Retail: The New Narnia

Retail is a pretty funny thing when you get right down to it. There really isn't much of an identity to be had. To all the customers I am just a small step through their process of getting what they want, if that at all. And to all those (most) higher than me in the company, I am just the one who got the job out of the hundreds that apply, going into thousands. I am expendable.

But this is not to complain. Customers mean about as much to me as I mean to them, which becomes a sliding scale, and bosses really dont treat anyone like a barcode or some bullshit like that. I suppose what I am trying to say, is that I am content right now just scathing by (not taking into account the whole money crisis I am having). I enjoy not being noticed for now. That I don't matter at my job. Because, well, I feel like I matter in so many other areas in life right now, that at Urban Outfitters I can just shut off. 

There are some points about the retail world I would like to point out though:

-I am use to jobs where I travel, and thus have a wide variety of food at my consumptive convenience throughout the day. Unfortunately there are only so many choices of lunch with a fix location and thirty minutes. I am getting tired of pizza, my I piss MSG salt crystals from chinese food, and McDonalds makes me feel like my teeth are bleeding. 

-Ladies, just because you are in the fitting room does not shut you off from the rest of the world. There is but a tiny door with no top or bottom blocking you from me. So stop farting. I can hear it. I can smell it. It is just gross. And chick farts are way different. They are compressed, confined coal thats been converted into stinky diamonds. Dudes just go off into a corner when needed, fart, pat their pants, and rejoin the party. Woman will hold that in all day, letting it bake all day, then the second they think they are alone in a 3 by 3 room, poof. 

-Co-workers have an extremely weird language between them. One that is not so much communicating, or joking, but an awkward hybrid of the two. This mainly happened while passing by one another, and instead of a "hi, how are you," it will come out as a "heeeyyyyyy" usually in an high pitched feminine voice, or just non-sensical outbursts revolving around flatulent noises. Its like we are trying to be funny, by no one laughs. I dont know if anyone who is reading this will understand what I am talking about, but I think it's fucking hysterical. Try to look for it at your place a business, a greeting that is half assed funny. 

-'God bless' or 'Peace be with you' is not an acceptable exit greeting for a customer as they walk out the door. Oddly enough, gibberish is. 'Buuhbeeeyahhhbeee', 'uuuhhhhnnunnnaa', and 'eeetttaa meehhhh' are all things to say that will get a smile and some sort of response. 'May you go with God,' not so much.

-Black people generally pay in cash. Asian people love graphic t-shirts. White people will only buy half of what they have in their hands and never notice you. Gay men pick have already picked out the outfits before setting foot into the store and before they buy them will pick out what they want next, they dance and sing while doing so. Gay women, well, they just don't seem to like me, but there is no bullshit about them and I respect that. All women are intolerable while shopping. Times their intolerability by how many are in the group they are shopping with, divide by the number of men in the group, and square it if they are fans of Sarah Jessica Parker (please take all that with a grain of salt as this is a humorous blog, but not you Sarah Jessica Parker, you ugly).

Anyway, after all that I am going to leave you with a list. A list of classic 'Thats What She Said' moments in the retail world. Because for some reason, if you take out of context what someone is saying about clothing and reference it to a penis, its hysterical. 

A list of retail 'Thats What She Said' tee-ups:

-"Does this come in a larger size?"

-"Can I get a discount if its broken?"

-"Can I return it tomorrow if I use it tonight?"

-"I dont need a bag, I can just throw it in here"

-"This would be perfect if there weren't sequins all over it"

-"Brent, look busy, you're on the job"

And thats what she said.

I want to start a pop punk band called Thats What She Said.

No. 

Actually I want to start an Electronic Dissident Noisecore band called Creedence Clearwater Revival Two.

Creedence Clearwater Revival Again.

I put another spell on you because you're still mine. 

