I use too many words

Superfluous, inundating, overwhelming, tsunamic. Whatever you want to call it, so I am. I don’t summarize. I don’t approximate. I rarely overview. Once these two chapped lips start opening and closing, the mouth engages and trash begins to fly at startling speeds.

Here’s a typical Process

“Tim, what do you think of Jakey?”

Answer:

1. The history of Tim and Jakey, our rough relationship
2. The current policies between Tim and Jakey
3. My overall estimation of Jakey’s thoughts and Actions
4. A disclaimer of my limited brain and knowledge
5. My skewed imbalanced view of all those things, considering all those factors
6. Another disclaimer to secrecy and my idiocratic mood

I noticed I do that a lot. Sorry friends! I’m trying hard to summarize first, and give details later.

Where does this habit come from? My suspicions are many. The prime suspect is my relationship with my mother. Explaining my actions was like Law and Order Criminal Intent. I needed to explain every possible action.

“Tim, son, did you do your homework”

Answer

1. Yes

“But I don’t SEE you doing homework. (anger rising)”

Answer

1. The rest of the students are Stupid
   
2. Homework is a joke
3. The bus ride i have to take is a super long route. Plenty of time to do the homework
4. I do many things without her supervision. I save children, devise way to end hunger, clean my room and then mess it up again. A lot of stuff happens

Anger subsides. Tim’s hiney is safe again.

Summary: I guess you never really get away from home.

Focus, grasshopper! Focus!

dinho ooo: dang your xanga is crazy
me: ?
me: did you just find it?
dinho ooo: yeah
dinho ooo: its harder to follow than you are

I can’t blog about one idea. Remember the clown gag with a hankerchief? Once the hankerchief is yanked out, another one is tied to the end of it, and so on and so on till you have a laundry basket full of snot rags. That's exactly how my thinking works. Once one idea graces the journal, I find another idea tied to it, even another idea past that.

Focus. I need focus. I need to improve. I am tempted to try some techniques from Kung Fu movies and cartoons. It usually involves standing on one foot and balancing rice bags, or focusing all your chi on a single leaf. Hopefully at the end of the training, I will be able to focus like I'm on riddlin. If not, at least I'll come away with the exploding palm technique or something like that.

To get started, I googled for "focus" to get some pithy sayings.

"Concentration is the master key to all success. It is the fundamental law of achievement. The man who does not concentrate will be either a half success, a mediocrity or a complete failure".
-- Orison Swett Marden, Prosperity: How to Attract It, 1922

Ok, so this quote really doesn't do anything for me. "Concentration" could be replaced with any other word, say "Cinnamon Bits" or "Dwarves" and mean the same thing. My rating of this quote : 2/10

"I never hit a shot, not even in practice, without having a very sharp in-focus picture of it in my head."
-- Jack Nicklaus

What nutjob uses this quote to inspire himself? Focus and concentration is important. But not important enough to pick up sniper like tendencies. I can picture my xanga interview now - "Every time i blog, i think about a .50 caliber rifle, and I'm trying to center my red targeting laser on a head. That guy is an idea. I need to kill it to get it.....". Yeah, that isn't violent at all. Points to this quote for including guns and a cool German name : 5/10

"Concentrate all your thoughts upon the work at hand. The sun's rays do not burn until brought to a focus."
-- Alexander Graham Bell (Inventor)

This is actually a pretty cool quote. One, the author is Alex Bell. Two, everyone remembers burning ants or your mom with the magnifying glass. Heck, even MacGuyver started many explosions with glasses and a room of sun. And the quote isn't ridiculously long. Try quoting that first quote 6 times fast. I don't need the first sentence, the second sentence is good by itself. My rating: 10/10

If you hear me talking about the burning in the sun. I'm working on focus.

Summary: Why are all the good quotes pre-1900s? Are we that dumb?

I am unfit for wit

I want to be witty.

Since I said that first statement, let me say another: I’m not. It’s similar to any geek donning on some $500 and announcing “I’m cool!” No. You are not, and you will never be. In the same way, I can repeatedly announce my awesomeness, when it’s plain by my face, I am not.

