First, I must thank you, my imaginary audience, for reading my expressions and postulations these past few years. It’s been unbearable, and I’m a terribly egocentric fellow, I know.

It’s been a while! Years have passed, friends have aged, crushes have come and gone. We’ve grown, you and I – but in that magical, intangible way, we’re still ourselves, and we’re still making that full circle through all the stops in life. Eventually, we all end up at where we started off, which is also where we’re meant to be; we find that our life isn’t a path at all, but an ouroboros – the serpent eating its own tail. We begin our lives small, wrinkled, and frail – and that’s (ideally) how we’ll be when the curtains are pulled shut on us.

Hopefully, someday I will become the person that I’ve always been. This could be referred to as fate, or destiny, or perhaps just a predetermined set of values ingrained into us from the moment of our birth, that we need decades to discover again.

Honestly, there’s an uncanny resonance between my life right now and what I’ve just expressed in the previous lines. I began this blog in 10th grade, and now, nearly three years later, I’ve returned. And as for Scrubs, well, I’ve begun watching that again also. Chet Baker’s still playing into my ears. I am of the belief that the things that are right for you, well… No matter where you go, whatever kinds of adventures that you embark upon, you’ll always return to the place that you belong, to be reunited with the people and things that you’re meant to be with.

I have quested. Ventured, into the sandstorms of the Horqin Grasslands, and the fury of seemingly bottomless despair. Mistakes, I have made. I’ve lost my identity, created a new one for me, changed people, and been changed. I have appeared on national television wielding a blazing gold truncheon. Gotten chapped lips, and quaked in my boots.

Squared off with anxiety, the ever-crafty foe… en garde!!

I like to refer to my life as a bildungsroman tale – I truly do see it as such! Jane, Pip, and Tess all have had their share of tribulations, but they always end up where they were meant to be. And they all end up with the right person.

And guys — I’ve found my right person. I guess it’s inappropriate for me to resume the moniker of “solitaryjohn” now, but I think I’ll keep it around for just a bit longer, just for nostalgia’s sake. Just like old times.

I’m here again, typing away into the night, typing for someone, anyone, no-one. I’m out there again, searching for ways to be productive with my life, to make it worthwhile. I’m conflicted over my future, as always. Nowadays, I’m debating between the virtues of animals and humans.

Just like old times, eh?

But this time, things are different. A few pieces of the puzzle have been placed in their rightful resting places. Options have opened, and others have closed their doors. Through all of this, I’m still relentlessly making my way back to where I started, and where I’m meant to be.

I can see the glimmer of my universe, it’s light pouring out through the living room windows.

I’m almost home, guys.

But mostly because I’m an egoist.

In most aspects, you could call me “conservative” (save for politics). In some aspects (politics), I’m a bit more liberal. In social interactions, I tend to keep a protective radius about myself both figuratively and in practice, both theologically and viscerally, and both metaphysically and corporeally. In matters regarding myself, though, I’m an absolute selfish brat.

So say that theoretically, possibly, maybe, probably you wish to bring down my protective perimeter – to expose me for the brat I am. There’s no need for volleys of accusations or physical interaction. In fact, all you need are a few words in the fashion of…

“You think you’re so damned deep, don’t you?”

“You just can’t get over yourself, can you?”

“You must think you’re so damned DEEP that you can’t figure yourself out.”

When caught in personal turmoil, you’re going to unavoidably act a bit egotistic. Worrying over yourself, asking compadres for advice at inopportune moments, sulking around home and getting scolded by your mother, reading the one Robert Frost poem you know, and watching “The Graduate” five times on pay-per-view (your selfish self being too selfish to rent the DVD). The world makes no concessions to you when you’re fucked up, though. The clockwork infrastructure of America still grinds its gears. The people you know still go about their daily lives. Time still keeps a Tour-de-France champion’s pace, and it looks like you’re that misaligned gear, that outcast from society, that biker with a broken chain.

Thanks to Einstein, we now know there are ways to alter the flow of time. Easy. You either move to Jupiter or travel at 300000000 meters per second.