Above A Cloud All Flat And White

I havent been able to sleep without cough medicine for well over three weeks now. It started with a runny nose, the kind that doesn't just drip out, but in as well. Then in moved to my chest. Coughing. Tightness. That all over malice that comes from your muscles working far too hard just to breathe. A chest infection or some shit. Happens sometimes. I quit smoking for a week. Hack up some florescent oysters. Drop some Dayquil. Some Nyquil. Then its all good.

But I keep coughing. Keep spitting out egg yokes and marshmallows. And I keep downing 10% alcohol Rite Aid brand night time cough medicine. I like the taste of it now.

I think about my father sometimes. Not as often as I use to. But sometimes. And why he continued to drink after it lost him everything. His marriage. His attempts at any sort of career. His health. And me.

I always assumed he started drinking for the same reasons I did. For the party and those spectacular moments in life, when nothing else matters but the drink and that one great song or that one great girl or that one great laugh. The drunk where the regrets you feel the next morning, or then on, you can regret with a smile, because you were able to be that wild. Like an animal.

And we all want to be animals. There can be no better life than that of a savanna lion.

We aren't. Man has history. The ability to account for, not only our individual past, but the past of our ancestors, our fore bearers, our cells. We can depict a time when we were not and thus and predict a time when we are not. It drives us mad. We as a species desperately try for technological immortality. To save what, or who, we deem the savable. We as individuals try for immortality. Through our children and our legacies. Through our writing and painting and songs. Through our traditions and cultures and rules.

But not while drunk. We do not try while drunk. The wild cat roars and feasts and plays and rests. The cat knows the stars are there and is fine with that. The cat of careless love.

Man knows love. I know love. Man is a creature able to emote the boundless possibilities of love, which, broken down, is the only emotion. Love is happy and sad, fear, desire, envy, jealous, ecstacy, hopelessness, haplessness, recklessness, restlessness, hate, that blissful swooning feeling, and melancholy by a lack of love.

We know this well.

So I take a good gulp. Smoke a cigarette. Get ready for the sleep that is only moments away. And think of my father in his armchair by a fire in the fireplace. Alone. Popping the top to another beer.

Did he think one more would make him the lion? The animal bold enough to claim what is his? Or did he recount the past? Of the days he could strut without a limp. Of his father and of me. Maybe it was possible with one more beer. Maybe it was easier with one more beer.

My father told many secrets. Few will be remembered.

The man of unequivocal passion.
The man of wontless love.
The man of history.
The man. The cat.
He sleeps now.

I will too.

Dear Anonymous

"Quit Quitting"- Anonymous

I would hate to say that it is harder to write while in an elevated mood. That would imply that art in general comes from the bowels of the body, that creation spawns from the inescapable insipidity or inevitable sludge of existence.

But to he honest, I am having trouble proving otherwise.

One of the first aspects of Non-Fiction they teach you is that writing cannot properly be done if one is still personally invested in the subject matter. We need to be distant and emotionless to that moment of our live we try to write about. I do not agree. Moreover, I do not think it is possible. Though I understand I am taking the lesson to the Nth degree, I also realize that a good writer should not feel distant or emotionless. Ever.

Writing isn't done better or worse while happy. Rather, it would seem to me, a writer is less inclined to write while happy. There is always the constant battle within the artist of "Life Lived" and "Life Understood". Meaning, at what point to you stop reading, stop thinking, stop questioning, stop analyzing and just do. Just life. Which is better for the writer? Which is better for the writing?

I don't have an answer.

But I do have an update. I am Just Living.

I do not feel distant or emotionless. If anything I am overwhelmed right now in how close and emotionful I am. I am in a new city with new people, and I spend everyday with someone who I care for, more than I knew it were possible for humanity to care. The passion of a million suns. So much so that it becomes unbearable at times. That it is possible to love so much, you can hate love.

Everyday I take in so much new information that I am having difficulty deciphering the data. And there is a lot of data.

