The (Hypothetical) Mathematics of Christmas

Making a study that spans a number of yearly cycles is nowhere near this author's forte, and to be quite honest, neither is Mathematics. As numerically challenged as this author is, an attempt at discovering the algorithms of Christmas is not entirely out of the question. It's not so much as an inquiry of why, or discovering the relevance of such an endeavor has in the grand scheme of things, but more or less a pursuit that can be best described as fueled by the need to do something other than slip into a catatonic state of inaction.

The theory goes that the age of a person is inversely proportional to the amount of phat lewt (or as celebrants of the birth of certain messianic infant, "gifts") one receives during these times of Yule. Granted, this could be an isolated case of one's upbringing and differs from person to person. Still, boredom dictates that formulation continues. To put it simply, as one’s purchasing power increases (bums and hobos not included) instead of your peers giving more gifts, it seems mightily absent. The reason is of course, lost in a pile of sweet and putrid fruit cake, meaning, it’s rather pointless to speculate further as the mind is already slipping due to the sheer stupidity of what’s been written so far.

However there seems to be a reverse of the trend when one sadly departs the domain of singledom and "settles down" to raise a family (How can anyone call it settling down when it's infinitely more chaotic than single life is simply mind boggling.). That is, if one was fortunate enough to have other poor souls to join in the procreation of the human species and suffer the responsibility of raising parasitical devices of devastation, or children, as they’re most often called. Yes, that’s the dumbest drivel to ever come off my fingertips, and the dumbassery can only get worse.

Ok, now the buzz has been killed, time to move back to contemplating the power of cheese with regards to celestial bodies and the destruction of the universe.

The Holidays Are a Mixed Bag

The eventuality of this post, as one can easily deduce, is well, for the lack of the better word, inevitable, ‘tis the season after all. It would be somewhat peculiar, strange even, to have no comments regarding the festivities this month of December. Even for those of different faiths, as well as the faithless.

Never mind the long standing debacle on the commercialism of the Christmas season. Such things are, and will always be, best left to people who have too much time on their hands and/or feel that their opinions matter on scale grander than their admittedly meager scope. The eternal question of whether or not the spirit of the season lives on or is in plugged into an iron lung, struggling on its death throes, waiting for someone to mercifully free it from its misery can best be answered by yours truly as such: Yes, the spirit is well and alive, and it comes in a mini skirt.

Chauvinistic jokes and internet memes aside, the best way to describe Christmas personally comes from two sources. Legendary comic Steve Martin, in his mildly entertaining Yuletide comedy Mixed Nuts, described it as the saddest part of the year, since it is when we look at the things we don't have or can't have. This was further emphasized by an old acquaintance, who, in one of our rare opportunities of dialog, described it as bittersweet. Before anyone busts out the proverbial small violin and ever-handy box of tissues, this is hardly a cry for help by some inconsolable bastard suffering from continuous Dashboard Confessional jam sessions and repeated viewings of Million Dollar Baby.

While those who are of the notion that the glass if half full or have internal rainbows with golden unicorns prancing around in their noggins would disagree, contesting the year-end self-evaluation of individuals is a common practice that some may deny doing, but in reality, the subconscious has no choice but acknowledge the need for such an appraisal, just like in birthdays. As utterly depressing as that sounds, free stuff and mini skirts are never a bad thing given the right circumstances, and to some, life this silly fool, enough to wipe away the cloud of despair and inadequacy.

The Great Weekend Crash of 12/10/07

The weekends, at least from my experience, feels a lot like the proverbial sugar rush.

Yes, that infernal product of nature. An occurrence that have adults who have the delightful misfortune of being responsible for walking weapons of mass destruction, otherwise known as children, cowering in sweet, sugary fear. Fortunately, Mother Nature still believes in balance. As if in answer to the lamentations of a million mothers, fathers and nannies, the sugar crash came into being, and all was good.

Overdramatization of glucose-related biochemistry aside, the weekend prior to today's post fits that description appropriately, if only in a metaphorical manner. The alcohol-charged euphoria was further heightened in the company of old, familiar faces, as well as a new breed of companions who's life stories remain sealed and untapped thanks to the limits of social interaction placed upon by everyone's dreadful enemy: time. Suffice to say, a resilient sphere of invincibility shrouded those basking in revelry, wherein tomorrow was just so distant that if felt non-existent.

And then, it was over.