The only way to be witty is … to be witty. My best definition of wit is using everything at surprising appropriate times. I may as well be random. Randomness is not wit. If I walked into a McDonalds and said, “Uncle Bernie has an dodo, and my sister is stapler,” that is not wit. That is the kind of crazy that you get from overdosing crack or COSMO mags.

Here’s an example of wit

“What is power? Power is getting an honorary doctorate from the university that expelled you your freshmen year. Power is living in a mansion for thirty years and never knowing where the kitchen is. Power is walking with your fly open and everybody thinking you’re a fashion leader. Power is the most sought after, addictive, seductive, abused drug there is. Compared to power, crack is Fruitopia.

I believe it’s the Bible that says “With great power comes great responsibility.” No, wait, that was Stan Lee in “Spiderman”

Now I don’t want to get off on a rant here, but let’s talk about power- how to get it, what to do with it, when to use it, and most importantly, where to store it at what temperature. Because make no mistake, power is a perishable good.”

Man. That’s gold. I was so amused, I dropped my poo poo prematurely reading on the toilet. Witty people can say the craziest things at the proper time to belt their point for additional points. Here’s another example:

Fear and insecurity touch many nutcakes ‘cross this great land of ours. Up in our Ivory Towers, white professors whose closest contact with real black people is James Earl Jones voice over on CNN are busy composing master treatises on the genetic deficiencies of blacks.

Meanwhile down the hall in the Afro-centric wing a learned Ph. D in mathematics is insisting that X = Malcom.

The main reason for this entry is an apology. Should a conversation ensue, and I rant like a Yeti with a yak-sized dose of redbull: I’m sorry. I’m probably trying to be witty, I’m just not there yet.

Summary: My uncle is crazy. I wonder if he’s also trying to be witty?

Identity Issues

Every show has it’s cool guy. Seinfeld had Kramer. Friends had Joey. Saved by the Bell had Zack, Smallville has superman (duh). Unfortunately I don’t relate to any of those people.

Cool comes in. Cool guy uses funny line. Cool guy gets girl. People laugh. Random crazy nutjob comes in with a crack pot idea for making action heroes out of melted crayons, and I start chuckling. Oh crap. I relate with the eat-too-many-cheetos guy. I relate with some odd things in entertainment.

One of the most painful movies I’ve seen is “My Best friend’s wedding”. No, I do not wish I was Julia Roberts. No, I do not want to steal away the groom. Basically girl and guy are friends. Guy decides to get married to new young chick. Girl goes and tries to break it up so she can finally get with Guy. Julia Roberts spends an hour and a half trying to say “I like you”, and lying her way out of deception.

I THINK most people like the movie. I’m not sure what they like about it. I start to get an ulcer around the 3rd lie. Each further deception takes me back through all the blackest things I’ve ever done to cover up. I leave that movie feeling really bad for the liar main character. I don’t see anything endearing in that movie. It’s trying to adore selfishness. In fact, selfishness done poorly (she gets caught).

So after relating with Screech, George, and the unnamed ensign that always gets killed on star trek, I’ve taken a break from Television and movies. Hopefully I can enshroud myself with the idea that I’m cool. Am I?

Summary: I once saw the hero get shot in an action flick. I felt sorry for the jacket that got messed up by all the blood. Maybe I’m heartless.

Burning Chicken Soup

Ouch. My stomach burns. The burning isn’t love, courage, or anger. I am suffering from fiery bathroom woes. Each visit to the bathroom sounds like adding chicken broth to a bubbling cauldron. After glancing in the porcelain, I can only name it Burning Chicken Soup. It feels like I accidentally sat on a Bunsen burner. Accidentally sat for 4 hours, ate some butane and now have a fire out my anus.

I never knew so much liquid could leave my body. I’ve deluged the toilet at least a dozen times. The pain horrifies me, and awkwardness unsettles me. The only good thought floating around is the hope of weight loss. Sickness always is a ferocious diet. I fear drinking. I fear eating. And here I lounge on the couch, stomach full of napalm like acid, envying the dead. My only joy is Ill be an Ally McBeal look a like in a few hours.

Stomach Flu never ranked high on my list of fears, but it's contending for the top spots now. It's up there next to root canals and shopping. Number 1 or 2 on the list is chronic writers block. Why? Well.....

