MAKING CHRISTMAS

First, I offer my apologies to any frequent readers I may still have (though I'm sure there are few or none) for the infrequency of my posts. Consider this my Christmas present to you. I'd also like to inform you that I have experienced a Christmas miracle-after having attended scarcely more than 10% of my lectures this past term, I got B grades in all my classes-far better than I could have ever hoped.

But, that's beside the point. As you may have gathered from the title of this post (if you're a devout fan) or certainly gathered from the video, this is a post about The Nightmare Before Christmas. I'd like to describe why it is my personal favorite Christmas movie.

Don't get me wrong, I'm a huge fan of Christmas movies. After all, it is the second best holiday of the year! Watching A Christmas Story is a family tradition. I can't remember a single Christmas morning during which A Christmas Story was not providing the background to my family and me opening our presents from Santa Claus.

Equally dear to my heart is A Charlie Brown Christmas because I've always been a huge fan of Charles Schultz's portrayal of children with huge adult personalities parading in children's bodies (whether in the comic or the animated Christmas special). Of course, few stories are as heart-warming as It's a Wonderful Life which has one of my all-time favorite actors, Jimmy Stewart, in the lead role. Last, Miracle on 34th Street is a Christmas classic that will be broadcast on television for many Christmases to come-it's as close to the complete package as you can expect from a Christmas movie.

This is all, of course, beside the point. The Nightmare Before Christmas has something none of the others have. I'm not referring to the dark imagery. I'm not referring to the stop-motion animation (of which I am a huge fan [not as much in Nightmare as in this]). I'm not referring to Tim Burton, which is the shirtless guy in the video above's favorite element. (Yes... I do know him personally... Though I hate to admit it).

I think it's heart-warming that the scariest man in Halloween Town, The Pumpkin King Jack Skellington tries to bring Christmas to his frightful compatriots. Even as the most beloved man in town, however, he is somewhat of a misfit. The love and flattery of the townspeople are not enough for Jack.

After the most successful Halloween in Halloween Town's history which prominently featured Jack as the center attraction, he finds some time alone to soliloquize-in song-that something was missing from his life. Shortly after which, he stumbles upon Christmas Town and becomes enamored by its charms. I can hardly do this discovery justice-Christmas Town is the ideal white Christmas-filled with happy children, elves, and of course, Santa Claus (cleverly rendered Sandy Claws by the ignorant Jack). Jack is overjoyed by the concept of bringing-well, joy-to children instead of scaring them.

He promptly returns to Christmas Town to inform his loyal following of his discovery. No one quite seems to understand. In a town of monsters and misfits, Jack is an outcast-which I love. Frustrated with their inability to comprehend the nature of gift-giving and spreading holiday joy, he embarks on a journey to explain Christmas to them logically. He borrows a science kit from Dr. Frankenstein-I mean, Dr. Finkelstein-and puts candy canes and tree ornaments through rigorous tests. After his fruitless efforts, he comes to the discovery that he ought to give Sandy Claws a vacation and distribute gifts to the nice children of the world. He enlists the help of the people of Halloween Town, and things go awry.

As was stated earlier, they'd rather spread horror than joy on Christmas. Jack is too "wrapped" up in his scheme to realize how terrible the gifts are. Most of them come to life to scare children or are composed of dead animals. Sally, who reveals her feelings for Jack by sending him a care package while he's locked away conducting his experiments, is given the most important mission from Jack: to sew his Santa outfit. Three miscreants (Lock, Shock and Barrel) are to kidnap Sandy Claws to let him know he has Christmas Eve off, and to provide Jack with more information on him.

BATTERY

I have never been one to think that I have my shit together. Case in point: this blog. It's like an episode of Degrassi meets The Critic (only not quite as awesome because it isn't animated).

At the moment though, a lot of things have fallen in to place.

After witnessing my sister's success, I am particularly proud as a member of my family and I am extremely glad I was there to witness a great deal of it myself... Because really, what's more important than family? And for the Murs fans reading this, is it not true that "if a soul is avenged through the deeds of a friend, then success has always been the best form of revenge"?

I certainly think so, and that's certainly the way I choose to live.

At the end of the day, though, nothing is more important than simply being able to count your blessings. I know this sounds preachy, but anyone who knows me can attest both to the fact that I sincerely mean this and-more importantly-to the fact that it's true.

That's why Thanksgiving is my favorite holiday, and moreover November my favorite month. Christmas only promotes kids looking forward to what they get, while the concept of giving thanks (or, being appreciative-or, better yet-counting their blessings if you're following the metaphor) is literally built into the name Thanksgiving. It's not true that Thanksgiving's origins include indigenous Americans, so don't give me that bullshit.

The point is: I've enjoyed a sustained period of happiness that I haven't felt in quite some time, and I'm fucking glad I am.

Cheers,

Darren.

I DON'T MIND IF YOU FORGET ME

Something I never want to forget:

After my sister's team won the sectional championship to advance to the state finals, I asked my Dad a simple question that really put a lot of perspective on things.

As far as I know, there are maybe-maybe-five people who like sports than my Dad. And as far as I know, he has attended more high school and college sports than has any other individual. He has not been a spectator for quite as many professional sports, but that is beside the point.

A constant SportsCenter viewer and an avid sports lover, it's rather hard to impress him with athletic feats.

My question to him (after witnessing this stoic man jump about eight feet laterally after the winning point of the winning game of the match) was this:

'Is this your favorite moment in sports history?'

He's seen his favorite teams (Lakers and Dodgers) win championships in their respective sports, witnessed a Wayne Gretzky hat trick live (as did I) and so on and so forth.

He did not hesitate to answer, unabashedly: "Absolutely."

The immense amount of pride I felt watching my sister achieve her dreams was undoubtedly unmatched by my father's pride watching his daughter succeed at the highest level she had to date.

It was a beautiful moment for me to witness, and, as I said earlier, I never want to forget it. I don't think I would have if I hadn't blogged about it, but-at the same time-I did promise more posts in November.

It's just weird that the previous post was about something my Mom said. I'll try to keep my family out of it next time.

Darren.

CHERRY PIE

I barely remember what it feels like to be depressed anymore.

That was certainly an overstatement, but that's artistic license for you.

I don't know why, because it doesn't seem like much has changed. In many ways, I feel even my attitude hasn't changed much. I can't identify this mysterious source of happiness, but hell-I'm not complaining.

I do feel like it's harder to blog (read "disclose your feelings over the Internet") when you're in a good mood.

I haven't written an overtly funny post in quite some time (rather, since I first started this blog), though I'm sure I've made a few people laugh since then. Those posts likely weren't funny, though. I'd venture to guess that they were either entirely melodramatic, self-deprecating, or both.

That being said, I'd like to relay to you the true story that may be one of the funniest I've had the pleasure to witness.