Some random thoughts and updates:

-Philadelphia is a very nice cross between New York City and Long Island. NYC in that there is always something to do, somewhere to go, someone to meet, and someone to see. LI because everyone knows everyone else. It is quite amazing to see an actually city have a very traceable social web. And though I did not come here for it, I am a part of it. The only difference, Philly is one dirty motha fucka, with great character though.

-I have further realized that I am not a city kid. I grew up in the suburbs and have a pension for nature. Cities are far to cramped for me. Far too fast. I cannot relax. I mean completely relax. Where, with each exhale you know every last molecule of air escapes your lungs. Where you can hear your heart beat. Where you can tell if it is the mockingbird, or the call the mockingbird mocks. The catch is, I cant do what I've been doing in the country. I can network. I cant gain experience. The country is when you have already written the first book and need a nice quiet place to drink and go batshit crazy in privacy. I am not there yet.

-I write for 215 magazine. Some local Philly spread that lifestyles and parties and reviews. It doesnt pay much but it allows for some opportunities.

-I work at The Toothless Cat art gallery for beer.

-I work at Urban Outfitters for money. I kind of like it. It is extremely easy and low key. In New York I worked the most stressful job imaginable for the most vindictive person imaginable. Now, I barely have to do shit. And I get paid like it. I've meet some good people though. They all hate the job, which is funny, because there are five stacks of applications about the size of War and Peace, and about ten people that I see filling out new ones each day. We pretend to be better than these people, making fun of them for writing in script or wearing Ugg boots, but in reality, we suck at life just as much, we just get paid minimum wage for it.

-My sweat smells like weed and my farts smell like Pringles.

-Someone broke into my car last and stole a box of rocks. Again, someone broke into my car last night and stole a box of rocks. Allow me to elaborate. My aunt, in all her wonder, is perhaps the only family member of mine who truly gets me. Yeah, Momatron knows I write and have a wanderlust and such, but my aunt, she just knows. While she can't relate, she knows the pressures I feel in life day in and day out. Anyway, for my birthday she tells me she is really happy with the present she got me, says she likes getting gifts for me because of my emotional and heartfelt nature (so she says). She gave me the gift of a Pier-1 box with a bunch of rocks in it and a sharpie. She said it is for my travels. That whenever I am in a new place, to pick up a rock, write the date and the place, and put it in the box for when I am older. Cute right? It was to me at least. I never did pick up rocks and date them. I never thought of it. The box just bounced around my car for the last couple months and was a mild inconvenience to any back seat passengers. Those curious enough to open the box only came out of the situation with more questions. This morning I come to find the box gone. Everything else still in place. They riffled through my glove box, my change cup, and my center console. Left the radio. The Diana camera. The cigarette lighter outlet. The $20 in change. But stole the box of rocks from my aunts backyard. Someone broke into my car last night and stole a box of fucking rocks. WTF. FTW. FML. I'm going to put a sign on my windshield tonight that just says, "Seriously?"

-Ashley and I got Tibetan prayer flags. They are suppose to be good luck and grand wishes. The different colors represent different elements of the earth and there is a whole rule book of stipulations of when and where to hang them. Its like a rubber piggy bank. I have commitment issues.

-I was in the bathroom of a bar the other night. It had mirrors on all the walls infinitely reflecting the reflections like the box in Queens Science Museum. It was the first time I truly got a good look at my rat tail. I also realized then that my friends aren't as great as they thought they were. Now, I am in constant anxiety whether I have food in my teeth or TP on my shoe.