Summary: Oh crap.

Where'd all the chips go?

I like visitors. Furniture revitalizes a living room, but people are required for great memories. My best memories and jokes are born from unexpected friendly drop-ins.

Not all visitors are sweet fragrances to the nose of life.

Health - Loki himself doesn’t like your happy life, nor your ugly mug. Whimsically, he sends crashers to annoy till crap fills your words and fills your pants. By definition, the nightmare visitor always has some viral disease. There’s no hope for health. Inject a whale-sized dose of airborne, but it’s over. Your body may fend off the disease, but the couch, the chair, and the favorite porcelain seat has no white blood cells.

Cleanliness - Bad visitors fear the laundry machine. Well, maybe they fear soap in general, or they hope to season new food with old grease stains. Say good-bye to matching couches once one of these Crisco buffoons goes swimming in the leather cushions. A favorite saying is: “it’s been ….. since I showered”. Other remarks might be “I never knew sewers were so cramped and wet”, “the bayou feels weird on your skin”, or “I am the THING”.

Food - The secret to keeping away unwanted visitors is the pantry. Snacks are great becase of their taste, small sizes, and portable packages. Snacks are NOT great because of their taste, small sizes, and portable packages. Pringles, chips, and crackers invite visitors to crop dust rug and living room. Never have good leftovers. The scavengers will smell and feed off your refrigerator undesirables. Chinese or pasta leftovers have a 90% chance of leading to a NAP.

Nap – Naps are sweet gifts from a good God. Vagrants napping in your place are the one of the plagues of Egypt. Extended napping increases the chances for more nasty annoying antics. No matter how good a friend is, people that use stranger’s toothbrush and pajamas should be shot. Sure, you’ve never actually touched him. Then why does it feel like you’ve just had a 20 min broke-back encounter?

Summary: Buy a crappy place. It’s your turn to be the vagrant.

Coveting of every kind

• Laptop - looking at an Apple MacBook Pro, or a Widescreen thinkpad - basically will cost $2,500
  
• Cintiq Drawing tablet -if you don't know what this is. It's basically a huge 22 inch monitor you can draw on. The price tag is ONLY $2,500
  
• Taylor Guitar - I've always wanted one, and they've been too expensive. Finally, the prices have .....INCREASED! OMG. I'm tempted even more to buy one now, before the price inflates anymore. It's seriously increased about 20% in the last 3 years. The price tag is only $2,500

That's a lot of money. I can hear my mother now. "Tim, that's a lot of money, you should save it". I don't blame her or hate her. In about 20 years when I'm talkin to some youngster "I remember when I earned my first $100,000. You whipper-snappers don't appreciate anything ..... gahhh!"

I remember my first $1000 dollars. I wanted to buy a guitar with it. And I did! I had a Gibson Les Paul Studio ....for one day. They made me return it the next day. Ah, what a sweet 24 hours. How I still dream of the ebony body and rosewood fretboard.

Seriously though, what is the point of saving, if you can't spend it? Having a large bank account but no material goods is practically being poor. I believe this is called the Midas fallacy. Gold is great, but only as a means to get other things. Poor guy wanted gold, but realized he couldn't trade it for anything. He starved to death; you can't eat gold.

Summary: Maybe I should just get 2000 hamburgers. You can't eat a MacBook Pro.

Unidentified Brushing Object

UFO abductees claim to be subjects of various horrifying tests. Strange metal objects, knives, and strange sensations are common in all descriptions. Bright lights are often cited, coupled with strange murmuring and off tone music.

Sounds like the dentist to me.

First, a masked man comes in with goggles and a white coat. If his outfit is a hint of my diagnosis, I already feel like I have SARS. Actually, I’m not sure if it’s a man. My vision is blurred. Dominating my vision is a strange light that looks like the laser from ID4. It’s not strong enough to pop my eyeballs, but it’s definitely slow roasting my brain.

A lead vest is placed on my torso to protect my body from gamma rays, x-rays, or maybe even superman’s leering eye. Apparently my dentist assumes my head is made of lead, because I don’t receive any protective equipment for my skull. It’s ok to fry brains, but not my lungs.

