Month: March 2005

There are few joys in life that can compare to the joys of eating campfire food. Cooking over an open flame, in the middle of the woods, listening to the firewood crackle and pop, being blinded by the smoke that follows you around the campfire no matter where you sit to escape it… ahhh, true bliss. Now, I’m a (half-assed) vegetarian. But, in the woods I’m a full-fledged, unapologetic carnivore. Meat! Fire! How much more primal can you get? None. None more primal. It’s a good feeling… but I’m leaving something out. Marshmallows!

Yes, marshmallows. Sugary, squishy, gelatiny, bite-sized, psuedo-cylinders of pure euphoria. Personally, I’ve always marveled at the patience required to make that perfectly roasted marshmallow. Hovering the marshmallow over the flames, and rotating oh so gently… it’s a thing of beauty when done properly. My technique is slightly different, yet no less intricate (yep, I’m that guy). I plunge the marshmallow deep into the belly of the flame. I let the fire engulf the swelling sugar wad. Soon the marshmallow’s outer coating ignites and that’s when I extract the flaming meteor from the heart of the fire. I let it burn until it’s charred and blackened (not unlike my soul). When the fire goes out, I’m left with a bloated, ash-covered exoskeleton. Underneath however, is where the magic lies… scaldingly hot marshmallow magma just waiting to torch the interior of my mouth. I thrust that bad boy in. The marshmallow innards spread like napalm as my taste buds scream with pleasure (or in agony).

The point? Wait… I’m getting there.

Have you ever roasted marshmallows with a campfire newbie? Or, has this ever happened to you… maybe your first time? The marshmallow, atop the marshmallow stick, ignites into a flame ball. The marshmallow stick operator freaks out and starts to wave the stick with the flaming marshmallow around, in a failing attempt to put out the fire… which, in turn, just serves to feed the flame and make it burn hotter and faster. Now, as the flaming marshmallow heats up more rapidly, and the interior loses its solid integrity and becomes a liquid, the waving fire ball of a marshmallow succumbs to centrifugal force as the frictional hold breaks between the stick and marshmallow, launching it in a perfect tangential vector away from the naive operator and into the woods… or worse, your lap.

I’ve seen this happen a few times and it’s always absurdly funny (horribly dangerous and potentially life threatening too… but I think comedy trumps danger in this situation). Now if one could only harness the power of an airborne flaming marshmallow, the world might be a more tolerant place.

Here comes the point… get ready.

Today, at ThinkGeek, I discovered a pneumatic handheld marshmallow launcher. So close! If only there was a marshmallow ignitor attachment, I’d be sold. Still, at the very reasonable price of $25 I might be tempted.

…And that’s it. Can you believe that you read this entire entry just for that? Oh… the frustration you must feel. I am so sorry.

Where to begin…

I was (pleasantly) surprised by the sheer quantity of responses that I received to the last couple of posts. Many of my dear readers took the little informal survey. I also received quite a few emails with some personal stories and comments… thank you for that. Honestly, all of this was very helpful and I am grateful to all who participated and shared their thoughts.

A few readers commented on some flawed logic of mine… maybe not flawed logic exactly. More like an inaccurate expression of my thoughts.

One comment in particular, touched on the subject of hollywood love. Let me paste it here:

Nothing else in the universe is constant and immutable; why does hollywood insist on telling us that Love is? That if we don’t have a moment where we suddenly know we’ll always be ‘happily ever after’ that we’re somehow lacking?

The anonymous commenter is right… or at least, has some good ideas. Maybe hollywood has shifted my perception of what love is. Maybe the storybook true love that I’m longing for is simply an illusion. Maybe it doesn’t happen like that in the real world (often, anyway). But, damn! Doesn’t it look good? Don’t you want to experience true love like that?

I do. I think I do. Do I?

Anyway… I mentioned in my last entry that it would be my final post concerning topics of love and relationships. And as I mentioned numerous times before, I’m a liar, and remorselessly so. Do what you will with that info. I’m off to get some coffee. I promise that the next post will be something that we can all ignore… and you know how sacredly I hold promises.