-I have a house. I live with Ian Paul Guzzone and Connie Hill (most (if not all) of you reading this blog won't know Connie, she's cool in my book). The house already smells like old milk, but its huge. I mean huge. The basement alone is bigger than any place I've live in the past 5 years. So my neighbor moved out today in a, seemingly hurry, and put just about everything they had on the curb/ driveway. I mean everything. Couches, guitar amps, bags of beer cans, old food, cameras, printers, desks, other couches the smell like cat piss. Needless to say my roommates and I went crazy. I now own an old ass Pevey amp (to be sold on Craigslist), a queen sized boxspring and mattress (to be deloused and used), and a nice suitcase FULL of contempo clothes and shoes (to be sold ASAP to Buffalo exchange for food money, I just paid rent and believe I am in the negative). And there is something weird about a strange suitcase full of clothing. Any one of these items I would be much more inclined to wear had they not been found on the curb. If said clothing was purchased at the thriftstore, not a moments hesitation in my mind, but from a curb... eh. But hopefully I can fetch a few bucks for it so I don't have to eat tuna for the next week until I get paid. All in all, pretty okay day for 'dumpster' diving.

-I haven't not been updating my blog recently. It didn't seem like anyone was reading it anymore. Nor have I really been writing recently for the reasons already specified. But I am here. Living. Loving. Taking in and interpreting. There is much to take care of in my life right now, and will give attention to those aspects which ask for attention. 215 Magazine is a great resume builder. The Toothless Cats is really fun and great for networking. Urban is for the money, and I can strenuously call that networking as well.

I suppose what I am trying to say is, if you want me to write in my blog, I will.

This isn't a call for comments. Or you tag me in a picture and I'll tag you in one. Or a n00d 4 n00d (but if you send one we'll see what happens).

This is me saying... If you really like what I write in this blog, if you want me to write in blog, show me. And I'll write.

This entire post is because of an Anonymous comment written for a post made a month ago.

I'll leave with that.

n00dz

And this has nothing to do with anything, but its cute and somewhat response to B. Heyman...




Remember to ret her rin to rour rart

Everyone Loves a Good Excuse

Hello Readers,

For starters, I would like to thank all the Facebook followers. Many more people read my blog through Facebook than through Blogger. Which is fine with me. Thank you for your comments, 'likes', and 'pokes.' Though I never completely figured out the relevance of a 'poke'.

Second, I would like to apologize for the lack of posts lately. Life can get pretty exciting sometimes. Life can also get pretty lazy and lethargic. C'est la vie. Though I think you will be glad to know I have been writing, and quite a lot actually. I'll try to post some here later, but for now I would like to list some excuses of why I haven't updated my blog in a month.

Because everyone loves a good excuse, pick one that is right for you:

1. I moved down to South Carolina to help my sick step-father and my post surgery mother (nothing major, just some routine maintenance) and was busy taking care of them. It was good to be with Momatron again, but after X amount of years, I could not live with under the same roof as her. I found myself, at 24 (going on 25 in a few days) that it is still possible to revert back to a petulant child. She took me grocery shopping once and I was dragging my feet moments away from whining how I was missing Looney Tunes. It was quite eye-opening. Plus over the years my mother developed a rather sizable ass that looks identical to the one my Grandmother use to have. I mean it is a carbon copy match. I was scared of it.

2. I moved to Philadelphia to be with my future wife. She drives me completely fucking insane, though I am not quite sure I was mentally sound in the first place, nor ever wanted to be. We haven't left her room in a while thus haven't been able to get to a computer. Bawh-chicka-bowh-wah. And if she is reading this... please don't hit me too hard, darling.

3. My dog ate my ambition.

4. I have been preparing my applications for graduate school. After the horrific experience at The New School, I have decided to take another crack at a higher higher education. I truly miss school and would love to get that forward momentum going for my career. I have been writing and working on pieces for my portfolio, and trying to take care of all those annoying statements of purpose. I wish it were acceptable to send universities a personal mission statement that just said, "to be better than you."

5. I have been furiously trying to find a job. I need money but I would prefer not to take some mindless monkey BS position. I would like to find employment I can be proud of, a job I can promote and brag about, a job I can devote myself too. Plus, I am much better at writing/editing than I am folding cloths at Urban Outfitters (hint hint to any employers reading).

