Stuff That Falls Out of Books I Flip Through at Half-Priced Books

More often than not I am finding these makeshift bookmarks placed somewhere in beginning one-third of the books they respectively reside. This is an interesting observation, one that is fertile ground for speculation of all sorts; speculation in which many variables must be considered. Let us examine the facts that surround our current find.

This, let us call it a Tiki Menu, was found in between pages 156 and 157 of The Birth of the Modern: World Society 1830-1850 by Paul Johnson. Relevant to the general observation mentioned above, it is worth noting that the total page count of this book (apparently an older edition) is 1,095 – indeed, placing the tiki menu well within the range of the first third of this tome. After reading the inside flaps and doing a brief thumb-through it is obvious that this is a layman’s history book, albeit a thorough one; cat nip for anyone with a burning curiosity about this period in history. Now, let us examine the tiki menu: Bi-folded, color print, limited selection, price listings for alcohol only, United Airlines logo on the back. Here’s the story:A man of middle-age is taking a respite from his job in the accounting department and taking his wife for a week’s jaunt in Hawaii. They have reservations at a sea-side resort but no tentative schedule for anything. This is to be a relaxing, low-key getaway; sit-on-the-beach-and-read kind of thing. In anticipation for the trip our friend visits the local bookstore. He deliberately walks up and down the isles, carefully pulling books off the shelf to preview what is in store. Ultimately, he comes to Johnson’s book. It’s a hefty one, very dense, but so very alluring. This could be the greatest beach read ever!

Now, allow me to pontificate. It is devastatingly easy to convince oneself to purchase a book of this type while standing there in the History aisle of the non-fiction section deep in the embrace of a bookstore. Indeed, a bookstore is a place where the air of intellectual ambition is potent; where the sincere desire to dive headfirst into a 1,100-page history book, for example, seems easy and rewarding. I have found myself in similar situations that have witnessed me walking out with, for example, a 700-page biography of Jorge Luis Borges and a book that is a comparative study about social revolutions throughout the ages of civilization. The ambition to chew upon and digest these works was honest and fervid. I may even stop someplace for lunch to begin the endeavor – yes, I can – Nay – I will do this, and it will better me!

… and then I get home: the apartment is suddenly too muggy; the ceiling fan is suddenly too rhythmic; my attention span is suddenly cut short. I am fatigued and the environment of this place is not conducive to reading this elaborate biography. I will take a nap and then try to pick up where I left off. The momentum is then lost, and the rest is history.

This, I fear, is what I suspect happened to our accountant friend. A history book may have perhaps seemed like an excellent choice to lose oneself in while on vacation. Why wait until we get to Hawaii? We’ve got a long plane ride ahead of us. Thank you, stewardess, for this tiki menu. I’ll have the pupu and the ono beef slice entrée! Wow this book is really great. I love that we’re going on vacation. This beach is beautiful. Come let us frolic and order sea-side drinks. Wait, I have to go back to the room, I forgot to bring my book. This is so interesting, honey; check it out, In 1832…

And so it continued. The tiki menu marked his progress all through the vacation. However, 156 pages later, our accountant friend finds himself returned home, back in the rat race of life. And Johnson’s book just sits there, clutter accumulating around it. The desire to learn about the onset of the modern era just doesn’t have the same appeal that it did in the bookstore. Too much time has passed since the vacation and the book is just so damn big! The clutter continues. Then our accountant spontaneously combusts and his wife sells back all of his stuff the end

One Foot in Babylon - Doctor Jones Mix Sequence #23

http://www.megaupload.com/?d=N953KFDZ

This mix is the closest of any that have come to being a kind of narrative. As I general approach to sequence construction I aim for some kind of overall character with the hope that each stands apart from the others. With One Foot In Babylon, I hear a story; a gritty one with a promising start and a bleak outcome; a future society, streaming technology, information. Gradually, these wonders are abused. Then there are giant sentient mechanical chugging perversions; borderline steampunk, though just as garish but not as, y'know, lame. An end brings a new dark and twisted dawn.

This Happened

My Kids in Essence

Presented herein is a series of snapshots attempting to get my kids to hold still and formally pose for an informal text message to gramma and grampa; or would it be designated a text message with an image attachment? It is interesting how "text(-ing)" is now a predicating verb that denotes the action of transmitting quick spats of communication, be it actual text, or of image files, or even both. "txt me a pic" does not sound queer.

Like trying to photograph fuzzy kittens, my kids have proven to be just as tricky to capture on film - I mean, memory card. Notice the ever-present motion blurs.
Take #1: Ok, wait. no wait. Quiet! Sit next to your sister and... *SNAP*
Take #2: *SNAP* Ok, that was a good one. Babes, your face is betraying your flatulence so... Let's try again
Take #3: Ok, says cheese for gramma and grampa. Say Che...-Noo, sit back up. You're only encouraging him! Ah screw it *Snap*

The true moment, you could call it, is observed when these three snapshots are considered as one; a moment far more sincere than some stressed and unnatural pose; the moment when the empirical evidence is enough to confidently declare: My kids like each other. And as a parent still mucking my way through learning by experience, their relationship is a welcomed relief. They have their own special brother-sister dynamic, tightly-knit. When I hear them cooperatively playing in the other room, I dare not infringe because there is no place for me. Even when things get dicey, I keep an attentive distance and let the matter sort itself out. Siblings need their own time, their own methods of interaction and resolution - even if the resolution may be a deliberate shriek that sends your big brother scampering off like a spooked weasel. So, if it gets worse as they get older, do me a favor and keep quiet about it. Let me be an ignorant parent by savoring these moments.