They then proceed to stick that nasty film in your mouth, and take a picture with their *camera*. The *camera* has a barrel that could shoot photon torpedoes. By the way, the only way to know if the film is in the correct position, is for the patient to gag uncontrollably. If I don’t gag, Mr. White Coat will continually position the film till I do. To add to the joke, I have to hold the film in a gagging position. There’s probably a good joke here, but I don’t know what it is.

Then the horror starts. The tray next to my head platters orc weapons from the Lord of the Rings movies. Tools that the Dentist is happy to smile about. Apparently, my dentist is a sadist. I won’t go into the details, but it’s quite scary to see random iron hooks and blades enter your mouth and to see liquid explode from the lip line. By the way, they say it’s toothpaste they use, but I suspect its just Vaseline.

This begs the question: Aliens or the dentist?

I leave the office feeling like I’ve gnawed on cedar for 2 years. Some of my friends returned with “braces”. They say its for your teeth, but I suspect parents impose metal on your teeth to keep dating potentials low. I’ve never left the dentist feeling good.

I’ve never heard anyone complaining about bad dental work after being abducted. Sure, my new pimple has seeds of an alien race. And yes, I’m a walking biological time bomb. But you’d never know it with this great smile.

*ting*

Summary: At least you don’t remember much from the UFO

Disappointing Fajitas

Roughly about twice a month I crave good Mexican food. And, since I can’t find good Mexican food, I go out and get bad Mexican food. Who wants fresh fajitas? I most certainly reject large burritos. At baja fresh, this giant is called the “dos manos”; but who can eat that much food? That’s why I only go to small empty Mexican restaurants named after Spanish Aunts and Uncles. Who wants an abundance of grilled meat, beans, and cheese for only 5 dollars? And definitely I don’t want fresh guacamole. I need old guacamole to protect against disease with it’s killer mold.

Fajita-loving losers need to be put in their place. Fajitas cost 10 dollars and burritos cost 5. Basically, the people order a open faced burrito, and pay an extra 5 dollars for a sweaty high-schooler to bring it out on a sizzling plate. Show offs. I know, I’ve got an idea! Let’s put super crappy meat in the fajitas. All the carne asada fat collect from lunch can be covered with vegetables, and no one is the wiser. They will envy the burrito people! And when the customers look like they are going to hurl, keep giving them more salsa to kill the taste of your own food.

Anyways, if you can’t tell, me and Jon Chen ate at the WORST Mexican restaurant ever. Even the waitress was mysteriously nice. It’s the same mysteriously nice that seen in a dark evil-browed men in dance clubs. So what if he’s evil, and so what he’s offering you a drink with a eerie lookin pill at the bottom, free drink right? Right?

I’ve never had a discipleship interrupted with regurgitating food. We must have looked like two mother birds pre-chewing all the meat for our kids at home. People must have stared in disgust. Oh wait. There are no customers because the restaurant is empty. Probably because they died from the belly-busting fajitas.

Don’t eat at Sarape. I think sarape means “you’ll hate our beef”

Summary: Why is it so hard to find good burritos in LA?

80/20

How much recycled conversation do you have?

Today is Sunday. Often on Sundays I play time machine with the week. I like to recall the top events, favorite moments, and chores of the week. What did I talk about this week? Food, girls, money, church, work, books; the list goes on. How many times did I reuse conversation? A lot.

Grace on Campus has increased in popularity and the resulting numbers for the last couple of years. I kid you not, our numbers on Friday nights average at about 290 with deviation of about 10 people. Grace on Campus doesn’t fit in Rolfe anymore.

And Grace on Campus doesn’t fit into my head anymore.

Not to be a prick, but I can’t track that many cool people. And yes, that many of them are cool. I’ve got my small group, my old small group, some CBM alumni, and that’s not counting new visitors, or freshmen that could use a visit or two. Realize, kind reader, I haven’t scheduled time for my friends yet.

After this Sunday evaluation, I realize I spend about 80% of my time talking about what I do for 20% of my time. My illustrations and stories rerun several times a day. It’s like watching old episodes of Seinfeld. Now, the disease is worsening, causing me mix stories together. I’ll start the story at a nice restaurant and end up in the middle of a bad high school dance experience. There is a definite increase in the question “have I told you this before?” Reporting the daily news on my life has become my new recreation.

