Under The C

This is for next Friday's theme "Under the Sea." Done with the *new* Wacom tablet my father was kind enough to provide for me. Thanks man!

Oh, and when I say it's for next Friday's theme? I'm talking about Illustration Friday.

Haunted: "The Scathing Review"

Let me explain my situation. Recently, while browsing in the Barnes and Noble (not the time I got kicked out) I came across Chuck Palahniuk's latest novel, Haunted. I picked it up, read the back, and the reviews there, and I was persuaded. So much so that I passed up Tim O'Brien's Going After Cacciato. Now, I wasn't just dealing with the quotes on the cover. Chuck Palahniuk is a good writer. I've read most of his books, and most of them I really enjoyed. Survivor has to be my favorite of his novels, and, following that, Fight Club (which was made into a movie you may just have heard about at some point). A few of his novels have struck me with their mediocrity (Diary, Lullaby) and yet were still generally enjoyable. So I had a few expectations for Haunted.



I took this book home, read the first hundred pages, and declared myself done. I was not going to read any more of it. I searched for the receipt so that I could return the piece o' crud thing and get my thirteen dollars back. Alas, no receipt had been given me. I only had one choice left.

I was going to read the book. All 400 horribly horrible pages. And then, I was going to write a scathing review of it on my blog. It was going to start like this: "Chuck, Chuck, Chuck..."

Well...it was going to. Until I actually ended up liking it.

Let me start by saying that I should not have liked this book. Chuck Palahniuk is a good writer, it's true. But this book, by all previous standards, is not good. Is it all right to recognize something as sub-par but still end up liking it? I hope so. Is it also all right to say that one of my favorite things about this this book is that its cover glows in the dark? I thought I was past the point where that kind of thing was cool. But no. It's still cool.

What is Haunted?

Haunted is a novel. Or, more correctly, a series of the twenty-three unrelated short stories tied together by a somewhat bland and uninteresting narrative. We are introduced to the cast of characters, all of them referred to by nicknames pulled from the stories they tell. Chef Assassin, Comrade Snarky, Miss America, Missing Link and so on. We are introduced to the somewhat interesting but not quite original premise: a group of aspiring writers agree to leave the world behind for three months and enter into an environment in which they will each craft their masterpiece. The organizer of this particular "retreat" is a seemingly ancient man only referred to as "Mr. Whittier." A van, filled with the writers, is driven to an abandoned theater - their home for the next three months. As soon as they get inside, Mr. Whittier locks the door. And, unfortunately, we're left to witness the degeneration of these particular degenerates over the course of those three months. Ho hum. What I've just described is not the majority of the book. Thank God.

The gross of the book's content lies in the 23 interesting short stories - each one a backdrop for a character, each one illuminating the kind of person they are, and why their nickname is what it is. Each story plays with a societal idea, and then challenges it, often while introducing sick and clever humor, or dealing with genuinely haunting situations. And these stories are what makes the book. Without them? "Chuck, Chuck, Chuck..."

This novel, this book, this thing...is, to me, less about the narration of a story of social outcasts interacting within the confines of an abandoned theater and their own fears, as it is an excuse to publish 23 short stories in one bound edition and not call it an anthology. Why didn't Chuck Palahniuk just publish an anthology? Well...because. Only four or so of the stories in this book really stand out.

"Guts," about...well. Masturbation. This story is highly disturbing, especially to any male with an active visual imagination. In his Author's Note at the end of the book, Chuck puts the count of people who've passed out during his reading of this story up near seventy. That's...quite impressive. It's the only story I'm going to reference here, since I'm getting tired...Let me get on to the really important thing.

The book is set as such: Narration, story, narration, story, narration, story, etc, etc, etc...I want to touch on the narrator. The narrator, in this case, is first person plural. "We this, we that, we double double this that." (Forgive me.) What this said to me, was "Oh. Interesting. The book is going to introduce all of these characters through their stories throughout, and then at the end we'll be introduced to the narrator, the man who has been hiding behind the 'we.'" Needless to say, this didn't happen. No Sirree Bob. There IS no surprise ending to this book, which in itself is a surprise. For those of you unfamiliar with Chuck Palahniuk as a novelist, surprise endings are his grits and gravy. Kind of like how everyone expects M. Night Shyamalan to make every movie end with a twist like in "The Sixth Sense."

Instead, we end up with something like this: someone who's supposed to be dead is really not, and we're given a story that has NOTHING WHATSOEVER to do with ANYTHING ELSE in the ENTIRE BOOK. It's about the discovery of an afterlife on Venus, where everyone exists in sin-free, fornicative, ecstasy. With an afterlife like this to look forward to, no one really wants their drab, Earth life anymore. So, they "migrate." Yay for migration! What an excellent euphemism for "kill yourself." This story, above anything, convinces me of the book's conglomeratively careless compilation. Because it simply comes from nowhere. NOWHERE.

