This blog still exists, amazing. I know that absolutely no one will see this and that's fine but I wanted to write this quick post for myself.
I'm finally doing it, I'm working towards a career. In the next week I will be publishing my first website, www.Featsandfeasts.com and that's just the beginning! I think that I'm going to make this blogging thing something that I do on a regular basis, I'm sure that if nothing else it will be cathartic. I'm working towards making an online presence for myself, F&F is just the beginning. I plan on going as far with all of this as possible.
I've started learning html and css, soon I'll be on to jquery and Javascript. It's intimidating and exciting. I also plan on making templates and publishing them and I'm exploring monetization of websites. I hope to come back to this post in a few days and click the hyperlink that I posted above and have it send me to my semi-complete website. That's my first goal.
Thursday, August 25, 2016
Monday, June 1, 2009
I Suck and Thats ok
I have been sitting here for about five minutes trying to think of a good excuse on why I haven't written in my blog or really written at all for that matter. I could say that I was busy, that I had other things to do but anyone that really knows me knows that I would just be bullshitting. I noticed that my last post was in December that is way too long for someone that makes the claim that they want to take writing more seriously. I know what the problem is I just don’t want to admit it to myself. With all things that have happened to me in the last few months I have spent more time with a pen in my hand and it not touching paper than I feel comfortable admitting.
The fact of the matter is I think too much—it stifles creativity.
For the longest time I knew that in my life I wanted to be creative. I wanted to create something from my mind and make a physical representation of it. However with that want I didn’t consider the problems that would meet me half way—or even at the start line. I want to be able to write what I want when I want it and I am unable to accept anything less than complete perfection; which is horribly unrealistic I realize that but the feeling still lingers even when I tell myself that I’m not going to get good until I suck first. I’ve been going about this whole thing the wrong way I have to tell myself that I'm aloud to write crap.
About a year back I began writing what I thought was going to be my Beethoven’s 9th. It was about a Nazi solder that was in hiding after the war. He was waiting for death to find him so he can escape the punishment that he was already dealing out to himself. I first tried writing it chronologically that went well until about page three. Then as I thought of an event I would begin writing from that moment and try to figure out how to tie it all together. Once I realized that wasn’t going to work. I tried character development. The story wouldn’t budge from my brain I didn’t realize at the time that while the plot of the story was at the very least decent. My skills as a writer were—and still are—absolute garbage. Over the last week I’ve accepted that as fact and I now feel that I am ready to crawl out from this pit I jumped headfirst into.
I'm going to allow myself to be a crappy writer because that is exactly what I am and I shouldn’t force what isn’t there. Don’t get me wrong I’m still going to push myself but now at least I know I'm not Stephen King.
Thursday, December 18, 2008
Fingers of Fury
For those of you who type three million words a minute I envy you; although, you are also the ones that understand my pain. This is my first attempt at typing properly, without looking, and the tears are streaming trust me.
Typing without looking (for me at least), is like putting a three legged horse in the triple-crown. It’s cruel, unusual, and very ugly. I’m gonna keep at it though because I need a job and this will hopefully do something for that… I think. Ok, I’m going to keep it short; gray matter is now leaking from my ears and I want to save some of it for later. (Ow! My brains!)
Tuesday, December 16, 2008
Episode 3. Closing Time
A missile ripped into the sails of Tom’s ship, narrowly missing the mast.
“That was too close,” Tom said.
He swung his ship around for better position—readying to fire another round at his enemy. He had earlier traveled to the calm, quiet space near Pluto to intercept the coming invasion. It was now the location of a cosmic storm that was continuously pelting the fleet of alien battle cruisers and the hull of Tom’s ship.
Tom charged his weapons and fired a volley at the fleet. It damaged nearly one-third of the fifteen ships and completely disabled an additional two.
“This will be too simple; I want a fight not a dance!” Tom chuckled as he began to reload.
A small alien ensign approached his much fatter, blue skinned commander. It fearfully asked for permission to speak.
“Lord Vordek, we have reason to believe that our current weapons can’t penetrate the hull of The Maiden. The engineers think that Tom is using a new alloy that we have no knowledge of currently. Your crew wishes to retreat.”