I wonder if Brian and Greg Gumble ever develop a iterating syndrome from retelling the same story excessive times. I’m sure they boozed a lot during the Olympics when Kerri Strug won the gymnastics Gold back in the day. The story was played over and over and over…...And in the future, watch. While reporting some tragedy in Scottsdale, Greg Gumble’s brain will burn out like an old Dell laptop battery.

I need to re-vamp my life somehow.

This needs to stop. Monday through Saturday are not made to be news sessions for what happened on Sunday. And my 30s aren’t made to retell everything that happened in my 20’s and childhood. Life is meant to be lived and seized.

Maybe less people and more of life?

Maybe less reporting, and more living?

Summary: I bet Dan Rather would rather bathe and lather than sit and chatter.

High Resistance Skills

I like to curl iron from time to time. There’s nothing better knowing you can curl a lot of steel with one arm. Who cares if you have no shoulders, show those ladies your nice biceps. My new human trick is crushing cans with my hand. I haven’t mastered it yet, but trust me, it’ll be astounding.

Feats of strength are what I call high resistance skills. Another high resistance skill is drawing or reading. The more difficult the book or art piece, the better the person becomes. I’ve also noticed over-eating is a high resistance skill. The more food a person eats, the better he becomes at imitating Shamu. I’ve been told that abstaining from motor oil and tune ups makes your car work harder; thus makes it stronger. The jury’s still out on that one.

Even though no one will admit it, every group of friends houses one high resistance friend. There’s always one guy that exists just to make you funnier, nicer, smarter, etc. Simon was that friend for me. Simon had all the coolest electronics and toys, but was as boring as bricks. He had a mullet most of the time. The rest of the time, his hair was stylized for any early glam-rock bands. At least he made the rest of us cooler.

If you think that, “no, no that’s not true.” It’s probably because YOU are THAT friend.

My new theory is that Ugly company will give me the resistance I need to blossom to attractiveness. I am covertly conducting testing now. If you read my Xanga, you are not in the Uggo pool. (someone earlier was worried if they were my friend, because they wanted to be good looking. See earlier postings)

I used to think that blogging was also a High Resistance Skill, but looking at my earlier entries….

Summary: Guess not.

Centurions and April

When the the weather clears, the sun shines, and the grass is green, I rest in the Hills of UCLA. Reading in the Apartment dulls. Praying stales in closets. Perfect reasons and a perfect time to sit in some green.

For today’s devotional I looked at Matthew 8:

A centurion replies to Jesus: “I am not worthy to have you come under my roof, but only say the word, and my servant will be healed. For I, too, am a man under authority, with soldiers under me. And I say to one, ‘Go’ and he goes, and to my servant, ‘Do this,’ and he does it. – Matthew 7

A centurion speaks a command, soldiers obey. No pause. No questions. Consider God’s authority, a mountain to the previous centurion pimple. God is a marshal of all living, all created, and all natural ( for lack of a better word ) things. If a centurion commands men and wars, then God commands all, from molecules to storms, if not even time itself.

Why not speak me to perfection? A simple word would make me tall, buff, wonderful, and excellent at any skill. I would be very Spartan-esc. My current body on the other hand….

So, why am I the way I am? My shortcomings visit me daily performing any human task. Droughts of wisdom retard any hope of good judgment. The cavity in my skull has been filled with stupid. God made my inward parts. After the bathroom, sometimes I suspect they are used parts. My body is the envy of many circus-freaks. Long-arms, big nose, and thunder thighs don’t exactly earn me GQ cover shots. But, based on Matthew 8 God orders all things, so…..

It’ll have some purpose. Someday. It’s my only hope.

Summary: I’m not sure how pimples will be used. When they eventually play their part, I’ll laugh a lot.

Car Grunting

Car grunting

Home isn’t home without the sound effects. I am not referring to the TV, stereo, video games, or kitchen appliances. Let me explain a little history. The lee blood line is lax with adjectives. All topics and issues fall into four degrees of “Good”, “Bad”, “Terrible”, and Ugly.