Half of the humor of the story comes from understanding my Mom. She's a wonderful woman. She's caring and minds her own business. She rarely has anything negative to say. Even when she makes fun of people, it is typically only at my sister's or my expense.

But one fateful day about eight years ago, she made one of the greatest jokes I've ever heard, even to this day.

My sister and I had a half-day at school one day during the early summer months and my Mom picked us up from school. Either she found Carl's Jr. particularly appetizing that night, or she was just tired from driving my sister and me around all day and didn't feel like making lunch. I'm almost certain it's the latter, but she was never the type to shy away from making a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, so your guess is as good as mine.

Anyway, as we approached Carl's Jr., we saw a girl who was about eight years old. She was around 4'2" and weighed somewhere in the neighborhood of 175 pounds. If you think this is an exaggeration, it's actually just a poor estimation. I have a vivid memory of her, but it's difficult for me to accurately guess any measurement (distance, weight, time, etc.). She wasn't quite fit for Maury, but she could definitely have been in a commercial about childhood diabetes or obesity. Not only that, she had curly red hair and a face full of freckles.

Here's the kicker: she was wearing the t-shirt equivalent of the panties shown above. It was a pink t-shirt with the words "CUTIE PIE" prominently displayed above the image of some cherries.

And I will never forget the immortal words my Mom used to describe that poor little girl: "She could use a little more cute, and a lot less pie."

THIS MUST BE THE PLACE (NAIVE MELODY)

"Never for money, always for love."

As far as academia goes, I'm fucking done. At this point, what is the point of even continuing my education? Do the next six months of me not going to class and earning C- grades actually make me a more valuable member of society?

UCLA, just give me my fucking diploma. Seriously. We have both made it abundantly clear that I don't like you and that you don't like me.

If I felt at all passionate about anything this institution could offer me, I might be in a better place. But the curricula for the majors here are ridiculous. It is clear that I should not have majored in political science (though the political theory classes within the major have been intriguing, engaging, and taught by faculty members for whom I have a great deal of respect). It doesn't seem that I'd have been better off majoring in history, philosophy, or English though.

Politics... the biggest fucking joke and scam in history. As Mark Twain so eloquently put it, "If voting made any difference, they wouldn't let us do it." And that's so true. The power structure in this country is so entirely aprat from voting that it doesn't matter at all whether we have a Democratic or Republican president in the slightest. Whichever party is in power still bows to the private individuals who fund their campaigns. And, invariably, the individuals who fund the campaigns are those who

NOVEMBER SPAWNED A MONSTER

Seeing as November is my favorite month of the year, I feel it's only appropriate to give an update (as I hope to do more frequently, particularly during this month).

I haven't got much to report about my mood honestly (why yes, I can hear the collective sigh of relief uttered by my five readers). I have been happier lately than I have in quite some time. I am still rather apathetic and amotivated, but I'm more hopeful now than ever that I will find something or someone to reinvigorate me.

The good news is: the election is over. Not being a registered voter and not really caring at all, I can say that I'm very, very happy with the results. The Republicans have retaken the house, Jerry Brown is governor of California again, but none of that matters at all to me. I'm a big picture kinda guy. I can't begin to tell you how happy I am that I don't have to hear those mud-slinging ads on T.V. or the radio anymore. I'm not sure whether I am happy that I don't have a land line-the reason I didn't get any phone calls-or sad that I couldn't have given them the old Jerry Seinfeld. But really, does anyone care about politics anymore? Does anyone even vote? I know damn well the answer to both of these questions is yes. You cannot walk around UCLA without some damned Democrat proudly displaying his or her "I VOTED" sticker, or espousing their political beliefs at entirely inappropriate times. Really though-elections are, and have always been, about disparaging your opponent. My biggest complaint about elections is that in the last number of presidential elections, the candidate who spent more on his presidential campaign has won the election. This is a fact, though I cannot point to a specific year. I do intend to find out from a leading researcher in the field, (and an all-around fox) Lynn Vavreck.

The bad news is the San Francisco Giants won the World Series last night. Seeing the Giants qualify for the Fall Classic was painful enough. But seeing them win was downright depressing. I personally couldn't have thought of a more depressing way to start my favorite month. And it was on the first day, for Christ's sake.

It was just a solemn reminder that this month, I become college's version of "over the hill": 22 years old. On one hand, I've been looking forward to this day since I was a child-while all the other kids in the schoolyard enjoyed their golden birthdays, I had to wait between 10 and 17 years for mine. Now that it's come, however, I am much less than enthused. Being 22 means I'm four, maybe five years older than the youngest kids in college. In the end, it's not such a big deal... I guess it really means I'll just be buyin' booze for these kids. Life's not so bad.

I say that because, no matter how old I get, I will always (and I mean always) love Thanksgiving. November is the best month of the year simply because Thanksgiving is the greatest holiday on the planet. The United States government may not have always made the right choices, but Thanksgiving is certainly a diamond in the rough-and, if I may say so, its magnum opus. While the slaughter of indigenous peoples has always been a strike against Thanksgiving, I say to hell with them! Of course I'm kidding, but I still support Thanksgiving wholeheartedly for the following reasons. First, the premise of Thanksgiving is great: giving thanks. You might reply, "Well, you should give thanks all the time," to which I answer: "How often do you?" Since my family isn't crazy, I also love to see them as often as I can, and Thanksgiving presents that opportunity. Lastly, and most importantly, Thanksgiving dinner is the greatest meal of all-time. Last year my family used five pounds of butter preparing the meal we enjoyed. I hope this year we can beat the record.

And, in case you thought it was out of character for me to include the zodiac in my blog, I assure you-you're right. Jim Morrison voiced my opinion on the matter during a live performance. "I don't know how many of you people believe in astrology... I am a Sagittarius: the most philosophical of all the signs... But I don't believe in it. I think it's a bunch of bull shit, myself."

Darren.

P.S. I have been thinking about performing stand-up comedy. I leave you here with a few one-liners:

I don't like Halloween because I don't like being given ultimatums.

At the gym, the dumbest question you can ask is: "What are you doing here?"

I haven't been laid since the Bush administration, and I feel like there's something really wrong with that.

ASTRO ZOMBIES

Seeing as it's nearly Halloween, I think it's about time to discuss fear.

People are afraid of a lot of things. I'm a (recovering) germophobe, so I'm afraid of germs. People fear the dark, outdoors, peanut butter, the number thirteen, black cats, and a multitude of other things. I'm certain that the list is endless.

I am of the opinion that fear motivates all human actions. I think this point is intuitive, but I can provide a few examples. People go to college because they're afraid they won't be able to secure a steady job. They check the expiration dates on milk cartons because they're afraid to get sick. They wear seatbelts because they fear being seriously in a crash.