6. I was abducted by natives from Jupiter's moon Callisto. I was hitch hiking back north when it happened. Their craft was shaped like a Astro Van and had a bumper sticker that said, "South of the Boarder," I've read that bumper sticker hundreds of times before, but that time it was ominous. They spoke in English accents but it didn't surprise me what so ever. They were fluent in the eastern art of meditation and made practice of it many hours of the day. For two straight months I meditated and came up with nothing but a word that rhymes with engine and really bad morning breath. Such is life.



Excuses are like assholes...


...baby wipes make them stop itching.

Sometimes This World Is Worth Fighting For

Top Five Southern Idioms:

Top Five Southern Idioms:



"She folded up like a damn dirty dish rag"

Translation: That fall must have hurt her




"Look like he been eatin' corn on the cob through a chain link fence"

Translation: That gentleman has crooked teeth



"'Round here day could steal the grease out a corn bread biscuit w'out gettin' that bitch to crumble"

Translation: People are good at stealing here




"Damn stomach been eatin' at my back bone"

Translation: I'm hungry




"Well bless your heart"

Translation: Fuck you




Their speech is comprised mainly of metaphors. They are a horribly poetic people.

Psyching Up Woodrow Wilson for Re-Election

So I've got this problem. I temporarily moved back in with my mother. And while this poses many childish challenges (I went grocery shopping with her the other day, I swear to you I felt seven again), there are far greater complications that call attention.

My mother thinks I'm J.O.ing in the shower.

My mother thinks I'm rubbing one out in the shower.

My mother thinks I'm tenderizing the pork sword in the shower.

Playing hide and go seek with my finger puppet. Sanding the mahogany. Buttering the corn. Bopping Richard. Shaking hands with the soldier for his honorable discharge. Psyching up Woodrow Wilson for re-election.

Oh god, this could be the whole post. I dont want this to be the purpose. I have to get a hold of myself.

Ha.

Anyway, I am not re-grouting the tiles while I shower.

In reality I take really long showers because it is the only place I can be alone and think. I might have written about this before but it deserves to be said again. I have always equated showering with being born. We are comfortably naked and wet. The difference is that we can be alone and survive, we can be alone and like it. I like to sit in the shower. Let the stream hit my hanging head. I can hear nothing, I can see nothing, I can smell or taste nothing, and the only thing I can feel is the water which is so abundant and repetitious it is easily forgotten. It is the closest to a mantra. The world is so simple behind that curtain.

How do I convince my mother I am not adjusting my sundial? Or recreating the Civil War. Or firing the Surgeon General. Auditioning Sam Jackson.

Ok. Maybe it was the purpose if this post.

YAHTZEE!!

The Stages of a 15 Hour Drive Alone

The Stages of a 15 Hour Drive Alone:
by Brent Michael Canle

Denial: It is just a drive to 7-11. No reason to fret. But I just passed 7-11. So it is a drive to my friends house. Going to hang out and drink some beers. Well, I just missed that turn. So a trip to the dentists it is! It is going to feel so nice when I can finally feel that I have gaps between my teeth not just one long curvy tooth.

Cognizance: I'm not going to the dentist. I'm not going to feel multiple teeth. I am starting to leave behind everything that is familiar in day to day life. I don't recognize this. What is this, Nassau? What the fuck is in Nassau? I am going to drive 15 hours aren't I? Fuck.

Anger: Fuck you, Mom. I don't want to see you.

Bargaining: I kind of nodded off there for a second. My head is being supported by my hand. I can't drive. I'm too tried to drive. I only got 7 hours of sleep, I cant function unless I get 8 hours. What was this, the 20oz coffee? Shit. I should have gotten the 32. I'm practically passing out at the wheel. I am going to kill someone, I don't want that on my conscious. And I don't want to die, I never got to see the last episode of Scrubs. I should just do this tomorrow when I am awake.

Acceptance: Just passed over the George Washington. I am not going through that traffic again. And I am not paying $5 for the Triboro again. I guess I'm doing this. My ass hurts. God, New Jersey smells.