I have collected a couple comments concerning my current chronicled creation, in which the concealed commenters commented on the calamity of my commentary.

Sorry… sometimes I get stuck. Let’s give that another try:

I have gotten a few comments to my last post in which the anonymous authors remarked on the sadness of my entry. Hmmm… maybe I over did it with the drama.

I’m about to talk about love and relationships again. I wouldn’t be offended if you left right now. This is your chance… Run away!

I guess that it’s not that I don’t know what love is. No, I’ve experienced it… twice. And, it’s not that in the times when I have thought to have been in love, I actually was not. It’s more that those loves where the wrong kinds of love. Don’t get me wrong, they were beautiful, wonderful, and I learned so much about myself and about love during those relationships. But yes, those loves must not have been the right kind of love. Clearly, this must be the truth, or else I would still be with those whom I was in love with. That makes sense, right? If the love was right, we would still be together. Logically, that is solid. Why do I feel as though I am missing something?

In my naive youth, I thought that love was binary. One either loves or does not love. The love switch is either in the On position or it’s Off. There is no dimmer switch in the realm of love. One cannot turn down the love without turning it off. “Man, the love is way too bright in here. Let’s dim the love.” But it appears that I was wrong. It seems as though there are shades of grey when concerning love… there are varying levels of love… where the pinnacle must be true love.

I’d like to think that true love is different than your regular, run o’ the mill, generic brand love. I want to think that true love is something that I will just know, without question… something that feels so right… something where any other option seems utterly absurd. I guess that I won’t really know it until it hits me…

Ok… survey time. Answer the following questions to the best of your knowledge (contained within the parenthesis are my answers):
1) Have you ever been in love? (Yes)
2) How many times? (Two)
3) Have you ever tricked yourself into thinking that you were in love? (Maybe)
4) Have you ever said “I love you” and not meant it? (Unfortunately, yes)
5) Have you ever experienced true love? (Nope)
6) Are you sure? (Nope)
7) If so, what was it like? How did you know that it was true love? (N/A)
8) Have you ever been in love with a donut? A dozen donuts? (Yes! Oh god, yes…)
9) Will you buy me a donut? (Not a chance.)
10) Please? (Fine…)

The main thing here is that those of you who have ever experienced true love, come forward and let the rest of us know that it exists… renew our faith. Let us know what it’s like, when you knew, and how you knew.

Thanks for your input. I promise that this will be the last post of this sort (for a while, at least).

Lately, it seems as though all conversations lead in the same direction. They point to the same place. Regardless of what the initial topic was, all innocent conversations inevitably become harrowing (for me) talks of relationship woes, relationship triumphs, or relationship confusions. Yesterday’s conversation was no different.

My friend Rebecca and I ventured out into the Northampton night. Our destination was The Tunnel Bar, where we sat in the furthest possible place from the door… the darkest, most foreboding area of the establishment. It seemed somehow appropriate. And the light at the end of the tunnel (come on… you know I had to throw that one in) was far, far away.

We began talking and laughing, as we tend to do. And, as I mentioned, the lighthearted dialog transformed (as it tends to do) into the Relationship-with-a-capital-R conversation.

It was good though. She and I have always shared a yearning for true love… while simultaneously sharing a frustration for the process. Anyway, it was within this conversation that Rebecca brought forth the following statement… poignant, concise, honest:

If this is love, I’m fucked.

She was referring, of course, to past relationships and to the times when she felt that she was in love. This instantly rang true with me (so true, that I deemed it critical to jot it down on a napkin and then take a phone-cam photo… hence the grainy, blurry, and all-around crappy photo attached to this entry).

The point is… or at least, the point that I’m trying to make, is that apparently I have no idea what love is. The times when I have felt that I was in love or have been loved have all concluded in venomous spheres of torment… ok, admittedly that’s a tad harsh. How ’bout if they “have all ended unpleasantly.” If the love that I have experienced is truly love, then I am fucked. Hopefully, (please please please) it’s simply a matter of “I just haven’t found true love yet.” I’m clinging to that… because if true love is on the line, I don’t think that I’m willing to settle for psuedo-love. In other words, I think that I would rather be alone than be half-assed in love.