The main thing on my mind lately has been finding a female companion. I realized my behavior needs to change if this is to become a reality.

Having always been of the opinion that fear motivates our every action, it is surprising to me that I never inspected the causal relationship of my fears and my loneliness.

What is it exactly that I'm afraid of? Why can't I just put myself out there and meet women, having the knowledge that most times things won't work out the way I want them to? This knowledge should not prevent me from meeting new people, but rather encourage it. Shit happens, you just roll with it. Right?

Well, here's what I'm afraid of. It's taken me a number of years to realize it, and it's very naive while simultaneously romantic.

I'm afraid that my relationship with whomever the (unlucky) girl may be will ruin the notion of perfect romance.

I was made aware of this when I witnessed what other people may describe as a day-to-day occurrence. Before going out, a girl told her man "It's cold out, don't forget to bring a jacket," to which I would likely have replied, "Thanks sweetie, I'll go grab one," or something along those lines. Her man just said, "Yeah," and they were on with it.

I understand that after certain levels of exposure the nature of any relationship changes. I don't really know what all this adds up to, and as I'm sitting here writing this I feel I've asked more questions than I've answered.

I apologize for the abrupt ending, but...

Darren.

BADA BING

The following are my answers to Proust's personality questionnaire:

1. My favorite virtue: loyalty.

2. My favorite qualities in a man: steadfastness.

3. My favorite qualities in a woman: sincerity.

4. My chief characteristic: thoughtfulness.

5. What I appreciate the most in my friends: reflection.

6. My main fault: lack of self-confidence.

7. My favorite occupation: thinking.

8. My idea of happiness: having a woman to love.

9. My idea of misery: the last five years of my life.

10. If not myself, who would I be?: Jim Morrison.

11. Where would I like to live?: San Francisco, London, Buenos Aires.

12. My favorite color: purple.

13. The flower I like most: forget me nots.

14. My favorite bird: cockatoo.

15. My favorite prose authors: Vonnegut, Dostoyevsky, Salinger, Fitzgerald, Hemingway.

16. My favorite poets: Jim Morrison, Sean Daley, George Harrison.

17. My favorite heroes in fiction: Macbeth.

18. My favorite heroines in fiction: I haven’t read enough.

19. My heroes in real life: my father.

20. My heroines in real life: my mother, my sister, A.S.

21. My favorite food and drink: Thanksgiving dinner and brown ale.

22. My favorite names: for a man, James or Jakob (with a ‘k’ and not a ‘c’); for a woman, Julia.

23. Which characters in history I most dislike: G.W.F. Hegel.

24. My heroines in world history: Sandra Day O’Connor.

25. The military event I admire most: the United States victory at Battle of Yorktown.

26. The reform which I admire most: none; I am an apolitical entity.

27. The natural talent I’d like to be gifted with: beauty.

28. How I wish to die: soon, painlessly and tragically.

29. My present state of mind: introspective.

30. For what fault have I most toleration?: lying.

31. My favorite motto: “a severed foot is the ultimate stocking stuffer.”

CHEESEBURGER IN PARADISE

Admittedly, this is a rather depressing blog.

Having just finished Cat's Cradle yesterday and nothing to read at the moment, I decided I'd write something instead.

So, I'm writing today to review Westwood's newest restaurant, Fat Sal's and to give myself and my readers a break from my bleak views on life and love.

What I ate at Fat Sal's was not a cheeseburger. And, let's face it, Westwood is far from what anyone would consider paradise. But this blog has a theme to which I am very dedicated, so I am sticking with it. Besides, there is no song title that could aptly describe the sandwich I just ate.

A portion of the Fat Sal's menu is dedicated to the appropriately named Fat Sandwiches, most of which include your favorite fried sides (potato chips, french fries, onion rings and even mozzarella sticks or jalapeño poppers) and so much more.

When I first heard about the California burrito, I was delighted that San Diegans had included french fries in what is possibly my favorite dish. When it came to french fries in a sandwich, though, I was a bit more skeptical.

At any rate, I ordered the Fat Juanito-rib eye steak, chili, jalapeño poppers, french fries, avocado, shredded lettuce, tomato, onions, ranch and Tapatio on a hero.

It does sound like a behemoth. As I sat anticipating my sandwich, my imagination wandered and my expectations soared. Soon enough, the sandwich had grown in my mind to one of Homer Simpson-esque proportions. Disappointingly, I found the sandwich to be scarcely bigger than a Subway sandwich.

The sandwich was good, but I think that's all the credit I can really give it, aside from being well-imagined by whomever thought to put chili, jalapeño poppers and steak together on a sandwich.

I am an avid chili lover, and Fat Sal's chili-though absolutely covering the whole sandwich (which made it extraordinarily messy)-is nothing to write home about. I like hearty, flavorful chili-not just beans.

Needless to say, the sandwich's flavor came mostly from its other ingredients-the ranch was rather overpowering, especially since the steak was buried into odd pockets of the sandwich rather than occupying the entire bottom bun as I would have liked.

At the end of the day, I'd give the Fat Juanito a 6/10. That being said, Fat Sal's exhibits a lot of potential and I certainly will be back to give another sandwich on their menu a try.

IF I WERE SANTA CLAUS

"...I'd fight for the cause/Wouldn't expect nothing in return/I'd give you everything you want/I'd be everything you'd need/You could take my hand/And I could take the lead."

I searched for the Oscar Wilde quote I thought fit seamlessly in this post, but apparently I misread what he wrote in the preface to The Picture of Dorian Gray. Yasi, if you're reading this-I wonder if this is a weird coincidence or if your blog had that much of an impact on me. Alas, I digress (as is apt to happen-my readers are no strangers to digression). Also, I'm SO over you and your blog. (Just kidding-I really, really miss it.)

What I thought Wilde said was that the artist reveals more about herself than her subject in her work. Had he said this, I would agree. But this is, apparently, original phrasing (and perhaps an uncommon belief) as my Google query had few results.

To the point:

If I were an artist, I'd paint a portrait of you. I will allow for the possibility that you are flawed, but I am blind to your imperfections. It would be a beautiful portrait that would immortalize you in the hearts and minds of art critics, friends and family, and laymen all the same. I want everyone to see the beauty I see in you. (The Smiths' "I Won't Share You" is running in the back of my mind, but I'd like for everyone to recognize your beauty in the portrait. Most people's art is only recognized posthumously anyway.) I'd hope that it could serve to inspire them as it has inspired me. Whether they painted, wrote or sang their passion, I'd value my contribution. I'd also hope that little of myself was revealed in the portrait-the chaos, the disarray, the ugliness. What I would hope to reveal about myself is my loving nature, my admiration for your beauty, and moreover, my admiration for you.

