Look at this sweet spaceship! Uhh.. uhh... LETS GET WASTED!

That's right Richard Branson. Drink up! You're free to molest the final frontier all you want now.

Down deep inside the outter most layer of hell is a little place I like to call Mojave. It is here that Qajillionaire Richard Branson and no homo life partner/engineer Burt Rutan revealed the newest vehicle to propel you halfway in to outer space only to float down out of the womb again. White Knight Two is not the sequel to a Klansman training video but rather the beautiful bird that takes the SpaceShipTwo to a great enough height for it to propel itself up in to oblivion.

I do consider myself lucky though to have attended the monumental occasion of SpaceShipOne. That being the first time a private company broke the cherry of space. Sadly though it tainted my view of space travel all too quickly. The whole idea was for Richard Brnason to stand atop a pile of gilded children and point at people in the audience. "YOU COULD GO TO SPACE!"

Then I would be like "OH EM GEE! MEEEE!?"

He softly nodded then returned to his limo that runs on china men.

I was so excited. A whole new world had opened up in my eyes. I promised to myself that the first time I go on a plane will be when I'm visiting my second cousin on Jupiter. And he would live on Jupiter because by that time the martians will have so heavily inbreed with the human populace that we were left to protect our heritage and existence by moving to Mercury and Jupiter.

Little did I know that I was being lied to. Richard Branson didn't mean me. He meant the guy behind me, possibly the one that had boots made of some sort of extinct eagle. Simply put, Space Tourism is for the rich.

While I wandered around on that hot desert morning there were assorted speakers set up all around. They would play interviews from celebrities that were also there to watch the SpaceShipOne become history. Except these celebrities were stationed miles away from all us dirty common folk, probably in space. They had the usual run of the mill b-listers. William Shatner, George Takai, Dean Kamen, Gene Simmons.

Wait... Holy shit Gene Simmons from KISS! It was a pretty slick move though by whoever was organizing all the interview clips because after that they unleashed the entire KISS discography. I knew only 4 or 5 celebrities could stand sharing a room with Burt Rutans sideburns.

So the thing went up, the pilot threw M&M's and shit around the cockpit, and then it came down using the patented Burt Rutan lay her gently technique. It's really ingenious when you think about it and it's mainly why space travel on a smaller scale is possible now. By using a specific design the ship floats down in a spiral motion while giving gravity the finger. Since the ship floats down at such a slow speed there is never this fireball effect from the atmosphere and no need for a heat shield.

It was mildly anti climactic as the day winded down but eventually worth waking up at 3 in the god damn morning. SO you all better start saving up for that two hour ride to space, the 200,000 dollar price tag isn't going to pay itself. Even though i'm pretty sure Doritos or Mountain Dew will have a contest giveaway for a pair of tickets. Plus an Xbox 360...

Why don't you just buy a bike then and move to Japan!?

I'll always remember that insult... It made absolutely no sense. There was this kid at a robotics competition and I kept hinting at him to introduce me to the lovely lady they had working on their team. He went on this big tirade that they were best friends and he didn't appreciate me hitting on her. I really wasn't being mean to her though. She was a very cute asian girl and had some sort of retro tin robot pin. Probably derived from some god awful anime but the general idea of vintageness turned me on. I went on arguing with the kid.

"At least tell me her name yeah?"
"NO GO AWAY WE NEED TO GET READY FOR THE NEXT ROUND!"

Meanwhile he was frantically digging through toolboxes while 4 or so middle aged engineers scribbled abstract figures on a white board. She was sitting there by herself. I told her I liked her pin. She said her boyfriend was riding around on a bike with their flag. That stupid guy flashed in to my head. I remember seeing him earlier in the day. I started to devise ways of harassing him now... but he had a bike. I thought about throwing tools in the spokes, but the thought of him flying through the air and being impaled on a piece of scrap aluminum tubing kept running through my head. That probably would have disqualified us from the tournament.

I went back to harassing her "best" friend. It soon became apparent that he was the straggler that latched on to her just waiting for things to go bad with the boyfriend. Which I can't blame him. She was cute and worth the insane amount of heartache day in and day out he must have felt.