Yep. It’s full-assed, 100% lovin’ or no lovin’ at all.

(that should be a bumper sticker)

Welcome to sambot.com, version 2 (click here if you’re reading via rss). And it’s a about damn time, too. It was in January that I first mentioned that the long anticipated sequel was on its way (remember how good I am at procrastinating? Well, you can take this as proof). Here it is in mid March, and I’ve finally gotten it done. So, without any further banter, here it is: version 2.

Further banter (so I’m a liar too. Sue me): In class on Monday, I am going to be giving a lecture on website design. We are going to build a site from scratch. I am going to walk my students through the steps (or at least my steps), from start to finish. We are going to go from Photoshop to Imageready to Dreamweaver to some simple hand coding (for all you purists out there, remember, this is Graphic Design… not web application development. I know Dreamweaver is far inferior to notepad… but what can you do? Presumably, we’re a class full of artists. We can’t trouble ourselves with all of this meaningless code… *gasp* I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean that. What I meant was, I don’t really have time to teach HTML. Maybe later in the semester.) So, in class, I’m going to rebuild sambot.com for my students… while they watch, mouths agape in amazement.

There are still some bugs and kinks that I have to work out… and the code could use a little housekeeping… and all of the old posts’ images are going to look wrong… but, on the whole, I like this design more than the original. Cleaner, slimmer, grayer. Anyway, if you happen to stumble upon anything that is broken, please give me a hollar.

Final though: I hate you Internet Explorer! I hate you so much! Why are you so inconsistent? Why must you destroy everything that I create? Why are you not good?

Final thought, Part II: Why is there a picture of me with jumper cables attached to this post? I have no idea.

UPDATE: sambot.com is broken under Internet Exporer 5.2.3 for Mac. Solution: Don’t use Internet Explorer 5.2.3 for Mac.

sambot.com is about to get wonky. Consider yourself forwarned. Hopefully, in about an hour or so, you’ll see a shiny and new sambot.com.

I’ve never been good at high-fives. It’s true. Ask anyone who has ever attempted to share a triumphant moment of victory with me. Go on… ask ’em. They’ll say something like, “Yeah… Sam and I won that tournament thingy and, in celebration, we attempted a high-five. That’s how I got this terrifying, Xamot-like scar on my face. If I ever see that bastard again, I’m gonna rip his…” You get the idea.

I don’t really know where the culprit lies. Is it depth perception? Hand eye coordination? Lack of coolness? Well, regardless of the cause, I feel that this ineptitude has the tendency to squelch all of the excitement from the moment that instigated it in the first place. Essentially, after the high-five failure, it’s hard to carry on with the original joyous moment. I killed it. I killed all of the fun. Damn these hands!

Before I go off to grad school, I feel as though I should attempt to smooth out my high-five skills. I can only assume that there will be a lot of high-fiving during class. Like, “Hey Sam, way to go on your thesis! *high-five* ARGHHH!!! My eye!”

FUN FACT: In the process of looking for a photo… I mean, drawing of Xamot, I discovered that the name of the Cobra Emperor (from the G.I. Joe cartoons and comics) is spelled “Serpentor” and not “Sir Pentor.” Initially, I had just assumed that some dude named Pentor had been knighted (like Sir Bill Gates) thus creating “Sir Pentor.” I’ve been living a lie for the past 20 years.

I’m trying really, really, really hard to not blog about how crappy things are at work right now. Oh… I guess that I just did. Ah well… and now for something completely different…

WARNING: While the following entry is brilliant in every way, the subject matter has been known to make queasy those with weak stomachs. Read with caution.

Flesh. Not only is it chewy and delicious, but… wait, that’s not it. Let me start over: Flesh. Living tissue. Miraculous, regenerative, living tissue. When I crash my body into something, I bruise… sometimes I bleed (often I swear). But amazingly enough, I heal. Give my body time and I can heal almost any flesh wound. Truly amazing!

