Life as it Evolves

The following is the nine page final paper I wrote for my Star Trek class

For hundreds of thousands of years, man has looked to the skies in awe of their majesty and wonder. They have gazed into the stars and begged the question “Are we alone in the universe?” Only recently have we been able to gaze beyond the stars, and still we have not discovered a proper answer to this query. It is at times like these, when humankind feels loneliness biting at its very core that we are least apt to think of it being remotely possible. In all the infinite vastness of space, is there truly only one planet lucky enough to be blessed with life giving terrain and atmosphere?
First we need to focus on what makes a planet life giving. Air, water, food and shelter are the first options that come to mind when we think what is needed to sustain life. On the other hand, how do we know what we need is what every creature needs? Air is merely defined as the part of the atmosphere that is breathable; isn’t water the air to fish and creatures of the sea? So we can eliminate air as negligible and we are left with water, food and shelter. To revisit the fish, who obviously get their water from the water they live in, we can notice that air and water can be interchangeable, but water seems to be the basic necessity, at least for earth creatures.
For food, let us look at the Star Trek creature, the Horda, and its earthly counterpart, worms. Much like the Horda, worms move through an essentially solid environment, taking in all their basic nutrients from the dirt and soil. How they move and how they live is how they eat. Worms are the oldest and one of the most basic forms of life on earth, so there is much to be learned from them in regards to the origins of not just our life, but life in general. All creatures do need food, water, and air, but worms seem to prove that all categories need not be separate. It seems that it boils down to two basic groups; a need for nutrients and a need for shelter.
Imagine a nitrogen world: the atmosphere is primarily a nitrous oxide, liquid nitrogen fills the oceans, and the soil contains traces of dangerous nitric elements. To us, this world would be deadly, toxic, and uninhabitable, but perhaps not to an alien life form. The same could be said for the Horda, that silicon based life form which moves and breathes through solid stone the way we do through our air.
A long story short, a lot of the reasoning behind being alone in the universe comes from the misconception that all living creatures need air and water, like we do. Life at a cellular level even on earth has taught us that creatures can be surprisingly adaptive to hostile environment; bacteria growing in boiling hot water, krill shrimp in the arctic oceans, et cetera. Following the logic that all earth life began from cellular life forms and molded to fit the environment it was given, life could just as easily start, evolve, and become dominant in a nitrogenous or stone environment. For all we know, there could be an entire planet with bread dough for an atmosphere and the local inhabitants would have no problem going about their daily lives.
Humans and most living creatures get nutrients from multiple sources: once again, those sources are air, water and food. Dolphins likewise need these three basic sources, and they are the second most intelligent creatures on planet earth. A close third are crows and ravens, birds of the corvid family. It seems intelligent, sentient life forms have more complex needs in order to move forward in evolution, and those are the type of creatures that we hope to encounter.
Back to the nitrogen world, where we can now see the planet has everything it needs to form a sentient life form. Imagine a creature, we’ll leave it formless for now, just a creature. This being walks through a landscape of sharp, acidic dirt towards a steaming, glimmering pool of liquid nitrogen. Its lungs fill with and expel noxious gasses with every breath. It stops at the pool to take a drink of the deadly, freezing cold liquid, and is unharmed. It sounds like a scene from a horror movie, but from what has been stated before, this could just be a scene out of everyday life in the nitrogen world.
What sets human beings apart from dolphins and corvids? One could argue that it is communication, the way we speak to each other and know what another human is saying. However, dolphin clicks and whistles have been used to attract the attention of other dolphins, and even relay the location of a food source or enemy. They have been cries for help, or more commonly a cry to mate. Crows are no stranger to a mating call or a call for help, and most animals know to make noise in order to remind another where their territory lies.
If we flashed back a couple million years, we would undoubtedly find Neanderthals and early man grunting and snorting at each other to relay information. “Ug ug oog” and “Urg, guh grug” could mean nothing to us, but to a Neanderthal it could be a statement, an invitation, who’s to say? The point being, we make these sounds naturally and know how to respond to them, we have always had communication, just as dolphins and corvids have their communication.
Back on the nitrogen world, we see yet another creature appear, walking up next to the first to take a drink. The first turns, growls, and barks out a few guttural noises which to our ears would probably ring something similar to “Xvek Xen Xvelll.” The other creature immediately backs away, a demeanor of shame brought to its form. The first triumphantly stands, having reminded another intruder just who is the owner of that pond.
Once again, the question begs, what separates us from corvids and dolphins? Surely they are just as intelligent as us, if not as advanced in society and form. However, with language comes a society of sorts. Through communication we have built up social relationships and fleshed out our own personalities. Society is, however, much more than mere conversation; it is composed of rules of interaction and social conduct, society is the oppressing force which tells us how we act and what we do.
In our modern human society we have been taught right from wrong, good from evil, et cetera. The reason we know it is wrong to swear in church or start fights in public is because society deems it inappropriate. On the tangent of church, religion is also socially enforced. Religion was created by humans who could not comprehend the existence of life without some divine creating force, who couldn’t understand an existence without a clear meaning. It was meant to give hope in regards to what happens after the end of a life and, to a more obvious end, to enforce laws of right and wrong, a code of ethics; a scare tactic to promote goodness.
The creature on the nitrogen world has quenched his thirst and now lumbers off into the distance. It approaches a valley, filled with caverns and boroughs in the hills, homes for creatures such as itself. It dares not enter one of the unfamiliar caves, as doing so will usher forth great distain and an assault from the one dwelling within, so it knows that doing so would be wrong. It instead makes its way up the hill to a higher cavern and settles in on some form of local vegetation, which to us may seem like a bed of moss. Before it closes its eyes to sleep, it takes three stones beside its bed and stacks them one atop the other, bowing its head and closing its eyes, a way of praying to its deity. It knows this pleases the god, for creatures such as it have been worshiping the stones in this way as long as it can remember.
Now we come to the more important issue; how do living, fully evolved creatures look? On earth we can all agree that most creatures need some basic attributes in order to survive on our landscape, and the same ones will often come to mind; eyes, ears, mouth, heart, and lungs. However, not all of these are required nor are they even an advantage over lower forms of life.
Amphibians are an excellent example of how lungs are often unnecessary. The way they are built, they can either absorb oxygen through their skin directly into their bloodstream, or rely on their lungs for dry land. Creatures like newts and frogs, even the lesser known axolotl breathe this way and have survived for millions of years.
Bats have incredibly weak eyesight, and still they manage to find food with the greatest of ease. This is because they let out loud screeches so loud that the sound waves bounce sharply off objects and are translated in their minds as images based on the location and distance of their echo. Echolocation, as it is called, is used by many other creatures such as dolphins, some shrews and toothed whales, as well as a few blind cave bugs.