"Cmoooon. She's really cute and she has a tin robot pin! I lvoe vintage Japanese stuff like that."
"Why don't you move to Japan then!"
"I don't know she seems to be into guys on bikes..."
"Why don't you just buy a bike then and move to Japan!?"

Shit. He had me beat. How was I supposed to respond to that!?
I stood there a minute. Calmly collected myself. And walked away.

Thus returning to my 2'x 2' square of gutted robot innards.

I don't know what sent that tear down my face. The scrap metal in my god damn eye or the broken heart I had.

There's no fate in my writing. Just lots and lots of procrastination.

Barstow 120 was actually created the day I considered leaving college. With my head injected of thoughts to large to comprehend this place was my medium of writing. I was supposed to write and write and prepare for my departure. People at school knew I was leaving the second they read one of my blogs, whether they knew it or not. Once again Barstow 120 is the relevance of a small desert shanty town that is in correlation with everything important in my life. Places i've lived, people i've loved, things I wish had never exsisted. Barstow being one of them.

I come back to this blog after a bizaare three days of self discovery and Kool-Aid. I fucking hate self discovery, but I fucking love Kool-Aid. With a super nova state of confusion I found myself the only way I knew how, buying tons of weird shit. Dvds depicting a new found love for 80's saturday morning cartoons, a Daft Punk movie that has reviews as mixed up as Tom Bradys sexuality, and a hookah that induces deja vu' every second I look at it. Apparently the remedy for such a state is the combination of all three. I put on He-Man, set fire to the shisha, and looked through a post card booklet that came with Electroma.

I'm at peace. Not everything is perfect. Actually nothing is really even that good. However I am getting by and that is by and by the biggest by to bye bye.

Actually the biggest eye opener is a chart of everyones sexual shenanigans that was created by the god of Cal Poly Pomona. I still have no idea how I should feel about it but it elecits the memory and reminder of why I gee tee ef ohhh'ed out of there. It's insanity brought on through little red and green lines. Never had I thought something with the color scheme of Christmas would give me such a hard on for life. I always pictured myself more of a follower to Hallows Eve. I should write more but I have to dissect my life for a Psychology paper.

It will be titled "Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle cereal is why i'm BAT SHIT CRAZY NOW!"

I leave you with something I wrote in a myspace blog, recounting what is still the greatest night at Cal Poly Pomona. In my eyes at least.

When left in the wake of a mass exit from the Palmitas dorm hall a certain ambiguity falls over the few last remaining residents. I say this because it is a feeling of vagueness. Left to your own devices you are forced to provide water, food, and sanity for just a single day or moment. If I had not known any better another day there would have left me scarred thinking people were never coming back.

I inhaled at 10:30 P.M.

Exhaled at 3:00 A.M.

Banding together with two comrades that I had just recently become accustomed to hanging with for more than ten minutes at a time came to my aid. Or rather we met in a neutral territory with plans to expand. In and Out sounded delicious. No surprise, it was delicious. Mind this all taking place at 7:30 P.M. it felt as if I had just woken up at four. I'm better than that though. I woke up at two. Then wasn't fully aware of my surroundings until four. Time had shifted.

In and Out had satiated my stomach but my mind still hungered for something other than Mythbusters re-runs back at the dorm. Heading towards the nearest smoke shop I had a quarter less than a sawbuck on me. Pitching in my monies, the other major characters of this night made their purchases. Walking away we held forth the legal key to what I thought was unlocking my thoughts. Salvia.

Salvia reminds me of the cruel mistress experienced at a fellow robotics members house. Smoking it in my past out of a bong i'm not sure what hit me. The pot or the 20x of salvia. Whatever it was I had caked it onto the inside of my lungs. I fell backwards for about seven minutes. Broken only by the single lamp standing in the room. Ironically it was above me and I had no idea moving up was possible in the seven minutes. We had listened to three tracks off a Doors vinyl. It almost makes sense. However the tracks were each about 5 mins long. Time shifted.

This attempt I had a mission, to take in enough until my brain forced me to surface for air. Admiring the butterfly cut out of the package, my driver recieved a call. His father wanted him to pick up a suit. A ploy by the salvia gods to warn us of the impending leave of reality. Our act of defiance was laughing in their faces. Wal Mart probably sold suits. If this menial task had been accomplished nothing would have changed in the night. Which is bizzare to reflect on because at the end of the night everything we did played no major role in the future.