Opeth - "The Devil's Orchard"

If this new track is any indication of a shift in musical approach then I welcome the new album with open arms. Opeth's last two albums are far too contrived. The tracks are way too expansive, leaving precious little to sink ones teeth into. I couldn't even finish Ghost Reveries; instead I switched over to Blackwater Park and everything was alright. And with Watershed... I became acutely aware that something was amiss; that under the threat of become overly-bloated Opeth needed to do something, anything . And with this video below, we hear the favorable results of such a corrective maneuver. It's musical, colorful, spacious, and does not have a running time over the 11-minute mark. Opeth reached deep for this one, rescuing themselves from certain stagnation. Now, with the experience of self-resuscitation we just need to get these guys to slap some sense into Clutch.

Yesterday's Corn

The sign board outside the general purpose room reads Pity Party. This is where they squeeze in to commend each other for their lives of strain and struggle. Yes. This is where they seek the praise needed to push forward; where they discuss their common enemy, and evaluate new ways of existing. Yes, hard times, yes.

The beginning, at the top of the hour; this is when they pair off. By either pre-destiny or calculated maneuver, the general lump of pity is divided and each person selects another, the pair then forming their own precious sphere of pity. Blushed faces are cupped in angel soft hands. Strained, sympathetic gazes are matched. Tears squirt forth onto four dollar beaded necklaces, and collars and shoulder pads are smeared with sobbing mascara.

- Oh, me, oh, my: I know, I know.

- My life has more meaning than most people because I’ve struggled: I know, I know.

- I learned the old fashioned way, not because I was old fashioned but because I was poor: I know, I know.

- I grew up in a rough spot in town; therefore, this gives me the innate right to chime in at inappropriate times during class discussion to tell a story or share a bit of my wisdom even if it has no relevance to the subject matter, because people know I’ve had it hard and want to hear what I have to say: I know, I know.

The love-energy from these communions grows so intense that gravity is soon defied. Pairs will eventually levitate in their own pity bubbles. The harder they grip, the harder they sob, the higher they float. Soon after, their bowels glow with an aura of righteous light. Yes, a golden light that beams upward and bursts forth from upturned eye sockets and open mouths. The room quakes at the power. The ceiling lights flicker out and there the pity party hang, drowning in the drone of pity, awash in the light of each other’s bubble guts - flushing away all that bad juju.

Eventually things will calm down. The metaphysical power of pity abates and the ceiling lights timidly come back to life. Feet are returned to this raw and tyrannical reality. Folding chairs are placed; they moan under the under the pressure of usage. Accompanied by the scattered sniffles and delicate sobs left over from the ascension, the Pity Party president goes to the lectern: Welcome, sisters. Any visitors? Please stand and introduce yourself. Usually more than a couple will stand and wipe, swabbing tears from their faces as they say how thrilled they are to be here and what a release it has been so far. Sometimes others opt to remain seated on their thrones, either by choice or physical infirmity (more commonly a dramatic approach to the latter) and lean to either side to ensure being witnessed. As always, the newcomers are warmly welcomed.

The Pity Party president will then usually read from the announcement sheet which is usually extensive. They are usually of benign importance, just an opportunity to hear her own voice. At length, she can tell that she’s been there for too long because her legs become tingly; the Pity Party must proceed.

Most meetings will have a special speaker, usually one of the regulars who invited herself ahead of time to do so. She is received warmly. Topics usually involve oppression and the ever-present common enemy. One speech was given the stirring title ‘The Emotional Woman Trying to Define Herself’; another was ‘Breaking the Masculine Mold”. The speaker chronicles her hardships, usually beginning in childhood, and usually involves the saintly presence of mothers and how they worked fingers to the bone and never complained and how that way of life has always been an influence. The listeners will bob their heads in agreement, a perpetual zen pool of pity. Afterwards, the microphone is made available to anyone who seeks praise from the entire group. This… This is the real happening. Immediately, a line forms and snakes through the oval room, double-backing on itself, eventually peeping out the door a little bit - and even from this distant place, praise is still shouted; the potency from which emanates through the entire building. A profound thought from the lectern quivers its way through the ranks of pity until the very end of the line. Yes, through all the churning, these gems come out unscathed. They are all alike. Once a member is finished with her oratory, she leaves. Life must continue onwards, y’see. The party abandons a multi-purpose room littered with used tissue and program outlines whose corners are fold over and held fast with wads of chewing gum. A maintenance man comes in, contorts his face, waves the air before his nose, and opens a window. “Lord, have mercy!”