Boredom: Hey, thats a tree and tree rhymes with bee and a bee's got a knee and thats a knee I can't see, and I got to pee so lets go find us another tree.

Zombification: BRAAAAIIIIINNNNSS!!

Jubilation: Holy shit I'm in Virgina already? I only stopped once. I'm making great time. I could like set the world record for driving down the coast. I am the man.

Humbled: Virgina is the longest fucking state ever!

Loneliness: Who can I call? Who will talk to me for an extended period of time? Matt? No. Matt is a dude, dudes don't talk incessantly. Come on, phone book. AH! Megan. "Hey Meg, Hows your love life?"

Zombification II: MORRRE BRAAAIIIIIINNNNNSS!!

Second Wind: I love this song! Oh turn it up! 'American Girl' is so much better when I sing it at the top of my lungs and beat the rhythm into my steering wheel. I want to party. What time is it? 1am. Might be too late to by beer in this state. Uh-oh, whats this? 'Subterranean Homesick Blues?' Sure, I'll mumble half the words. That was my third diet coke. Holy shit, I haven't heard Lou Bega's 'Mambo Number 5' in forever!

Decline: My ass hurts. My knee hurts. My throat is hoarse. I can't feel my brain. I'm hungry. I farted in Maryland and have wanted to shower since. My lungs burn. My eyes burn. Get me the fuck out of this cramped car, I never want to see it again. Sell it. Torch it. Just get it the fuck away from me.

Arrival: "The ride? It was alright"

I Always Cry When I Hear Blink 182's Song 'Going Away To College'

Some notes to Owen Goodman about college from personal experience:

Habitually going to class and taking notes does make a difference in your grade. Try not to rack up too many absences, it really matters. Think of it this way, you are hiring an institution with multiple specialists to educate you on your interests for thousands upon thousands of dollars... treat college as such.

Friends are Pokemon. When you are young and a freshmen, catch them all. As you get older, choose wisely who you would go into battle with.

There is one bathroom on campus that has individual toilet paper rolls, and not the huge dispenser... find it.

Feminists give better haircuts.

College is chock full of pretentiousness. Try not to give it or take it.

Dumpster Diving hierarchy: 1.Domino's 2.Bagel place 3.Independent grocery store 4.Chain Grocery store 5.Movie Theater (the popcorn is still good but sometimes you'll find some weird shit mixed in)

Always always always wear a condom. This will save your life.

Always always always make friends with your professor. This will save your grades.

Stock up while you can.

The cops will eventually come. So don't display your bong collection.

Be warned: fall in love as a senior and you'll get hurt (but it will be well well worth it).

It is a small campus. Everyone knows everyone else and their business. Be care where and who you confide in, and try not to publicly air out your own dirty laundry.

Coffee. Coffee. Coffee. Coffee. Coffee. Coffee. Coffee. Coffee. Coffee. Coffee. Coffee. Coffee. Coffee. Coffee. Coffee. Coffee. Coffee. Coffee. Coffee. Coffee. Coffee. Adderall. Coffee. Coffee. Coffee. Coffee.

A mushroom garden in the bathroom is a nice conversation piece.

Beer cans are to be saved, and only saved for cash return. DO NOT display old cans or make a pyramid, that is super gay. Also, be sure to return cans after a week or fruit flies will infest your kitchen.

Drink it all. Smoke it all. Take it all. Break it all. Fuck them all (to your own limit of course). As long as it doesn't affect your grades, party hard, you will never get another chance like this. If you don't go as hard and as big as you possibly can you will always regret it. Cuts and bruises will heal, money and furniture can be replaced, drywall is fixable, police records dissipates over time, but a great memory you will take to the grave. These are the stories you will have for the rest of your life, make sure you have some to tell.

This is your last chance to be a kid... treat college as such.

Lastly, for whatever reason, if you ever need help or advise, if you ever get in over your head, or just need someone else to talk to, 631 645 7487. Every once in a while we need someone with a few degrees of separation, someone who has the experience to define prudence and discretion.