If I were a scientist, my research would miracle cure. I'd spend hours in the lab paying attention to the smallest of details. My work would be meticulous, mundane, tedious, and soul-sucking. But if I were to find the cure to some debilitating disease (and believe me, this is very hypothetical), it would all have been for you. It will have been worth every moment if I could come home to you at night. I'd fly you to Stockholm, where you would be the focus of my acceptance speech. You'd sit in the front row, and I'd tell the world (or at least the international scientific community) just what you meant to me. I'd mention how those days during my senior year of college I'd spent missing you had not been in vain. I'd let them know that your smile and your laugh was all it ever took to make me happy. If you cried in your seat in the front row (in your gown and pearls that I'd bought you for the occasion), I'd be by your side to comfort you and to help you fix your make-up.

If I were a poet, I'd write you a sonnet that would put Shakespeare's to shame-not because I possessed any particular talent as a writer, but because you serve as such an inspiration. Generations to come would read those fourteen lines revealing the romantic feelings I have for you. As this post reveals, I am a long-winded writer. Hemingway and the Bard had their ways with words, but more importantly with brevity. This is a talent I could possess only with your inspiration. It would be an innocent and honest ode to you. It would not include any sexual innuendos, as Shakespeare's all had. Not a parent in any school district would object to their children reading the poem. I hope for the widest audience possible to express my feelings.

Sadly, though, I am merely a college student and a blogger and this is the best I can do. Whether you realize it or not, these are my feelings for you. As it stands, this post cannot change much. I am both a pessimist and a victim of circumstance. While these circumstances are disfavorable, your inspiration has shone through in this post-I have revealed the optimism you bring out in me.

That means a lot to me, and I'd suspect it might mean something to you.

Hoping for the best,

Darren.

LITTLE MAN

Dear Dad,

Every credit toward my character is a testament to you.

Everything I've learned about being a man, I learned from you and I must thank you for that because it's worth a lot.

You taught me the importance of family and the values to maintain interpersonal relationships. I'm glad I can say I'm honest, thoughtful, dedicated and caring because of your example. When I was a kid playing sports, you never missed a game. You always studied with me if I needed any help. That's a lot to ask of someone with a full-time job, but you've always made it clear that you worked for Mom and Dee Dee and me, not for anything else.

I understood when you told me I needed to be more accountable to myself. Unfortunately, I only understood. I not only need to be more accountable, but I need to take a lot more initiative. I plan everything-just like you taught me-but I never follow through. These are my failings. Having learned all my good traits from you, it's unfortunate that your work ethic is not represented on my list of personal skills.

I know you're proud of me, but I've still never been proud of myself. You and I both know I'm not there yet, but it feels to me like I'm getting there. You taught me to exercise good judgement, but it would mean a lot to me to know that you agree.

I love you, Dad. I wish I could express all of this to you, but you're not that type of person. This is my only disappointment with you, but I understand.

Thank you for giving me all the things you never had-a loving family, a home, and, most importantly, a role model.

One day, they'll put my face on the million dollar bill.

Your little man,

Darren.

ALL THE SMALL THINGS

EAL is simply the worst,

To shelve books there is to be cursed.

Doomed to search all day long,

For a book that's been shelved wrong.

I'd like to scream in their face,

"No book's in its proper place!"

You wade through chaos and disorder,

To put books in call number order.

Why, oh why couldn't I have discharge this hour?

This library makes me dour.

HOLD ON LOOSELY

"...but don't let go; if you cling too tightly, you're going to lose control."

As an avid baseball fan (or, as avid as one can be without cable television), the image of someone getting hit in the face with a baseball bat comes to mind when hearing "hold on loosely". Hence the image above.

More pertinent to the lyrics of the song though, as a person who possesses no interpersonal relationship skills, I haven't the slightest idea when to give up hope that the girl I am interested in has any interest in me.

I feel justified in being somewhat unhappy that she gave me her phone number under the pretense of interest (sharing "coffee or something" [I'm rather glad I didn't say "coffee or some shit" (sorry Alison)] when she knew full well she would be in the Bay Area during the time this intended get together would likely be scheduled. Though I do accept that she may not feel that she owed it to me based on the fact that we cannot in any way be construed as "seeing each other" at that point, let alone with any semblance of exclusivity, I still think it was discourteous at some level. I am, however, pretty dramatic so I'm not sure whether or not this is reasonable.

As far as getting to know her outside the limited time we spent interacting face-to-face, I have texted her trying to reach out to her and get to know her better and, of course (because it's through text message) I cannot gauge her level of interest to any degree. I wish I could somehow convey to her that I'm really interested in getting to know her and that that's the reason I text her.

I decided to call her yesterday with the intent of asking her how her first day at her new internship was. I thought that this was a nice gesture that conveys more seriousness than a text message is able to and shows that I listen and am actively interested in the things she tells me.

But, since she didn't answer, I now feel like the weird guy whose call she's not returning rather than the nice guy who wanted to ensure that she had a great first day at work.

I've never been the type to take risks. I don't much like being rejected. I get nervous when things are unpredictable or uncertain. Given all this, I am very willing to give up the hope that she's interested.

I can find satisfaction-whether she is interested in me or not, whether she is avoiding my call or not-not only in the fact that I even approached a girl so beautiful in the first place, but in that I have been as thoughtful and sincere as is appropriate given the fact that we hardly know each other.

From the vantage point of one who is increasingly self-aware, my hope is to love the person that I am. I'm still a while away from that, but hell-a man can dream, can't he?

Darren.

HANDSOME DEVIL

I owe an apology to you, my dear friends and loyal readers, for my increasingly infrequent posts to this sporadically updated blog.

As a sign of retribution, I offer you an update in the world of Darren, and I must say life has been good lately.

I am happy to say that I feel very connected with my co-workers at YRL. The stacks crew gets along rather well within the library walls, and it was great to see that everyone enjoyed each other's company just as much at the YRL party last week. A number of my friends at the library speak Spanish and are willing to teach me, so my Spanish has been progressing (slowly, but surely!).

This summer I've also read quite a lot, which is pleasing. I've read Huxley's The Doors of Perception, Vonnegut's Breakfast of Champions, Kerouac's On the Road, Vonnegut's The Sirens of Titan and am now concluding Hemingway's The Sun Also Rises. I think the book I enjoyed most was the The Sirens of Titan but I'm hoping to read at least a few more books by the end of summer with the potential to change that.

My only concern at the moment lies with my love interest, whose untimely travels have left me discouraged. I would like to have been able to update you further, but as it stands, that's all I can really say. I hope to get in touch with her sometime soon, and hopefully this will shed some light on the situation.

That's really it for the present.