The Killingfields of Parenthood; or, How I Cope - Part 1 of n

I was ignorant before parenthood; completely oblivious to the psychological prowess of – where it stands now – a three and a half year old, and how this child has the subtle and devastating ability to cripple me down to a blubbering sociopath, only to then strut off like it was business as usual. It is amazing what one word can do to a man.

Up until the birth of our first child I fancied myself an individual with confidence, surety, self-control – Iron-will, if you will. I was able to walk away from confrontation; my fuse was long and tightly-woven. But oh, how quickly these assumptions – for assumptions they were – failed to withstand the might of one Mitchell Robert. Within two weeks, these falsities of character were stripped away, leaving behind a raw, quivering thing. And then, in this condition I found myself on the frontlines of an ongoing battle of wits. Indeed, it goes without saying that children have the ability to push grownups - fully maturated and intelligent sentient beings - to limits he/she didn’t even know existed… And then the kid enters the game-changing toddler phase. Before Toddlerdom, parenthood was merely an endurance contest. Like pushing your hand into a piece of stretched rubber, so too is your mental strength extended to agonizing proportions. But, this is just an elementary strategy of attrition and resistance; your kid pushes, you push back – at length someone will give out.

But then the child’s cognition develops further, character becomes defined. Yes. At three and a half years old the child has added a new devastating tactic. Moving beyond the tactic of resistance, moving beyond sleep deprivation, things will then get psychological – he starts messing with you. And this… this is where things get perilous. He confidently maneuvers himself with tactical precision, constantly on the lookout for a positional advantage. Oh my.

While I am under no illusion that the universal characteristic of toddlers is that of stubbornness and antagonism, it has always been my belief that my kid is wired different: not abnormally, not incorrectly – Just different; that there is some quirk in his neural circuitry that elevates him to something higher, something apart, from the other children. I’ll see your 3 year old, and raise you one diabolical genius. This is the story of a man - a father - broken and under the boot of his three year old son.

Bad Dream - "Black Blizzard", Yawining Man - "Digital Smoke Signal"

Music posts have not been as prevalent these past couple of months - if ever, in retrospect - here at Doctor Jones. This will change.
This will change, now.

The Calvin Paradox

Go on 'till you come to the end; then stop.
- Lewis Carroll

I'm Already There

Oddments-Turned-Bookmarks

This find is a bit of a coincidence since I too am in the process of being retrofitted for new lenses. According to Eye Masters, my current prescription is a step too strong for my precious far-sighted eyes, resulting in inconvenient eye aches after reading for an extended period of time. These aches first came to my attention several weeks ago while reading Saul Bellow’s Herzog. At first I thought Bellow’s narrative too advanced, too dense, too mind-blowingly awesome for my pwecious wittle bwain to handle. But, in all, it turned out that I’ve been walking around wearing the wrong Rx for the past four years, culminating into the irksome headaches of the past couple of weeks.

Perhaps Allison *…*’s case was different. Poor Allison. There she was, afflicted with Amblyopia, completely devoid of depth perception: Shouting at the dinner table when a 12-inch voice would suffice; grasping for a slice of pizza seven feet away; gazing through binoculars at the pages of a book fifteen inches away. Something had to be done.

So she went to visit Dr. at Vision Center.

There she received a professional assessment and departed with this new prescription. Success! The new lenses and lovely turtle-shell frames marked a turning point in Allison’s life. She was so excited that she immediately made way to the store and bought the very first item on her wishlist: Saul Bellow’s Ravelstein. But modern medical practices cannot anticipate human error. In her rush of excitement, Allison slipped the Rx just inside of the front cover, instead of the bookstore’s receipt – putting the later in an envelope of important documents secured to her hip. Suddenly, on the way back to her car, a pack of Kodiak bears rush Allison. But she’s able to fight them off because she’s a ninja, dropping Ravelstein in the process. The bears run off, Allison flees, and then some bystander finds the book – and the Rx – and sells it to the Half-Priced bookstore on the other side of town. He made $.17, the bears ate from a honey pot, and Allison was robbed of reading Saul Bellow.

This Happened

One-Thousand Gospels - Doctor Jones Mix Sequence #23

http://www.megaupload.com/?d=HMJ8YWWR

Nature has many tricks wherewith she convinces man of his finitiy, - the ceaseless flow of the tides, the fury of the storm, the shock of the earthquake, the long roll of heaven's artillery, - but the most tremendous, the most stupefying of all, is the passive phase of the White Silence. All movement ceases, the sky clears, the heavens are as brass... Strange thoughts arise unsummoned, and the mystery of all things strives for utterance. And the fear of death, of God, of the universe comes over him, - the hope of the Resurrection and the Life, the yearning for immortality, the vain striving of imprisoned essence, - it is then, if ever, man walks alone with God.

"The White Silence"
- Jack London

From the Hills

Kalkrut slowed himself to a halt.