These aforementioned solutions being not of feasible nature… maybe it’s time to reassess your enemies. “If you can’t beat them, join them.” Touted by lilly-livered-land-lubbers, this is possibly the worst advice I have ever heard, second only to “Follow your dreams.” Time isn’t an enemy one can easily defeat – but that’s not to say that you should give up the fight. Middling-aged trophy wives fight time on a day-to-day basis with cremes, powders, and Botox.

If you’re not a middling-aged trophy wife, then you’re fighting the wrong battle. Time is an enemy you can’t defeat… but there are other foes more easily felled.

This summer… Go somewhere. Take a bicycle/motorcycle/car/train/plane/bus/moped/unicycle/horse/airship/mountain banshee/flying doghouse. See where you find yourself. See IF you find yourself.

And hope you don’t get killed by axe murderers.

But can’t be right. The growth of our society wasn’t planned. Missing those TV episodes weren’t part of the equation, when primitive man first spun the idea of “work”. Being able to catch up on those TV episodes online, on your own time, at the expense of other dire callings, wasn’t factored in either. That one hour of “work” that you’ve compromised might multiply with other radicals, eventually pushing three hours’ worth of extra work onto you. It all degenerates to chaos – so states Chaos Theory, as does the Law of Entropy (going from order to disorder), and the Butterfly Effect (small actions may have large consequences).

Unless you’re a perfect being like Steve McQueen or Paul Newman (or, grudgingly, Patrick Dempsey), these three laws (and all other affiliated branches of thought) work against you. They’re the evil co-workers conspiring to demote you to mail duty. It’s inevitable that you’ll mess up and drop a few thumbtacks on the floor, which will subsequently appear pointy-side-up on the seat of the “executive” chair in the corporate boardroom.

And then you’re demoted.

The same applies to sleep. Every minute of time wasted factors against you, somehow. To combat this, we would need to work at near-100% efficiency; but for the sake of individuality, free thought, and the “Resistance”(1) cause, don’t do it. There’s really no way for us to keep our sanity while following such a strict schedule. I’ve tried. Then blown up.

[Although there ARE a few T-800's (2) amongst us who can stand the rigors of such routines...]

For the rest of us humans, a line must be drawn. You must refuse to carry those thumbtacks. Don’t give the coworkers any excuse to frame you. Don’t keep pushing a lost cause.

Set a time for yourself – a point of abandonment, where you give up all efforts at working and retire to bed, regardless of how much work you have left. Once it’s time, it’s TIME to give up, lest you try and make up for the lost sleep on Saturday. Sunday, too, if you don’t have church.

I find it disturbing just how many of us all try to sleep in on the weekends. I’ve deduced from my twisted reasoning that:

[Procrastination > Feeling of being overworked > Allnighters > Lack of Sleep > Sleeping in]

So, in order to combat the desire to sleep in, I now declare my precipice of abdication to be at midnight, sharp. In fact, it’s 1:02 AM as I write these very words, so I believe it’s time to jump ship.

Here’s a salty toast to my health.

Prost!

Note: Patrick Dempsey, Steve McQueen, and Paul Newman are all celebrities and racers.

(1): The “Resistance” is the anti-machine revolutionary force (the humans/good guys) in the “Terminator” franchise.

(2): The T-800 model is a Terminator robot specifically designed to imitate humans.

Achievements Throughout My Grade School Career

1999 – Elementary School, 5th Grade:

Learned flute, wanted to be ninja.

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2001 – Elementary School Graduation :

Rebellious hormones snaked through my veins.

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2001 – Middle School, “Sevii” (7th grade) Year :

Puberty struck. Voice deepened. Spoke less.

Dropped flute, picked up alto saxophone.

Girls experimented with miniskirts and heels.

Boys experimented with girls. Me? Nope.

Best friends dubbed “faggot” and “bitch”.

Got cell phone. Got new friends.

Was accused of homosexuality. Frankly, “wtf”.

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2003 – Middle School Graduation :

High school, don’t you fail me.

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2004 – Freshman Year of High School :

Learned tennis. Broke racket. Forgot tennis.

Bought bassoon. Semester ended. Lost bassoon.

Took French. Couldn’t pronounce. Class dropped.

Joined Kung Fu. Became deadly ninja.