Calling bluff we continued to the dorm. Getting a parking spot fifteen feet in front of the building enforced to us that we were the last beings. My room was cold. Roommate was there. His presence laid no reassurnace to life since he would have been gone in an hour. And he was a cripple. Fractured leg, crutches, and keys in pocket ready to drive home. Door shut and window open laid to the defences of random intruders.

Sadly to say I was first to go. First to be disappointed. Salvia could almost be bizzare enough to trip the people that are just watching you. However the first stage is intense giggling. Fearing that the only thing I touched upon was my inner school girl laughing at my commrades sleeves I forced myself to settle down. A room that seemed cold as the fridge quickly evolved into the microwave that convinently sits atop of the fridge in my dorm. Trying to pull meaning out of that, there's nothing but the plain fact that I started sweating balls. An inept sense to smoke developed. Smoke from the piece, the cieling, my lungs, and my commrades hits. Being such a small side effect shocked me. The effect lingered for enough time to fully enjoy it. Opening a bag of burned popcorn revealed the gold mine to intuition. I wanted to bring up the story of the guy who got cancer from breathing in Popcorn steam all his life. However Salvia did not want to hear it. I shut up before I started speaking. With such a chance to observe, I did. These people I was with talked amongst themselves. The Popcorn steam triggered their own stories whether they knew it or not. Soley on my raction people were pleased. Random individuals had come and gone. By the end it was just the trio. Inspired to do more there was a change of rooms for the three of us. Two Twenty Seven did not provide a good hookah vibe. It had Salvia Vibe. Never confuse the two.

Salvia in the moment seemed to have failed me thus setting the night open for even more disappointments. This tripod of men searching for a release on college angst switched rooms. My Commrades room had a double monitor set up that teased you of awesomeness, but the screens were awkward sizes. Never really portraying one solid set up but rather the illusion of two different computers. However the mouse had free reign which tripped balls in its own respect. (I just realized there's a running motiff of me stating something "balls".)

He had set up a snowboarding video on the larger of the two screens and kept the social scene alive with AIM on the other. As far as Snowboarding videos go this one was mediocre. Some charming personality exsisted but the way it was shot and certain segments drawn out, I grew tired of it by the end. As a way to recover the immediate sense we needed smoke of some sort. Not so much as a krutch for the night but smoke had become a reoccuring theme. Glad I had smoke. Pissed off that everyone was gone to enjoy it. Finding some of my best conversations are around a hookah i've grown to enjoy it. Doesn't seem to come often to the point where it will kill me someday, but often enough to call it a friend.

The flavor for tonight was a shot of Raspberry. In my head I already had it planned out tasting like Brisk Raspberry ice tea. Although it wasn't strong enough to actually have my fantasy come true it did have a light hint of the berry found in the sweet drink. Subtle. As I watched the second snowboard movie it just felt right. Within 10 mins of the movie I could easily point out why this one was so much better than the last one. Each boarder got their own song for their own segment. I wasn't sure if I loved the movie until I heard Suffergate City start up, yup I loved it. I see Bowie so rarely in the music scene today that it's definately refreshing to see the "Yeah Bowie. I listened to your shit back in the day. Fuck these kids." pop up in pop culture.

As Hookah died out I had finally mastered the O's in smoke. My only goal in college is to spit out letters exclaiming "Mo Money, Mo Money, Mo Money!" I figure the commas and exclamation point will take some practice. Looking to eachother my associate and I realized this was the best snowboarding movie ever made. I can gauge a movie on how good it is by making you want to do something so badly afterwards that it plagues you when you blink. We were left with no other coice than to attempt snowboarding. Timewise it was about one in the morning. With heads full of hookah, snowbard in hand, and a digital camera with a full roll of film we headed out. Me being an asshole I went to my room and checked myspace just to make sure no one was urgently trying to contact me at one in the morning through the intranet. Oh, and I grabbed my aviators. Another slick move to douchebaggery.