Ankle deep in bubbling sludge, he drew a desperate wheezing breath, filling his giant lungs with the miasmal swamp air. He straightened from a stoop and adjusted the harness that came over his bare shoulders. Arcing backwards – as far as the oblong crag would allow – sounded out a rapid sequence of hollow pops. Barrel-chested and reaching out to either side, Kalkrut grabbed hold of Cyprus trees. They moaned and bowed to his strength, the intertwining root system holding fast. Veins throbbed from his blushed temples, flanking his empty, intense glare. After a few moments his mind began to gasp. Swollen bubbles of thought segregated and distanced themselves ever upward from the core. Each passing second carried a new, fancier, deeper microcosm of veiled meaning. Muted shades then heaved and warped, soon threatening to sprawl out and smother his consciousness. Instinctively, he let up and exhaled with great resolve, boring a hole through the dense fog. With another breath his better judgment swirled to unity. The weight returned. Kalkrut’s glazed eyes witnessed the fog fill in and once again become homogenous with the stifling blur that was all around. The omni-drone of insects intensified.

He sensed there was still a great distance to go. This notion weighed on his mind while the cellophane air was sapping his strength and the gunk in his lungs churned ever hotter and the limestone mocked continually and sadness jerked his face taut. His hands clenched in frustration at the ends of his trembling arms. Feelings of rebellion sizzled through every criss-crossed fiber of his hulking physique. Kalkrut’s mind flashed with scenes of rallying cries and gory retribution; when might shall overcome intellect in hoary conflict; when the united roar of triumph will mask the dwindling screams of terror. And just then he blinked, quickly recalling the super-charged slave band locked around his neck - a band that could easily encircle two or three of his puny captors. Even if Kalkrut had had the strength to remove the rock and hurl it far into the swamp he would still have no choice but to continue following the setting sun – the smeared mirage that it is, hovering above the dark sketches of tree branches – to the building site. Once there, he’d have to fumble through explaining why he arrived with an empty harness; an offense whose consequences are far more callous than trudging through a bog with a two ton chunk of limestone strapped to your back. Likewise, at this thought, Kalkrut’s static condition caused the slave band to sound a curt warning. Likewise, his static condition made it that much easier for the swamp to claim his weakening and impressive weight.

He ran a hand down his bald head and flicked globs of sweat into the murk. He slowly closed his eyes, took another deep breath, strained, pulled a bare foot out of the bog’s stubborn suction and took a stride forward, chasing away the swamp’s hungry ripples.

A Pictoral Preview of Next Month's Mixtape

An Absurdly Over-Ambitious-and-Lofty Term Paper Prospectus

“Wakefield”, Nathaniel Hawthorne’s short piece – or how we’ll refer to it at this juncture – is as engaging as it is confounding. It is a psychological piece that utilizes adroit narrative power to prompt the reader to elevated thinking. It is a systematic sequence of words that maneuvers itself on many planes, blurring the lines between sketch and tale and beyond. Within deterministic and labyrinth-like boundaries of “Wakefield” there also lies the enigmatic presence of free will – a setting that we all, at some point or another, feel apart of in this crazy thing called life.

It has been suggested by some that “Wakefield” can be considered an “Illustrated Idea”; A structure composed of an essay-like statement of concept followed by dramatized illustration – and, I like this. It has also been posited that the piece can be considered another one of Hawthorne’s allegories. But, at an extreme level, and considering the text itself, seeing “Wakefield” as an allegory seems too pithy: Solitude makes a person an “Outcast of the Universe”. I propose that there are greater, more significant things at work here - fundamental, philosophical ideas that effect our interactions with the world. Yes. This is about thinking, reasoning, our essence, what separates mankind from dumb beasts. “Wakefield” is Hawthorne embracing the concept of the written word to elevate man’s awareness.

Using the news story of a man abandoning his wife for 20 years (only to return as if from a days absence), Hawthorne’s narrator summarizes the story and then imagines it in detail, hoping to appeal to the “general sympathies of man.” The narrator invites us, the readers, to consider the summary of the news story and come to our own conclusions right there in the piece’s second paragraph; or, we can tag along with the narrator as he imagines the story of Wakefield and together we can work out a moral. Naturally, we continue onward through the narrator’s imagination. But he details with a skillful, seductive, ambiguous and sometimes flat-out contradictory manner that some readers of “Wakefield” may find themselves no better off - no more enlightened - than the title character was during his thoughtlessly executed “whim-wham”.

It is in the examination of the narrator’s treatment of the subject matter – of the dramatized illustration – that we can glimpse the magnitude of what Hawthorne is doing with “Wakefield.” The piece’s technical merit is what elevates and inspires the reader. In researching, it will be necessary to branch out and consult fellow-thinkers in other disciplines such as logic and even epistemology. Likewise, visiting other artisans of narrative structure would help inform this developing argument of text and the necessity of awareness. In a critical approach, we can, perhaps, join beside the many scholarly articles of interpretation of “Wakefield”. The majority of these view different symbolic aspects of the story, touching on themes like Solitude, and Mid-life journeys. While these are worthwhile approaches and useful to filling in details, I suggest that we take a step back and look at the text itself – to see it as a suspended multi-colored Spirograph design, a perpetual work that has no ending nor beginning, but arcs out and returns back to its center.