***On a completely separate note to all the other readers, I never noticed how beautiful a word 'coffee' is until typing it so many times, it compliments itself well doesn't it***

Transitional Period

I watched the entire Lord of the Rings extended edition DVD boxset collection in the span of 30 hours.

I believe this means that I am legally prohibited from sex for the next year.

There are no pros.

FML.

Human Connection: The Written Word vs. The Spoken Word.

I have been writing a lot of personal e-mails lately. I like e-mails, they are the contempo version of the letter. It seems to be much more personal than phone calls. I hate being on the phone. I dont know what to say, and somehow, poetic notation does not work as well through the phone. Actually, anything poetic is does not bode well in verbal conversation unless stoned.


In a letter, spending a paragraph to describe the way wind moves through trees or how a wave breaks on the shore is a nice little break from the "Hey-Hows-Your-Mother" updates.


Spending five minutes on the phone with someone is detailing a spider making a web is awkward and silly. Even if the two talking are completely into it, anyone who might be listening will be creeped out.


This also applies for sunsets, dreams, and epiphanies.


Paradoxically, it is acceptable to talking about the BM of pets, babies, and senior citizens.


I suppose what I would love to capture in letters is the ostensible ability for human beings of past generations to truly be able to communicate to one other while their physical bodies are a considerable distance apart.


A letter does not have small talk where small talk is not due.


A letter is crafted.


A conversation is clumsy and is not perviously thought out.


I know there are some out there who have said things they do not exactly mean. Words sometimes blend with thoughts, or lack their of.


I once told Mo I dont like going to the movies. A general statement that does not hold true to every single situtation and mood I find myself in. But to her, no matter when where or what, I never want to set foot in a movie theater.


I believe I also said something similar about cheese.


Perpendicularly, the down fall to letters is that, when in an altercation, especially with a lover, the written word can be interpreted many different ways. While this is what I love about writing otherwise, it does not pan well for a lovers quarrel. Then again, I have also talked in circles before. Fighting with a lover is just brutal no matter what the forum. I feel as though just random jibberish shouting would display feels a bit better than trying to talk out a problem, plus, when your roommate enters the room, you can cover by saying you two are warming up for a community arts theater.


I suppose, in the end, I write letters because Neal Cassady did.


So hey, brentcanle@hotmail.com


Tell me how you are doing.


Right now, I am ok. I just took an Omega-3 fish oil pill and now when I burp it tastes like low tide. Kinda want to vomit.

COED Magazine: A Quick History of the Laser

New article published at COED Magazine

Entitled A Quick History of the Laser.

Some veteran readers of this blog might find it familiar.

New article in the works.

Love.

Link: http://coedmagazine.com/2009/05/19/laser-timelin/

Thanks ya'll.

How I Came to Plan Cross Country Travel and a Second Round of Grad School

I've been a waste of space lately. Havent contributed much to my surroundings and co-habiters. Havent really been writing much. Havent been working that much. I played about four hours of xbox yesterday, because, well, it was there. It isnt mine. And it is actually kind of funny how it came to be in the apartment.



Mo's brother, Alex, flew to California with his girlfriend, StaceFace, for a two month hiking trip. I was going to include the name of the trail here, but apparently, as per google, there are several hundred in the LA/ San Diego vicinity. So much for suburban sprawl. Anyway, before he left he gave our apartment the xbox, seeing as he wouldn't need it for a while. The two have spent months and months planning this trip. Getting all their equipment together, testing it, sending food and peanut butter to locations where they are going to be. Then they land, and post up in Cali for the night, the day before the hike.



Somewhere in the course of that night, they damn the hike to hell, ship back all their camping equipment back to New York, bought all new cloths in San Diego, got a room with a locker in a hostel, and just start traveling up and down the west coast. This, apparently, will continue, until they run out of money, and from what I know, they saved up quite a bit of it.



Needless to say, they are having the times of their lives. And I, uh, I couldn't be happier for them.