Barring a few other exceptions, the world could agree on the most universally necessary attributes for living creatures; a circulatory system for the transportation of nutrition throughout the body, an immune system to ward off infection and disease, a muscular structure to allow for mobility, and a skin structure to hold everything together and keep it contained. It is worth noting that most successfully evolved creatures also contain skeletal structures, reproductive systems and complex digestive systems. Although they are not particularly necessary for life, they do make prolonged living much easier and in some cases more enjoyable.
From the basics we can look at more intelligent, more highly evolved creatures and analyze their features that they adapted in order to survive in the landscape they were given. Dolphins live entirely in the water, but have to raise their heads above the water to breathe air. Their lungs are able to hold more oxygen and process it slower than land dwelling mammals. They also have flippers and a long finned tail for maneuvering in the water, and a sleek body which cuts down on resistance so that they can swim at high speeds. Crows are creatures of the air, evolution has given them wings for flight. In order to achieve flight, however, their bodies need to be as light as possible, so their bones are completely hollow and they eat very little. More close to home we see humans, who have evolved to live primarily and entirely on land. It’s not so much that our bodies have evolved a certain way, humans at first glance are not the most physically fit to be the dominant species of a planet filled with so many other more powerful beasts. However, our minds have evolved to the point where organized communication and tactical, strategic thought is possible, giving us the ability to outwit and overtake any potential predators.
So, we can plainly see that the more physically fit a species is, the better equipped they are to survive and evolve to the point of intellectual superiority. This, however, does not necessarily exclude certain species from accelerated mental evolution; such is the case with humans. Dolphins and crows have been evolving to this point over hundreds of millions of years, while human minds developed in a fraction of that time.
Let us now flesh out the appearance of this semi-intelligent, caveman like creature of the nitrogen world. It wakes up from its soft plant bed and arches its long, knobby spine, an attribute that makes it less desirable for larger creatures to chomp down on quickly, least they harm their own mouth. It stretches two muscular forelegs before itself, cracking four dexterous fingers that appear in a ring around an open, concave palm; a hand that is all thumbs for better gripping and holding of the craggy rock surfaces it lives in. Its mouth opens wide in a yawn, revealing two rows of teeth; the foreteeth dull and used for gripping, the hindteeth razor sharp for tearing its food piece by piece. When it closes its mouth, you may notice its severe under bite as the lower lip settles atop the upper one, making the sheer size of its mouth nearly invisible in order to surprise its prey. Its hind legs, quite like the forelegs, also crack and stretch, giving it the appearance of an elongated, four legged spider.
It flexes a few times, stretching before it begins its day refreshed and awake, and then clambers out of its cave in search of food. Four eyes, two on the front of its head and one on either side, scan the horizon in order to better search for its primary land dwelling prey. The powerful side-eyes make up for its lack of hearing ability, able to see the subtle vibrations made by sounds and ‘hear’ through sight, a sort of reverse echolocation. Today it has spotted a small, reptilian creature some fifty yards away, and it bounds in its direction with great vigor, its specially cupped feet and strong frame allowing it to run almost totally sideways across the edge of its mountain home.
In the distance, the small reptile is unsuspecting, a beaked mouth pecking at the ground in hopes of finding its own nourishment from the soil. Similarly placed legs suggest it is a far removed cousin species of the dominant beasts of this harsh, mountainous environment. It looks up with weak, underdeveloped eyes a moment too late, and never sees the large beast barreling towards it. The creature catches the lizard in its powerful maw, right between the blunt foreteeth. Attached to a hidden inner jaw, the razor hindteeth move in a circular motion, tearing off bits and pieces of its meal. Without upper throat muscles to swallow, the creature simply tilts its head back and lets the pieces fall down onto a sphincter muscle, which opens at the slightest touch to drop food into its noxious pit of a stomach. There the food is slowly dissolved by symbiotic microbes; ones that feast upon undesirable elements of the meal and allow the separate nutrients that the creature needs to survive seep into its digestive tract.
After making such a bold sprint, covering a good 40 meters in a mere ten to fifteen seconds, the creature must take rest as it eats, the central heart found just below its stomach pumping furiously. It is the beating of its heart that churns and moves the food in its stomach, promoting dissolution and absorption of elements. Thanks to the microbes, not a scrap of the food is wasted; but every few days or so, when enough microbes die off and stick together, the creature must cough up and spit out long, thin strands of this waste. The microbes, being resistant to its harsh, acidic stomach, are indeed indigestible.
Having given itself a good twenty minutes of rest and digestion, the creature is now ready to make its way further along the landscape, towards a series of mesa and plateau where it can see loud roaring noises emanating from the land. It curiously advances to witness a beast not quite so larger than itself, but quite more horrible. It has six legs, covered large spines, with one circular mouth on its stomach and one large ocular nerve on its back. It witnesses the creature lifting large rocks and crushing them in its powerful mouth, seemingly just for fun. The beast we have followed must be cautious and careful, for one single wrong move will attract its attention and bring forth the new monsters fury. Unfortunately, this is a fact that our primitive creature has yet to realize as it steps out closer to get a better look.
The monster crushing rocks turns its back and stares at our friend, the beast. It lets out a horrible shriek before wildly scrambling towards it. The shocked beast is helpless as it backs up against a rock face, the monster reaching out with two arms and effortlessly swinging it hard into another natural structure. In any normal situation, this beast would be dead and become food for the larger monster. However we are witness to no normal situation. We are to witness evolution in progress.
Frantically the beast begins striking at the monsters arms, attempting in vain to get it to release its grip. When this proves to no avail, it reaches for rocks to get a hold on and pull away, only to have two rather jagged ones come loose in its grip. It swings with one final effort, jabbing one sharp rock into the monster’ great eye and allowing the other to slice the arm that holds it. The monster emanates another horrible scream, this one is of pain, and releases the beast, attempting to escape. The beast in blind fury lunges, instinct telling it to strike, still clutching the sharp rocks tight in its hands.
It tears asunder the monsters flesh, breaking bone and sinew until both of them move no more, our beast standing victorious over its attacker and predator. It looks down at the sharp rocks in wonder, how easily it was to use these to save its own life. But no time to think of that now, for there will be plenty of time to think later. Now the beast has worked itself into an almighty hunger, and looks upon its aggressor in triumph. As it chomps its foreteeth into the flesh of its enemy, its mouth curls in what to us would be a smirk, and it takes a little pride in knowing that it is the first of its kind to taste victory over such a powerful creature. Soon it will finish feasting, removing the rows of razor teeth from this horrible monsters mouth, returning to its encampment to share the discovery of weapons with the rest of its people, eager also to impress a female with the large trophy carcass; and just in time, for as the sun sets in the yellow green sky, he knows that mating season will soon be upon him. But that is a tale for another time.
This scene, were it not on a planet in a far galaxy in modern era, could very well be the story of the first caveman right here on earth. This scene isn’t just restricted to one world; there could be thousands of hostile and volatile planets, inhospitable for humanity and earth life that well support native flora and fauna. And maybe, just maybe far in space, that final frontier, the voyages of an earth star ship on a mission of several years will explore strange new worlds and seek out these unusual life forms and their outlandish, yet similar civilizations. Maybe one day, while boldly going where no man has gone before, we will find new life. Until that day, we can only gaze at the stars and skies, in awe of their majesty and wonder.