As for the future, I have given my ten year plan (and beyond) extended thought and am more excited than ever for graduation. After graduation, I plan to vacation in Argentina before settling into some office job in San Francisco (ideally at the Justice Department or the District Attorney's office). Then I'd begin to apply to law schools. I think Hastings is a realistic goal and I really hope to attend-though it's not an upper-echelon school, it's still in the top tier, and is, of course, located in the greatest city in the world. As a dreamer, I'll also apply to Berkeley, Penn, Georgetown and USC. If worse comes to worst, I'll end up at USF, and I don't think that's too shabby. In any case, I will study abroad in either Spain or Argentina-I'm glad to see that many of the programs in which I'm interested have programs in one country or the other (or both!).

I can't predict with any accuracy what will happen after that, but my aspiration to be a judge is now nearly matched by my desire to be on the Senate Ethics Committee. Ethics, in my mind, is of the utmost importance, especially in politics. Popular consensus is that the Ethics Committee is laughable-I cannot comment, as I don't know much about it. But in my opinion, the Ethics Committee ought to be revered rather than mocked. I think they have the most important duty in the Senate. If the policymakers in this or any country do not use ethics to shape their propositions, then the laws they create are in vain. I'd love to have a legacy as being the man who brought United States laws closer to the laws of ethics. As you can see, I have not fully thought this through, but I do have ample time.

That's it for now.

Darren.

VIAJE DE ESTUDIOS

At five o'clock yesterday, I was as happy as could be. Regardless of my current mood, I'm proud to say I have taken initiative and done something that was formerly difficult for me to do. I'm equally proud to report that I have, for the time being, avoided self-sabotage by playing to my strengths, keeping it simple, being ever-ready, and-my latest endeavor-trying to have faith.

At five o'clock yesterday, though, I believed that the singer of "Viaje de Estudios" was saying "estaremos juntos" which, in English, means "we will be together".

This morning I discovered that, in reality, he sings "no estaremos juntos" (I have a firm belief that anyone with half a mind ought to be able to deduce what that means so I shall not translate it).

I believe I'm the type of person that judges situations by the vibes I receive. I was much happier when I misunderstood the song's lyrics, taking it as an omen of sorts. Because the song sounds happy, I believed it had a happy meaning. I took it as reassurance that something may actually come of this.

Having realized that the song is rather tragic, I was discouraged for two reasons. I will first state the least obvious: that my Spanish comprehension is not where I'd like it to be. Moreover, though, I summoned some self-confidence from the song.

What can be learned here is that as my understanding of the song changed, my entire mood changed... but I honestly don't know what to make of that.

1969

Because I have read On the Road and because Dean Moriarty may be my favorite character in modern literature as of this current moment, I have decided to share with you, my loyal readers, my true, unapologetic and likely misguided life advice, and it is as follows: everyone is everything; by this, I mean that-while not everyone is equally able-even in the exact same circumstances, no two people will react exactly the same.

I have, on numerous occasions, attempted (mind you, in vain) to identify exactly who I am, but I now understand that in order to find satisfactory answers you must first ask the proper questions and that I have never in my life asked such questions and, as such, have not found the answers I have sought, though today I had what some would refer to as a moment of clarity, others a religious experience and others lunacy (of course allowing for the vast majority of the people who have absolutely no inclination one way or the other, or who would rather have me keep my meandering musings to myself).

Until today, I believed loyalty was the greatest human trait but I now realize that it is, in fact, adaptability. You must play to your strengths, be prepared, and keep it simple, sure. But really, what it's all about is adaptation. Guests at Indian homes find themselves ostracized when they don't take off their shoes, but guests at the homes of those easily offended by odors likely would be met with hostility if they were to remove their shoes.

TROUBLE WITH DREAMS

I should have been more selfish.

Until this point, I have had only two aspirations: to be a loving husband and a good father.

This in and of itself is, if I may say so, admirable. The means I have employed until now-constantly examining and evaluating my moral behavior and becoming as highly educated as I can-are at least somewhat commendable as well (again, if I may say so).

However, both have caused me nothing but misery.

And because I am miserable, I have not taken the most crucial step toward becoming a loving husband and a good father: meeting a woman.

Instead, I spend a lot of time by myself. Blogging. Or comparing the Senate to the House of Lords. Or wondering the ethical value of not having waited six more seconds after already having waited ten to hold the door open for someone.

As far as questioning my actions, constantly trying to better myself, I feel there is nothing I can do. The person I have allowed myself to become will likely always weigh the moral worth of my actions from here until death (which I have always looked forward to, but never so much as now).

Today I realized: I fucking hate school. I haven't learned anything of any worth to anyone on this planet, including myself. This whole charade has been for nought. I intended to go to college in order to earn an MBA so that I might make enough money for my wife and children to live comfortably. I quickly learned that I'd have no such luck, so instead opted to become a political science major (which is a foolish decision I have come to regret every day), naively thinking that the only subject any lawyer had ever majored in was this useless drivel. This is not to say that I desire to become a lawyer-again, I think of this profession simply as one that might catapult me into bigger and better ones (ideally, a judge or legal theorist).

Neither the bachelor's degree I am to earn next summer (thank God) nor the advanced degree that I hope to attain is of any value to me personally.

These professions are appealing to me for two reasons, and two only. I've attended college and sought my advanced degree that I might earn an impressive salary. I have not sought any money for myself, but rather for the family I'd hope I might have, though I am quickly coming to realize that the trouble with dreams is that "they don't come true". Now that I have squandered my other opportunities (I really wish that lesson about the opportunity costs of earning a college degree in high school economics had resonated as much back then as it does now) though, I must make the best of a bad situation. So, being optimistic, whether or not I marry, and whether or not I do become a judge or a legal theorist, at the very least I can be a lawyer. This profession, as far as I can see, has only one benefit: it allows me to sit around and think intently about words.

When I was a kid, I only wanted one thing out of life: to play in the Big Leagues. Now this dream is little more than a faded memory-a series of trophies collecting dust on a shelf above the bed I keep at my parents' house. At a point in my life I became convinced that chasing dreams and aspiring for an enjoyable career wasn't for me.

If I encounter a time machine, I will do one of two things: travel back to that exact moment in time, or travel forward to my final moments on Earth, just to see if I'd have any company.

At this rate, I doubt I will.

Darren.

I'M NOT DOWN

Today, I realized life is a film. I'm not expecting any Oscars for mine, which is disappointing as I've directed it and played the lead role.

I expect, though, that my supporting cast will receive quite a few nominations. I can't necessarily credit myself for casting this film. In many ways, some of the actors whose performances I've most thoroughly enjoyed have been rather thrust upon me. I hope you understand that this is not a complaint, but a recognition of a blessing. I am a passive person in many ways, and without being introduced to people, I imagine the time I spend alone listening to Bright Eyes would double or triple.

