I am become Scrooge...

Since my childhood I've been enamored with Charles Dickens' classic story "A Christmas Carol". Despite its relative brevity when compared with his other works, it has inspired me time and time again with its representation of the depravity and subsequent redemption of the infamous Ebenezer Scrooge. To me Scrooge has always embodied the essence of evil, a literary manifestation of the worst traits of human kind. Greedy, unfeeling, and unsympathetic to the plight of his fellow man, Ebenezer is such an vile and loathsome character that, until recently, I had found it difficult to identify with him. I looked to him as an example of what not to become, surely, never suspecting that I could be affiliated with him by anything other than species and sex. This year, however, upon beginning my annual rereading of this timeless classic I found that instead of my usual feelings of ire and ill will toward the previously named anti-hero I experienced a sort of bond with him bordering on kinship. I got the sense that perhaps we had more in common than I might have previously suspected.

I can honestly say that I'm largely innocent of Scrooge's more egregious offenses. My friends would (I hope) tell you that I rarely anger. I make frequent, if not large, donations to charity, and when I am witness to the suffering of others I am moved, sometimes to the point of tears. It is not in Scrooge's black heart and uncaring nature that I find parallels to myself, but rather, in our mutual disposition towards wasting our God given potential.

Scrooge is depicted as a shrewd man of business. His skills, put to proper use, would have allowed him to benefit the lives of countless others. He could have raised a family, helped the poor, and grown his business into an entity that could have employed and sustained countless others. He chose instead to horde the wealth he gained from his endeavors, secreting it away in accounts and coffers where it was of no benefit to him or anyone else.

While my own skills differ greatly from those of Ebenezer (I doubt honestly whether any of them would ever result in much financial gain) I find that as I look back on my 25 years of living they have been no less wasted. I have always harbored a certain affinity for music, dabbling in various instruments but never committing myself to a degree that would enable me to become truly proficient. I frequently express a fondness for writing and literature, the only visible evidences of this, however, are a few meager blog posts and a menagerie of undeveloped and unpromising ideas for stories that, if the past is any indication, I will never complete. I served a mission to Japan and am possessed of a moderate, though ever fading, grasp on the language. This too might have been honed into a skill that could perhaps have benefited myself and those around me. After much soul searching and introspection I come to the conclusion that I have squandered the majority of the gifts and opportunities in my life. Being afraid (of failure, or maybe even of success) I have hidden my talents in the earth and reaped the rewards of my sloth. Namely, a dead end job, and no prospects for a brighter future.

It took the intervention of a bevy of supernatural beings to awaken Scrooge to his plight and set him on the path of redemption. I fear that no such manifestation will be forthcoming for myself, but perhaps so dramatic a vision is not necessary. In recognizing my faults and weaknesses it is possible that I have taken the first step towards improving my lot. Perhaps in writing this I am, for the first time in a long time, recognizing that the path I currently tread will not lead me to the destination I seek. It is even possible, though unlikely, that I can find the motivation to change on my own. History tells me, however, that my nature will eventually get the better of me. I'll find solace in complacency, and in the years to come this post will stand as the only record of my brief commitment to bettering my situation. Perhaps I'll look back on it eventually, my potential still unfulfilled, my heart filled with regret.

and i'll probably end up looking like this guy...

In which I reveal some secrets...

Those of you who do not know me very well (although there are only four of you and we've all known each other for years) might mistakenly assume that I am manly man, or even a man's man (a man for men). You may have, upon seeing one of my many feats of strength, or feeling for yourselves the rock hard chest boulders that are my pecs, jumped to the conclusion that I, like many others of my sex, am a testosterone _______ (<-- insert natural disaster of choice here, I chose hurricane!). Enjoying as I do revealing strange or embarrassing information about myself in a venue open to the world, I come before you today to lay these rumors to rest, and to give you a peek at some of my more feminine idiosyncrasies.

To begin, I present to you a list of manly things that I either choose to ignore, am indifferent to, or even mildly despise.
(side note: bulleted lists are great for listing things and for breaking up with long time girlfriends.)

• Football
• Basketball
• Soccer
• Alaska
• Baseball
• Basically all sports
• Big boobs (called knockers in some circles)
• Fishing
• Fast cars
• Motor bikes
• Dogs
• Guns
• Hunting
• Farting (see farts)

Does it sadden me to think that I might never spend a raucous night with my pals, discussing Alaska, stroking our guns, and farting with our butts? It does not. I do not like those things. They are on my list. Instead of basically all sports, dogs, and motor bikes, I (at times) choose to fill my time with activities that might typically be considered girly, feminine, or flaming. 

Every wedding reception I've ever been to (the good ones at least) have some sort of photo slide show playing on an eternal loop. These films typically showcase how the bride and groom have grown from awkward youth, into awkward adolescence,  thereupon emerging into gloriously awkward adulthood. Despite their gangly natures, they defy conventions and find love in each others awkward arms. The photos of course are the focus of these interminable spectacles, more important to me however, and something which I've been compiling for my own future slideshow for years, is the accompanying soundtrack.