Deface Value

The following is a paper I wrote for a class with the topic "Rap is to music as graffiti is to art"

Rap is to music as graffiti is to art; that is the topic I have chosen to write about. I find that this statement is very true, because I have always noticed striking similarities between the two only slightly different subjects. It is not that they’re both related to a form of art, but that they are both a form of art in themselves. They’re not only both a style of defacement, but also a style of pure self expression. Any way you slice it, aside from being different mediums, graffiti and rap have something going on.
Let us look at art in general; what is art? One definition of this is ‘the product of human creativity,’ or ‘a superior skill that you can learn by study and observation.’ My personal definition of art is simple, ‘any form of emotional self expression.’ Whether you paint a fresco, sculpt a skull out of cigarettes, or just throw water balloons full of poster paint at a canvas, you have at least attempted to make a form of art. Unfortunately, those book definitions would lead you to believe that art is an elitist, almost complicated ‘skill.’
Try to think back far, way into the past to before kindergarten. There were not real shapes, no real colors, no theory of depth and spatial recognition; for me there was only a long sheet of paper and a box of 96 different Crayola colors. This would often translate into, on the surface, little more than scribbles and scrawling. It was crude, it was sloppy, but it was how I truly expressed myself without throwing a tantrum, or food into a wall. These scribbles and scrawls were my art; they were my defacement of a piece of perfectly good paper
Graffiti, specifically modern graffiti, on the surface looks like nothing more than obscure lines, curves, and spots; a laugh and a spit in the face at even the mere attempt to do proper calligraphy. And yet, within graffiti we see words, we can derive moods from the choice of colors; we can find symbolism in the shaping of not just the words, but each individual letter. Graffiti is, albeit almost childlike, a near absolutely pure form of self expression. Even though it often used in defacement of a perfectly good wall, it’s no less art than the scribbles and scrawls of a toddler not even in kindergarten.
Music is also a form of art, and ‘experts’ will also tell you that this is complicated. They will show you music theory, sheet writing, notes, half notes, quarter notes, pauses, sharps, flats and a whole mess of unnecessary jargon all to tell you what good music is. Good music, like good art, cannot be taught or told, it can only be found or heard. You could say that any fool will tell you that a symphony sounds better than a man breaking glass with his face; but I believe it is any fool that will try to give reason why one is superlative to the other.
Another form of art, of self expression, is slam poetry. Often explosive, often emotional, often dropping the idea of ‘rhyme or reason,’ abandoning the rhyme for more reason. To perform slam poetry in a coffee house is to be an artist, to be a ‘genius.’ However, if we attempt to translate this poetry into music, setting it to a beat and calling it ‘rap,’ people will shoot it down as noise, a defacement of the music industry. Sounds an awful lot like something else dismissed as defacement, as some lower form of expression… Like graffiti, when in truth graffiti and rap can be more pure, more emotional, and more expressive than what the general populous consider ‘art’ and ‘music.’ Indeed, graffiti is to art as rap is to music.