In many ways, I feel like Ed Wood. He is regarded by many film critics (who know much more than I) as the worst director of all-time. He starred in many of his films as well (notably Glenn or Glenda? which, unfortunately, I have not yet seen). Many regard Wood as delusional.

I tend to disagree. He and I share the desire to express ourselves with the media at our disposal. Unlike me, he had the determination to continue making films in spite of constant criticism. Were I viewed with such disfavor, I'd likely cut my losses and "say fuck the lemons and bail." His uncompromising will to self-expression should serve as an inspiration to all.

This blog is no stranger to absurdity, fantasy and whimsy. Thus I implore you to imagine a scenario in which I, as Ed Wood, am directing and starring in a film alongside Ingrid Bergman. (This is a scenario I often imagine, as Ingrid Bergman is a veritable fox.) The only thing is, the supporting actors are Carey Grant, Jimmy Stewart and Humphrey Bogart. Katharine Hepburn, Kim Novak, and Sophia Loren play the women's roles. (Like I said, imagine.)

It sounds like a disaster, right?

Right.

And that's my life. I've been given a rough outline of the plot (birth, life, death [which I hope will involve a volcano or some sort of explosion (or implosion)]) and a tremendous supporting cast. I'm trying to turn my life from Birdemic to Notorious. I have faith that the others cast in my film will turn me into a great director.

I'm the type of person who needs to be pushed. As I have reiterated, I'm also the type of person that learns things the hard way. I'm also a creature of comfort.

While my friends and family have offered nothing but undying support (for which I am eternally grateful), I have disappointed myself on innumerable occasions. Though it is true that I hold myself to the highest of standards (which I consistently fail to meet), I think it's reasonable to assume that I have disappointed others by failing to meet their expectations as well.

I hope to improve the quality of my life this summer (and hope that the "Summer of Darren" will be more fruitful than the "Summer of George"). I am certain that this cannot be done without my friends and family (or "cast" if you're still following the film metaphor).

"Confidence is preparation," a very good friend once told me. Preparation comes from familiarity and the recognition of patterns (which I ought to blog about at another time). Until I can leave my apartment for stretches of longer than the time it takes to get Chipotle, I cannot expect to lead a satisfying or fulfilled life.

I have asked and will continue to ask those closest to me to push me, to take me away from my comfort zone. I am a complainer and asking them to do this is rather unfair because I'll likely be bitching and moaning all the while. Hopefully I'll learn a number of life lessons this summer, in a sort of Being Human crash-course, if you will.

I have clearly delineated my personal and professional goals (work, go to the gym, prepare at least 80% of my meals, read). I have equipped myself with a maxim (always play to your strengths and keep it simple) that I hope will be passed on to my children as my father's was to me. He and I are quite different men. His maxim is what he would likely call a "three-step path to success". It is more succinct and more universally applicable than my maxim, but that is to be expected given our personality differences. He, as one who literally always has a plan, is always striving to accomplish something each day, is an inspiration. I hope to emulate his pattern of daily achievements. But he has his shit together. He follows a routine. I don't have my shit together. I don't follow a routine.

I hope that my friends will take the initiative to push me until I can challenge myself and summon my own initiative. I hope that I can achieve something every day like my father. And I hope I'll find within me the uncompromising, never-take-no-for-an-answer attitude of Ed Wood. I hope inspiration of some sort decides to grace me and to guide me in some direction, even if it's as simple as getting my shit together.

While I do believe that the last three years have undoubtedly been the worst consecutive three through which I've suffered, as the title of the blog says, I'm not down.

Instead, I'm rather looking forward to this summer. I wouldn't call it optimism per se... It's more like a willingness to see how good or bad this movie turns out. Hell, it's bound to be better than some of the shit that's coming out this summer. (Hollywood: looking at hot people is what Playboy is for... not film! For fuck's sake, please make a good movie soon!)

Darren.

DON'T PUSH

Based on the title of this post, the picture is a rather obvious choice to continue the theme of the blog.

However, the reason behind the title of the post is what I intend to discuss.

Bradley Nowell "got slammed to the ground like [he] fell off [his] skateboard," and I have both physically fallen off my skateboard and metaphorically been slammed to the ground.

It seems lately, the only attention I get is negative attention.

"Oh my god, what happened to your arm?" is a question I've been hearing every day at work for at least a week. I fell off my skateboard and scraped my arm up a bit. Perhaps I'm reading too much into an innocuous pleasantry. Perhaps this particular instance is not one of negative attention. But in a way, it helped me relate the post to a song that also involved skateboarding, so I'm not too upset by it either way.

Despite all this, I have been drawing a lot of negative attention to myself as of late. I'm not sure whether it is brilliant, self-sabotage, a negative consequence of a negative lifestyle, or one of the low points in my life I'd choose not to look back on.

Last night, in company, I made clear that I am certain that I have not grown or progressed in any way since last September and am no better for having survived this year. (Now I'm disclosing this information semi-anonymously over the Internet, attracting just as much negative attention [if anyone still even reads this damn thing anymore].) Certainly, this sentiment is true. I'm just as cynical and anti-social as I was this time last year. At the same time, it's inappropriate to ruin your friends' good time, especially as most of them reminisce about what an enjoyable year they had had.

The past quarter was easily my worst in college. It won't affect my chances at graduating on time (though I will have to take more classes than I'd have liked to next year) but it certainly may jeopardize my chances at furthering my education. It's no use worrying about it now, but I really wish I were more rational and made choices based on reason rather than sentiment.

Finally, I banged my car up a bit the day before heading back to my parents' place for a few days before starting my new job.

Fuck.

Darren.

NO NEED FOR ALARM

That is, of course, unless you're a California taxpayer. Because you throw your hard earned dollars down to pay for a good chunk of my education, and I procrastinate. Every time.

At this particular time, rather than writing the essay that will conclude my third year of college, I've decided to procrastinate by blogging about the methods I've employed to procrastinate up to this point.

While sitting at Benito's Taco Shop in Santa Monica, bullshitting with a few friends, my roommate told me he just realized that "[I] just love to talk." I'm not sure whether I'm more baffled by that fact that it took him so long to realize it, or that all my suspicions about him listening to me were confirmed so off-handedly. "I can just tell by how unresponsive I am and how you never really lose any enthusiasm," he exclaimed, loud enough to prompt another Benito's customer to tell us the following:

"You guys should have a sitcom or something."

As I have secret aspirations to be a late night talk show host, this was great to hear. It was even better when, after I told him to take it easy, he responded with: "See you on T.V." My only regret is that I didn't ask him whether or not he thought I'd be a good talk show host (mostly because I think he'd have appeased me and validated my pie-in-the-sky ambition [maybe I'll achieve Internet fame(?)].

