Tonight Your Ghost Will Ask My Ghost, "Who Put These Bodies Between Us?"

I have developed an ugly habit of writing lots of shit, then looking over it and deciding it's shit, deleting it, and sitting frustrated as the blockage accumulates coprolite in my brain. My brain is constipated. This is my opportunity for poop jokes.

I think this is due to my desire to write, as of late, stuff that is legitimately good.
This is turning out to be more difficult than intended. So I've decided to revert, if only for a while, to the crapshitcrappoop I usually used to write.
Followable narrative goes out the window. Goodbye witticisms. Goodbye imagery. Goodbye piercing societal observations, and everything else this blog never had.

It's time to blog this blog the blog out.

Today I will tell you a story of how I, Griffin Weston, got a first class ticket from Maui to Los Angeles for 99 dollars and 13 cents.

In fact, that is the story. There. I did that thing I just said one sentence ago. And you can all go to hell. I'm amazing.

Well, my step-uncle is. Step-uncle is an awful term. He isn't really, but he's more legitimate than "family friend" and less local than "hanai uncle".
The point is he used to work for "West...tier..side...frontier...adventure...heartland Airlines", which was swallowed whole by Delta in the Daring 80's. So he has the ability to "fly standby", or with a "Buddy pass" or "hide in the luggage compartment" for free.
Which means, by magical extension, I flew for 88 dollars plus tax.
That is to say, I got into the airport for 88 dollars. I didn't actually have any reservation. What I had, in technical term, was a "wish and a prayer". The email he sent me said "This is your buddy code, pretend you're me, there are 46 open seats on this flight, you're 26th in line. Don't panic. Dress nice."
Oh, and my flight was at 9 at night, which meant I was scheduled to arrive at 5:22 in the morning. And if I didn't make it on the flight, my bags would anyway, so they'd just sit at LAX. Or maybe be jettisoned over the Pacific once they found out.
That was my envisioned scenario.
This proves that pessimism is the proper vantage point from which to experience life. It went something like this:
After my second tearful college farewell,I sat in line a while, sometimes pushing my eighty-pound box and bag containing every article of clothing except for my bulkiest sheepskin jacket, which I was wearing only because it wouldn't fit anywhere else. My laptop backpack, which had been delegated to lab bag over the past year, was full of at least 15 pounds of electronics. I was ready to set up camp in the baggage claim and show people my pokemans Hack the Gibson.
A few uncomfortably hot conversations with my fellow line-standers later, I shuffled myself up to the front desk and began my pre-rehearsed semi-apologetic, semi-sheepish yet charming speech in which I ruefully stated my lack of actual seat, la la I'm flying buddy pass, here's this code, I hope it works, la la please don't deport me from my own country.
I got as far as "Uh, hi! *half-grin* I'm -" before the lady demanded my ID card and clickityclickityclickity okay, here's your pass that'll get you through security, take your bags all the way over fuckin' there. And go quickly, you're late..
So I discovered I can still lift like forty five ten million pounds, thus firmly cementing my manliness once and for all, and heaved myself over to TSA. I didn't actually get a verbal confirmation that this was what I was supposed to do, since I was "airport late" and thus legally allowed to use frantic hand signals and half-mouthed half-breathy quiet language. "Isthiswhere *point point* I'm, my bags, this is *general waving* okay? Thanks *doublethumbsup*", I mouthed without stopping walking.
Armed with refreshed confidence and substantially more mobile now that I was sans Useless Crapinabox, I entered the security line.
There were many pretty girls there! With their stupid families and stupid boyfriends/brothers/husbands/little sisters. And stupid personalities.
They sure looked nice though! Like plants!
The woman in front of me decided to wait until the very end of the line to go batshit crazy and suddenly proclaim that she was holding this spot for her husband, who was dealing with her insane amount of luggage, and that she had both their tickets which somehow enabled her to be security-verified for the both of them. I was not aware this was an option. Neither was the TSA officer, who then gently and wearily tried to convince the woman that not only could she not "save a spot", she couldn't just stand off to the side until her husband could "cutsies". I may have modified the language for brevity in order to better capture the soul of wit.
This is because the actual scene, in which she yelled ignorantly and I tried my darndest to kill her to death with my brain, was substantially less funny.
What was funny was when I sent my bag through security!
My lab bag, which had been sitting in the chemistry building for a year.
Which had previously held a few vials of thermite, a magnesium flare, and a big yellow rocket.
Which currently had wires, adapters, and small electronics in it.
I actually got a look at the screen when it went through the spectrophotometer. Turns out a big red sign comes up and says "EXPLOSIVES DETECTED". I'm amazed a siren didn't come on.
Somewhat anticlimactic, though. They just asked me if I had any electronics in there, I went "yes. lots. middle pocket.", they scanned it again, and away I went.
What followed was a lot of walking around Kahului airport which, though small, apparently has multiple dimensions.
By the time I reached Gate 7 I was resigned to a seat in the Duct Tape Section, so I just sort of halfheartedly handed my chit over to the woman behind the counter. I assume she would just laugh, or maybe hit me.
I was not prepared for a smile and a curt nod towards the gate, so I just took my ticket and headed towards the empty gate. I only looked at my seat when I was halfway down the boarding ramp.
3F
Hrmmmm.
Observe as I begin to grin.
Observe as I sit down in my first class window seat.
Observe as a man asks me if I've been given a Mai Tai yet. I hadn't. Tragic.
He offered to take my coat. I politely declined. When he was gone, I leaned over to my partner - a horrible chunky blonde woman with too much makeup - in 3E and said "I ought to have done it just for novelty's sake, eh?"
She rewarded me with a perfunctory scoff.
It was then that I realized I wasn't home free yet.
Now was my chance, here in the elite, among the rich bastards who can drop 1200 on a flight and still complain about the Mai Tai's being "too sweet" (real quote), to have a real First Class Experience.
So I began to act haughty.
This means I waited until my seat partner had gotten up to request a bloody mary before calling my brother and shitting myself with exitement, and sending out mass texts of "fffffuuuuuuccckkk yyyyooooouuuu" to everyone I could think of.
I figured out how to operate the touch screen lcd in the back of the seat in front of me. The adjustable arm rest. The flip-out food tray.

