Ten years ago yesterday I was eighteen years old, working at a gas station in Nampa, Idaho, making (luckily) more than minimum wage. I had graduated from high school three months prior, and was, as usual, lax about getting into college. I didn’t know what I wanted to do with my life, and the prospect of a real, concrete job, even though it was at a gas station, was enticing. Little did I know that I would have to quit a month later because I was too young to sell beer.

I had worked the late shift the night before, and was planning on sleeping in to, oh, two, three PM, but instead was rudely awakened by my father at about ten-thirty in the morning, shouting downstairs toward my basement door, “Josher! Wake up! It’s World War III!”

The next minute or so is crystal clear in my mind: so many jumbled thoughts at once. Mydad wasn’t making light of the situation; hell, for all I know he really did think World War III was coming, or was here, or something. I’m sure a lot of people felt the same way. But to be awoken from a deep sleep by your father, a man you put a lot of trust and respect into, telling you that a war was happening, and that it was world wide, well, that will freak you out. And so I woke up half-asleep, in a stupor, scared shitless that they would reinstate the draft (which I, like every other eighteen year old male in this country, forcibly signed up for) and that I would be sent off to wherever the hell they were fighting with an M1 Garand and an Army helmet with a pack of Lucky Stripes strapped to it.

Hestitantly, I crawled up the stairs and walked over to the TV, and saw that my worries were not as bad as I had thought. Though what was happening was horrible.

Looking at my LiveJournal entries from that day, I saw that I wrote a lot of misinformation (I even wrote about a fake Nostradamus quote that “predicts” 9/11. At this point, is Nostradamus even real? It seems like every quote attributed to him is fake). Five thousand people dead? Three thousand? And then, the very next day, a post about buying CDs from Fred Meyer. So I guess that’s proof right there that terrorism doesn’t work. Especially on the other side of the country.

I had never seen the World Trade Center, though my brother Russ had, and got photos ontop of one of them. I had never even been to New York, or the east in general. I was sheltered, and seeing planes slam into buildings didn’t affect me as it did everyone over there. Still, patriotism ran rampant in the days following, as did, for some of us, the onslaught of national introspection.

Now, it’s ten years later, and the brave men and women who went through hell trying to save people in those towers can’t even get their health problems caused by the dust and smoke covered under their insurance. The number of innocent civilians killed in Iraq and Afghanistan in the past ten years is more than 1000% of the number on 9/11. The amount of money George W Bush spent on mindless war is so big, it’s impossible to understand, so we almost forget about it.

Talk about terrorism.

I’m in the middle of the conversation on Facebook about Burning Man. I asked a humorous question: Do fat people go to Burning Man?, because every time I see photos of people at Burning Man, they’re always svelte models or skinny dudes or guys wearing Mad Max/steampunk clothing. A woman I know from high school (who had just gone to Burning Man) responded, and I kept asking her questions. One question I asked was (again, humorously), “Did you do drugs? Are you on drugs right now?” Trying to joke around, but I guess deep down I was curious. And she said, “What happens at Burning Man stays at Burning Man.”

To which I said, “So you did drugs then.”

And she repeated herself, and subsequently deleted all of her comments in that Facebook thread.

Now, look, we can talk sociology and why a bunch of rich, attractive people would spend lots of money to sit out in the desert and take a bunch of drugs, but let’s not mystify the goddamn thing. There’s nothing mysterious about Burning Man. There’s some crazy stuff out there, some weird sculptures and people dancing with hula hoops, but it’s basically kids doing drugs. I mean, why else would you watch a giant stick figure get burned down unless you were high as a kite? Who would do that sober? Maybe some of your weirder cousins, but other than that, people on drugs.

There’s nothing wrong with this (unless harm is involved, of course). But why does a gathering of people have to become this transcendental thing? Why can’t we just be happy with each other? Why does it have to be “bigger” than that? I love theatre, and I practically think of theatre as a religion of sorts, but I don’t think there’s a mystery to theatre. It’s people on stage pretending to be other people. That’s all it is! The audience buys into it, and we’re all good. There’s no mystery!

My point really being: if you say mysterious stuff like, “What happens at Burning Man stays at Burning Man,” you’re basically saying you did drugs. Just like when you say, “What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas,” it means you drank a lot, gambled, and probably slept with a prostitute. I mean, you wouldn’t say that if you went to a salad buffet and then off to bed at 9pm, would you?