::wince::



Really, I couldnt be more depressed that it is not me. So I drowned my sorrows in vitual world, where apparently, in World War III, I am an unstoppable killing machine with a PHD in Badassery. Exactly what I've always wanted to be when I grew up.



I suppose if I were to have a point it would be this: follow your heart and don't be afraid to go off the beaten path, because thats where the treasure will be found.



No. That point is absolutely gay and complete bullshit.



My real point: Start doing stuff, because other people are, and if you dont, and you have to hear all their amazing stories about what great times they had, you are going to feel like shit. Living is a competition.



Example- My friend Ian recently was accepted to Temple for a Master's Degree in Theater Design. He is going to do an apprenticeship there and will essencially be getting paid to go to school. He busted his ass to be accepted into the program as they only accept one student a year. And I fucking hate him for it.



Our friendship was fine when neither of us really knew what we were doing. When we just stayed with the mundane status quo waiting for something better to come along like all post-grads seem to do. Then he got restless, and selfishly tried to better himself. My feelings were by no means a part of his consideration.



And so I start to make a list. What exactly do I have that he doesnt?

-A blog.

-An On-line Magazine interested in my writing.

-An apartment with a beautiful girlfriend.

-A budding case of alcoholism.

-And a complete disdain for existence.

-Oh, and a car that eats money because it always seems to be parked where it shouldn't.

Yet,


All these 'one-ups' that I have, not really doing it for me (sorry Mo, I love you, but getting paid for grad school... come on).



Now I, the grad school drop out with a shit job, have to congratulate him through my teeth as he to frolics to Philly and to better days. While, Alex and StaceFace, Louis-and-Clark their way around the Pacific coast.



So, thats that I suppose. Good for you guys. I wish you the best. And for now, all I can do is sit around try to find the rocket launcher, and plot how I can top their life affirming moments, so when they get back, I can rub it in their faces that my life is even more affirmed.

Suck on my affirmation. Jerk.

Me First and the Bacon Bacons. Modern Bacon is War. New Kids on the Bacon.

I made bacon yesterday. First time I've had bacon in a long time. And you know what? Its fucking amazing. Guys, seriously, bacon is incredible. Listen up.

Besides just adding to the egg sandwich or BLT, both great options, bacon is much more versatile.

Wrap all your vegetables in bacon to make them go down easier.

You can make baconnaise... which is exactly what it sounds like. Bacon-Mayonnaise.

Create the Bacon-Explosion... it is fucking redonk.

Priase bacon as an idol casting sinners away for worshiping false prophets.

Research Bacon's Rebellion.

Go fuck yourself with bacon.

I recently read that bacon + chocolate is in production and becoming somewhat popular.

Tastes like Kevin Bacon.

Bacon of the Month Club

Really, when I was done and woke up this morning, there was a paste stuck to the bottom of the pan. I mean stuck. It was just goopy fat. It smelled horrible. But honestly, smear that shit on toast and you got some good eats right there.

Oh Bacon. Its manly. Too manly for Canle.

Godspeed You! Black Bacon.

You Know, I Gotta Tell Ya, When the Lord Made Me He Made A Ramblin' Man

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This monotony is becoming frivolous. Day in. Day in. Day in. Day in. Day in. Day in. Day out. Nothing. I hate it. This is what suicides are made of.

I am not cut out for working. I do not need adventure, or excitement, I just dont need this.

My best friend told me the other day, that his new job, he will work for the rest of his life. I have never been more afraid for anyone in my entire life. I have never been more afraid for myself either.

This is not what I pictured life to be. I am NOT satisfied with that life. It is not for me. Like how Down Syndrome sufferers can play with piece of felt for years and be comfortable. No.

Wanderlust.

Itchy Feet.

Rambler a Ramblin'

And so I dream, if only I could be content...

...but I know...

...I would fucking hate it.

"I reject your reality, and replace it with my own."

Mythbusting