“Good job on the Yardwork”
“The meat is bad”
“The car sounds terrible”
“Your (tim) grades are Ugly”

When adjectives prove insufficient, Lees will compensate with sound effects. Words can’t capture the incidental sound effects. Instead they will be written in. I will denote them in ( ).

Dad: “…. Yada, I backed up the car yesterday (eeeeeeeeerrrrrrrpppppphhhfff!!), and I hit a tree (kapooow!). Then the service crews came up to the tree and (bam bam bam bam) the tree is in pieces.”

Sister: “Well, that crazy story is nothing. Yesterday I forgot my computer for lab, I was like (wa-la-la-la-la-la) where is it? (ahhhhhhhhhr! Yybhhbyhply!).

And now I follow suit.

Employer: “Describe a difficult situation you have encountered. What solution did you apply?”

Me: “Once this guy would make me so (errrrrrrrrrrrrrrggggh!), you know? And he would always steal my pencils. His victory sound was like (muheeheheheeeheee!), pretty crazy, I know….”

Summary: I didn’t get that Job.

80/20

How much recycled conversation do you have?

Today is Sunday. Often on Sundays I play time machine with the week. I like to recall the top events, favorite moments, and chores of the week. What did I talk about this week? Food, girls, money, church, work, books; the list goes on. How many times did I reuse conversation? A lot.

Grace on Campus has increased in popularity and the resulting numbers for the last couple of years. I kid you not, our numbers on Friday nights average at about 290 with deviation of about 10 people. Grace on Campus doesn’t fit in Rolfe anymore.

And Grace on Campus doesn’t fit into my head anymore.

Not to be a prick, but I can’t track that many cool people. And yes, that many of them are cool. I’ve got my small group, my old small group, some CBM alumni, and that’s not counting new visitors, or freshmen that could use a visit or two. Realize, kind reader, I haven’t scheduled time for my friends yet.

After this Sunday evaluation, I realize I spend about 80% of my time talking about what I do for 20% of my time. My illustrations and stories rerun several times a day. It’s like watching old episodes of Seinfeld. Now, the disease is worsening, causing me mix stories together. I’ll start the story at a nice restaurant and end up in the middle of a bad high school dance experience. There is a definite increase in the question “have I told you this before?” Reporting the daily news on my life has become my new recreation.

I wonder if Brian and Greg Gumble ever develop a iterating syndrome from retelling the same story excessive times. I’m sure they drank a lot during the Olympics when Kerri Strug won the gymnastics Gold. The story was played over and over and over…... Reporting some tragedy in Scottsdale, Greg Gumble’s brain will burn out like an old Dell laptop battery.

I need to re-vamp my life somehow.

This needs to stop. Monday through Saturday are not made to be news sessions for what happened on Sunday. And my 30s aren’t made to retell everything that happened in my 20’s and childhood. Life is meant to be lived and seized.

Maybe less people and more of life?

Maybe less reporting, and more living?

Summary: I bet Dan Rather would rather bathe and lather than sit and chatter.

Reverse Showmanship

Showmanship - When in contact with other people, use your best stories, your best speech, and your best tricks. When its going good, leave, to make sure you end on a high note.

One of my apartment mates small group THINKS I'm hilarious.
They THINK so, but I KNOW better than them. Why do I seem funny? Here are some theories:

1. We interact freely after 4 hours of bible study
2. We interact after 11pm
3. I hate the world around 11pm. This goes on for an hour and begin my midnight rant.
4. I'm not their small group leader
5. I frankly don't care if I seem homeless or the king of england to their eyes. I say whatever i please.
   

I see this crowd about twice a month. They swear I'm better than ketchup on fries after 12. It would be an awesome feeling. If only I believed it too.

Now MY small group thinks I'm an idiot

1. They don't remember what i say after the first hour
2. I seem to wear the same clothing every small group (I have a rotation)
3. I mis-match faces and names
4. I give the "I'm clueless face" a lot.
5. I'm their small group leader

Small group is also the a serious time. I don't want to come to the end of my life and tell God that I used bible study time to try my new comedic stand-up routine. So once a week my small group gets serious Tim for 4 hours. Reverse showmanship. Not by choice.

I wonder what type of showmanship my parents get? My parents must suspect I have chronic mono, for my intense love of sleep. Maybe a rice addiction too.