I've decided the series will be called Life With: and every episode will be titled after the name of someone I know. The pilot will be "Life With Boomstacks". I've never tried my hand at screenwriting, but hopefully blogging will translate.

Who knows, maybe by the end of it all, my uncertainty at whether or not I will achieve Internet fame will seem laughable?

I'm not holding my breath though.

Darren.

I WANT TO TELL YOU

I want to tell you that your performance in Shakespeare's Twelfth Night was masterful. Not only did you portray my favorite character, but you were certainly my favorite actress.

I can't say that I know you. However, I can honestly say that the only action I witnessed you undertake of your own volition was a graceful, admirable reminder that people can be genuinely nice. Displays of selflessness are becoming, but such a display while singing the final song in one of the Bard's comedies was endearingly amicable.

But, if you're as much of a Seinfeld fan as I believe you may well be, I want to tell you that I would love to know you.

THE GET A WAY

The art of photography is one that has evaded me, so pardon me for taking credit for taking this photo up in Monterey Bay, CA.

Summer's around the corner, and this school year has been another loss.

Thankfully, I just need to get out of the next two weeks before I can begin what I hope will be the best summer of my life.

(Why yes, that is me being optimistic.)

I could use this opportunity to be an overtly verbose prima donna as I usually do, describing my cynical views on the past year and how it's impossible to imagine that I could reasonably expect that next year could be any worse, but I've decided I'll spare you.

(Why yes, that is me being both overtly verbose and a prima donna as I said I would not be.)

I've been told that, in order to understand me fully, one must "expect the unexpected," and I tend to think that person just may have been right.

In light of this, I'll turn to things about things I'm looking forward to during summer rather than those things that have made the last spring, winter and fall so miserable.

The World Cup Finals start in nine days, and the greatest athletic competition next to Olympic hockey will hold my interest from June 11-July 11.

As I'm fairly certain I did not get promoted to supervisor (my superiors and co-workers have such poor communication skills that I haven't the slightest idea whether or not I did in fact get promoted), I'll be looking for a new, less soul-sucking campus job.

Two of my summer roommates are triathletes and one is a frequent goer, so I'm looking forward to exercising more routinely.

I'm not sure whether the fact that each of these paragraphs is only one sentence long signals my neuroticism or the absolute disconnectedness of my thoughts, but take it as you will.

Darren.

THIRD SEASON

Converse is dropping three colorways of its CVO sneaker on October 24, 2010.

I suppose you could say I'm excited. Don't judge me.

And don't be surprised if you see me in blue one day, black the next, and grey the third.

Seriously...

DJD.

SAD GIRLS POR VIDA

Tonight, a friend of mine taught me an invaluable lesson: keep your pimp hand strong.

Often, I find I learn most of my lessons the hard way.

Of course, this lesson was no exception.

Not only did she teach me to keep my pimp hand physically strong (by teaching me how to open a beer bottle with just my hand against a sturdy surface [which incidentally resulted in me sipping part of my kitchen sink out of my beer, but that's another story]) but also, in the more metaphorical sense, to play to my strengths.

I intended to inform you, my only reader, of the question I asked a few close friends and co-workers: if you could describe yourself in one word, what would it be? My roommate's reply: explosive, my co-worker's reply: inquisitive, my confidant's reply: crazy.

Initially, I thought only two words could possibly arrive at describing me: average and cynical.

Tonight, I realized neither word quite fully captures me.

I learned I should not try to convince myself that I am what I am not (average). Similarly, I should not focus on my most negative quality (my cynicism).

From now on, if anyone asks me to describe myself in one word, I will always (resoundingly) reply: thoughtful.

I, as a vehement Kant, critic, have found one particular part of his moral philosophy compellingly brilliant. I'll try to cut to the chase here (because my frequent readers have probably heard enough of me bitching about my Kant classes).

He said something to the effect of good will is [the only human capacity] that is good in and of itself.

Essentially, his argument is that no matter how good one's action was, (even if it's simply helping an old lady cross the street) it has no moral worth unless it was borne of some particular good intention the agent had in mind (to help an old lady cross the street because...).

The because (which I italicized so you, my only reader, would think about it yourself) is really what Kant's interested in. (I'd bore you with the details of why he believes that and why I so whole-heartedly disagree, but that's for an ethics class, not a blog.)

Kant thinks, as do I, that pre-meditated thoughtfulness before an action is what makes it an ethical one.

Kant extrapolates (at great length [and I really mean it when I say great]) that if an action was borne of an agent's good will, that the consequences are immaterial as the agent cannot predict with any certainty, the outcome of any particular action.

The fact that I can look myself in the mirror every night knowing that each of my actions had a thoughtful intent behind it is really my only solace.

Knowing that, I now know that what is most important in life is for everyone to keep their pimp hands strong.

Really reflecting on it, thoughtfulness has gotten me everywhere I am today.

I'm confident, given this new knowledge, that the results of keeping my pimp hand strong will be nothing short of extraordinary.

PEOPLE ARE STRANGE

Some fidgety blonde fuck just showed up at my door trying to bamboozle me.

A few things surprised me about this particular action:

1.) that I actually got up off the couch,

2.) that I answered the door for this guy,

3.) that he talked so Goddamn fast,

4.) that he seemed honest at first, and

5.) that someone would try to put one past me-you gotta get up pretty early in the morning to fool me.

The whole interaction was really surreal. First, he introduced himself as my neighbor which is certainly plausible as I'm essentially a hermit and wouldn't recognize a damn one of my neighbors (aside from the locos next door).

So he launched into this story about trying to improve his public speaking skills. As a liar, this was his best move. The way he made eye contact with me almost fooled me into thinking he could have been sincere but looking at it in hindsight, he was obviously just trying to sell me something.

He proceeded to tell me he was accumulating points for some sort of contest. The entire time he talked to me, he interjected every few seconds asking if he was earning any points from me. I just played along and said yes, because I wanted to see where this fidgety motherfucker was going to take this.

Then he just started handing me stuff. First, a laminated page with the Eiffel Tower, the Vatican and Big Ben. He told me that he was trying to accumulate points to go to Rome because he was interested in art, but also (and I'm not making this up) "maybe smack the Pope around a few times for touching little boys where they pee."

So needless to say, I thought he was funny at least.

But then he just lost me. He handed me another pamphlet and told me that if I opened it, I'd find men's edible underwear, and asked me if I'd like that. So I said "No dude... You gotta get outta here." So he laughed and opened the pamphlet, showing me that he was trying to sell me magazine subscriptions.

Magazine subscriptions? Are you fucking kidding me dude?

If you want to sucker me into something, it's going to need to involve beer or chocolate.

Magazine subscriptions? Who's interested in magazines?

I just gave him the most befuddled look I've ever given anyone in my life (except for my roommate, who tries to explain multi-variable calculus to me, a guy who barely passed Stats) and told him I hadn't the slightest interest in buying magazine subscriptions.