NOTE: I have never been to Burning Man (or Vegas for that matter), nor will I ever go to Burning Man, for I am a cantankerous old fart.

You guys. I haven’t seen a live show in months. Months! I will be the first to admit that I have been No Fun and sometimes a Party Pooper. I’m not sure what got me into that rut, besides awesome video games. Seriously, Fallout: New Vegas has taken away a lot of my time. Plus I was kind of broke, from buying so many video games. While I do occasionally feel slightly bad for not leaving my computer chair some days, I really don’t regret buying video games or playing them with joy. I love video games. But that’s a blog post for another day. (more…)

I’ve been going to therapy for a year and a half now. I used to go weekly, and now I go once every two weeks. I enjoy it, but I also feel kind of bad, because there are lots of people who could probably use some therapy but can’t afford it, and then there’s me, who just gets kind of tangled up in my own thoughts sometimes, and I can afford therapy. It’s unfair.

I started going to therapy because I went on a couple of dates with this girl and she broke my head apart. Figuratively. She was great and I found myself becoming vaguely obsessed with making sure that she was texting me back. Simple, but indicative of deeper issues. And I knew that, but I didn’t know exactly why I was acting the way I was, only that our conversations via text were frustrating me. One day it kind of went over the top when I assumed she was uninterested in me and I texted her that and when she finally replied, she apologized for not replying, but she was mourning the loss of a friend who was murdered in her home town. I felt awful (even though, to be fair, I had no idea about this), and kind of had a panic attack at work. Thankfully, it was a Friday.

After that I decided to seek therapy. I met a nice older woman who directed me to a nice, younger, and cheaper woman, who has been my therapist ever since. While I didn’t have a clear-cut answer as to why I acted so ridiculously to this poor girl I tried to date, I did get a better understanding behind my lethargic, depressed state in general at that point. (Part of the problem was that I was depressed and frustrated with my life, and I thought she was going to be this shiny beacon of hope. Please, everyone, if you learn one thing from this post, let it be this: Never assume someone else will make you better. It is your responsibility as a human being to make yourself better. It’s not ethical egoism, it’s life. Do not use your loved ones.)

Anyway, I don’t know why I’m writing about this, other than to express my gratitude for therapy and being able to pay someone so that you can talk to them about your feelings. I still think about that girl, too. Not obsessively, just occasionally. I wish we could’ve been friends or something, but that boat sailed off a long time ago. Oh well.

For years, I have been terrified to build a computer, and skittish at best at upgrading one. Despite my knowledge of software and operating systems, I really knew very little about hardware, and even more about the new technology that was coming out. I grew up with old computers, 486, Pentium, Pentium II, etc. The idea of a “two core” processor was foreign to me. My last computer, the one I bought aaalll the way back in 2004, had a single core processor, and back then no one called them “single core” processors, it was just Intel or AMD. Back in that time, I purchased a 256MB thumbdrive for $45. Now that just seems ridiculous. But it also seems ridiculous when I think about my first time dealing with computers, playing Space Invaders on a sepia-toned monochromatic 386 computer with two 5.25 floppy drives and Windows 3.1. (more…)

I’m at a mall, or a mall-looking place, with a large group of people, like thousands of people. Simon Pegg is with me. We’re best buds. And Vanilla Ice is there, too. We’re all sitting down, and there’s the mall radio playing music. Nobody is paying attention to Vanilla Ice or anyone else, really.

Then “Ice Ice Baby” comes on the radio, and suddenly everyone seems to notice Mr. Ice. He stands and does this twist as he stands, showing the back of his red jacket, which reads, “Vanilla Ice” in white letters. He starts to rap (lip sync?) and moves around the crowd, and everyone is putting their hands all over him.

Then he comes to us, and me and a small group put our hands on his chest and move them up somewhat sensually to his shoulders. He leans back during this, and I, for whatever reason, put my hands up and on his face. He’s all sweaty, and then he’s gone, and I, jokingly, gesture like I’m licking his sweat off of my palms, but somehow I misjudge the distance of my hand to my face, or it gets bumped, or something, and I actually lick some of the sweat off. It’s very salty and I feel grossed out.

And then I woke up.

I was cast in the Ensemble for a production of Romeo & Juliet by a theatre company. This show goes up in August, I was cast a month or two ago, and I have since dropped out because I want to use up my vacation time before I go back to school. Plus it’s summer and summer demands vacations.