“I should have you castrated for such insolence,” Blubbered Vordek. “All is not yet lost. Tell me peon, what is the exact time where Tom makes his home on Earth?”
“Well sir… it’s exactly seven fifty-three in their post meridiem or PM time. But I don’t see what that has to do with anything your Lordship.”
“You shall see fool… for I shall still win this day!” He laughed, causing his whole body to jiggle.
Tom decided he was growing bored of this weak assault from a clearly unworthy enemy. So he moved to his main cannon—aiming it toward the alien command vessel—he charged it up. Just before firing the crippling blow to the fleet, an alarm began blaring throughout his ship. Tom froze, just shy of hitting the launch button. He looked down at his watch and his eyes widened.
“Oh Crap!”
Tom went and raised the damaged—but still functional sails and turned the ship to make a full retreat.
“We have him now,” Vordek said. “Fire everything we have left at his main engine. He mustn’t get up to warp speed!”
Having placed his full focus in retreat, Tom noticed the incoming attack too late to dodge it. The impact knocked him off of his feet and jolted the ship violently. Though the ship received no heavy damage from the attack, the engine sputtered, coughed, and then finally died. Tom rose to his feet. He looked around his ship with a look of shock on his face.
“You stalled? You’re a Pirate Ship; you’re not allowed to stall!”
Mumbling to himself he walked over to the steering column of the ship. He sat and placed his foot on the brake pedal. He turned the key to the ship. The engine argued at first but finally gave in and started again. Tom then looked down at his watch.
“No!”
Tom, now furious, turned to once again deal with his foe; he went back over and fired the main cannon at its intended target.
Direct hit!
The command vessel exploded; spewing out wreckage, small blue chunks of viscera, and one small escape pod. The pod—along with the other remaining ships began their full retreat.
Inside the pod were Lord Vordek and his feeble ensign.
“Master,” The ensign asked, can you please explain to me what just happened?”
“I thought it would work.” Vordek mumbled.
“You thought what would work sir?”
“You imbecile, you worthless fool! Everyone knows that that idiot Captain Tom has an eight-o-clock curfew. He has to get home or else he’ll—“
Just then, a very large chunk of what used to be the ship hits the escape pod. It sends it flying off course.
Even Captain Tom could hear the screams of the two inside of it.
Captain Tom saved the day once again!
Will the evil Lord Vordek get out of his situation? Why does Tom have such a strange curfew? Will the author of this story ever become rich? Only time will tell!
“That was too close,” Tom said.
He swung his ship around for better position—readying to fire another round at his enemy. He had earlier traveled to the calm, quiet space near Pluto to intercept the coming invasion. It was now the location of a cosmic storm that was continuously pelting the fleet of alien battle cruisers and the hull of Tom’s ship.
Tom charged his weapons and fired a volley at the fleet. It damaged nearly one-third of the fifteen ships and completely disabled an additional two.
“This will be too simple; I want a fight not a dance!” Tom chuckled as he began to reload.
A small alien ensign approached his much fatter, blue skinned commander. It fearfully asked for permission to speak.
“Lord Vordek, we have reason to believe that our current weapons can’t penetrate the hull of The Maiden. The engineers think that Tom is using a new alloy that we have no knowledge of currently. Your crew wishes to retreat.”
“I should have you castrated for such insolence,” Blubbered Vordek. “All is not yet lost. Tell me peon, what is the exact time where Tom makes his home on Earth?”
“Well sir… it’s exactly seven fifty-three in their post meridiem or PM time. But I don’t see what that has to do with anything your Lordship.”
“You shall see fool… for I shall still win this day!” He laughed, causing his whole body to jiggle.
Tom decided he was growing bored of this weak assault from a clearly unworthy enemy. So he moved to his main cannon—aiming it toward the alien command vessel—he charged it up. Just before firing the crippling blow to the fleet, an alarm began blaring throughout his ship. Tom froze, just shy of hitting the launch button. He looked down at his watch and his eyes widened.
“Oh Crap!”