Every time I hear a song for the first time, whether at the supermarket, on my ipod, or sung by a guitar baring migrant worker (hungry for attention and corn tor ti llas), a question is invariably thrust upon me, not by an imagined force, but by the power of some actual being from the unseen world."Would this track be suitably romantic to accompany unflattering photos of both yourself and your future wife, if in fact there is anyone on this planet capable of loving you?" Seldom does the stepped reckoner that is my brain output an answer in the affirmative, but I have, over the course of my life, found a few gems. I present to you my current list, as it now stands, to the best of my memory. 

The Damnwells - Down With the Ship

Waking Ashland - Counting the Stars

The Postal Service - Be Still My Heart

A Phoenix Forever - Butterflies

Amber Pacific - If I Fall
Death Cab For Cutie - I Will Follow You Into the Dark

The Early November - Power of Love (cover)

Hit the Lights - Tell Me Where You Are (ep version)

Chase Holfelder - Something Real 

*disclaimer I was just about to include The Red Hot Chili Peppers "Special Secret Song Inside" in the above as a joke, but decided that it would definitely offend some of my more conservative readers, know that I considered it, and that it would have been hilarious if I had. (I do not encourage anyone to look up this song as it may destroy any and all of the things that you hold sacred.)

The list is not complete, many songs could still be added and some may yet be removed, but know ye that all of the above have at some point influenced me in a romantic way, drawing my thoughts to marriage, commitment, and making kissy kissy faces with the love of my life. I have yet to recognize her, but I imagine that she will be amazing, and will smell of raspberries and expensive cheese. She will also have no say over which songs eventually make it into our slideshow, she can pick the colors, the flowers, the food, and anything  else she sets her heart on, but upon this playlist, I stake my claim. 

Not flaming you say? Not effeminate enough to classify me as an itty bitty bing bong freak? I have one more instance of my muliebrity (a cool new word for femininity that I just learned) to relate. 

It's been one or two years since the dark incident which I disclose to you now, isolated, insomuch as I have not again been caught repeating it. Know that at the time this occurred I had been home from my mission for at least a year and had found myself largely ignored (and completely unkissed) by the fairer sex. Feeling lonely and avoiding even the company of my friends, I sat, a wretched creature clothed only in my most under of wears, strumming a mournful tune on my bass guitar. My only accompaniment? The ever popular romantic tale "The Notebook". Would that this horrid indiscretion could be hidden from the world, but alas, The Devil and God set traps to catch us in our most vulnerable of moments. My close friend Mark Harris, apparently eager to spend time with me and comfortable enough to enter my house uninvited (as he had done so many times before) walked down the stairs to my basement (my den of misery) and witnessed me in my abominable state. I imagine now that as the bright light from the lone bulb in the stairwell shone upon me through the recently opened door, I hissed, unprepared for its glimmering radiance. How did he react? How could he? Not a word was spoken. The door was closed. He left me to my anguish and it was some time before either of us was comfortable discussing the events in question. 

I enjoy chick flicks. The romanticism that they display is largely absent from the world or never existed to begin with, but these films, poorly written and predictable as the rising of the sun, somehow give me hope, they inspire me to believe in the notion that love can conquer all, as unbelievable as that sometimes becomes ... I also like Anne of Green Gables.  

Thanks for reading this overly long blog, let me know what you think of my list of romantic songs, also if you have any songs that you think might be a welcome addition include links to them in the comments below. 

In which I attempt to explain my deep seated affection for terrible things...

Since the days of my youth I have taken pleasure in subjecting myself to that which the critics of this world have deemed "bad". Be it film, novellas (vellum?), or even the poorly written headlines that cycle through my phone's news widget, medium be damned, my brain seeks after and imbibes upon the works of the least skilled children of the great flying spaghetti monster in the sky. Praise his name. Like a squalid hog I return again and again to the disease ridden sty that is netflix instant play and wallow in its murky depths.

Some might postulate that I labor under a delusion that the awful things of which I partake have some sort of redeeming value.  I am, however, much like the trusted Priest forcing himself upon a succulent young altar boy, fully aware of the sin that I commit. While watching 1992's horror film "Candyman" for example, I didn't just strap in, uncontrollably swept up in the rollercoaster ride of terror that I'm sure the writer thought he was offering up, instead, I asked questions... I questioned him to the bone. "Why", I asked, "Why, Clive Barker, is the antagonist in your movie called "Candyman"?", "Is it because he was stung by bees?", "Did their honey pool inside of him, crystalizing around his bones and forming some sort of delicious horehound?", "Is it not strange to you Clive, that despite the title of your movie not a single piece of candy is devoured or offered to anyone, by any man?". Unfortunately for me this dialogue took place only within my mind, and as such my questions went unanswered.

My joy in the sub-par owes very little to the efforts of the original creators and rather more to the ability of my own brain to take what would be (if we were currently inside of Wonka's chocolate factory) deemed, by squirrels, to be a bad nut, and turn it into something delicious. Perhaps crumbled into bits and sprinkled on my ice cream... or used as a base ingredient in some sort of nutty sauce. In hearing or reading the awful things perpetuated upon me by the writers guild, I twist them, using them as instruments of my own pleasure. Trust me when I say that I pleasure myself better than anyone else ever could. The mirth afforded me by watching a comedic film lasts perhaps a few months. That which is gained by comedifying everything around me will, I hope, last a lifetime.

Do you too revel in awful, no good, very bad entertainment? Share your reasoning in a comment below, or even just your thoughts on my humble first attempt at blogging.