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2005 – Sophomore Year, High School :

Studied art. Paintbrushes donated to charity.

Became President. Fed up with leading.

Dropped Kung Fu. Got drop kicked.

Became a hardass. Became an introvert.

Pissed off all teachers. Damn puberty.

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2006 – Junior Year, High School :

Was hardass. Rejected all. Became nihilist.

Ran away. Got mugged. Scampered home.

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2006 – Senior Year, High School :

Puberty wore off, cheeks grew hairy.

Got motorcycle, reflected my impetuous nature.

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2007 – I graduated. Had breakdown. Got whiskey.

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And there it went.

My youth, now long gone, easily recanted in a skimpy timeline. My handful of days after graduation were largely spent in melancholy, wasting time and effort in failed attempts at expression. There’s not much to be said about my future, either. I had not done well enough to get into college – or rather, I didn’t care enough to, now leaving me unemployed and desperate.

What exactly had I accomplished these 18 years? Definitely not much in the “Activities” sector, no.

Then, perhaps in my love life?…

A Chronicle of My Romantic Escapades

1996 – Second Grade, Elementary School :

First crush. Never even told her.

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2001 – Seventh Grade, Middle School :

First pubescent crush. I became depressed.

Hung out with girls. Never dated.

Had first kiss. Stayed “Just Friends”.

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2004 – Freshman Year, High School :

Soul searching : girlfriend wanted. No replies.

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2005 – Sophomore Year, High School :

Year-long rainy season. Home alone.

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2006 – Junior Year, High School :

Rainy weather. One hot cocoa, please.

Skipped prom. Skipped romance. Skipped adolescence.

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2007 – Senior Year, High School:

Got drunk, got laid, got disappointed.

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… So, come on! That was quite interesting, was it not? There’s plenty of room for speculation in there, amongst my six-word memoirs.

But that speculation doesn’t actually count for depth so much as it contributes to ambiguity. The facts must be faced: I’ve wasted these 18 years of my life. I guess my love life hasn’t turned out quite the way I’d expected it to, either.

So who the hell have I been kidding? There’s nothing extraordinary about myself, save for my bike, and my stubborn attitude.

But no – I take that back. I had something else in store for me.

2008 – Unemployed, Year One :

Spotted love. Chased my guts out.

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Your friends then begin to refer to you two as a couple: “They” or “Jack and Kate”. Or, less commonly… “Those Two”, “Those Two Lovebirds”, and any/all other disgusting digressions and progressions.

So imagine my shock and awe when Joe Jack Miauf Peacewolf, a close friend, began referring to himself as “we”.

WHAT. THE. FUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUCK?

Eheh. So what brought about this sudden shift in Joe Jack Miauf Peacewolf?

The hippie made a Spacebook/Myface, that’s what. My testes shrivel each and every time I even begin to THINK of this “Myface” phenomenon, but… for the sake of the angry press, I must. I must tell you.

Within the first few hours of creating his Spacebook/Myface, Peacefwolf has become more of an addict than I have. For around two hours, Peacewolf has been conversing with some woman whom I hast not heareth’d of. This women-specimen, I admit, is very peculiar. She talks about semen very openly in conjunction with ice cream:

“im gonna get some CUM.I mean ice cream. be riiiiight back. maybe. if i decide to get uppp. hmmm.”

Now, let us take a moment of awkward silence and contemplation.

Silence, commence.

Right. The said woman-specimen is also subject to often stating that she “loves” Peacewolf.

Commence diagnostic test….

*WHIRRRRR*

*WHIRRRRR*

*dink*

Results? Woman-specimen = Whore. No two ways about it.

Now, anecdote aside, we should get to more pressing matters, and closely examine this “Homologous Spousal Syndrome”.

Just press "A"

It’s what I feel like doing right now. Just press “A”, right?

And of course, since I don’t like the umbrellas they sell ANYWHERE, I’ll just be braving the rain. Not that I don’t enjoy it…

Throughout most of my earlier adolescent life, I’ve treated Southern California with utter disregard. So what if Los Angeles is right over yonder Interstate-5 freeway? It’s all been quite boring to me, really. Platitude: “We don’t know what we have until we lose it.”