When I crash my car into something, it dents, scratches, or cracks. That costs me money and time and aggravation. I need to have it fixed. I need to bring it somewhere and pay someone to fix it. That’s lame! Totally lame and totally antiquated. Imagine however, that the body of my car was made out of living flesh instead of cold, dead steel and plastic. I could simply give it some time (maybe rub in some Neosporin) and it would heal itself. Problem solved.

Sure… why not? I’m no fancy shmancy bio-engineer or anything, but come on… how hard could it be to graft some living tissue onto a car’s framework. (And just think, you could get your car a cool flame tattoo.)

As far as maintenance? Well, I’m not really sure. I’d assume that one would have to rub on some protective balm for the cold winter months… maybe some sunscreen during the summer… and then there’s the occasional pimple to attend to… it’s a labor of love really.

Hmmm… since this is living tissue that we’re talking about, we’ll have to feed it somehow. Our flesh car needs nutrients. And since we’re feeding it, it’ll most likely create some kind of waste material. Uh… I guess that’ll need to be disposed of. And can the flesh die? Can it contract disease? Will it start to rot? Flesh cars will rot instead of rust… weird. And creepy.

Ok… admittedly, this Flesh Car idea of mine is a tad underdeveloped. I recognize this and I’m ok with it. In fact, this is specifically why I’m blogging about it. I am generously open sourcing the Flesh Car. Yes! As of right now, the Flesh Car is open source. Go internet, go! Take this idea… run with it! Frolic in the autumn mist! Do whatever you need to do to make Flesh Car a reality.

Anyway, I’m kinda grossing myself out… so, I guess that’s it.

I’m feeling… ummm… less bad than yesterday. Thanks for your concern, thanks for letting me vent, and thanks for sending the good vibes my way (I didn’t actually receive any of the aforementioned “good vibes”… my personal firewall probably prevented the vibes from making it through. I’ll have to check with the admin).

And now… on to more important things. Like The Mars Volta.

My pal, Mike, introduced me to The Mars Volta some time ago. He handed me a burned CD (for purely back-up purposes, of course) and said, “Listen to this. It’s interesting. You’ll like it.” It was a copy of the album De-Loused in the Comatorium.

I listened to that CD for about two weeks straight. Every track turned corners into areas of sound that I would have never expected. It kept me guessing. And Interested. And, just as I thought that I had them figured out, The Mars Volta pulls something completely amazing out of nowhere.

But, what do they sound like? It’s impossible to put these guys in a little box like that. Standard rock setup; vocals, guitars, bass, drums. What are they though? Punk, emo, hardcore, prog… The Mars Volta consists of components of hugely unrelated musical styles. But not in the way that their style might seem unfocused or scattered. No. On the contrary, it is intensely focused, densely layered, and impossible to ignore. The Mars Volta is not background music.

Their newest endeavor, Frances the Mute (which I was able to get a preview of a couple of months ago), is out now. In many ways, it is an extension of De-Loused. This album however, has the potential of being its superior, emotionally matured, successor. I have been listening to the full work, without rest since yesterday.

Frances the Mute is amazing. Go buy it. Now!

This weekend was strange. In everything that I did, I continuously felt as though I was one step behind everyone else. I couldn’t keep up with anyone… physically, socially, intellectually, emotionally. I don’t know why. Maybe I had a lot on my mind… actually, I know that I had a lot on my mind.

Have you ever felt that way? Like, no matter what you are doing, your timing is just off. And it is off by such a minute amount that it’s hardly perceptible, nevertheless it is fucking everything up.

Grrr…

Well, anyway… it is Monday morning. It is sunny outside, yet the looming workweek hangs overhead like a bleak storm cloud… about to rain bricks on the unsuspecting masses below. Ok… I really need to stop listening to Lacrimas Profundere first thing on Monday morning (Lacrimas Profundere translates into something like “weeping profusely”).

I don’t know. Maybe when the coffee kicks in I will be feeling a bit more cheerful.