A Plethora of Pesky Mr. Popper's Penguins Poster

If one has been out and about lately then it shall become quickly apparent, and delightful to assume, that a new motion picture is set to open on June 17, though the release year is not presented. As if at every turn we are goaded with giddiness by the ever-presence of advertisements for the film called Mr. Popper's Penguins. Mr. Popper will be portrayed by, I trust, one Jim Carrey; in which reasoning brings us to the conclusion that this pictorial display is, in fact, one that represents a motion picture and not, say, one for a culinary seminar about the exquisite and delectable penguin. I reckon that Mr. Popper will find himself in a lighthearted 80-to-90-minute situation where, sitting on a bar stool and in front of a white backdrop, he shall be accompanied by many penguins (as signified by their cluttering presence in the posters) that will nuzzle and nip at his face while he looks on into the camera with a mild quizzical expression - as if wondering just what am I to do with all these pesky penguins?

...exerpt of a High School graduation speech

and as we look forward with the memories of the past still fresh in our minds and the emotions and enthusiasm still fueling our passion, it's important to remember that this not the end but rather the beginning - the true initiation - to each of our diverging paths of our lives in which all that we've learned in this High School and the outstanding practices developed herein will help guide us each toward achievement and success and fulfillment and all the highs and lows that come with the journey of life and then you'll die and poop yourself afterward because our bodies do stuff like that.

Blood and Whispers and the Balance Therein

Stirring thought processes going on here...

The Name of the Rose is Umberto Eco’s first novel, published in 1980. It is, essentially, a whodunnit set in an abbey in 13^th century northern Italy. Eco is part historian – part architect – part literary theorist – all awesome. Therefore, one can assume and trust that the material for this book has been meticulously researched and creatively presented. Yes. Truly, a great read – one of those quintessential “hard-to-put-down”-ers - Very appealing. It has been a fantastic way to celebrate the beginning of summer. However, with great resolve I am abandoning The Name of the Rose, and I’m doing it for several reasons. First, reading a novel of this magnitude requires utmost dedication and consistency. This I upheld for two weeks, making my way to the book’s 550-page half-way point. But I have since been distracted by other matters. Days have now gone by since revisiting my friends at that certain medieval Italian abbey. There are heavy things on my mind and I am unable to allot my faculties to these deserving logician monks. They are now strangers of whom I have been removed emotionally, however little. Momentum has been lost. The second reason being that I’m taking the “Studies in American Literature: American Gothic” course this summer, and I will not attempt to mingle these reading duties. It’s one or the other at this point. The likes of Hawthorne, Poe, Melville, James are priority. Plus, it may be a disservice to my precious – oh so precious – intellect to be sloshing together the grounded logical methods of Brother William with the internal dialog of Poe’s characters – characters driven by the logic of madness. Being a parent of a 3 y/o and 5 m/o churns my brain into cream corn enough as it is.

The next reason is that I am stirred by this following excerpt, which just so happens to be the conclusion of the last chapter I’ve read of The Name of the Rose, and therefore a good place to end:

“True,” I said, amazed. Until then I had thought each book spoke of things, human or divine, that lie outside of books. Now I realized that not infrequently books speak of books: it is as if they spoke among themselves. In the light of this reflection, the library seemed all the more disturbing to me. It was then the place of a long, centuries-old murmuring, an imperceptible dialogue between one parchment and another, a living thing, a receptacle of powers not to be ruled by a human mind, a treasure of secrets emanated by many minds, surviving the death of those who had produced them or had been their conveyors.

“But then, “ I said, “what is the use of hiding books, if from the books not hidden you can arrive at the concealed ones?”

“Over the centuries it is no use at all. In the space of years or days it has some use. You see, in fact, how bewildered we are.”

“And is a library, then, an instrument not for distributing truth but for delaying its appearance?” I asked, dumbfounded.

“Not always and not necessarily. In this case it is.”

Indeed. My thoughts turn to my own personal library; imagining that the occupants of these bookshelves whisper and murmur, but do so against me. Here are all these newly-acquired books, purchased at Half-Price or at even greater discount from what the dust jacket or back cover suggests, covering subjects and ideas that I’m interested in. Others are long standing members, authors whose style and content fuel my own personal endeavors into the written word. All of these parchments stand side by side and look out at their owner. What do they observe? The results of which Nibley whispers to Borges who relays to Hawthorne who motions to Hesse who romanticizes to Thompson who contorts to Aristotle, and back again, criss-crossing between upper and lower shelf. Yes, these books murmur. And they do so, in part, against all of those library books that fill my school bag – The Name of the Rose included. Why spend the cash on books only to turn around and sign out others? Illogical. For this reason, I shall return all library materials and give attention to my own humble, mini-library.