Anyway, enough of Haunted was salvageable so that I'm able to look back on it as a somewhat enjoyable reading experience. But it wasn't a good book. You probably would not like to read it. I hope you don't mind that I ruined the ending. But really? The ending doesn't matter. The book doesn't really matter.

The idea was good. The execution was less than good. Maybe I should stop using "good."

Goodish.

2.5/5

The Meaning of All This

I'm the kind of guy who's really interested in existentialist thoughts and theories. I've actually come up with a few of my own, but I'm going to start by going through a bunch of other popular "Meanings of Life" that I like. Repeat. These are not mine.

• To die having succeeded in your purpose. (which begs "What is your purpose? Some personal quest or journey or some quest or journey you've been given, as if by God or another outside force?")
• To leave a legacy, such as a work of art or book. (This is obviously dealing with time as something immediate, and not grandiose. The universe is 14 billion years old...nothing anyone can leave will last for as long as the universe has been around)
• To be without questions.
  
• To keep asking questions.
• To explore, and expand beyond our frontiers. (The "manifest destiny" of this particular question.)
• To learn from one's own or others' mistakes.
• To seek truth, knowledge, understanding, or wisdom.
• To seek the meaning of life. (Kind of like: "The reason I'm eating the sandwich is so I can eat the sandwich.")
• To live in peace with each other, and in harmony with our natural environment.
• To love and to be loved in return.
• To turn fear into joy at a constant rate achieving on literal and metaphorical levels: immortality, enlightenment, and atonement.
• To achieve a supernatural connection within the natural context.
• To achieve enlightenment and inner-peace.
• To become God, or God-like. (This one is strange to me. But interesting.)
• To experience existance from an infinite number of perspectives in order to expand the consciousness of all there is.
• To produce useful structure in the universe over and above consumption.
• To reach Heaven in the afterlife (Whatever your picture of Heaven may be.)
• To simply live until one dies. (There is no meaning of life.)

Now, those are all reasonable answers to the question "What is the Meaning of Life?" And so are more absurd answers, such as the number 42. I like to think of myself as just one part of the universal consciousness: if there are aliens existing at this moment on one or any number of other planets, they are too most likely dealing with the same question. For civilizations that have grown before us, thousands or millions or billions of years ago, they most likely went extinct before ever pinning it down. However...there is a lot of play within the question itself. For when you include all other civilizations, all other species of cellular or other organisms that could be considered beings with higher consciousness, the term "life" becomes variable.

The dictionary's first entry on the word "life" includes two seperate thoughts.

1. 1. The property or quality that distinguishes living organisms from dead organisms and inanimate matter, manifested in functions such as metabolism, growth, reproduction, and response to stimuli or adaptation to the environment originating from within the organism.
   2. The characteristic state or condition of a living organism.

Note, however, that the definition does not describe WHICH property or quality distinguishes a living thing from something dead. Life, in our terms, is not something we can readily apply to organisms that are unfamiliar. Aliens and other life forms possibly need different things as we do for their existance. For their thought.

So perhaps "Meaning of Life" would better be defined as "Meaning of Consciousness" or "Meaning of Existance." Personally, I think the question is more "Meaning of Consciousness" as civilizations such as ours ask the question of ourselves versus of all life. "Meaning of Life" is usually interpreted as "Meaning of Life For Myself, A Human on The Planet Earth," and so cannot fully incorporate all life - everywhere. Also, I think the question is less a question of existance as it is a question of our place in that existance. Our body of self-aware observation and thought within the grand scheme of things.

Hence: Why are we conscious? Of our surroundings, our selves, our place in time and space? Why do we think, hypothesize, and test? An answer might be "human nature." But do we not assume that if aliens exist, and have visited our planet, (big assumption) that they will be much more advanced than we are? Do we not assume that they will have thought, hypothesized, and tested? Human nature is only called human nature because humanity is the only group we have observed with such properties. Perhaps it is really just nature. Cosmic, galactic, universal.

I don't know really where I'm headed here. There is no conclusion, there is no answer, not really. There is only thought, conjecture. There is only idea, discussion, consciousness.

We are here. Now what are you going to do about it?

Don't Watch...

Since I'm feeling good about myself right now, I figured I'd put this up so that you people can knock me down a few notches. This....was an experiment from last Tuesday, in which I attempted something called "video blogging." It turned out...horribly, horribly bad. I can't begin to tell you all the things about this thing that embarrass me. Well. I'll give you a few.