I’ve frequently contemplated GTFO-ing, and running to Seattle – where the earthquake threat is just as imminent, but it also rains/is cloudy for 2/3 of the year. Isn’t that just dandy? It’s like having a small piece of California with me, in Washington. But I’ll be damned.

As it turns out, earthquake threats aren’t really attractive aspects of a city. So the only thing going for me in Seattle are:

1. Nearby mountains. (Mountains? I think there are mountains.) Gotta catch some maaaaaad dorifutooo in them touge’s. Click here to see Sam Hubinette in some mad dorifutooooo action.

2. Rain. Often.

3. Dark. Cloudy. Often.

4. “The Seattle Freeze” = Seattle is a city full of introverts.

5. Birthplace of Grunge Rock. (NIRVANA, FOO)

6. Jimi Hendrix. Born here, raised here, buried here.

Then, being an Obsessive-Compulsive bastard, I had to plan out exactly how my escape to Seattle will go. So, Peacewolf and I, Tom Bearnik-Hama, decided to run a little simulation. (BE FOREWARNED – THE GAME TAKES A LOAD OF TIME TO FINISH, AND IT’S ADDICTING ALSO. EITHER THAT, OR WE’RE STILL JUST OCD BASTARDS.)

So, in my test-run, I somehow ended up NOT IN SEATTLE, but in the LA slums. #$*&!!! Then, I got involved in a gang of other homeless kids, and I ran away from the scary kids with another girl. Somewhere along the way, we must’ve fornicated, because by the end, she was pregnant – and I was working hardcore at an Italian pizza place, despite my color (Yerrow/Asian).

Joe Jack Miauf Peacewolf didn’t fare much better. He got sodomized.

And so we went back to the drawing board, and scrapped the idea. Running away is scary chit; these propagandists did well in convincing us to stay home. I, instead, began looking at colleges in Seattle. Something was amiss, however.

I found myself unwilling to leave California. If I were to move to Seattle, I’d have to give up all the hubbub, activity, opportunities, automotive culture, and glamour associated with living in Southern California. There was also something intangible that I felt, willing me to stay here in Southern California. Perhaps, this is what it feels like to “Settle Down”. And so, I was forced to a conclusion.

Damn, Seattle can go suck it. I’m still going to go for USC.

Now, if Southern California were to experience stormy weather more often, then I might just attain nirvana. I think I got a little bit of that down today, running around giggling against 30 MPH winds and blinding rain.

IT’S A STORM, MAN!

New year, new names, new identities. It’s time to prepare ourselves for another year of disappointment – such is the life of an adolescent in America.

Forgive me for using an often-abused analogy, but I truly do feel that I, Mike Hunt, am drowning. Quoth Robert Frost:

“Two roads diverged in one wood,

and sorry I could not travel both,

and be one traveler, long I stood…”

WELL THERE IS NO ROAD, Y’BASTARD! When attending a high school crippled by state regulations and taxes, one really can’t expect much. I’m not TRULY learning much, nor am I satisfied with my school life. Day in and day out, I find myself chasing after busy work, and nothing else.

It’s time for the platitude:

“I feel like I’m drowning….” in this school system. ‘Tis a vicious cycle, and my only paths out are blocked-off by my parents.

All we’ve left to do is to appreciate the little things, and pray that we not resign to normalcy. Take an odd occurrence I saw just yesterday, on December 12th. I had just finished a movie, and I was pulling out of my parking space, onto newly-wetted asphalt (big rainstorm). Now, a Toyota Tacoma pulls out in front of me, so I wait for him to proceed. As the Tacoma accelerates, though, water starts spilling out from the truck bed. Instantly, I was struck with a sense of quirkiness, and couldn’t help but chuckle to myself. It got me thinking – it’s the small things in cinema that make something great. Quirk is golden, and (mostly) universally appreciated. Take, for instance, Hayao Miyazaki’s “Spirited Away”. Not only is the animation top-notch, Miyazaki also pays attention to slight, slight details – for instance, Chihiro tapping her foot on the floor to ensure that her shoe fitted snugly. Attention to detail is what discerns the stupendous from the riffraff. Noticing these small quirks in our lives definitely wouldn’t hurt.