Praying the Salvia and hookah gods aligned in the heavens, we just wanted a good night. I was left in charge of picture taking duties. Which proved to much for my platter/. Hand me a camera and you will be in the lower right side with beautiful scenery engulfing you, or since it was night, complete darkness. I don't think any of us fully realized that snowbaring on wet grass was an impossiblity. Maybe if it was cold enough to convert to ice. However we were only standing there freezing our balls off. BALLS, I said it. I traded the camera for hauling around a big ass snowboard. Snapped some cool shots of cheap scooter tricks. One of my colleagues ate shit. Then we headed back to the dorm. Still aware of smoke or just the cold breath in air I felt my significance.

Significance is what I set out to find.

Gene Simmons Sex Tape

That's really all I have to say. He's gross, it's gross, and I love it.

Why are we all competing with this dead guy?

I sit here typing this in some dudes house. Actually more important I type this in San Diego. Still not exactly sure what I’m doing here besides hanging with a buddy of mine. This place doesn’t really seem like San Diego though. I want to call it Palm Diego Dale but it doesn’t roll off the tongue all that smoothly. And it sounds really f’ing stupid. There’s this sort of desert setting that can fool you in to believing you’re in some god forsaken part of Arizona, but then you pass Qualcomm stadium and it’s like oh… yeah this is San Diego. People will probably fight this view till they die but my lone impression of San Diego is becoming an awesome one with cacti. I SWEAR TO YOU I’m looking out at rocky mountains and cactus.

Now that I’m done lying to you people that I’m in San Diego when I’m really in the middle of Montana I can’t say for sure what this weekend holds. With maybe 20 dollars to my name I’ve already dodged the bullet of Indian Casinos. Although I know I can win. I wonder what the spread is for the All Star game…

Because the title of this entry will probably send me straight to hell I won't bother explaining it.

This is my real Valentine

I plan on watching VHS Kyuss all day on Thursday

This is your math homework. I hate you.

Homework doesn't freak me out anymore. Mainly because it's non existent here in college.

This is my High Desert rage

I can't lie to myself. I only feel the urge to write while I'm in a pissant killing mood.

All this rage can't be attributed to one event. It never can. Grouping things in to one group is... nice? Oh my god I hate the word nice right now. Nice is the embodiment of sugar and spice and everything nice. See, the word nice is stupid as hell. You're stupid as hell. In a previous post that was never published I stated that I liked standing on a mountain overlooking Palmdale. I like writing things that people can't see. I want to write letters to people in invisible ink. I find it to be the biggest f-you of all time.

I think I want to sit myself underwater for a while. If I wasn't 90% sure that the bathtub in the dorm bathroom is constructed completely out of AIDS I would totally fill it up. You know, and bathe in it. At the moment I just sit here bathing in my misery. It's that kind of gentle misery. Sort of like gentle prison sodomy. Sweet sweet prison sodomy.

I'm thinking of more violent metaphors. Sadly none have yet to surface.

I hate how writing is the only way to calm the beast because I was supposed to be asleep an hour ago. Writing is nothing but manic ranting for me I think. Not even completely entertaining ranting. If your grandfather ranting drunk makes you laugh as hard as it does me. Then imagine myself being your drunk great grandfather who doesn't really rant as much as just dies. I AM YOUR DYING GREAT GRANDFATHER

IN short your asses are going to get haunted, assuming that two people are reading this at the same time. There's a better chance of dividing by zero.

Roy Scheider died! Have you ever seen the French Connection!? Most bad ass movie of all time! Sure Jaws was sweet. Except every sequel to Jaws blew bigger and bigger shark dicks. French Connection? The second one was better than the first (except that Roy Scheider wasn't in it). So since the second one was better than the first I had to kill myself because deep down I knew there wouldn't be a third one. Hollywood knew they couldn't possibly make a better one. Gene Hackman had already gone through Heroin withdrawls in the second one. The third one would have been what, Crystal Meth? That just looks tacky. Every second of both the movies is tension. Tension of being caught, tension of catching someone else, tension of sitting in a car trying to get a lead to just keep their jobs, and on top of all that the incredible sexual tension between Gene Hackman and every single female character in the movie. AND THEN THE SHARK BLOWS UP.

The Phoenix suns died! Shaq? In short they traded a vital part to the intricacy of the suns, for a fucking retard who would rather bitch at kids for not working out than step on a treadmill himself. They drafted a cripple. His big toe is in a constant state of steroid withdrawls. Instead of working, it sort of just breaks all the time. Here's to hoping Barbosa just sits on Shaqs shoulder and dunks from half court. It's Space Jam without Michael Jordan. Awesome if I was a kid. Really gay now that I understand the movie is about Basketball.