At this point, I was just pissed because he had made me think I was doing him a favor the whole time. I like doing strangers favors. Especially giving directions to wanderers. It's a no commitment favor. Whether I help them or not, I spent all that time entertaining their weird rants so I can justify being my normal curmudgeony self.

Had I know this guy was trying to get me to buy magazine subscriptions for myself, I would have slammed the door in his face the first chance.

Oh, but wait! He told me I could buy them as a gift for my girlfriend or Mom! Dude! You're telling me I can just pay you cash for these magazine subscriptions, and have them sent to someone else's address? That's brilliant!

Back to reality, though. First of all, I don't have a girlfriend. Second of all, even if you were sending magazine subscriptions (which you obviously weren't) and some shitty magazine showed up in my family's mailbox, two things would happen: my Mom would promptly throw away what she thought was junk mail until my Dad found the magazines with my name on them and think to himself: Damn, my son is an idiot. He probably got bamboozled by some sucker talking about points, the Pope and edible underwear! Though I'm not sure anyone is that clairvoyant, it certainly would make this post a little more entertaining.

I'd just like to reflect on what this post is really trying to convey: I do have some moral code and some expectation of etiquette. And, despite how skewed they are, this guy totally crossed the line.

Don't invite yourself into my house and try to sell me "magazine subscriptions"! I'm insulted that this kid thought he was clever enough to pull a maneuver like that in the first place, but that he pulled me away from FIFA is a whole different matter.

To anyone who lives in my building: close the fucking door behind you!

To any future swindlers at my doorstep: at least come when my roommates are here so they'll answer the door and entertain me by interacting with you.

HAIRDRESSER ON FIRE

As Ferris Bueller, once said: "Life moves pretty fast. If you don't stop and look around once in a while, you might miss it."

I can't help but agree. Unfortunately, it is only nominal agreement as I am a self-saboteur who, rather than following his own advice, idly discloses my life semi-anonymously over the Internet.

It's always been true that you're damned if you do and you're damned if you don't. But really, Murphy's law has never been more applicable.

What can be expected of me when I meet someone who drinks Scotch and water at 4:30am? What can be expected of me when she participates in Scrabble tournaments, drives stick and has the sense of humor and beauty to boot?

But as I said, I want to avoid self-sabotage. And, as we've all come to learn, I learn every lesson the hard way... I'm certain this lesson is no exception.

Hell, at least she's only five years my senior instead of twice my age.

The latter hasn't ended so well for me either.

[Edit (31/May): it's been a week, and she's still on my mind... Not only that, I found out that she likes Wes Anderson, David Bowie, and Portuguese-language guitar covers (like me) all in one fell swoop, as Shakespeare would say. {Twelfth Night showing at UCLA's North Campus Auditorium next Saturday and Sunday!}]

ON YOUR RADIO

Listening to Atmosphere last night, I realized what I value most about music is honest expression. As a lyricist, Slug is not only personal, but also crafts words in a way I really admire. After Jim Morrison's death, his father stated: "my son had a brilliance he expressed with uncompromising honesty." Lou Reed, the subject matter of whose songs ranged from sado-masochism and heroin to love and life in New York City, was also a brilliant expressionist. The video above showcases his ability to express his contempt through wit and sarcasm. I think if Oscar Wilde had press coverage in his day, his interviews would be similar. It has always been my aim to be as honest and open in my writing as I continually strive to be. With that, I turn to something I have thought about at length.

I think what's on your radio can say a lot about you. I'm glad that I've never encountered anyone who had U2 playing when I entered their car. Similarly, I'm glad I don't know very many Giants fans, but that's just gravy. But do a person's preferences say enough about him or her as an individual?

I'm wondering: is it what someone likes or what someone is like that makes them compatible?Certainly, I'd love to meet someone who shares some enthusiasm for good cuisine, film, art, literature or music. But would that just be a reflection of my own personality? Would anyone really want to be with someone who just shared their preferences?

It's no doubt that a relationship should be based on trust and openness. But again, is that merely a reflection of what I strive for?

Or is it that there is a correlation between personality and preset FM stations?

THE UNION FOREVER

Orson Welles was twenty-five years old when he filmed and starred in Citizen Kane. Not only was he only twenty-five, but it was the first film he directed. Not to mention the fact that it's regarded as the greatest film of all-time by many, many critics. But my homie Chris (and this particular homie knows his movies... He's seen 1800+ films—I'm just sayin', homeboy has discriminating taste...) ranks this as among his top favorite films. Homie has discriminating taste—he really knows what he's talking about (and I'm not kidding).

Back to you though.

Oh, so it's like The Beatles... you think to yourself? Just because everyone ranks The Beatles as the greatest band of all-time, even the most amateur music critic (i.e. Rolling Stone's many, many editors who rank Pepper as the greatest album of all-time) will cite them as the greateset of all-time. De lo contrario, mi amigo... I myself must admit to have been one of those Beatles fans. Currently I can't get enough Doors, Metallica, Misfits, of Montreal, Sex Pistols, Frank Sinatra or Velvet Underground to get my fix... Really, from the most objective stance I've ever taken, Citizen Kane really is that good (and yes I realize the irony of the hyperbole... Fuck off).

As for my personal opinion on Citizen Kane, the way I described it to my fellow employees at Charles E. Young Research library today: every movie since Citizen Kane has tried to live up to it in terms of filmography and technique, but never has.

But that's really my only original idea I can convey to you, and it's merely my opinion, a novice film critic's.

Ebert's commentary on Citizen Kane (quintessential film criticism) provides insight to the film technique. (Of course: I did not recognize the following, for I have not stepped to Ebert's level...) I just hope you understand I'm trying to put some perspective on it.

Ebert's commentary explicates the nuances of Kane that only an expert could: how Welles literally scraped film across the floor to imitate the stock footage portrayed in the newsreel, how the newsreel displays the entire movie, yet it plays out as if the ending hadn't already been spoiled for you [compliments of the homie Chris], how the witness to Kane's life never leaves the lower right quadrant, how the opening scene never loses focus on the light in Kane's house before he utters his dying word: "Rosebud". And if you've never heard of Rosebud, please leave my blog immediately (but it was tremendously pleasant to have you).

And really, Citizen Kane is not my favorite movie...

I'm certainly going with Notorious as my favorite film and Humphrey Bogart or Jimmy Stewart as my favorite actor. (If you're curious.)

Lastly, and completely un-relatedly, the Dodgers have won five straight to gain on San Diego... Pitching their worst pitcher against San Diego's best who the Dodgers allowed to play for them (by some cosmic error which evades me). By the end of the weekend, I predict the Dodgers will lead the N.L. West. Trust me.

-DJD