Postmodernism after 1945

In 1945, the United States of America was engaged in the second Great War, World War II. Announced and heralded as the ‘War to End All Wars,’ it showcased humanity at some of its darkest hours. From the deaths of millions in concentration camps, to mass suicides in Demmin, Germany, the world had thought it had seen the worst. Then, in May, on the 6^th and 9^th, Japan saw two cities disappear off the face of the Earth almost entirely as splitting atoms and imploding hydrogen boasted power that was said to be only the will of god himself. People looked at how the world was after these days; it was the true face of humanity at its finest, darkest, most abominable hour. In a way, WWII was the world’s first postmodern war. Postmodernism in itself is a play on modernism, which showed the world in terms of good and evil, right and wrong, with no blurring of the lines. Revenge, coincidence, the anti-hero, all are tools of a good post-modernist piece. Essentially, to be postmodernist is to look at life through the eyes of one who has lived and truly can say they are alive, as opposed to the subtle innocence of modernism.

The Future

So, I'm not ditching the blog again, I'm actually storyboarding my next story. Its another horror/kidnapping story thats a little more realistic than Crocotta was; The name is either going to be Little Sister or Distant Relatives.

The other reason that I call this 'the future' is because I'm weighing the option of not going to college, and for many good reasons. First of all, all I want to do for the future is write, make art, make music, make films, and take photographs. These are things that I don't feel I can learn from another person, but things I must discover for myself. I understand that getting a stable job normally requires getting a college education, but for two years now I've had stable part time work with Parks and Recreation of Manchester. If I'm wise about my money and live within my means with a couple roommates I can make a decent living. If I keep working in Parks and Rec I can move up within a few years.

I'm scared of telling my parents this because I don't want them to feel ashamed of me, and I don't want to let them down. I really want them to be proud of me, and I feel like going to college and passing is whats going to do that, not pursuing a humble mediocrity that I can be content with. I know and understand they only want the best for me, but I want what is best for me, and I really don't think thats college.

And another thing, I'm really interested in a school called Chaotic Training Center, a Professional Wrestling school that is related to The Kowalski School of Wrestling. Doing this would definitely put me in a good position to make money as an actual professional wrestler, which is a profession that genuinely appeals to me. The most fun I ever had in recent years was the two months I spent in WAW Wrestling ( http://www.wawwrestling.com .) I made some good connections, met some great people, got some real exercise and really enjoyed myself. I proposed this idea to my parents and they were... less than supportive. I guess they're worried about me getting hurt, but... I really think pro-wrestling is for me.

The Crocotta, part five

Getting lost in thought is a bad habit, but I never thought that it'd get me lost in the middle of the woods in the middle of the night. I don't even know where I am, much less remember how I got here. The clouds have broken and I can finally see by that dim starlight, and all I can see is hundreds of thousands of trees, thick like a brick wall surrounding me. I listen closely, listen for that poor little girl, that girl who's been shouting Help me, Help me, for what feels like hours now. I stand there for a good five minutes in complete silence; nothing. I'm rushing through the woods now, stumbling over my busted knee and all sorts of roots, leaving that horrible piece of human anatomy behind. What a horrible way to go, that poor kid. It had to be her, that Ashland kid who went missing. She must have been kidnapped by those damn drugged up bastards, killed and god knows what else, then left for wild dogs to find and... God, I have to stop again, just to throw up one more time, but I can't. I'm staring straight down to throw up and I can't, because i'm staring straight down at a human skull, weathered and old, small like the head of a nine year old child. I stare at it and I see it completely in the faded starlight. The toothmarks are much more visible, more area to leave a bite, I suppose. I swallow whats left of my dinner in my throat and stand up, staring straight ahead. It looks like there could be a clearing ahead, its a little brighter beyond those trees. I've got to save this girl, I've just got to find her, I've got to do something with my life worth doing. I hear it from the clearing, the wicked laughter of those horrible fucking teenagers. They're high now and they're out there, shooting up the same things I did at their age, heroin and crystal meth, god damned bastards. I should avoid that clearing, avoid it altogether, but then I hear something else, clear as crystal as the laughter dies down.
"Help Me"
I act without thought, without needing to think, I know that that little girl is in there and she is in danger, extreme danger, and I can save her. I grab the nearest tree branch and snap it off, pure adrenaline pumping through my veins as I crash through the trees into the empty space. The thin moonlight casts its glow over the clearing, and on the other side is a dog. No little girl who's hurt and alone, no kids shooting up heroin and god knows what else, just some god damned dog and it doesn't make a lick of sense. I stare at the dog for a good minute before I burst out laughing, laughing at the ridiculousness of it all; the woods, the time, the girl, everything. The branch falls out of my hand as I stare at that damn dog and watch as it turns its head to look at me. My eyes adjust a little better and I see it a little clearer, and it looks like no damn dog I've ever seen in my life, more like a damn lion. I watch it turn to me and hear the clopping of hooves, the stamping a horse makes when it walks. I stop laughing. I watch it pad into better lighting, look at its long lion tail, its hoofed feet, its striped markings, its mouth burst open in what I swear is a grin that pulls back into the mane, a mouth too big for its face. I watch it stop dead center of the clearing and open its jaw, move its lips, like a person. I wait for its roar, or bark, or whinny, anticipating anything, anything but what comes next. The sound out of its mouth is words, words in the voice of a scared, sad little girl.
"Help me..."
It tilts its head back and cackles, like a crowd of human voices cackling and laughing like teenagers on drugs, a cackle that carries all around the clearing and fills my ears with such a horrible ring. I step backwards, still staring at it, back up against a tree, watch it encroach... closer, closer...
"Help me... Help me... Don't let it eat me..."
Another cackle, and I think to myself that I was wrong about those teenagers, those kids are alright.

The Crocotta, part four

Jesus Christ, what a day this has been. Fired, thats an ugly word that they try to cover up with 'laid off,' I guess they think any term with laid in it is going to sound better. Ten years working for a man I shared a room with in the clinic getting clean, ten years of blood and sweat and tears in the local city parks and recreation departments. I shoveled snow in the winters, planted flowers in the spring,  mowed lawns in the summer, raked leaves in the fall and picked up trash year round. Even now I'm looking around as the clouds break, a pale starlight cast on the ground so I can spot the trash in the woods, broken bottles and scraps of cloth; but its not my problem anymore, I've just gotta remember that.