Tom went and raised the damaged—but still functional sails and turned the ship to make a full retreat.
“We have him now,” Vordek said. “Fire everything we have left at his main engine. He mustn’t get up to warp speed!”
Having placed his full focus in retreat, Tom noticed the incoming attack too late to dodge it. The impact knocked him off of his feet and jolted the ship violently. Though the ship received no heavy damage from the attack, the engine sputtered, coughed, and then finally died. Tom rose to his feet. He looked around his ship with a look of shock on his face.
“You stalled? You’re a Pirate Ship; you’re not allowed to stall!”
Mumbling to himself he walked over to the steering column of the ship. He sat and placed his foot on the brake pedal. He turned the key to the ship. The engine argued at first but finally gave in and started again. Tom then looked down at his watch.
“No!”
Tom, now furious, turned to once again deal with his foe; he went back over and fired the main cannon at its intended target.
Direct hit!
The command vessel exploded; spewing out wreckage, small blue chunks of viscera, and one small escape pod. The pod—along with the other remaining ships began their full retreat.
Inside the pod were Lord Vordek and his feeble ensign.
“Master,” The ensign asked, can you please explain to me what just happened?”
“I thought it would work.” Vordek mumbled.
“You thought what would work sir?”
“You imbecile, you worthless fool! Everyone knows that that idiot Captain Tom has an eight-o-clock curfew. He has to get home or else he’ll—“
Just then, a very large chunk of what used to be the ship hits the escape pod. It sends it flying off course.
Even Captain Tom could hear the screams of the two inside of it.
Captain Tom saved the day once again!
Will the evil Lord Vordek get out of his situation? Why does Tom have such a strange curfew? Will the author of this story ever become rich? Only time will tell!
Monday, December 15, 2008
Hidden Genius
I had to take the bus home today from the mall and most of the trip was what I would consider uneventful. I am however always looking around to see if there is anything or anyone that seems strange to me. Today was one of those days.
A homeless man caught the bus. I know it’s not a big deal in a city for a homeless guy to get on a bus. They get on buses every day. I just thought I would watch this guy—mainly because my mp3 player died and I was bored. Anyway, he had on a dark brown hoodie—with nothing underneath, muddy jeans and old work-boots. He carried with him a tattered cardboard square that said “spare some change” on one side and had the Tropicana logo on the other. He smelled like urine and looked as if he liked to swim in it.
This is about the description I would give to any bum on the street; but this guy piqued my interest when he went to put the two dollar fare in the bus. Out of his mud and urine soaked pocket he pulled out a large wad of cash. From what I saw he had at least four twenties. This means he has a net worth that is better than mine.
This frustrated me—on the one hand I can think negatively, “This untouchable is even doing better than me!” I however decided to go with this thought, “This man sits on his ass, begs and makes more money than a hard working part-time lackey.
This man is a genius!
A student of Oxford several years ago—as part of his masters for sociology decided to quit his job and beg for all his money. He wiped windshields with Windex and newspaper for a pound each. He was not only able to feed himself with his new profession; he paid off nearly half of his school loans within the year. He was so successful that he nearly quit school to become a professional homeless person. He would make more money if he was “on the streets” full time, and the money he would make would be tax-free.
I have decided that I would personally never resort to trading my pride for money. It occurs to me when people say to his or her local beggar for them to get a job; I will from now on pause and think—“They have one and it pays better than most.”
A homeless man caught the bus. I know it’s not a big deal in a city for a homeless guy to get on a bus. They get on buses every day. I just thought I would watch this guy—mainly because my mp3 player died and I was bored. Anyway, he had on a dark brown hoodie—with nothing underneath, muddy jeans and old work-boots. He carried with him a tattered cardboard square that said “spare some change” on one side and had the Tropicana logo on the other. He smelled like urine and looked as if he liked to swim in it.
This is about the description I would give to any bum on the street; but this guy piqued my interest when he went to put the two dollar fare in the bus. Out of his mud and urine soaked pocket he pulled out a large wad of cash. From what I saw he had at least four twenties. This means he has a net worth that is better than mine.