And so, I hereby re-dub myself Tom Bearnik-Hama.

]]> http://angerbrawg.wordpress.com/2010/01/19/its-the-little-things-mang-quirk-it-uuuuup/feed/ 0 solitaryjohn http://angerbrawg.wordpress.com/2010/01/19/the-single-turbocharger-of-youth-p-1/ http://angerbrawg.wordpress.com/2010/01/19/the-single-turbocharger-of-youth-p-1/#comments Tue, 19 Jan 2010 08:50:16 +0000 solitaryjohn http://angerbrawg.wordpress.com/?p=357 ]]> I’m a horrible person. After seemingly haven given up on a number of my former vices, I’ve inevitably relapsed back into my old habits. Right when my grades are the most crucial, and when my one sole ray of hope (The USC Resident Honors Program) heavily relies on my grades. More on that later. Right now, I want you (*points at YOU*) to focus on (*motions towards myself*) ME. Eheh.

Egotism, sadly, isn’t the least of my issues right now. It makes for a good starting point, though – an anchor (so to speak) that prevents me from drifting too far away from my intended topic. So, in my best Richard Gere imitation… “Shall We Dance?”

Eheh. Commence.

I’ve broken my personal resolution to ban all video games (Damn Maplestory) and anime from my life, amongst other things. That’s not to say that I didn’t watch any anime last year – the main difference resides in the TYPE of anime. Last year, the anime series I watched were as close to visual depictions of euphoria as animation could get. Those series incited feelings of relaxation and bliss within me… Feelings that I haven’t experienced in far too long. This year though, I’ve only found an abscess of profundity within all that I watch, effectively driving me into yet another contemplative period. I swear, there’s a worldwide conspiracy out to stifle my existence. In the typical fashion of modern-day “youth”, I’ve begun rebelling in opposition to this “enstranglement”. Somewhat.

Take, for instance, my new appreciation of the term “Youth in Revolt”. Not only is it a newly-released movie starring Michael Cera, it’s also a mode of thinking that I’ve only recently come to understand. Before I delve further into that point there…

*Checks watch*.

WELL

It’s high time for some booze an anecdote.

Two years ago, during my foray into the Eastern United States coastline, I found myself dallying around Rockefeller Plaza, without a shit’s clue as to where I was in relation to the hotel I stayed at. ‘Twas wintertime, and couples walked every which way, immersed in the perceived idiosyncrasy of their relationships. When crossing a street, I found myself waiting at the curb with a rowdy quartet of teens… with dyed hair, uncomfortably constrictive jeans, nose-rings, and the like. At the time, to be honest, I was a tad bit frightened. These people, I thought, were tough New-Yorkians donning guyliner and pissed-at-the-world glowers.

Quite a frightening image. (/endsarcasm) But REALLY, I wondered why people would go to such extents. Then, the shortest male in the group said something along the lines of “… level 53 in Warcraft FTW…”

At the time, I stifled my laughter and dismissed the group of hooligans as just another crowd of geeky posers. Looking back now, there might be something else behind their radical dress and anti-conformist ways: The single-turbocharger of youthful rebellion.

Let’s begin with some basic automotive know-how-and-what-and-why. There are a few ways to get more power from a pre-existing engine. These are just a few that I care enough to list:

1. Give it greater displacement (That’s the Liters thingy they show you, like the 3.2-liter I6 in a BMW M Coupe). Basically, this relates to how big the pistons are.

2. De-restrict the engine. Would you run faster with your legs tied together? (Header replacements, ECU reflashes, etc. belong in this category)

3. Forced Induction. This goes off the principle that more oxygen (or denser oxygen) = more combustion = more movement by pistons = more crankshaft torquing = faster car. Simply put, more air needs to be sucked in somehow in order to make little cars go like stank. There are two main ways to do this – Super and Turbo charging. Supercharging is like bolting on a massive fan to your car. Power obtained through this method is usually very linear and direct, suitable for higher-end cars. Turbocharging is also like bolting a fan onto your car, but this fan is spun/powered by your exhaust gases. Therefore, turbo-ing is more efficient – BUT, the nature of turbochargers (reliance on exhaust gases) make them rather peaky and unstable with power delivery. There are methods to remedy this peaky power delivery, but that’s not important right now.