This theatre company has a Tumblr account, and I am following it, and every day or so now since the production has begun, they post pictures and videos or the rehearsal process.

Now, I love theatre, and I have run away from it for about two years now because of various reasons, mostly concerning a rabid insecurity attack that left me unable to conjure up the confidence to do anything besides eat cheeseburgers (and even then, I felt awkward going up to the person at the counter, who quite clearly knew who I was by this point, as I had been coming in on a regular basis), but who in Christ’s name wants to watch a video of a rehearsal?! Is this where theatre is headed? People getting “behind the scenes” looks of works in progress?

I’ve been in a lot of shows, and nothing is more boring and annoying than rehearsals. Sure, a lot of great stuff comes out of it, but it’s not audience stuff. It’s character progression, finding subtext, and, you know, boring shit like blocking and memorizing lines, learning to speak clearly and loudly. Who cares about that stuff besides an actor and a director?

I have no beef with this theatre company. They’re young and professional and really great people, and I wish that my schedule could’ve allowed for me to take a week off in August while still being in the show, but it just bugs me, this multimedia experience for theatre. I really don’t think people want to see rehearsals. I think they like watching DVD behind the scenes quick shots of people setting up cameras and shit because it’s quick, and there’s technology involved. But a rehearsal? Nobody cares. It’s not like the viewer is going to get anything out of a stumble through. Nobody in their clear mind should be subjected to watching a stumble through. They’re painful for everyone involved.

Anyway. Just wanted to say that.

Okay, I’ve been wanting to write about this game for some time, because I played it, in like fifteen minute increments, for the month of May and I finally finished it and I wanted to talk about it. Because it’s scary as all hell, but also, it’s not?

LOOK PEOPLE THERE ARE SPOILERS, OKAY?

Maybe you’re one of those people who are never going to play this game ever. If that’s so, please, continue reading.

(more…)

Look, domesticated cats have been around for thousands of years. You can trace them back to the Egyptians. So I’m just going to blame the Egyptians for giving us cats. Because without cats, I would get a decent night’s sleep.

This morning, my girlfriend discovered why she was having such difficulty sleeping. “I think it’s the dogs across the street,” she said. “They’re always barking, and since we have the window open, I can hear them and they wake me up.”

I would say the same thing, but I’m too busy being woken up by my damn cat every two hours. She jumps beside me on the bed and meows me awake, and if I don’t respond to her, she walks on my chest and stands there like she own the goddamn place.

See, she’s kind of spoiled. She likes to sleep under the covers. Typically, when Kait and I sleep, she goes under, starts pawing the fitted bedsheet like she’s making a nest, and then flops onto her side or even her back, waiting for us to pet her and tell her she’s cute. She knows this. She KNOWS. And then we pet her and go to sleep. This is when she escapes from under the covers and starts running around, chasing things, and generally fucking around. Why she chooses this time, I have no idea. But eventually she wears herself out and she comes back up to sleep. Now, she sleeps OVER the covers. Don’t ask me why.
She also likes to sleep nestled between either my girlfriend or my legs. Like, if I’m laying on my back and my legs are parted, even a little bit, she nestles up in between them, probably because it’s warm and comforting. But for me it means I cannot change my position in the bed. Ever, unless she moves or I move her, and if I move her I feel like a dick.

Then, before it’s even light outside, she jumps on the bed and meows in my face. How do I placate you, Jowers? What do I do? Do you want food? Attention? What magical incantation shouldst I speak to allow thee the peace thou requirest?

Animal behaviorists say you can’t give the animals the attention they seek in situations like this because then they’ll always seek it. But how can you not give attention to a cat that is meowing in your face? Ignore it? What if I ignore it and one morning she meows and I don’t hear because I’ve ignored it so much that I sleep through it, only this time she’s meowing because the goddamn house is on fire, and she’s warning me but nothing will wake me from my sweet reverie, and I die in a house fire?!

I guess I’ll just be sleepy all day, then. :

SCENE: A meeting room at Frito Lay headquarters

Frito Lay Exec 1: Alright, thank you all for coming. We’ve got a brand new product we want to sell, called Munchies. We think it’s going to be really amazing. See, the object of Munchies is to have three or four different snacks from the Frito Lay brand inside one bag! (more…)