As he passes 33

I've been going on a bit about this matter to people who exist in the fleshy and green world, but I've got a birthday coming up. It's a grand thing, don't get me wrong, I'm not someone who gets hungup on such matters as 'dear me, I'm __ years old and I haven't been to Zaire, cliff-dived in Argentina, been awarded the Pulitzer, and so on. Sure, there's a little of that--birthdays are natural times to take stock and regroup--but mostly there's just this awareness that's striking me, a consciousness of the swiftness of time that wasn't really present during my 20something birthdays.

It's okay. I dont' miss my 20s for the most part, but it's strange to see them and remember them very clearly as they're behind me. Does that make sense? If nothing else it seems the 30s are about a greater amount of focus being gained; you know a little more about who you are, a little more/less about how the world works, and, it seems, a lot of things start looking pretty dumb (that is, media trends and other things that often just pass by you when you're in your 20s without much thought--or passed by me, at least).

In two days I'll be 33, a fine number and a full embrace of my 30s. Welcome.

Sao Paolo is a lovely in the spring

Spent an inordinant amount of time in front of the television today, which isn't something I'm particularly proud of. I like to think that I'm someone who, on his better days at least, will try and find something to do a little more productive, a little less empty-headed, than sit on the couch and marvel at the passage of time as bits of entertainment are thrown at me, occasionally interrupted by helpful suggestions for snacks, electronics, and other entertainment inbetween.

Today I watched football.

I admit that with some reluctance as among my friends I'm the only one who will still sit and, from time to time, watch a bunch of genetic freaks slam into oneanother at a high rate of speed. What's worse is, I know it's mindless. I know there's no logical reason to donate my time toward a band of sharply clad millionaire strangers fighting over an inflated pig, yet there I am on CHAMPIONSHIP SUNDAY watching my favored brand, the New England Patriots.

I am fairly powerless to resist, at least when games are advanced to this point and thus "matter." I blame my father entirely. I was raised a fan of the teams of the greater New England area (the Red Sox and Patriots in particular), and I'll admit, the time the Patriots won the super bowl in 2001 and, yes, a few months ago when the Red Sox ended 86 years of blahblahblah to win the World Series gave me Real Joy. Irrational, inexplicable, but no less real, Joy.

Yet to this point it's really more of a guilty pleasure. I could've been in here making something out of thin air (which I should be doing, really, instead of talking to you people), but instead I absorbed almost three hours of mindless happy-talk announcer prattle, seventy three commercials for pills that would give me a better hard-on and who knows how many mentions of the Hot New Show Numb3rs (here on CBS!). Mind you, this entire time I was not made informed of Johnny Carson dying. Not that I'm a friend or I hold this grudge against the ebbulient jocks for not breaking up our fleshy bang-bang fest with news of real death, but I wonder if NBC were broadcasting this game if they would've made mention of his passing (NBC being the network of the Tonight Show. Now THAT'S cynical.

Anyway, I watched football, 'my' team won, and yes, it was pleasant. I'm not someone who twitched at the end of the couch, donned color-appropriate clothing, or yelled at the little blips of light on my electronic Talkie Box to make them behave better. I sat quietly, passively, and let the show wash over me.

In the middle and at the end of the game my dad called me and we talked happily about the game. And that's when I don't really mind liking this crap at all.

Cleanse, Fold, Manipulate

Hello there all, or, in this case, none of you. Being that this is my first time here and, certainly, your first time here as well, we're going to set up some ground rules:

1) This, despite the title, is not a place to gather and talk about goth issues, the goth "lifestyle," or the trials and tribulations of being goth in a cruel, uncaring and far too colorful world. In fact, although I'm wearing a black shirt at the time of this writing and do generally prefer cloudy days to sunny ones, I neither identify with or participate in the goth subculture (although I enjoy a handful of the bands--more on that later). Those who may've happened upon the above title thinking that may be the case, I apologize and can sort of understand the confusion. Off with you then.

2) This random corner of the limitless internet has nothing to do with Skinny Puppy, the (literally!) growling and scary industrial/performance art band. Sorry, the title might seem perfect for such things, but I'm afraid that isn't the case--although they do fall under the umbrella of the bands I alluded to above. Still, although I enjoy some of their music and may speak well of them from time to time (anything's possible), this goofy little sounding board was not inspired by or intended as a homage to their brilliant and storied career.

3) However, this space is intended as a spot where I'm liable to sound off on just about anything and fling it uselessly into the ever-lovin' void (the title makes more sense now, doesn't it?). Everything, that is, beyond the useless minutae or personal ramblings that can plague these diary devices? Do you want to hear me mewl about "Why oh why doesn't ___ love me?" or "Yesterday I found a cracker underneath my pillow. I think the demons are talking to me again." I don't want to write that and, frankly, you probably don't want to read it. Except for the demon part. I'd probably read the hell out of something like that.

Other than than that, read, enjoy, don't exist, whatever you feel like doing, My Happy Audience. Thank you and enjoy your evening. More later. Or not, you never know do you?

Weird little world

Is this thing on?