I wish the whole movie was just Michael Jordan's baseball career. So as long as the movie was a miserable downward spiral they could maybe market it as a documentary on Michael Jordan's actual Baseball career.

Hate.

Cold coffee and cold cars

My phones turned off. Sadly my mind has been torn into fractional amounts. Tonight can be described as nothing more than a... night? Not bad. Not good. Different. Still wondering where I stand in Palmdale. I liked it over looking the city though. Think i'll stand there for a while.

In much more important news Roger Clemens ass blood is worth millions of dollars. I mean why else would his trainer keep all the needles he ever used to juice Clemens up?

The Sun can't be good for Shaq...

I'm glad that the Suns are making a full fledged effort to put a championship away.

Since I haven't gotten a chance to veg out on Sportscenter all day my sole source of info on this subject is assorted yahoo sports articles (which are usually heavily opinionated pieces of bullshit) and this nifty little article.
http://sports.espn.go.com/nba/dailydime?page=dime-080207

While I don't know who Marc Stein is, nor do I care, he does a pretty decent job as a sports writer putting himself out of his own huge inflated egotistical worldt to write a story.

Joshua Tree is burning

I love the smell of burning hookah coals. My favorite pastime though I fear is going to hell in my head and stomach. Honkah is that common friend between people that's really REALLY good at introducing everyone to everyone.

I need to make it a habit of not giving my entries such bad ass titles. After the title I can't come up with anything good that'll top it.

Just know that Anon is legion

Studies say you do not need breathing to live

It's been a flawless season. Yet when it matters, no one can help but screw up... Hard.



My teenage angst is summed up into a little piece of jewelery called the belly button ring. Not even always a ring but sometimes that little piece of chain that hangs in the general area. Never clear where it's attached, top, bottom, ribcage? I don't know. Really all this has just dawned on me. Being able to comprehend something while trying to write about it is hard, but just like everything else in my life I will wing it.

Shiny yet subtle the belly button ring tempts me with its overall elusiveness within the girls I've dated. When I come to think of it the only chick I had known all that well with a belly button ring was my Mom... Except the fact that hers went violent and started eating her stomach.

Belly piercings, if anything, have become the anti symbol to girls I want.

From what I know, two previous girlfriends have since gotten their stomachs pierced with an iron lance. In return I've been pierced in the heart with uhm... something made of pig metal probably. Probably the thing that gave my mom stomach bubonic plague.

So uhm there was an election? Because some one said Hillary and all I could think of was erection. lolololololololololololololol

It's almost three in the morning. My creative fuel is slowly dripping out of my rectum.



Damn near killed him.



Next article is about Dolemite.

For Black History Month yo.

San Diego 120

Being one with Saturday night i'm incredibly disappointed that nothing is going on tonight. Not that i've turned in to some sort of raging party machine. Fueling the machine through constant backyard blizzards is my greatest nightmare. At this point though I am just looking to make up for the amount of parties I missed in High School.

Speaking of High School the only thing I want to do now is wait for the coming rain and smoke a cigarette in it. Only thing is I don't smoke. I smoke sometimes but only under the condition that i'm very miserable and that a cigarette wouldn't make me feel better, but just help me bask in the misery. In my head it looks like something iconic. Completely cut off from the reality that I look like a douche bag smoking in the rain at two in the morning. Then again when did I ever care what I look like. (Insert Everybody Loves Raymond audience laughter here)

Inspiration is coming in sporadic orgasms so if this post seems choppy and incoherent that is my defense.

It would be far too cliche' to write about my buddies little shin dig in San Diego last night but I have to acknowledge it just because it was fun. I had a good time. Met some bizzarre people a.k.a. person. High fived my roommate as he hung out his truck and died.

These disconjointed thoughts are being driven by this amazing album. Scanners is the band. Violence is Golden is the Album. So now I have to thank Monica because if it wasn't for stalking her though myspace I would have never heard the best song on the CD. "Lowlife" is that type of song that you hear then shortly follow with a "Woah". After that all you can think of is having this be your anthem for the season. Driving I can hear it. Talking to girls I can hear it. Heating Black Tar heroin I can hear it playing in the background.