Rose is good stuff - It has perked my curiosity in, among other things, medieval heresy and into an overall survey of this history of Northern Italy. It was gratifying to recognize the times when Eco incorporate his theories of semiotics into the plot. But where my interest in these subjects are now just light-hearted whims of fancy, there are other topics, now more concrete, that occupy my mind. Style, rhetoric, semantics, logic, critical theory, self-discipline: These books know this, and they are eager for their owner to web together the knowledge therein – perhaps, even, make a graduate career out of whatever the process of such a webbing may entail. And also for this reason do they grumble. I must appease them.

But, as attractive as books may seem, one mustn’t let them clutter his or her conscience. Consider, then, one of my favorite quotes; a personal law by Hermann Hesse, one whose message is far more critical in application than anything any book may suggest or whisper in advice to another.

“I do not consider myself less ignorant than most people. I have been and still am a seeker, but I have ceased to question stars and books. I have begun to listen to the teachings my blood whispers to me. My story is not a pleasant one; it is neither sweet nor harmonious, as invented stories are; It has the taste of nonsense and chaos, of madness and dreams—like the lives of all men who stop deceiving themselves.”

This Happened

The Story So Far...

Ok. Check it out.

There are four specific years that you must remember: 1885, 1955, 1985, 2015.

No, really, this is neat! This is a story that explores the fabric of reality. It touches on the very core of things – of everything!

Currently, it is 1955 and you’re seeing the Marty from 1985 and the Doc Brown of 1955. With the help of this Doc Brown from 1955, Marty must travel back to 1885 to rescue to the Doc Brown from 1985, who was accidentally struck by lighting in this 1955; thus overloading the flux capacitor in the DeLorean time machine that was hover-converted in 2015 – yes, 2015.

Well, here’s what happened – At the beginning of the second/previous movie, the Marty from 1985 had just gotten back to 1985 after being trapped for a week in 1955, all with the help of the Doc Brown from 1955. So, the Doc Brown from 1985 came blasting in with the DeLorean all in a tizzy about Marty coming back to the future with him – back to 2015. Still with me? So, Marty and Doc Brown from 1985 go back to 2015 to keep Marty’s son from joining the grandson Biff (the trilogy’s bad guy(s)) in a robbery. While in 2015, Marty buys a sports almanac with the intent of placing bets once he and Doc Brown get back to 1985. The catch is that the grandpa Biff of 2015 obtains the almanac, sneaks off with the DeLorean and travels back to 1955 to give the book to his teenage 1955 self.

Here’s where things get dicey. At length, Doc and Marty from 1985 return to 1985 from 2015, only to find that this 1985 is an alternate version of their home time of 1985. In this alternate 1985, Biff is rich and powerful and the head tyrant of a mass dystopia. This fortune was made overtime because of the successful delivery of the sports almanac from the Grandpa Biff of 2015 to the teenage Biff of 1955 in 1955. So now, in order to correct this tragedy, Marty and Doc from the home time of 1985 leave this alternate 1985 and go back to 1955 to reclaim the sports almanac from the teenage Biff of 1955; but only after the Grandpa Biff of 2015 returns the DeLorean to 2015 to help prevent two time machines being in 1955. The problem is that this story now overlaps with the story of the first movie – where the Doc from 1955 is helping the Marty of 1985 get back to 1985, not the alternate 1985. If the Doc from 1955 were to see this Doc from 1985, and if the Marty from 1985 were to see… the Marty from 1985, Doc predicts that…

…the encounter could create a time paradox, the results of which could cause a chain reaction that would unravel the very fabric of the space time continuum, and destroy the entire universe! Granted, that's a worse case scenario. The destruction might in fact be very localized, limited to merely our own galaxy.

Yes, I have that memorized. Yes, he actually says it like that.

No, hear me out. Really, it’s a really cool story.

Fine, change the channel.

Fear and Loathing in Sentence Diagramming

Paul is Barefoot

If there is a time when I can declare myself the biggest The Beatles fan, it happens during this song. If there is a piece of short animation that inspires me to want to learn how to use Flash!, it is seen here . If there is a singular experience so suave and agreeable that it makes you feel a’ight, it would be in your best interest to jump in head first. Good stuff, man. Good stuff.

I'm a (unaware) Copycat

Exhibit A:
ManCalledSun's (under the current moniker of "Doctor Jones") July '09 Mixtape Cover


Exhibit B:
Melt Banana's Teeny Shiny album cover


Whoops.
I thought the mixtape cover looked vaguely familiar... *shrugging emoticon*

Laughing at Laughing

I thought this was hilarious 20 years ago, and still do today. Quality stuff.