While the forging of new bonds may or may not have happened, opportunities of expanding the social circle were present and were perhaps capitalized, the reality is that the weekdays has reared it's ugly head, significantly destroying the buzz that plucked many away from their comfort zones. A better understanding or appreciation of fellows who, once mere denizens haunting the area adjacent to the sacred workstation, are slowly realized. Still, that does not take away the crushing despair that the night (or nights) of careless frolicking and inebriation are over. Normalcy has never looked so dreadful, and sleep, has never felt so enticing.

I ask myself, would I ever do something like that again despite the painful crash back into mundane reality?

HELL.

YES.

Birthday Trifecta in Play

Today marks the beginning of a series of birthdays to be celebrated by three individuals who have the misfortune of knowing this author. That doesn't even count the other two who, despite being colleagues, were the lucky ones who have escaped the fate of ever coming into close contact with yours truly.

Birthdays are a peculiar thing. While I do subscribe to the fact that its one of those festivities that only gets worse as time goes by, it's something that we can never ever detach ourselves, unless you're part of certain religious orders who have the wisdom of totally ignoring the celebratory ritual of being one year closer to shedding one's mortal coil.

Still, the notion of recognizing another year gone by is surprisingly therapeutic. It allows as an avenue of reflection of what we are, what we've become, and what we could possibly be. While such evaluations can be done any time we please, attaching a certain time period puts a different and perhaps even more focused perspective in self-appraisal.

To end, I will shockingly share a few "personal"(I have no word that would go a level below affectionate) messages to the celebrants. For the one celebrating on this very day, thank you. Our past may very well qualify as an emotional rollercoaster, but it is how we cope with what is left that makes it truly worthwhile.

To the one celebrating on the 7th, your honesty has always been appreciated. While I would like to change our current social setup, having the privilege of your company dampens the bittersweetness of it all.

Finally, for the one celebrating on the 8th, you silly bastard. A decade of delightful dissonance and brotherhood we have shared, surviving through tough times and remembering (perhaps too much) the good. Here's hoping we have more decades to come you sick and twisted git.

Productive Boredom

If one remembers Melissa Joan Hart's portrayal of wisecracking teenage girl in Nickelodean's Clarissa Explains It All, one could remember her saying boredom makes one into a boring person.

Yes, nuggets of knowledge are available if you actually put too much thought into it, even in a cheesy early 90s tweener sitcom.

Boredom can only make you boring if you don't use that little mass if fleshy tissue inside your fragile cranium otherwise known as a brain. While most unimaginative sods prefer a catatonic state when slipping into a period of tedium, creative types would use such a time to explore the untapped recesses of the human imagination. Never mind that most males would probably be evoking the visions of living their days in Harem of their choosing. Still, the stimulation of imagination can bring about the best (and the worst) of ideas.

There is a fine line with being bored and being lazy. Some of us prefer to blur the lines. It is, after all, oh so convenient. At that point in time, such indiscretions are venial. Only when it becomes a habit does one suffer the shallowness and lack of potent mental imagery. A fate, in my humble opinion, worse than genetic stupidity.

You Gotta Have Faith

"Having faith doesn't mean you can't doubt"

I think that's what a friend told me during a binge session of caffeine and nicotine. No matter, as the message is somewhat the same. While I'm not really into considering mushy, touchy-feely advice as a habit, there is always room for exceptions here and there.

The comment arose when the notion of being emotionally guarded and wary of trusting a partner came to light. Of course no wants to be played for a fool, especially considering the amount of emotional investment involve in such dealings. Victims find solace by feigning pragmatism and cold calculating indifference to the callings of love and companionship. Still, the facade is futile at best.

The common mistake of a person in love is to think that trust or faith disallows one to question and investigate. However, a need for balance should always be present. There are those who question or doubt too much that they put themselves in a state of self-induced paranoia.

In line with my sardonic and cynical nature, I've always believed that a relationship's is only as strong as the lies and truths it is built upon. Everyone lies, no matter how faithful or loyal you are, lies will be told. The problem is whether or not the lie hurts or helps. The self-righteous would zealously point out that a lie is still a lie, but if one thinks of the bigger picture and goes beyond what they've learned in Sunday school perhaps they can see that certain lies can be told and are completely harmless. Not with the intent to harm, but to belay harm, if not to show fully how irrelevant such a fact is in the grander scheme of things.

Faith, personally, is seeing through the harmless lies while taking care not to mix them up with those that will scar you. Denying oneself of the joys (and the pains) of a relationship because of the fear to have faith is counterproductive and at times, completely idiotic. Living is about experiencing, interacting and (hopefully) a lot of laughter along the way. After all, a little faith goes a long way.