"Help me..."

Good 'ol Chuck, he always looked out for me, always paying me back for that help in the clinic. Never saw it coming when he kicked the bucket last Tuesday, poor 'ol Chuck. Heart attacks are pretty cut and dry, no mystery there about what did him. Everything would have been fine if that prick hadn't taken over Chuck's job, fucking Tommy. Thats twice he screwed me over in a lifetime, twice too many. Fresh out of the job corps and with a clean slate, Tommy swings in and takes Chuck's job from me, the job I was right in line for, the only thing Chuck left me to remember him by and its in the hands of some drug dealing, pill popping sadist. Two times too many he screwed me, but the third times the charm; that third time that comes in the form of a medium sized pink piece of paper. I'm so mad about it that I don't pay attention to whats in front of me, I didn't even know that I was still walking until I tripped over my own two feet, face first into the mud. Jesus Christ, what I day this has been. I look down and see my foot tangled up in some roots in the ground, some white roots that I pull at with my foot. The root is pulled out and kicked right up beside me, and I see that its not a root; Jesus Christ.

"Help me..."

I can't believe what I'm looking at and now I start praying that is isn't what it is. I try looking at it a different way; try to think its a weird rock, try to think its some kind of bark stripped branch. But theres no way its anything but what it is, no way its not something straight out of my old x-rays, a smaller version of my own human femur. I turn around, pick it up, and turn it over, feeling every indent and imperfection; has to be deterioration, couldn't possibly be teeth marks, thats just too disgusting to think of. I almost throw up while looking at it, and then actually throw up when I realize that at this size, it has to be from a child, maybe eight or nine years old.

"Help me..."

I wipe the excess drool and bile from my mouth and look up into the distance, where I know the sounds are coming from now; never thought about how each call for help has been exactly the same. Are those really calls for help, or are they just echoes... Its too late to not find out.

The Crocotta, part three (revised)

The gravel and dirt are colder and rougher than the kitchen floor, but I'll be on the grass soon enough. Its kinda funny, now that I think about it, about that grass. I don't think I've set foot on any kind of field in near sixteen years, not since I lost the rights to this jersey keeping me warm. 1994 was my sophomore year in high school, and I was already varsity football. Classmates, teammates, coaches, they all knew me by the same name, Thunderlegs, I barely had a real name in high school sophomore year. They called me Thunderlegs after my first practice freshman year, when I broke the town athletic record for the 40 yard dash by nearly two whole seconds, and then asked the coach for a re-do because I stumbled a little as I took that first step onto the 10 yard starting line; I stumble a little over a stump as I take that first step into the woods. First string running back in sophomore year, can you imagine how proud my dad was? They said I'd be in the NFL by the end of eleventh grade, set for life. I was unstoppable on the field, like rolling thunder, a real force of nature in my feet. Even now its all coming back to me as I roll out of the way of branches like the arms of linebackers, then I try to hop over a log and it all comes back to me.

"Help me..." 

I can't believe I still hear that girl over the shooting pain in my knee, that old battle wound from sophomore year. The first thing I remember are those horrible sounds, the last sounds I heard in the first quarter of the Turkey Bowl against our rival school. The crack of a kneecap busting in half, the pop of tendons as they rip out of place, the dull thud of my own foot slamming against my stomach, and then blinding pain and pitch black. I sit down for a moment to nurse the old battle scar and shout out for the kid.

"Help me..."

Christ, she sounds even farther now, I've gotta get up and keep going, forget the damn pain. No matter how deep I go, I guess this kid is deeper in the forest, deeper and deeper, around where those teenagers must shoot up. Before junior year, before three years in crutches and a wheel chair, I didn't even know that you could get drugs in my quiet little town. I was hurting, bad. The doctors said it was all in my head, how could it be if I could feel it like this? Limp forward, towards the girls voice; its times like this when the old wounds act up that I remember why I made friends with Tommy in the first place. Tommy was a college dropout who learned just enough chemistry to mix up something illegal, some white powders and yellow crystals that looked like rock candy, I'd never even seen drugs like that before. Tommy told me they were expensive, but they were the only drugs in town, the only drugs anyone could ever get in this town, that fucking liar. Thorny branches stick through the sleeve into my arm, I'm surprised I can even feel them stab me after all those pricks I had to deal with. What do you know, even after two years of detox and rehab, I ended up dealing with even more pricks every day.

"Help me..."

She's gotta be closer, she's gotta be. I have to save this girl, I just have to, its all I have left.

The Theory Toolbox working question

Ok, so regarding The Crocotta, I'm not abandoning it, I've just let the well run dry by updating twice yesterday. So, when I went to update it today, I found myself grasping at badly written straws rather than coming up with anything good enough to submit to you. Instead, I decided to answer the following question from my college textbook not only for homework, but as a blog post.

In the 1950's "queer" was a particularly derogatory and hateful word to use when referring to homosexuals (and the word "dyke" a specifically pernicious subset of invective referring to lesbians.) Half a century later, however, these words seem to have been reappropriated by the homosexual community itself; one often hears of "queer theory" or "queer politics," and many lesbians like to refer to themselves as "dykes." (A popular lesbian comic strip is named "Dykes to Watch Out For.")
how does this happen? Are "queer" and "dyke" hateful words to be avoided or affirmations to be celebrated? Or both? Does the answer somehow depend on a reading of the situation to figure out which is the case in a particular context? And do you have to "watch out" when using a word like "queer," if you don't identify yourself as such?