• This video ends abruptly. It's not broken, that's how I made it. I don't know why.
• My voice. If you laugh at me, I swear. I'll probably...not do anything.
• The volume...I edited it at a third the volume and forgot to turn it back up when I was done. So if you can't hear, kick up the volume!
  
• And yeah, that's me getting kicked out of Barnes and Noble. There's a first time for everything. Sorry mom.

The Problem With Being Me

Is that I don't have the luxury of being inconsistent. I can't have an identity crisis. I can't break character.

I'm me. Sometimes I wish someone else had that job...

I'm not allowed to break down, not permitted to be weak. I have an image to uphold. I can never have any doubts about what I want. I can never be someone else for you. I can be me...and that's it.

I'm thinking, how do movies always end the same? Can anyone be so happy?

The truth is, no one really wants a happy ending. A little pain, a little bitterness...it's all we need to know we're alive.

Sometimes

Sometimes there's not a whole lot to say.

Um. Today I have an astronomy exam. Then I have astronomy lab, and after that I have to meet with my group for our TE project. Over the weekend I have to write a paper, put together a twenty minute comics presentation, and do a bunch of other things.

Currently eating: The cookies my mom made for me. They're still good.

Random art project. I'm inking a deck of cards. Yeah. Don't ask why, because I honestly have no idea. It's just something I had an urge to do. Saw the cards. Saw the ink. Saw the possibilities.

Haha...yeah. Have a good day.

Best. Site. Evar.

My sister is awesome. Look at her website!!! It's probably the best thing ever. All the pictures on the front page are clickable and lead to a sub-page with ever-so-much information! For some real enjoyment, click the orange! But really, click everything. What are you, some kind of one-clicker? Shame...shame.

Only here can you witness such guffaw-inducing sights such as the following:

That's me, innocently pulling a bead gingerly. If you did not guffaw, you are obviously not prone to guffawing.

Prewriting Experiment #2

I’m staring at two other versions of myself. One of me is shorter, with dark hair and glasses. He sips at a cup of coffee and looks around without moving his head. The other one of me is a taller, bulkier version whose arms are tattooed and whose fingers rattle like bones against the table as he taps. Metal hangs off the second me’s face in balls, little spheres of silver that jut from lip, nose, and eyebrow. I speak to them, vaguely aware that I’m not telling them anything they don’t know. They are me, after all, after a fashion.

We’ve all been through the same thing, each living a life symmetric to each other’s, making choices that while different, still led us here: three of me at the same table in the same pub in Chicago. It’s not our first time together, not hardly, but this time I know it’s the last. After tomorrow, we’ll be scattered to the wind. The shorter me will be returning to his home in Massachussetts, and my tattooed self will be taking a trip across the world, to destinations as vague as his ambition. Now that our task is over, neither of them have any reason to acknowledge our past, neither of them care to be a part of what we’ve created. I don’t either, not really, but I’m responsible for this.

In eighty minutes I’ll be on a plane to New York City.

We speak; the words we say don’t matter. We’re all thinking the same thing. That after tomorrow, everyone will know the truth. The murders of over two thousand people will be acknowledged. The largest cover-up in human history will be revealed. The identity of the greatest man to have ever lived will be challenged.

I’m standing up. I’m shaking my hands, both the bulky and the smaller. I’m turning, and letting the pub door swing shut behind me. After tomorrow, I don’t have many plans. I have no home to go to, no place to hide. After tomorrow, my life expectancy will drop radically. If they haven’t found me within a day or two I’ll be surprised.

Me and the other Adams, we want to tell our story. After tomorrow, you’ll know. All of this, and all of what we’ve already written. It was close; we almost didn’t finish in time. In less than eight hours it’ll be twenty-five years. The world will be alive in celebration, in mourning. Ivan Gildrick, God’s first truly great gift to humanity (Jesus aside), dead a quarter of a century.

Tomorrow, our twenty-fifth birthday. The day we give the world the truth about the man we grew up thinking of as our father.

As our God.

Future Project...Prewriting Experiment #1

You knew Ivan Gildrick as a saint. As more than a man; one of the few who walked among humanity while seeming at the same time to glide above it. A legend, a living myth. Every word he spoke was written down by someone, sold off to someone else, and at some point relayed to you from tiny speakers inside a car or adjacent to flashing screens of loudly colored lights. A true Man, someone said; Gildrick was just that. A model for the rest of us. God’s first truly great gift to humanity, Jesus set aside.