This frustrated me—on the one hand I can think negatively, “This untouchable is even doing better than me!” I however decided to go with this thought, “This man sits on his ass, begs and makes more money than a hard working part-time lackey.
This man is a genius!
A student of Oxford several years ago—as part of his masters for sociology decided to quit his job and beg for all his money. He wiped windshields with Windex and newspaper for a pound each. He was not only able to feed himself with his new profession; he paid off nearly half of his school loans within the year. He was so successful that he nearly quit school to become a professional homeless person. He would make more money if he was “on the streets” full time, and the money he would make would be tax-free.
I have decided that I would personally never resort to trading my pride for money. It occurs to me when people say to his or her local beggar for them to get a job; I will from now on pause and think—“They have one and it pays better than most.”
Sunday, December 7, 2008
Living Memories
I have been trying to get myself on track for several weeks now. I am more active, I feel a small bubbling of determination in my gut nowadays, I even have improved my overall hygiene (everyone including myself is grateful for that). I am really beginning to feel that I can do some of the things that I set my mind to, but the last few days some problems from my past have reestablished their foothold on my life. While I try to focus on me, the guilt of what I have left behind keeps me tethered to the what used to be.
I know this is all a part of "growing up" it just seems a little unfair any way I look at it. People say don't dwell in the past but what should one do when the past is part of your current life?
...oh well in a few days this won't matter hopefully, because it will be back to the real world, and back to the drawing board.
I know this is all a part of "growing up" it just seems a little unfair any way I look at it. People say don't dwell in the past but what should one do when the past is part of your current life?
...oh well in a few days this won't matter hopefully, because it will be back to the real world, and back to the drawing board.
Friday, December 5, 2008
Episode 2: The Coat Of Thew
After making short work of the evil Thulu Empire and thwarting their attempted invasion of Earth, our hero was busy surveying the damage of his ship. After taking a few steps Tom heard a dripping noise.
“What the hell is that?” he asked himself.
He looked all around and found nothing. It was when he looked to his side when he saw what the sound was—his left arm was missing.
Angered; he fired several more shots at the already disabled Mother ship. Realizing that there was nothing else he could do to the aliens since he killed them all already, he regained his composure and decided to go back to Earth to recharge his ship for the next mission.
After he docked his ship in the retrofitted basement of an inner-city row home, he put his ship on standby to let it charge overnight.
He went upstairs, looked at the place where his arm once was and mumbled to himself. He sat upon his throne and turned on the television—Tom only watches the Sci-fi channel because it is in reality the CNN of all intergalactic news and not just bad movies.
After watching commercials for several minutes, an infomercial for the newest innovation in rice-pudding came on. Tom has always hated rice pudding. Disgusted by it he turned off the television and sat for a moment thinking what he should do with the rest of the day. He decided he would go out among the regular citizens of the world and mingle. So he put on the clothes that he thought ordinary people wore—which were jeans and a t-shirt—and went out to society.
Once out, he walked to the shopping mall to see what all the fascination was about these miniature cities. As he went along, all the people who saw him noticed his missing arm and ran screaming from the grotesque sight. Tom thought to himself that next time he will study current fashion so people won’t be bothered by his poor choice of attire. He then walked down the strip of stores and spotted a clothing store for larger people—having to contain much more power, his body is of a larger size than most. Not fatter just bigger.
Tom saw this as a good opportunity to see what was considered modern fashion. He walked into this place of retail and immediately one particular coat on the wall grabbed his attention.
“My God!” he exclaimed, “This…this is the coat of legend, The Coat of Thew!”
As he stared at the coat, he did not notice the gaping onlookers staring at his missing arm. He didn’t hear when the little girl screamed and ran out of the store followed quickly by her portly father. He did however notice when the clerk tapped him on his good shoulder.
“S...sir do you need a doctor? The fearful, pimpled young man asked him.
Tom turned around slowly, his remaining hand firmly fixed on his trusty knife—that had engraved on its hilt Death. He looked down at the tiny man. He saw the store logo on his sunken chest and said slowly.
“You are lucky, merchant; most don’t get the opportunity to see my face.”