There are few socially accepted terms of endearment used by ethnic groups that originated from offensive or derogatory terms, and it seems that words like ‘queer’ and ‘dyke’ fall into this category of new ‘friendly insults,’ as I like to call them.  These words, like with any word, are all about context and how you intend to use the word. For example, when I was young and out riding my bike one day, I took my eyes off the road for less than a second and ran into a telephone pole. For a long time afterwards my friends would call me a dumbass in a semi insulting way, and I’d just retort it back to them. Nowadays, whenever me and my circle of friends greet each other, we just say ‘what’s up, dumbass?’ We don’t mean any offense by it, even though it’s a generally offensive term, but it’s come to really be a part of us. If I were to greet someone who wasn’t in on our meaning by saying ‘hey dumbass,’ I guarantee you I would not make a new friend out of them that day, or any other day for that matter. Long story short, sometimes with an offensive word, I suppose the best thing to do is take it and make it your own rather than let it get to you.

The Crocotta, part three

The gravel and dirt are colder and rougher than the kitchen floor, but I'll be on the grass soon enough. Its kinda funny, now that I think about it, about that grass. I don't think I've set foot on any kind of field in near sixteen years, not since I lost the rights to this jersey keeping me warm. 1994 was my sophomore year in high school, and I was already varsity football. Classmates, teammates, coaches, they all knew me by the same name, Thunderlegs, I barely had a real name in high school sophomore year. They called me Thunderlegs after my first practice freshman year, when I broke the town athletic record for the 40 yard dash by nearly two whole seconds, and then asked the coach for a re-do because I stumbled a little and slowed down. Can you imagine how proud my dad was? First string running back in sophomore year, they said I'd be in the NFL by the end of eleventh grade, set for life. I was unstoppable on the field, like rolling thunder, a real force of nature in my feet. Even now its all coming back to me as I roll out of the way of branches like the arms of linebackers, then I try to hop over a log and it all comes back to me. The first thing I remember are those horrible sounds, the last sounds I heard in the first quarter of the Turkey Bowl against our rival school. The crack of a kneecap busting in half, the pop of tendons as they rip out of place, the dull thud of my own foot slamming against my stomach, and then blinding pain and pitch black. I sit down for a moment to nurse the old battle scar and shout out for the kid.
"Help me..."
No matter how deep I go, I guess this kid is deeper in the forest, deeper and deeper, around where those teenagers must shoot up. Before junior year, before three years in crutches and a wheel chair, I didn't even know that you could get drugs in my quiet little town. I was hurting, bad. The doctors said it was all in my head, how could it be if I could feel it like this? Limp forward, towards the girls voice; its times like this when the old wounds act up that I remember why I made friends with Tommy in the first place. Tommy was a college dropout who learned just enough chemistry to mix up something illegal, some white powders and yellow crystals that looked like rock candy, I'd never even seen drugs like that before. Tommy told me they were expensive, but they were the only drugs in town, the only drugs anyone could ever get in this town, that fucking liar. Thorny branches stick through the sleeve into my arm, I'm surprised I can even feel them stab me after all those pricks I had to deal with. What do you know, even after two years of detox and rehab, I ended up dealing with even more pricks every day.
"Help me..."
She's gotta be closer, she's gotta be. I have to save this girl, I just have to, its all I have left.

The Crocotta, part two

It was almost a year ago, eight months to be exact, when Maria Ashland went missing sometime between the hours of eight and midnight on February nineteenth. Her and her family were camping in the woods behind their house as a celebration for their little girls 7th birthday, her parents said she loved the outdoors. Her parents told her she could spend the night in the tent alone if she really wanted, what harm could it do to spend one night alone. They when they went to check on their daughter at midnight, they found her tent empty, absolutely empty. None of her food, her clothes, not even her sleeping bag was there. Days later, the police found the contents of the tent shredded and scattered three miles into the forest, no trace of little Maria was found. It was all over the news and after three months the family moved away. The story had only recently fizzled out of local media, the authorities just said that there was no use searching for what wasn't there. I don't know how I could have forgotten about that, it wasn't that long ago, so theres no way it could be that little girl down the street. Yet, sure as I'm standing there, I hear the voice one more time.
"Help me..."
I know thats a childs voice, out there somewhere in the forest. There aren't too many children in this area, just those stupid god damned teens and their drugs, shooting up at all hours of the night, screaming and laughing deep in the forest. When you see them on the streets they look just like anyone else, just like any normal teenager who goes to a normal high school. They're such nice kids during the day, they mow their parents lawns, do their homework, shoot hoops or play street hockey in the cul-de-sac. But late at night, when everyone is trying to sleep, they sneak out of bed and into the woods, deep in the woods where they do their drugs and crack dirty jokes, they spend the night laughing away and screaming in tongues, probably hallucinating. That must be whats going on, why else is there so much screaming, so much laughing so late at night. Thats gotta be the explanation, thats what I tell myself.
"Help me..."
I should stop wasting time, stop reminiscing about whatever, I've got a little girl to find, she's probably cold and scared out there.