I wonder what type of showmanship my friends get?

I is no write no good

I am reading a book called “Revised Prose”

6+ years ago I was liberated from the jail called High School English. Fast forward to the present, and I am writing again. I suck. My writing sucks. My prose is a suck. I lack many of the important components of English. I’ve lost my confidence. My fingers type the words, but my brain is divided. One half scans each letter and the other filters each word. Is this the right word?`

What is the big deal? Why fret over “just writing”?

I want to write about epic memories and monumental feelings. No drawing or song, or picture can capture fragile human moments. I want the capture to be clear, captivating, and, put simply, to be enjoyable to read.

So Why Fight? To fight sentences like this:

“It seems that I have no way to give quarter to the movements of my heart which are often captive to an over-sensitized standard of literary perfectionism for composition.”

And convert them to

“My perfection debilitates my written communication of emotion.”

I have a lot of sentence fat. Not solely in writing, but also in speaking. Here are my top useless phrases.

“I think” – Why say “I think?” There is a name on the paper. There is a body forming words. No one will have problems identifying who is talking or who is thinking. This phrase adds uncertainty to the following ideas. “I think I’m happy” sounds more shakey than “I’m happy”. “I’m uncertain” replaces “I think” as a good alternate.

“It seems” – Yet another phrase killed with overuse. The meaning of this particular phrase remains fugitive. The best paraphrase I can think of is – “I see something similar to X idea, but I’m not sure….

“is _____ed (past tense)” – “Is bettered”, “Is marked”, “Is used”, bah! It’s a present tense “to be” verb with a past tense modifier. All the previous phrases should be replaced with their active counterparts. This is called “who kicked who?” Keep the active verb, and place the object and subject in the correct places.

Any prepositional phrase. Of course, in all honesty with all respect, who could imagine an idea of such preposterous assumptions of pride above a statement so clear with clarity? Hee hee

Summary: This is why I hate journaling. I like my memories. I like having a complete record. I just don’t like the way I immortalized them with words.

New Kind of Profane

There are many things that should not enjoy. Many of them are on YouTube. Many of them are profane.

I am desensitized to profanity. It was used in the bathroom, in the classroom, in the gym, over lunch, and after school. Not all profanity is angry. Movies only show angry profanity. Profanity can be used for good. Here are some non-aggressive examples:

1. That is some funny (crude word for poo poo)
   
2. These fries are (foul language-ing) fantastic

This is the language of Oakland, my home town. Hearing someone getting cussed out in a funny video clip is just another warm memory of high school.

And now I am in Los Angeles.

Apparently there are other words you just can't say around here. I am not talking about profanity. Foul and filth pepper my 9-5 workplace with laughter and smiles, but once I talk about having children late in life, or having too much weight, someone starts warming up the electric chair. I once made a comment about my co-worker eating a large volume of girl scout cookies. I almost saw the lord that day. Apparently Jane the co worker doesn't being mind being called a skank or a ho, but Jane hates being called Jane the mature, or Jane the chocolate lover.

I always assumed that the term Maturity is associated with honor, knowledge, and respectability. Somewhere down the line Maturity turned into a synonym for bloated undateable lady prune.

Summary: I can't use the o-word or the f-word (the 3 letter one).

I'm not built for Highways

The parking garage was the first sign that today was going to suck like a hole in the hull of the space shuttle.

Ever get in a panic trying to decipher freeway and high way cuneiform? Those pesky arrows point at random lanes, none of which lead to your destination. Bright yellow boxes saying “exit only” indicate your current lane will hijack the path of your car. The gangster off-ramp crosses 2 residential areas and drops you like a cocaine shipment in the middle of the ghetto. Right behind a taco truck.

I don’t know why people worry about terrorists. First, it is common knowledge that all terrorists will strike at night. If they ever hit LA at night, the main highways 405 and the 10 will either be chuck full drunken party traffic, or all the off/on ramps will be closed for maintenance. Accompanying the maintenance are more cones than all the car commercials of the 90’s combined. At this point Terrorist A says to Terrorist B: “Wa-La-la-la! Why did we make demands for midnight! The 10 is not moving! We will never make it in time to blow up the staples center! And this taco truck is going SO slow. Wa-la-la-la-la! I know i could be going faster! Look at that red car, its like 4 cars ahead now! I should have stayed in that lane. If I take Olympic, that’ll still take me forever….Wa-la-la-la-la!”.