I won't brag too much more, but here are some of the highlights of the greatest flight of all time.

-asking for and receiving four bottles of water
-actively and energetically using a moist towelette
-being served an entire sandwich on a real plate with metal silverware which I DID NOT STEAL
-being served alcohol. (I'm still young, okay, I had to stop myself from crazed laughter SO HARD YES I THINK A JACK AND COKE WITH DINNER THANKS)
-exploring all corners of the first class bathroom. It was like a suite. I played with everything.
-watching the season finale of House on my laptop (not actually related, but it was still exciting and full of WAT WAT WAT)
-remembering at 3 in the morning that I had put a pack of starbursts in my jacket pocket (equally unrelated, but still, isn't that a great feeling? fuck SLEEP!)

And the grand finale:
-after the plane lands, we all stand around the baggage terminal watching it go around for 10 minutes without any bags coming down. Then, finally, two bags come down. Both mine. No more come.
I pick them up, stack them, and walk out without making eye contact with anyone while frantically calling my dad.

"Come pick me up before everyone kills me. I'll explain later."

I Will Have A Post Later If You Shout Loud Enough

I have no words. No words. This is possibly the best thing I've seen in the month of Ju-ly.

Don’t bother my head by asking conundrums, I beg of you. Just let me discover myself in my own way.

I just watched Watchmen.

I feel like I need to announce that, it was the first time I had seen it. I missed it in theaters, I don't tend to go to movies alone, so I waited for it to come out on DVD (so that I could download a high enough quality torrent to do it the justice it deserved)

I feel like I need to talk about it.
This is because I think I'm smarter than you and that my take on it, my reaction, can in some way be either entertaining or beneficial to you, the reader.

I'm not going to. If you haven't read the actual graphic novel, I'd suggest it. But I'd suggest that for nearly most any movie made from another source, that is just the kind of thing you are supposed to say.

Although that isn't true for superhero movies. I wouldn't tell you to, say, read Batman comics. Or, for that matter, Harry Potter.

This is known as elitism.
If you haven't heard of X before they made a movie about it, you deserve your place as an uneducated troglodyte.
Cave dweller.
From the latin from the ancient greek τρώγλη "hole" and δύω "i get into".

Except the majority of comic book readers fit into that definition.
A conundrum.

Incidentally, the word "conundrum" has an unknown etymology. It is a conundrum.

Of course, if I don't think the work was any good to begin with (Twilight) or if I simply didn't know it took any other form (Contact, High Fidelity), I wouldn't recommend seeing the movie.
Or maybe I would recommend seeing the movie but not reading the source material.
Or maybe I'd recommend whatever third option I haven't said I'd recommend yet.