To Be Continued

The Crocotta, part one

I could have been dreaming, I could have been crazy, hell I could have even still been drunk from the night before, but whatever I was, it doesn't change the fact that I heard it. I heard it clear as day, clear enough to have been right in front of me when it woke me up that chilly September night. Those two words still ring in my ear, those two words from the voice of a child.
"Help me..."
I awoke with a start from no dream in particular, whatever it was it ended with that voice. At first, I couldn't tell if I had even really heard it at all, let alone where it came from. For a moment that felt like hours I stared up at the white ceiling of my bedroom, you never notice what color your ceiling is until you wake up in the middle of the night and don't want to know what time it is. I wondered for a moment if that cry for help was the end of my dream, the only part of my dreams I can ever really remember, but that theory was shattered quickly when the sound came again, clearer than before, but not nearly as close.
"Help me..."
I sat up with a start, looking at the clock right across on my bureau; 12:23, I hadn't even gotten half a nights sleep yet, hadn't even been home for two hours, but I knew automatically what 12:23 meant. 12:23 meant I had been jobless for the last five hours and twenty three minutes. 12:23 meant I had been single for the last four hours and sixteen minutes. 12:23 meant I wasn't going to be getting any more sleep tonight, on top of a really shitty day yesterday I was going to be a zombie all day today. I guess when it rains it pours. The sound brought me sharply back into focus, why I was awake in the first place.
"Help me..."
Thats three times now, and I really hear it this time. Its a little girls voice, couldn't be more than five or six, probably that kid from down the street. The carpet is soft under my feet. She probably snuck out of bed to chase fireflies and got lost in that woods that surrounds the neighborhood, I always thought that place was dangerous, with those damn teenagers sneaking into there every night to shoot up drugs. The kitchen floor is cold and hard, a stark contrast. That sweet little girl probably got her foot stuck on a root, the poor kid. I ought to get out there and-
"Help me..."
I fumble around a drawer for a flashlight while pulling on that old football jersey, too cold to go outside without one. Found it, damn thing always rolls to the back when i'm not using it. I walk to the door and all I can think of is that poor little girl, cold and alone, stuck in the woods. Then I think, didn't that family move away? They couldn't have, I'm hearing their kid right now, I can hear her voice as clear as day.
"Help me..."
Then I remember; didn't they move away after their poor, sweet little girl went missing?

To Be Continued

Ain't Got Much But Nothin; a song

Ain’t got me no viable skill
I got me a mouth and a brain fulla pills
Ain’t got work ethic no way
I only got ethic to get up and play, nothin
Ain’t got much but nothin
Ain’t got much but nothin, and that just suits me fine

Ain’t got me no fancy clothes
Least I ain’t shabby like the ol’ hobos
Ain’t got me no pocket fulla twenties
But what I got, I got it plenty, nothin
Ain’t got much but nothin
Ain’t got much but nothin, So ain’t got nothin on the line

Ain’t got rythym, ain’t got rhyme
But s’long as I’m up here and you got the time
Ain’t got work and ain’t got no play
And you say you ain’t got the time of day for me
Ain’t got nothin for me
Ain’t got much but nothin, and ya got no nothin for me

Ain’t got respect but I’m positive
That I can’t get what I don’t give
Ain’t born with no silver spoon
Ain’t even got me a word that rhymes, I got nothing
Ain’t got much but nothing
Ain’t got much but nothing,  and nothin don’t come free

The Whole Town is Made of Death; a poem

Its four in the morning, and the whole town is made of death
Nobody rides the street in cars
Except for cops working the graveyard shift
Just looking out for that one dead ringer
I ride the street on my vehicle of choice
My shiny new Razor Scooter
Such a smooth ride, a smooth glide
Smoother than satin falling through the air
Both move too much like a ghost, gliding gently
Never really touching
More like existing
And I glide over the ground, the ghost in this town
Its four in the morning, and this whole town  is made of death
Shops and houses shut up and uninviting
Empty windows might aswell be black brick walls
The streetlights cast an inch of makeup on the houses, those corpses
Just like the corpses in pine boxes, no matter how well done up you are
You can see it in the eyes, you can see the lights ain’t on
Nobodys home and nobody’s coming out, not while you’re around
I’m here to pay my respects to this funeral home, I’m not here to shop
Not at four in the morning, when the whole town is made of death.
These roads are rickety, bumpy as all hell
But that’s ok, according to my salesman
My salesman explained that my Razor Scooter is brand new
Wheels so big, they’ll have me saying ‘What Bumps?’
Big wheels like novicane, I’ll never feel a thing
Trouble with novicane, you still hear it all
Every bump takes on a place in some ungodly rythym
Badup. Badup. Badup. Badup.
Like a dentist with a sledgehammer, with all that novicane
I never feel a thing
Untill my pants get caught in the fancy new spring loaded breaks
The back wheel jams and I go flying, catapulted by the one moving wheel in front
The novicane wears off when I land palms first, knees next
Land right on those rickety bumps, how humiliating
Good thing its four in the morning, and the whole town is made of death
Everyone is dead now, or might aswell be
Everybody has slipped into a coma
Some are haucinating pretty hard
Good thing the doctor says that an 8 hour coma is normal
I wish I could slip off like that, into my coma
I wish I wasn’t sprawled on the ground in the middle of a bridge
So close to the edge of town
To the last building alive and so close to feeding my insomnia
No coma for me please, I have my Red Bull fix
But without my coma, without my halucinations, what have I got?
I’ve got nothing, nothing but a fistfull of words and a head full of paper
Nothing but the cops who drew the short straw and wound up watching
Nothing but  untouchable smoothness, tantazlizing like a condom for a Ken Doll
Nothing but the comas patients in the corpse skulls
Nothing but four in the morning, when the whole town is made of death.

Corporal's opinion.

"Cloud Gaming", such as services like OnLive are the future, and in this future 60% of our country shall be inhabited by server farms. That being said, it's worth it. OnLive is fucking amazing, give it a try, sign up to try and win a free year, it's worth it. I got one for signing on within hours of the project being announced, maybe you can get lucky and get one too.

That is all.

Seriously, fuckin' with the Corporal?

Well, today shaped up to be interesting. As my father and I were coming back from dropping my girlfriend off at home, we took Pine St. back, which happens to be the street on which my employer is located (as my only regular reader knows). As we drove by the front entrance of where I work, a seemingly homeless, or at least just really stupid man decides to just stand there in the middle of the street. We quite obviously stopped, and then he walks besides the car and yells at us that there is such a thing as a crosswalk. I was actually surprised he knew this since he was ten feet away from standing on it as he crossed the street. We were not ones to let this fly so we yell back at him the usual obscenities and thought that would be that. 