Knocked Up

It is somewhat strange that the world's most compelling truths could be found not in the scriptures of antiquity, but rather in the modern medium that is film. "Knocked Up", a romantic comedy headlined by Seth Rogen and Katherine Heigl is one such movie that tells the viewer more about life than the Chicken Soup for the Soul series of books.

The recurring obstacle, it would seem, is that both characters do not know what to do given the situation of pregnancy, forever questioning other older characters, if not themselves, what must be done to handle such situations that require an unfamiliar sense of responsibility. It brings about the question that most of us in our early to mid-20s (and at times, those even above that age bracket) have behind the very recesses of our mind: "do we really know what we're doing in this life?"

Other postulations of note include the glaring gap in communication between opposite sexes, the male gender's need for space, the fear of moving out one's comfort zone and detours of destiny. I won't go into details as these epiphanies are best realized when watching the movie.

These realizations are, to be quite honest, scary. It reminds us that, despite the movie's reassuring ending, that at a certain point in time, our existence will require us to grow up; reminding us that as much as we try to take control of our lives, some people are cursed to suffer unexpected twists and turns that will ultimately unmake any grand schemes he or she may have had. The best of us will accept our new path, others simply wallow in the sea of regret and failed aspirations.

The inevitability of growing up, is, sad to say, upon us all. Try as we might to delay it, we will eventually succumbed to its mandate. At that point in time, we may still not know the answers and what road to traverse, but rest assured that in spite of the helplessness of our plight, the outcome ultimately depends on us.

This is Madness.....

In my quest to seek out the grandest narrative of my limited conscience, I have come across several candidates. From the linguistic masterpieces of J.R.R. Tolkien's Middle Earth epics, to the lyrical narration of Elaine Cunningham's Book of Song and Swords, and even to the philosophical scriptures of Chris Avellone's Planescape: Torment, these narratives of heroism, human nature and other musings have influenced the way I look at the world. Each story dabbles on many aspects of the psyche, some indirectly, some otherwise.

But the musings that interest me the most perhaps are the concepts of insanity and madness. While Avellone's Torment does touch on the subject given the nature of the world's setting, none have been as riveting or enticing as H.P. Lovecraft's Chtulhu Mythos. Admittedly, the works I've read and seen are somewhat limited, however, from what I've touched on so far, the Mythos has a way of stimulating the imagination, allowing an amalgam of horror, wonder and introspection. Lovecraft's work has spread throughout many aspiring authors, most notable of which is critically acclaimed novelist Neil Gaiman (still finishing his version of Sherlocke Holmes, with a Chtulhuian twist).

Of course, discussions of madness and bat shiat craziness should never be made without pointing out the works of Frank Miller (and it has nothing to do with the line in the 300 movie, so no, this. is. not. SPAAARTAAA!) Most notable of this is Miller's attempt of portraying the Dark Knight, otherwise known as the goddamn Batman. In his continuity, Miller portrays Bruce Wayne as a vigilante who is just as insane as the criminals that he hunts. Of all the Goddamn Batman books that have taken my curiosity hostage(surprisingly, not by Frank Miller), the Killing Joke by the incomparable Allan Moore is on top of the list. I've personally seen the Batman character as evolving lesson of psychology, between Batman's cold and calculating personality that puts him on par with more powerful heroes such as the dick that is Superman, and the villains that he fights, most notably, the brilliantly barmy Joker, each character represents a deeper understanding of the faults and bizarreness of the human mind.

These two examples of modern literary masterpieces, in my humble opinion, are more relevant than any text book of science. While I do not advocate the abandonment of reading the works of long dead Caucasian men otherwise known as philosophers or psychologists (they have their value), these pieces of art, originally designed to entertain iterates that concepts of the inner bowels of the ever complexity of our gray matter. The mere fact that we, as sentient beings are capable of both rational and irrational ideologies and actions should tell us that madness, indeed, is present in all of us. It may manifest it's symptoms differently from person to person, and in varying degrees. But there is no denying that it is a shadow that echoes in every thought and action.

After all, we're all a little bit crazy. And nothing tells you that better than popular media. The choice now is whether you accept or live in fairy tale of delusive sanity.

Food for thought

Of all the paradigms that exist in the known world, there is nothing more complex and universal as the paradigms on lunch.

Yes, the midday meal, as common and as trivial it is, carries with it great value in philosophy, culture and the general world view. More particularly, the fact that is it more of a social practice instead of an act of partaking in mandatory sustenance.