Incidentally, the same fellow (Nick Hornby) who wrote High Fidelity also wrote About A Boy)

What I am trying to say is even though at some times I convince myself I am much, much smarter than you, the reader, all of the time

I am probably right. But I am probably not a good movie critic.

I never like talking about movies after the credits roll, or on the drive home, or for a week after I first see them.
Fellow moviegoers give me shit about how immovable I am right after a movie ends, and how I won't leave until I've sat there for a while.

I am digesting. Savoring. Because the spell breaks the minute you exit the theater and everyone screws it up with their dumb opinions and their different-from-your interpretations.

The way I deal with movies, and the way I dealt with Watchmen, was to immediately think about something else for a while. Let it percolate through the part of my brain that isn't the utmost outer layer. I'll have an opinion in a week.

Or, I would, if I hadn't read it a month ago. Which is why I'll say the same thing I say after every movie I have to not think about.

It was a good movie!


Editor's Edit: Oh and also, Jay-Z has decided enough is enough. Seriously. Fix your shit, hip-hop, or Jay-Z might get angry enough to stop having sex with Beyonce, building a basketball stadium, and smoking the most expensive cigars in the world and Fix. It. Himself.

Portrait Of The Artist As A Young Uninspired Lump Of Sod

MSN tells me I have one email waiting for me. When I sign in to check, nothing is there.
Explain.

The fact that there are multiple mnemonics for remembering the sequence of colors of the rainbow implies that at one time somebody assumed it would be easier to remember Roy. G. Biv than searing, unimaginable sky-light reality.
Explain.

I leave for life in nine days. The concept has yet to really sink in. I should probably pack.
You don't have to explain this one.

I have been thinking about starting a second one of these. Punching The World In The Face has become too one-sided for my polygonal tastes. I tossed this idea around before with the end result being "You don't actually produce enough in the ways of quantity or diversity to support two blogs, let alone one, you are a miserable energy-suck on all things bright and creative, go listen to more terrible hip-hop"

Upon revisiting, it turns out that this is still the case. But lately little things have had effects on me entirely out of their proportion, and the overall feeling is that my action potential is rising towards an inevitable discharge.
I am metaphorically taking in sodium.

However, since I am a filthy college student, my creative energies are devoted entirely to sex sex sex sex sex sex sex sex less than productive areas. This is due, in part, to The Internet. Observe:

Joey Comeau is the kind of guy I want to perpetually want to become, but never actually will (out of fear and also I mean, if I ever did, then what would I do?). For now I am content with linking to his last post about pictures that are sexy. It is like everything he ever writes manages to, regardless of subject matter, grab your darkest prettiest secrets and simultaneously shout in their faces and murmur soothing nothings in their ears. This is no exception.

Ramón Pérez, on the other hand, draws fanciful fancies and I could talk about his stuff all day but instead will just link to his collective display of "girl fridays", those seductive and supportive artsy muses that artists muse about. He's lucky enough to put them on paper regularly. We're lucky enough he puts them on the internet.

This is pretty much the only thing I can think of worth starting another GunsforEyes installment for, but since I'm not an artist, it'd boil down to me posting pictures of pretty girls and slipping in a paragraph or two of crumb-spraying, knuckle-dragging oafish adoration. More creepy than charming, in short.

I pretty much do that half the time on this blog anyway, though.

To sign off and, more importantly, to act as a jangly distraction against the ugly truth of my slavering boy-osity, here is an annotated photograph I have just taken of the current state my bedroom is in - launch window t minus nine days.
Obviously I am an individual fully prepared for what I am choosing to label as "College: Round Two". I have been in the belly of the beast once before and I have learned my lesson.

College is exactly like how it was in Transformers 2, right?

(Don't Worry) If There's A Hell Below We're All Going To Go

There are no things to write.
There are no things not to write.
All perish here.

In the past week and a half I have downloaded 24 albums - nearly three gigs of music.
All I do is listen, and get more.
My brain is simultaneously vacant and stuffed full of hot cotton.
I'd like to have all decisions made for me from now on, please, just point me in the direction I need to head. I would like to run for office.
I will wave and smile.
I will make the perfect figurehead. People will think the thing in my ear is piping in prompts for my acceptance speech.

Instead it will be this.
This is much better than talking.


(Note: The line "Play as funky as you can, Slim" may be the slickest thing ever said.)







CHANGEUP



You. Arcadian. What is your music. Give it here. I will feast on it.