This man though, was not content to let his idiocy stop there. Our unnamed incarnation of douchebaggery decided to walk back up to the car and continue is ranting and raving. My dad decided to get out of the car and I did as well as a precautionary measure. The guy constantly yells in my dad's face, and my dad laughs him off and insults him, never one to not have fun I joined in and made fun of the man. His response is to try and get in my face, mind you I have maybe 150 pounds on this guy and am about a good foot taller too. Our friend here didn't think that was anything of consequence though, and repeatedly used the only insults he had (I'm fat, I have a Hawaiian shirt on so I must be Don Ho, and apparently I am smaller than him). I can only take a person yelling in my face for so long, and he cleverly points out that I am starting to shake. My retort to this mind-expanding information is "Yes, I am shaking, because I am trying to resist killing you where you stand." It was then his turn to try and laugh, well until I move even closer, look him in the eye and say, "I'm not fucking around, you won't leave here". At this, my dad tells me to get in the car and I do, leaving the man there to know that he left with his life this time.

Now, you may be asking, why didn't I lay him out there and then? Well, I work in a public building, and he looks like the type who may frequent it often, so why not wait until another day where I can kick his sorry ass for 7.52 an hour? That, and the odd conversation that would follow tomorrow...

"Hi, what did you do this weekend?"

"Well you see the blood stains out on the curb outside?"

"Yes?"

"There you go."

Also, and not very surprisingly, most of my coworkers would not be surprised by this.

I Lied, Today is a True Story

Today, after work, I went to see "Prince of Persia: The Sands of Time"

Finish story tomorrow ASAP, 

Pros and Cons of working in the Cemetery

Pro:
Running a Riding Mower for the first time, which runs like the large, violent and retarded cousin of the Segway

Con:
SURROUNDED. BY. DEAD. PEOPLE.

Pro:
Relaxing atmosphere, beautiful marble and granite sculptures all around

Con:
Beautiful marble and granite sculptures mark DEAD PEOPLE, who have the SAME LAST NAMES AS MY FRIENDS.

Pro:
Good exercise using the weed whacker, and the riding mower is very relaxing

Con:
Forgetting your sunscreen, so not only do you burn, a cloud of mosquitoes swarms your face.
Also
DEAD PEOPLE ALL AROUND!!! GOD DAMNIT DEAD PEOPLE EVERYWHERE!!!

Result:
I signed up to work in the parks, not the cemetery, and I made that choice for a very good reason. Next week I'll be posting a new fictional short story based on what the readers vote for. Leave a comment and tell me what you want to see. My ideas are a new Zap Warner story, the first installment of Django, the Thief, and my story version of Portal. Feel free to pitch your own idea and I'll pick before next Tuesday

Extraextended Vacations and Idiots on their Birthday

So, as you don't know, my birthday was on May 17th, and it was a blast and a half. I woke up early and went to my math class for the last time this year, it was final time. The final went from 8 to 10:30 in the morning, I was done just before nine, easiest final ever (at least until composition.) Just as I got out, I got a call from The Corporal.

"Hello?"
"Whats your building?"
"Wha-"
"Shut up, building"
"I live in Belknap"
"Right, we're picking you up"

On that day a world record was set; the world record of a day going from better to awesome in a 5.6 second conversation. Within half an hour, The Corporal was staring me down from the passenger seat of The Drummer's car. No hello's, no nice to see you. In typical Cpl Angus Boyardee fashion, the first words out of his mouth were "God damn that is one gaudy ass looking hat."  I called him a bastard and gave him and The Drummer a quick tour around campus. When we returned to the car after the tour, which consisted mostly of the inside of the general store, Boyardee ran the game plan by me. It was to Concord, to Manchester, to the movies, and home again home again jiggity jig. To Concord was the easy part, a trip which consisted of a stop at Kentucky Fried Chicken for some, need I say, Kentucky fried chicken. We bummed around the 'big city' for a while, looking for the legendary Army Surplus depot whose merchandise included former pieces of evidence in NH trials, but unfortunately found no such store. The highway to Manchester was pretty chill, especially getting the cutest indie girl toll booth worker in the known universe. When home, I did the one thing every man should do on their birthday; I went home and gave my mother a hug, then spent some time just talking with her. After a good half hour, it was time for The Corporal to head home, but I had other ideas, other plans. You see, I didn't have a final the next day, I had a free day to do with whatever I pleased, and I figured "why go back to nothing to do?" I made the decision to sleep over in Manchester and head home in the morning, extending my plans indefinitely. Me and The Drummer dropped Boyardee off and proceeded to make a few phone calls, namely to my friends Afroman and Hoak Hogan.

I'd just like to take a break and say; Yes, I do give stupid nicknames to all my friends, all of them.

Afroman was buisy, but Hoak was ready to rock and roll. We gassed up the car, headed out to his house, and picked him up just in time for the 2:10 showing of The Losers. I won't go into a movie review, because I don't need a review to tell you all to go out and watch that movie as soon as you can. Hell, go now. Right now. Turn off your computer and go and see The Losers. Don't worry, I understand, just go see it.

Are you back yet? Good. After the movie, Afroman was good to go. We made a quick stop back at Hoak's house to pick up some more movies, namely Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles II and Green Lantern: First Flight. A quick ride over to Afro's apartment and then back to my house for pizza and good times with the whole gang. I have to say, that has got to be my best birthday to date. In the morning, when I woke up, my parents gave me a bike and drove me back to Plymouth. I'm gonna fix the ending of this post tomorrow when I'm not so tired so its a lot more interesting. For now, I'm sorry for the extra-extended vacation, and promise this is a new dawn in Adevt's blogging career. More stories, more jokes, more songs and more recipies. Stick around, people, don't lose that faith yet.

Corporal's question

Am I fuckin' running this shit now?

Evening Fuckwits

Behold my sugar cookies. That is all pusbags.