No wonder i'm so bored now. It's Sunday. OH SHI-- Super Bowl

I've never cared less for a football game. Even though the two teams have fascinating back stories it just feels bleh. It feels like the Raiders are playing the Jaguars or something. One team I hate with a passion while the other I DGAF* to the max.

All I want is to sleep in a dorm at CSUN once more and Diary of a Rock Star by Ian Hunter from Mott The Hoople. There's a little story in there where Ian Hunter goes with Keith Moon to visit Frank Zappa. I love that sheet.

*DGAF - Ultimate bro term for Dont give a fuck. Usually used in the sense of not giving a fuck.

Just when you thought North Korea couldn't get any cooler.

Anyong. God only knows why this stupid picture makes me think of Laughlin. In my defense though North Korea and Laughlin ARE pretty similar.

So apparently some engineers in North Korea thought it would be a great idea to model a huge ass building after a paper airplane... that has three wings. Finding a funny analogy for this thing is impossible because I've already read the ludicrousness of this buildings end result. Not even I could end up with the actual funny conclusion. Before I go in to a rambling monologue, this thing is incredibly unsafe.

Now a vacant 105 story eye rape, this building does nothing but what I assume, strike fear in to Koreans. Filled with what I think is Nuclear Warheads a short educational video re-enforced my hellish thoughts.

Just skip to the one minute mark for laughs until the 1:30 sends you in to hysteria.

Yeah. Missiles. NORTH KOREA WANTS TO LOAD IT WITH MISSILES.

In the video the thing just gets loaded up with rockets and takes off in to space thus saving the day. What they don't show you is the ultimate Death Star capabilities. Some chick in the original article compared to the Death Star. However the Death Star is round and she's a stupid stupid idiot. In all actuality I had written this article last night. And it was perfect. However bloggers auto save function shafted me in the ass and went all retroactive and sheet.

So here's how a clear day in Sunny North Korea REALLY looks like

My girlfriend kind of looks like my girlfriend

I've noticed a disturbing trend lately... Every girl I like has at least one trait of an ex girlfriend. This doesn't sound too bad except for the fact it's usually the feature we had broken up over. Ranging from one side of the Angel spectrum it's not that bad, but it's that opposite of the girls straight from hell that will kill me some day.

Without going in to much detail about girls and alienating most my audience... or just Doan. See that? I just alienated almost everyone through a statement saying I wouldn't alienate anyone.

Somebody pay me for this please.

Sooooo. College Algerbra in about 2 hours. I used to love Tuesdays. Now I just dread the 12 hour break between classes. It's a bizzare transition too between the hardest class I've ever taken to the worst class I've ever taken. I'm currently 0-1 on MAT 105. Hopefully I pass it this time around. Rather than ya know... Fail it.

I can't find any inspiration for anything at the moment. Besides the fact i've been killing ants all day. Not even regular ants, but zombie ants. With a lack of ant spray I have been reduced to simply smashing them with a bottle cap. There's a crunch that goes along with smashing ants and it's sort of satisfying. Thinking the end result was going to be this surge of adrenaline I now sit here with just a bunch of dead ants on my wall.

If you look close enough you might be able to see the ants.



I hate ants...

Does this Fatso Jetson make me look fat?

Fatso Jetson is an amazing Desert/Surf rock band whose musical styles, on paper, clash so much your head can't help but feel like the Gaza Strip. However the actual sound is so surreal and fitting that it sounds like Dick Dale had been reincarnated in Palm Desert. That is if Dick Dale was dead and all the other things wrong in that statement were corrected. The beauty of Fatso Jetson is the versatility. From a piss drunk bar band to an intricate meld of drug induced guitar rifts.

Now why all this teenage girl ranting? Because i'm hoping to get a free meal from their resturant Cafe 322. Plus I had to set up the awesomeness of their music with the awesomeness of this new game that's being passed around my dorm like the two cent whore it is.

Audiosurf sounds like something you would use to download music, but it is actually a new game developed with magic. I can bet you that the development team alone is composed of Leprechauns and cheap Korean Unicorns. Not that I have anything against Unicorns.

Style alone makes this game different from your typical mainstream Guitar Hero or Gaylo 3. See what I did thar?