It’s been twenty-two years since Ivan Gildrick died. Twenty-two years to the day. My birthday.

You knew him as a philanthropist; a man who gave half of every paycheck he’d ever earned to those worse off, as the billionaire who single-handedly furnished ninety percent of all the hospitals in Africa. You knew him as the philosopher who wrote logic into the meaning of your life, the inventor of the only diet pill that ever worked. You knew him as the recipient of the Nobel Peace Prize; the only man ever to win two different categories the same year. You knew him as the best loved man alive, a man greater in stature than any in history. You worshipped him, his celebrity. You licked your lips every time you heard his name, saw his face on the television screen. You remember where you were, what you were doing, when you learned of his passing. You wept.

As did I. The midwives pulled my from my mother’s belly and one stuck her finger down my throat to make sure I would breathe. My mother’s body quivered and I squalled; a small bundle of flesh, alien in my premature surroundings. It’s easy to imagine. She, the one whose breast should have fed me, drowned in grief while I hung in another’s arms, oblivious to any tragedy; oblivious to everything but the light and the cold. It’s easy to see. That as my mother took her last breath, the woman who so wished I was hers whispered in my ear.

“Adam.”

You knew Ivan Gildrick as a god. In this way, you and I, we are almost similar. My life began in the shadow of his death. And I grew, a boy alone among his companions, friendless and envied.

You knew him as many things. To me, he was two.
Secondly, he was my father.

Firstly, he was God.

I'm Sorry

Sometimes I think I feel too much...sometimes I don't know if that's normal or not.

I feel too much, I think too much, I assume too much.

I apologize too much.


I'm sorry.

Stand Up Night #2

So...I did stand up tonight. Again. I think my set ran about 8 minutes, and I was getting some laughs. I say some, because a tea house is not an ideal venue for comedy. People are talking to each other, drinking (tea), the microphone isn't loud enough to catch everyone toward the front of the shop, and I talk faster when I'm nervous. I started weakly, stuttering and not really speaking loud enough, my knees clenching and unclenching real fast. Good thing I didn't wear shorts. You'd think I was scared to death or something. Well, a little. But as the set went on, I was calmed down a fair degree, my delivery and timing got better, people were laughing more and I was loosened up. By the end of the set I was feeling good, and I asked if I was doing all right. To which a multitude of people shouted "Yeah!" The joke I left off with was one I partially made up onstage, since it never really had a punchline I liked and I was just going with the concept because it felt right. I created a punchline for it on the fly, and that was the joke that let me go out on top. Most everyone laughed at that, and I knew I was done. You're wondering, so I'll say this: it was a joke about aliens, and God. And if you think you know how that joke goes, it's different now.

"All right," I said, "That's enough out of me. You've been great. Thank you."

All in all, I think I did all right. If anything suffered, it was my material. A lot of it was new from last time, and next time I do standup I'll swap in new jokes and cut old ones but generally add quality to my "act." Generally add time as well, since I'll have a multitude of "pre-approved" jokes to choose from at any given moment.

I've also found out that the jokes aren't the most important thing. Nope. It's stage presence, it's fluidity and transitions. It's being able to connect with a crowd, to be willing to roll with a heckle. (Yes, I got heckled.) People like the comfortability of someone who's at home on stage; not just someone who wants to make people think, but who wants to tell them a story, or be their funny friend for a moment. That's why when I watch comedians online, I can spot the ones that are good. And they don't necessarily have the best jokes. I see a lot of guys who come up with good material, but just don't know how to come across on stage. They're awkward, and even though the material is viable, the audience feeds on that awkwardness, and won't laugh.

I know there's a ton of future comics that read my blog (not, obviously), so this advice is more for myself than anyone.

Be the comedian, and not his jokes.

Thanks to all of you who came to support me (Katie, Anne, Ben, Jonah, Eric) and thanks to everyone else who wished me luck (Sara, Emily, Nick, Jordan). Much appreciated.

My Dad Got Into Spectrum!!!

My dad got a piece into Spectrum!

I'm quite excited. Quite excited. Hehehehe....if you don't know what Spectrum is, it's an anthology put together every year that showcases "a tremendous amount of high-quality fantastic-themed art work."

An exciting clipping from the web site:

"The press run for Spectrum matches or significantly exceeds the circulations of the other art annuals/ source books published each year. Spectrum is sold in the mass market through all the major bookstores. Copies are also sent to many art directors and publishers to maximize exposure for the artists featured in the book. More eyes means more opportunities. As an international resource, participants have reported receiving commissions for work from clients from around the globe who have cited Spectrum as their contact source."