I’m comparing the burst of a youth’s energy to a primitive turbocharger. A peaky, unstable, jittery turbocharger with loose gaskets, that rattles occasionally, much like the highs and lows of adolescence.

When old men in films, on television, and in other forms of media refer to a “youthful energy”, I’ve always interpreted their quotes as references to the weakness that accompanies age.

I have erred.

I can no longer sleep at night – no indeedy. The daytime is constructively spent wasted in class, so night is the only true time when my mind opens up and frees itself. I play guitar like a madman now, I blast Jimi Hendrix alone in my car at lunch, and I can now remember my dreams (again).

Goddamnit, youth is so revolutionary. I feel like I’m up to anything – perhaps, fulfilling the counter-societal dreams that Sinclair Lewis’s “George F. Babbitt” failed to accomplish? Not so simple.

Currently, there’s an ongoing discrepancy between idealistic societal Tom, and runs-away-to-Seattle Tom.

See, the conformist Tom Bearnik-Hama (the former me) used to believe in a career in dentistry, and love, and steady marriages. I was, and still am not at liberty to claim those ideas as my own. I, myself, most definitely concluded that it MUST have been best for me to resign to a life in the dentistry office, making children cry and giving everyone sore jaws. However, I’ve come to conclude that my  dental/mental career aspirations were, in part, immaculately conceived due to societal and parental pressures. AYE, I wanted to be rich. What’s the first relatively stable rich-job that I could think of? A doctor.

But even then, I had the common sense to catch myself and say: “No, doctoral professions ain’t for me.” That is, of course, before I had a number of small metal studs cemented onto my teeth.

BRACES….

(To be continued in P.2…)

…

No, I was wrong. That wasn’t too awesome of a sight. You get my “dorifutoooooo” (drift) though, right? It’s a controversial image, a rendition of weakness.

Winter is a time of weakness.

Say that it’s unusually cold one morning. What do we do then? We don our winter clothes, stuffed with molten lava and lined with flaming fleece. This is the quintessential example of man, succumbing to nature. “Oh no, ’tis far too cold to brave the wintry northerly winds. I shall just roast m’self alive within folds of nylon – what say ye?”

Now, the few tough-guys willing to bash foreheads with nature are the true badasses. They are the ones who destroy their umbrellas on purpose. They disembowel parkas by night; scarves whisper their names quietly in dark hallways. Of course, these men don’t make for very good role models – most are either nudists or exhibitionists. In a desperate attempt to toughen up this season (not in nudist couture), I’ve begun braving rainstorms without the aid of winter accessories.

Sadly, my partly-nudist efforts to strengthen my will do not seem to have affected the usual wish-washiness I experience during winter. An entire year’s worth of suppressed emotions begin to show around this time of year, struggling to flush themselves out in preparation for a new year of emotional repression. My yearly man-period.. Well, let’s just say that more than once have I considered running away from both home and school. More than once, have I considered a life of crime – or a career in sports (Namely, motorsports. Go watch this. Edjumacate y’self.)

Regarding my urge to hibernate: It’s worse now, what with Junior year and all. I find myself sleeping after 1 AM much more often. It’s frightening. It’s illogical! It goes against my bodily instincts!

Bodily instincts… welllll…

I like to think of myself as a bear of sorts. Bears are big, furry, and they wrestle with baby Chuck Norris. Winnie the Pooh is a bear. My god, are bears cool. They’d make the universe a better place – just colonize planets with bears.

Were I a part of a certain Mormon woman’s vampire fetish-fantasies, I’d fancy myself as some bear type thingy also. No wussy wolfs doggies or shiny vampires for me. No sissy-ass modren Volvo’s either (they just don’t make Volvos like they used to). If I were an actual character, the series would’ve ended halfway through the first book, after I ate everyone, Cullens and all.

Egotism aside: Bears hibernate – is it not logical for me to hibernate? Once I finish school, I am going to be medically diagnosed and excused from interactions with society for the months of December, January, and February. I promise.