thing, one on you. But if I'm not mistaken, the entire purpose of having a diary is to be able to jot down your innermost feelings and desires without the fear of being mocked. And these people have made music out of it? Yeekh. I guess the only way people can find to write a break up song is to go back and look at journal entries written when they were 15. How incredibly pathetic.

With movies, it seems there are really only 5 kinds: medieval-style Braveheart wannabes, "I loved these comic books as a kid" movies, Lion-Witch-Wardrobe-esque endeavors, Harry Potter sequels, and SAW sequels. I would have added Pirates of the Caribbean flicks, but they barely even count as entertainment. I mean, come on. We aren't 5 year olds.

Television, as a whole, is one giant cesspool of rampant and blatant, plagiarized nonsense. Enough said.

So we sit, my friends. The great entertainment crisis at the turn of the century. Forget the economy, the elections, looming energy crisis and the blunder in Iraq. This is what my attention is focused on.

A timeless tale

So one time I was talking to some girl and made the comment "Johnny Cash...hit me with fish...tell you more later..." A couple days went by and she kept bothering me about an explanation, which resulted in the following story I found in an old email. I hope you enjoy it as much as I do.

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So I was out shopping for cheese (Wensleydale, of course) at Smith's a couple years back. There I was, minding my own business, when I heard a loud crash from the next aisle over. I went around the corner to see what the commotion was about and what I saw made my jaw drop. There, lying on the ground in a pile of Ravioli cans, was the Woody Allen of country music himself; none other than my old nemesis Johnny Cash. My eyes narrowed.

"What are you doing here," I said, in the most threatening way possible.

He scowled as he rose form the pile. Apparently, I had just interrupted one of his infamous little-kid-cart joy rides.

"None of your business, backwards hands. You'd better leave before I have to whip you."

At this, he drew the guitar from its place on his back in a fluid, threatening motion.

"You don't want to do this, Cash. Have you forgotten what happened the last time we had a duel?" my own guitar whispered from the guitar case at my hip. His scowl greased to an evil grin.

"Last time was different. You had the advantage; we were in Tiajuana, you had your freaks to help you. But not here. Here there will be no populace to cheer you, no witnesses to see! It's almost a shame no one will watch the fall of the great Trevor Kelley." He laughed wickedly.

A bead of sweat ran down the middle of my back. He was right; Juan, Alexandra and the rest of the Sunshine Burritos would not be here to cheer me on. It seemed he had me.

My fear hardened into resolve. If I was going to die here, there would be a price for my blood.

"Then let it be done."

It began.

With a twisted smile, Cash picked a wickedly fast series of notes. I responded in time with him, keeping up with ease. Back and forth the duel flew; eash of us trying to gain a foothold of some kind. Cash was playing aggresively, throwing everything he had at me all at once. I could barely keep up with the deluge of picking patterns, chord progressions and tassets which he drew from his seemingly endless musical quiver. Desperately I held on, waiting for the country music star to make a mistake. My fingers started bleeding, my vision was going dark.

The end was near.

Time slowed. Seconds turned into hours as my enemy mercilessly beat me into submission. My guitar slid from nerveless fingers as I dropped to my knees. My entire life began playing back, the memories, regrets, and dreams all flowing before me in one hopeless instant. This was it. I would die here in Smiths, alone but for the mocking laughter of my nemesis and the cold embrace of Ravioli can aluminum. A cry broke my reveree.

"What are you doing?"

I turned. At the end of the aisle stood a store manger, his hands on his hips and a puzzled look on his fat, beet-red face. Relief flooded into me. I was saved.

Cash stammered a response. "Uh... we were just..."

The manager cut him off. "You ruined that Ravioli display! Get out of the store! Now!" The manager reached for the in-store phone. Cash's look of confusion turned to one of dread.

"No!"

"Clean up on aisle 12."

The sound of rushing feet filled the store. I rose to my feet with a grunt.

"Give it up, Cash. You're through."

I started forward, reaching to grab his grubby flannel sleeve. Before I could react, a giant halibut slammed into the side of my head, sending me reeling into another carefully constructed can-pyramid. I cursed my stupidity. Johnny Cash had two arms! I stumbled to my feet, struggling to regain my bearings. I saw a flannel red shape loping off to my left. Desperately I heaved a can of olives at it. I cursed my poor aim as the can clunked harmlessly to Cash's left side. He was gone.

The sound of rushing feet suddenly filled my ears. Remembering the impending clean up crew I bolted, drawing a white ball from my guitar case. I slammed it into the linoleum covered floor and yelled, "Ninja vanish!" The ball worked its magic; I found myself once again in the comforting darkness of the Danger Cave.

"I'll get you next time, Cash. Mark my words."

See you later, space cowboy.

Guitar Sword Room

Recently, there has been a large and rather one-sided debate between Andrea and her friends and myself: the fate of the room which I have come to lovingly refer to as the "Guitar-Sword Room". As I am extremely outspoken on this issue and feel my points and arguments aren't really listened to or fairly considered, I have chosen to blog about it. The only way you can really get your point seen as valid is to put it in written form.

So the deal is this - we are moving into a two-bedroom apartment. The first bedroom I have already conceded to let my fiance and almost wife do absolutely whatever she likes with. In fact, I have already come to terms with the fact that basically the entire apartment will be decorated and furnished the way she likes, with my things being a mere smattering of the overall decor. My one solace has been the fact that there is a second room where I will be able to escape the pink, frilly girl stuff that is sure to become a constant weight and companion.

My intentions with this room, my "Guitar Sword Room", are fairly self explanatory and of course harmless. I have a collection of approximately 8 swords, all of different styles and from varying historic eras, which I would like to hang from the walls. I also have two electric guitars, two amps and an acoustic guitar and the ongoing habit of writing music.

Now to write music really takes a certain environment, and the way your furniture is arranged and what kinds of items are in the room are definite factors in the process. Also, when I am upset or stressed out or sad or whatever, I really like to take an hour or two and just give my frustrations over to the muses. This is all I ask and I don't really feel like it's a lot.

Let me preface my presentation of the resistance by saying that the girl I love with all my heart is NOT totally opposed to this. The conflict, however, lies in the fact that she would also like to put her sewing machine in this, my sacred and hallowed Guitar Sword Room.

She claims it will be easier for her to use if it is out. Why can't we have it in our bedroom? I have, as of yet, not heard a valid response to this question. "I've let you have the rest of the house, isn't that good enough?" Usually some tooth-grindingly sweet reply follows that one. If I let her have this one little thing, will it stop there? Undoubtedly no. The curtains, doilies and deep-blue painted walls are sure to follow. The garage feel as I know it will fade to memory along with my pride.

The worst part about this entire thing is I have already lost the will to carry on with my little underground resistance. What is it about a beautiful woman that inexplicably pacifies my inner freedom fighter and lulls the vicious hunter to sleep? That's love for you, friends. It makes so little sense, yet we need it to realize our full potential.

In the words of King Theoden "What can man do against such reckless hate?" Except it's not really hate... well you know what I mean.

For my Andrea

I would just like everyone to know that I have somehow managed to convince the most beautiful girl I've ever met to marry me. How does that feel, you might ask? Well, my friends, it is nothing short of keen. I can't seem to totally wrap my head around the idea, which means it must be a really good one.

That's really pretty much it. I could go on and on about how beautiful she is and how I feel like I'm walking when I'm around her, but I would probably just get all gross. I guess I'll just have to write a song about it. :)