What is troubling is that, as dictated by an unknown cosmic being that designs social norms and all its idiosyncrasies depending on the cultural context, having lunch alone is some sort of invisible badge of shame that people recognize immediately. Sure, one can have lunch alone in the comforts of their own kip, yet in a social environment, doing so engraves big L on one's forehead. Never mind how we assess one's behavior and quirks depending on the individuals he or she has lunch with.

Having lunch for the sake of having lunch could be just that, replenishment in the middle of the day, nothing more, nothing less. And yet, here we are, while we openly deny it, we associate covert social judgments on other people's lunching habits.

And people wonder why the world is going to hell.

Chemistry

"Chemistry: Either you have it or you don't."

Why thank you Dr. Meredith Grey, you truly are the Master of the Obvious.

Snide remarks against a popular medical drama aside, the first line is about as cheesy as it is true. When people interact, it is chemistry that invigorates the elusive dance of attraction, a invisible bondage of truly distinct people, solidifying a pack or collective to interact further.

How can one say that they have chemistry with their partner(s)? To put it simply, it's when everything just clicks or falls into place. Of course, as beings suffering from irrational biases brought about by unpredictable emotions, we tend to bypass the natural order of things. We entangle ourselves in a web of self-deception only to find out that we suffered a period of denial. On rare occasions, the feeling may be reciprocated, leading to a sinking feeling of mutual abandonment of the failed pursuit.

Of course, chemistry, in the author's most humble opinion, should never be limited to pursuances of romance. While the blue-eyed boy may not have chemistry with the brown-eyed girl, this does not necessitate that the two abandon all interaction. As it is, chemistry also applies to other types of relationships, positive, negative, platonic or romantic. To think otherwise is pure folly in the greatest sense and ultimately lead to numerous wasted opportunities and regret.

Following through

Introductions are just that: introductions. Most people like to place a lot of weight on making a first impression, sometimes forgetting that at the end of it all, it is the conversations, the in-betweens that matter.

While even the most casual of greetings are rejected, the fact of life is this, you will be rejected, and it's best to get used to it. No matter what endeavor is pursued, rejection is imminent and inevitable. In this case however, the humiliation is not so evident if you simply state your name, your business and intent. Call it a cop out, saving face or whatever, fact of the matter is the embarrassment and the emotional strain doubles if the rejector is fully aware that you're torn apart by such a petty excuse to be depressed.

While most people are shallow enough to let looks be the basis of any dialog - worse if that person is truly that superficial - then you're probably better of sharing your tales of inadequacy and need for affection to some other simpleton willing to be regaled by your futile campaign of significance. While one could opt to use superlatives and high-handed tales to woo that much longed for attention of another sentient being, it is often best to just get the point across and focus on getting to know your subject better and proceed to share tidbits (honest tidbits, mind you. Embellish if you must, but at least maintain a modicum of truth.) of yourself. It is at this point, that one can truly get anywhere in initiating a relationship.

Saying hello is easily difficult

The title, I believe says it all. The first post of such an attention-whoring journal that is this blog will, theoretically, invite other readers to relish in the absolute stupidity of my ramblings that are devoid of any known logic.

But in truth, saying hello, in a world of complicated and thinking (sometimes unthinking) people can be quite the conundrum. It's a lot like asking someone out for coffee. The words are easy enough to fabricate. Through half-hearted practice and futile encouragement of oneself, any simpering fool could easily blurt out a semi-coherent sentence that might refer to such an invitation. Alas, our folly is that when presented the opportunity, we overthink, we overcomplicate, going several steps ahead of our agenda even before starting, which simply results in a stammering failure to communicate.

A first post, as most people view it, is supposedly an introduction of the authors insignificant (and on rare occasions, significant) contributions to the known world, as well as a summary of what the niche of said journal is about. While many prefer to pour their stories ranging from moments of mediocrity to their (often fabricated) expertise, some, like this author, would prefer to keep banging on the keyboard until he makes a semblance or nugget of sense.... and utterly fail.

I suppose the traditional "Hello World!" greeting would suffice. However, for someone whose bloated ego and basic command of the English language is beyond that of an ape, it is somewhat.... inadequate. As it stands, I'm not even sure any self-respecting individual would waste a few minutes reading the emotional diatribe of a self-proclaimed hack. In that regard, I've best summarized what this blog is about with that drivel otherwise known as the first post.

It is a blog about absolutely nothing..... (cue Seinfeld music)