Notes from Contemporary Non-Fiction workshop

- Personal essays don't have to be about personal experience
- Free from objective parameters of academic writing
- Seizing opportunities to describe stuff
- Themes that are inherent in the situation
- Walking up to the door and then doing an about-face
- Explore something by looking at something else
- Stick to the personal experience to negotiate the politics of the essay
- The painter stops smelling fumes after a while
- It could easily be crap
- Entertainment-to-truth spectrum
- A piece heightened by the literal gravity
- The unbalance between whats offered and what could be offered
- ... so that the reader knows that you'll meet him in the middle somewhere
- The application of all things
- Less 'taking care of it' and more of 'existing within it'
- Blunt Fashion
- It's a big step, but not in her world
- A TV interviewee looking into the wrong camera
- Modulated imagery
- Understanding the merit of an experience
- David Foster Wallace-ise it

As the London Lamps Do - March 2011 BRR Mixtape Brigade

http://www.megaupload.com/?d=11DY31CS

But first let me gaze at this solitary figure, who come hitherward with a tin lantern, which throws a circular pattern of its punched holes on the ground about him. He passes fearlessly into the unknown gloom, whither I will not follow him... He fears not the dreary path before him, because his lantern, which was kindled at the fireside of his home, will light him back to that same fire again. And thus we, night-wanderers through a stormy and dismal world, if we bear the lamp of Faith, enkindled at a celestial fire, it will surely lead us home to that Heaven whence its radiance was borrowed.

Nathaniel Hawthorne

This video has ruined my life

...and I blame Kevin. A week ago, he posted this on Facebook and I watched it, and my life has been upside down ever since. I am not in control of myself, as if I have been possessed. It is hell. I blame Kevin.

So, there I was, 3AM, humming an Acid King riff to my newborn - successfully lulling her to sweet, precious sleep - when, out of nowhere I break out and start singing the pizza song at the appropriate pitch. She woke up.

There I was, reading Benjamin Franklin’s autobiography, rejoicing in his civic accomplishments and feeling inspired to strive to be a better American, when all of a sudden the momentum was broken by the hankering to order a pizza topped with fish sticks and whipped cream.

There I was, in the CMA auditorium, enshrouded in the exotic voice of Yasmin Levy, being whisked away on the tides of Spanish Jewry and riding back through hundreds of years of beautiful Mediterranean tradition… Only to have my journey interrupted by the mental image of five young girls bopping around in slow motion, spelling P-I-Z-Z-A.

There I was, immersed in learning the skill of sentence diagramming, struggling with determining whether this or that noun phrase is adjectival or the object compliment, only finding it terribly difficult to concentrate because I kept hearing voices – oh, the drowsy voices! – singing about pushing the limits of pizza creation.

Fictional Characters I'd Hang Out With

Val & Earl - from the feature film Tremors

Tremors is an awesome movie about giant carnivorous underground worms that hunt in Perfection Valley, Nevada. Val & Earl are gruff handymen who assist the few permanent citizens of Perfection in monotonous, low-paying grunt jobs. They fancy that they are shortchanging themselves, and after a colorful mishap with a sump pump they decide to pull up stakes and move to a more populated town to search for better occupational opportunities and a thorough live-in maid. These plans are thwarted by the realization that there are four frikkin gigantic subterranean man-eating worms (“Graboids”) spread throughout the valley, devouring livestock and licensed Doctors. Now Val & Earl must lend a hand to the rest of the citizens of Perfection Valley to eliminate this dangerous threat.



See, we plan ahead, that way we don’t have to do anything right now

I wanna hang out with Val & Earl so that, when the time is right, I will sacrifice myself for them, to allow myself to be gobbled up by the mutant Graboids, so that they may live on and be prosperous. Granted, as evident in the sequel, they actually do live on and make a fortune off of the franchising royalties from the products based on the events of the original movie. But allow me this; allow me to re-write history and be the martyr for these sterling, foul-mouthed gentlemen. Let’s say I’ve been hanging out with Val & Earl for a couple of years, right? We inhabit the same trailer, guzzle the same cheap beer and holler lewd things at women. We laugh and slap each other on the back. We’re so chummy. We also work! We work hard! We’re a dynamic and tight-knit power trio with potential for great things. Then the Graboids come. Ultimately, we find ourselves cornered in a clamorous situation and find that that potential for great things is in jeopardy.

What the samhell blippity bloppity do we do? Earl exclaims

Fuzzy bunny ketchup packets, this is some serious hibbidy jibbidy! Val despairs.

I say nothing. I close my eyes and find my ch’i. I then stride forward, heading to certain destruction. Val & Earl recognize my intention and are overwhelmed with gratitude. They lean on each other and begin to sing a sonorous rendition of Ave Maria. Time slows and the clamor fades as I continue walking the warrior’s path. At length, I come to a halt on the dusty dirt road. I spread my arms and tilt my head back. A Graboid bursts forth from the ground beneath my feet. The momentum behind its ascent is so great that the mutant worm rises into the air; my lower body fastened in its mouth, my torso exposed and surrounded by a golden aura, my head eclipsing the sun. Filaments of angelic beings swoop and swirl. During the descent, the Graboid slurps me in like a strand of sphegetti. I single tear streaks down my cheek. And I am gone. Val & Earl seize the opportunity and make a run for it, sobbing with gratitude. They live on and become prosperous.

… And then I’ll be reincarnated and do the same for Bill & Ted.