The full list of artists included in this issue of Spectrum (13) can be found here. Yeah, I checked to make sure he wasn't lying to me. He's really in there.

I'm so proud of him!

I'm In...

"Dear Adam,
Thank you for your application to Uncle Orson's Literary Boot Camp. I am pleased to inform you that you have been accepted."

Yes, I'm one of eighteen lucky people who've been accepted to Orson Scott Card's week-long writing seminar. Man oh man. Yeah, this is a class taught by OSC himself. Hehe...I'm geeking out. (For a sense of perspective, check this list to see where OSC's novel Ender's Game lies. That's out of all the books ever, folks.)

It's June 12-17 at Southern Virginia University. Don't know if I'm going to be driving there or flying there or what. (Driving...don't know if I'm ready for that).

I'm excited! Also, I got this e-mail regarding Open Mic on Wednesday. So I'm good for that as well.

Hi Adam,
Seems like that could work. The thing is, I need you to call the tea house before 7pm on that day to remind us to do it (tell whoever answers that Miko said it was okay) otherwise I'm not likely to remember. Have them sign you up for slot # 10 or 12. Glad to have some stand up! See you there!
With Heart,
Miko

The Moment of Truth

So I'm supposed to know by today whether I made it into a writing camp...if I make it I'll tell you guys about it and if I don't I won't.

Could be really sweet though...

Also, I'm hoping to do stand up again this Wednesday night at Magdalena's Tea House here in Lansing...thing is I won't be there to sign up so I sent them a mail. If that don't work, I'm going to have to get someone to go and sign up for me. Got a bunch more jokes this time...funnier, too. Hopefully everyone won't be too stoned to laugh.

In Other News...

It's about time.

Also...did you know that Andy Milonakis is 29? Don't believe it? I didn't either. Wow.

Also(again)...I'm going to be looking for good ways to get video online soon...for standup and other such things. So today I was messing around and took one of the old videos I had of my friend Nick on trampoline and uploaded it using the Myspace engine. I think it worked pretty well, what you think?

Humorous...

For some reason I keep getting papers back that I don't really remember writing. I guess that's a good thing; it either means that someone's writing papers and putting my name on them, or that I go somewhere else in my head while any essayical* task is being performed. If it's the first thing, I'd like to thank whoever you are. If it's the second thing, what is wrong with me?

Today I got back a paper written on this topic: "The Portrayal of Truth Through Images in Art Spiegelman's Maus" Important note: not exactly one of the topics we were supposed to write about, but one I felt like writing about and since our Comics Prof/Guy/Person is pretty cool about things like that, I wrote it how I wanted to.

The humorous part of this story is this:

Adam. As expected, this is quite complex and sophistocated analysis. Unexpectedly, you often comment on what you're analyzing in your paper and how. Even more surprisingly, you critique your own essay quite effectively - - without revising it to answer your own criticism: you begin a profound discussion of (impressionist/expressionist) truth-through-images but provide more examples than analyses often beginning a discussion of accurate representation only to change the subject, summarize the plot, speak somewhat vaguely, or talk about what the assignment was. Great work would have been top-notch by staying on your topic and developing a detailed discussion. -comments at the end of the paper.

Oh well, I thought it was humorous. Pretty much sums up my brain. And don't worry: I got 22.5/25 on the paper.

That's a 90%.

*essayical is not a real word.

Standup Pictures!

These are of me - telling jokes. I think they're pretty good. Thank my dad for his camera readiness and prompt e-mailing of the photos.




Click each picture to see a larger version. Then, post a comment and let me know which one is your favorite. I think I'm leaning toward the second one in the group...

And Now For a Joke About Washing Machines....

The verdict is in. It's no longer a rumor that I'm funny. That means I really am, and I wasn't imagining it (shut up, everyone who knows me. haha...).

As Tom put it, I "broke my comedy maidenhead."

Sadly, I had no camcorder. Soo...what I'm going to do is go to an open mic soon and get that recorded for you guys...My dad did end up taking pictures though, so as soon as I get my hands on those I'll edit this post and add them. It was an insanely amazing feeling being up there, making people laugh. At the end I didn't want to stop, even though I had no material left. So...I was like "Uh, that's all I got. Thank you!"

I got many, many compliments, and most people liked this joke the most:

"A washing machine is like a giant, self-stirring pot of clothes soup, the perfect catering option for any goat gathering."

Sometimes vindication is really nice...and I think I'm addicted. I want to do this again, and soon. I need to start writing jokes seriously though, and not just as something I feel like doing once in a while.

No, I haven't decided I want to be a stand-up comedian instead of a novelist. It's just something else I can be good at; and that's never bad.