"Seriously, man I think you need a doctor your arm is mis--”
“Tell me about this coat. Is it truly the coat of legend the one sung by minstrels of yore?”
"Ok. Look dude, I’m gonna call the cops ‘cause I can’t have you bleeding on my floor. My manager will be pissed, and I really need this job.”
“Now look child…” Tom said powerfully …you will give me this coat, for the Thulu ripped my last one when they attacked me. So I suggest you oblige my request before it is no longer one.”
“Ok, fine dude. Take the coat, whatever. You’re the one with the freaking missing arm. Just take it and get out, please.”
“Worry not child for my arm will return to me when I next drink my ale”
The boy turned and walked to the back of the store mumbling.
“Where’s that damned shop-vac?”
Victory!
After vanquishing the trickster that was The Merchant, Captain Tom draped the Coat of Thew across his superior shoulders and marched home to await his next battle. What insurmountable odds face our hero next? Only time will tell!
“What the hell is that?” he asked himself.
He looked all around and found nothing. It was when he looked to his side when he saw what the sound was—his left arm was missing.
Angered; he fired several more shots at the already disabled Mother ship. Realizing that there was nothing else he could do to the aliens since he killed them all already, he regained his composure and decided to go back to Earth to recharge his ship for the next mission.
After he docked his ship in the retrofitted basement of an inner-city row home, he put his ship on standby to let it charge overnight.
He went upstairs, looked at the place where his arm once was and mumbled to himself. He sat upon his throne and turned on the television—Tom only watches the Sci-fi channel because it is in reality the CNN of all intergalactic news and not just bad movies.
After watching commercials for several minutes, an infomercial for the newest innovation in rice-pudding came on. Tom has always hated rice pudding. Disgusted by it he turned off the television and sat for a moment thinking what he should do with the rest of the day. He decided he would go out among the regular citizens of the world and mingle. So he put on the clothes that he thought ordinary people wore—which were jeans and a t-shirt—and went out to society.
Once out, he walked to the shopping mall to see what all the fascination was about these miniature cities. As he went along, all the people who saw him noticed his missing arm and ran screaming from the grotesque sight. Tom thought to himself that next time he will study current fashion so people won’t be bothered by his poor choice of attire. He then walked down the strip of stores and spotted a clothing store for larger people—having to contain much more power, his body is of a larger size than most. Not fatter just bigger.
Tom saw this as a good opportunity to see what was considered modern fashion. He walked into this place of retail and immediately one particular coat on the wall grabbed his attention.
“My God!” he exclaimed, “This…this is the coat of legend, The Coat of Thew!”
As he stared at the coat, he did not notice the gaping onlookers staring at his missing arm. He didn’t hear when the little girl screamed and ran out of the store followed quickly by her portly father. He did however notice when the clerk tapped him on his good shoulder.
“S...sir do you need a doctor? The fearful, pimpled young man asked him.
Tom turned around slowly, his remaining hand firmly fixed on his trusty knife—that had engraved on its hilt Death. He looked down at the tiny man. He saw the store logo on his sunken chest and said slowly.
“You are lucky, merchant; most don’t get the opportunity to see my face.”
"Seriously, man I think you need a doctor your arm is mis--”
“Tell me about this coat. Is it truly the coat of legend the one sung by minstrels of yore?”
"Ok. Look dude, I’m gonna call the cops ‘cause I can’t have you bleeding on my floor. My manager will be pissed, and I really need this job.”
“Now look child…” Tom said powerfully …you will give me this coat, for the Thulu ripped my last one when they attacked me. So I suggest you oblige my request before it is no longer one.”
“Ok, fine dude. Take the coat, whatever. You’re the one with the freaking missing arm. Just take it and get out, please.”
“Worry not child for my arm will return to me when I next drink my ale”
The boy turned and walked to the back of the store mumbling.
“Where’s that damned shop-vac?”
Victory!
After vanquishing the trickster that was The Merchant, Captain Tom draped the Coat of Thew across his superior shoulders and marched home to await his next battle. What insurmountable odds face our hero next? Only time will tell!
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