Like some sort of highway to Tron hell the courses are created by the game analyzing any song you can throw at it. Whatever CD you have, Mp3, WMA, or god forbid Itunes music you actually bought, can be implemented into an acid trip on the Autobahn.

While the actual concept of the game is still a blur to me, I've been able to comprehend that there's more than one game mode. Some modes are a blitz game of Tetris while others simply just have you avoid the gray blocks

I sort of like the avoidance of gray blocks... that's about it basically.

Sound is great, colors are great, replay ability is great, but it kind of gets bleh pretty quickly. I could just be saying that because I don't even understand half the game. However its beautiful hook let out pretty easy so I could do my Modern Fiction HW, which is a bad thing.

William Faulkner's Barn Burning was good. It just wasn't trippy and 3D.

Seriously AudioSurf should have won the peace prize in 1948 instead of Faulkner.

See I did my Homework.

¡Viva los Dog!

I'm not sure how I feel on the subject of Bounty Hunting other than Boba Fett was a bad ass and went out like a bitch. However there's one other Bounty Hunter who comes to mind in the other 10% of life where I can't think of Star Wars, Duane "Dog" Chapman. So there was this whole thing going on where I remember he went down to Mexico to go get some rapist or something that owed him a million dollars.

However my mind wanders... Seriously Boba Fett could have had that shit easily. Just like fly past customs, shoot his little zip line thing, pull bitches back past the border. And how does Fett end up dying in last movie? By getting knocked in the back into some stupid sand pit.

Ok so The Dog goes down to Mexico, shoots his little zip line thing, and pulls this bitch back across the border. And everyones happy, except Mexico. Mexico blows its load and starts complaining that they don't believe in Bounty Hunting and that the U.S. needs to send Dog back so he can rot away in a Mexican jail with Sancho.

I'm all for Mexico. Beautiful country, beautiful culture, beautiful women... However you'll probably never find me down there without a native because fucking up in Mexico is only my biggest fear other than spiders. My short lived tourist escapades in Mexico are enough to fear the federallis. Between buying coke from cab drivers to nearly getting jumped for my two dollars and high school ID card, Mexico has been exciting but holds an air of rebellion.

Josh in Palmdale shares NO similarities with Josh from Puerto Vallarta.

Other than my boyish charm I seem to dissolve into a puddle of assholes. Ordering around women on a cruise ship is not something to add on my resume' but it also seems to come out of me at hotel parties...

Rather to make this a post about parties and failed attempts at courting girls I should probably end it how I began.

I'm glad that Boba Fett isn't getting deported to Mexico.

He's eh cool guy and doesn't afraid of anything


Yeah photoshop is not that hard once you spend twenty minutes erasing pixels at 900% zoom.

P.S. Dog is not being shipped back to Mexico. News story... HERE

P.S.S. I'm working on a really big article that will boost this blog into the likes of Perez Hilton status. If not just in to the same category with fat gay guys.

Everything in my life revolves around Barstow

I used to like time stamping everything I ever wrote at the beginning. Now I realize it just makes me look like an asshole. A slow typing one at that. Not going to lie, I've always bashed the blog scene. In my mind the only thing I can see is some douche documenting his day. From the type of cereal he ate in the morning to whatever god forsaken prime time television show he last watched. Joe's adventures in eating Fruity Pebbles to watching Alias re-runs never sparked interest.

Now the part where I'm a hypocrite.

At age 13 I distinctly remember having a Xanga...

Xanga was the embodiment of teen angst, for me at least.

Every stupid thing I did ended up as an entry. On August 18th you would probably find me writing about the Captain Crunch I had that morning and the re-runs of Pete and Pete I idolized till' sleep. My first ride in a time machine would be to go back to August 17th and kill me in my sleep. Therefore I could not experience that day let alone write about it. Although that would inadvertently jeopardize my existence in the future, it's a risk I'm willing to take.

Thank god Xanga these days is nothing but race obsessed Joshua Stepps arguing whether Jesus was black or not
http://search.xanga.com/searchxanga.aspx?q=Joshua%20Stepp

Don't ask.

So the creation of this is merely a way to kill time. Remarkably once you do your homework in college you seem to come up on a lot more free time. Basically because you spend a lot less time making nooses out of cheap yellow rope.