Am I the only one that does psychological warfare with street signs and arrows? Everytime I see an sign like “Freeway ->” I can’t tell if it’s the closest right turn, or the next right turn? My mind starts doing battle with the imaginary sinister urban planner about which is the right turn? It's like a nasty trick. No matter what choice I take, and wah-la: again, I find myself in the middle of the ghetto behind a taco truck.

Don’t even get me started on downtown. Downtown’s streets were designed by a drunk factory designer. All those one way streets turn into a merging nightmare. Also, if a turn is missed, a simple U-turn transforms into a journey resembling an escape from the death star. And his time, Vadar shadowing you in fancy CEO sports car and is late for his 12pm sith lord lunch, assailing you with swearing torpedos, and horn laser blasts.

Summary: I’m wrote this entry because I missed the Garage, missed my ticket, missed my flight, and am squatting in the airport.

Edible Packaging

Fortune cookies are a marvelous man-made creation. The wrapper is edible and if the message was written on rice paper, the entire process would be waste-free.

The Chinese were on to something. It just needs to be finished. After a minor tax, all packaging would be woven structures of food. Dell computers would be packed with hard sugar and marshmallow contraptions. Your Nike Shoes would come with a burrito inside to help it hold shape, and the box would be made of graham crackers. You fancy Apple Mac computers would be shaped from Peppermint and white chocolate.

They could even use the basic fortune cookie and shape it for all sorts of uses.
“Sir, here is a delivery.” Hands larger cookie folder.
Munch Munch “Ack! It’s bitter! It must be a subpoena!” *Unroll* “Blast, they found my illegitimate cloned child!”

Or in a stock holder’s meeting –
“This year’s earnings are rolled up on rice paper in the middle of those large hostess ho-hos.”

And even best -
“Tom Cruise, here’s the secret codes. Here’s your secret mission. Proceed and destroy the evidence.” Munch munch “They gotta stop using MSG in the secret transmissions”

Flavors would be indicative of the mood of the message. “I got a message from my girl in California, it’s sweet like candy!”

“Really? I got a message from my mother in law, and I think I got food poisoning.”

Summary: I think that blogs would taste like Guacamole Chips.

I am a Pencil Snob

I picked up a Staedler the other day. Paid a healthy 6 dollars for led pencil and sharpener.

6 dollars for a pencil? Why would I do it? The answer starts with a Y. Youtube. I was browsing random videos like a drunk man checking bottles for booze. I clicked on a link to "Jim Lee".

At that time of day, "Jim Lee" didn't trigger any ideas. Haha, he has my last name, nothing to give a holler about. Then it struck me, Jim Lee danced with the stars! Not literally of course, he IS asian after all. Jim Lee is one of the finest comic book artists alive. His sketches have been over X-men for a while, and now he runs his own comic book studio, drawing and writing whatever his whimsical soy-sauced desires command.

In a low-resolution, homemade video, he sketches up a mean superhero in pencil. He literally makes it look like he waves a wand and the image appears for him to ink.

Now as every asian has done before, we try to emulate. This first involves imitating the master in every aspect possible. I'm chinese, he's korean, check one. He's a nerd, I'm a nerd. He has paper. I have paper. Check. So what is left? The pencil.

And that brings me to this moment. I'm finger rubbing and smelling this pencil like its a fine cigar. And my faith is that this is the missing component to my future comic book empire.

In harry potter fashion, I wave this thick pencil over my paper and wa la! A thick line. That's it? No fantastic adventure? No spirit of the paper? I feel cheapened somehow. It is as though I traded my soul for a gold statue, only to find that gold statue to be made of twinkies.

I guess as long as people thing equipment makes the artist, there will always be a huge market for useless products. How many people do you know that actually use the full capacity of their computer? Their laptop? Their fancy SLR? Their fancy instruments. How blind we are, how materialistic our view of commodities are.

When did skill fall off the charts?

Summary: What do you mean I can't buy skill?