...and Suchlike Wonders - February 2011 Mixtape Brigade

http://www.megaupload.com/?d=TUYVU217

They turned their horses up the ridge, which was crowned with the dark pines. The first trees stood deployed like outposts. Their trunks were as straight as masts, and the bark was purple in the shade. The ground under them, deep and spongy with brown needles, supported no grass. The grove was quiet except for a little whispering wind. Birds took no pleasure in the pines, and the brown carpet muffled the sound of walking creatures. The horsemen rode in among the trees, out of the yellow sunlight and into the purple gloom of the shade.

“Be still a moment, Tom,“ Joseph said languidly. “There’s something here. You are afraid of it, but I know it. Somewhere, perhaps in an old dream, I have seen this place, or perhaps felt the feeling of this place.” He dropped his hands to his sides and whispered, trying the words, “This is holy – and this is old.”

- John Steinbeck

Mitchell in the Mornings: Scenario #2 of 2

*~~*BING*~~*

I. Am. Awake! 

Yeeeow! It’s time to announce to my family and the neighbors downstairs that I am now beginning my day. I’m gonna get out of bed and run up and down the hallway a bunch of times. Now, I’m gonna do it some more! Now, I’m gonna go make sure that Daddy is awake and knows that I’m awake and knows that I like running up and down the hallway a bunch of times.

Aha! He is none of the above. Now, I’m gonna climb up on the bed and jump up and down and talk loudly and sing nonsensical lyrics and ram my head like a baby lion into his shoulder blades.

Oh! I’m sure the vertical blinds in the living room are drawn. Now, I’m gonna run down the hallway into the living room and run my hands across the blinds and continue to sing nonsensical lyrics while doing so.

Well, hey, while I’m out here: Now, I’m gonna jump off of the couch and land (maybe) on the beanbag. I love how the floor rumbles when I land. I love that sound so much I’m gonna do it again! It’s neat how my loud voice and the rumble of the floor compliment each other and fills the entire audio spectrum.

Hey! I wonder if Daddy is out of bed yet. Now, I’m gonna run back down the hallway to check. Well, considering how much I love to run up and down the hallway, I’m gonna do it a couple more times before checking to make sure Daddy is awake - and then, if he’s not, I’m gonna sit on his head and sing “Twinkle-Twinkle Little Star” because I’m so frikkin’ spunky!

Pictorial Preview of Febuary's Mixtape

...When the smoke beings eased into the abandoned Frontier Land Settlement...

Stuff That Falls Out of Books I Flip Through at Half-Priced Books

I reckon that this will be an ongoing theme on Doctor Jones because 1) Half-Priced Books is totally, unearthly awesome and 2) Trinkets-turned-bookmarks will occasionally catch me by surprise as I browse, making it difficult not to muse and wonder. It’s a spice of life that is another example of the benefit that Half-Priced Books serves to all of humanity.

This little guy was in the first edition (1979) edition of The Great Shark Hunt, a collection of writings by Hunter S. Thompson that were printed in various periodicals between 1964 through 1978. I love HST. His prose is sharp, temperamental, irreverent, and bubbles with acidic sass. And while I acknowledge and accept the neon aura of unrepentant drug use that surrounds and influences his work, I find it disconcerting how legions of fanboys and geekfags only cling to - and relentlessly recycle - this surface fact; He’s the guy that wrote Fear & Loathing in Las Vegas, y’know. Such an approach to Thompson’s work is amateur and foolish, albeit, the most popular.

This is why, at length, it comes as no surprise to find a ticket stub to a Grateful Dead concert in one of his books; a $23.50 ticket in the “upper/side” of Grand-Whatever-Arena in WhereverTown, USA. Indulge me a judgment, but I think it is safe to assume that this was some hob knob that gobbled up cheap acid thinking the concert experience will open all kinds of portals in the aether, passageways to rapturous unifying existences, only, I’m willing to bet, he ultimately found himself staring into the fuming and swirling portal to the city sewers. This is the same middle-age guy who burned to Aoxomoxoa and drank Wild Turkey while reading Kingdom of Fear.

The ticket has no indication of a date, but considering the admission cost that this chump paid for the nosebleed section we can safely determine that we’re talking no earlier than the 1990’s. After clicking around a website dedicated to GD ticket stubs, passes, and laminates, here’s the closest comparison that I was willing to put forth the effort to find:

For the most part, after 1992 the tickets become flat, glossy and all start to look the same. Charming raised-ink roses bespeckled with glitter became a thing of the past. Likewise, Jerry Garcia eventually croaked. To commemorate this icon of hippie snobbery, Hobknob ticket-stub-man probably sparked a fatty and read aloud works by Ginsberg, Thompson and Wolfe because, at the time, it felt like the right thing to do. Perhaps, in the morning after, he came to his senses, and after a lifetime of bummin’ around he finally straightened up, sold back his vegan cookbooks, denim overalls, and his copy of The Great Shark Hunt – ticket stub and all – and got himself a jobby job.