Teresa and I saw the final Harry Potter movie. When it was over, I had to shout for joy. I haven’t been that excited in a movie theater since, after a lifetime of waiting, I finally got to witness Yoda wield a light sabre in Star Wars Episode, and I got up and danced. Nefi and I decided that we’re going to start a school of witchcraft of wizardry. The only problem is that magic doesn’t seem to actually work. So we’re going to make it a school of technology instead, because technology is modern magic. Just ask anybody person how a computer works. He’ll have no idea. It’s magic.
The song “Enjoy Yourself”, written in 1949, came on the radio just now. The lyrics spoke to me:
You work and work for years and years. You’re always on the go.
You never take a minute off, too busy makin’ dough.
Someday, you say, you’ll have your fun when you’re a millionaire.
Imagine all the fun you’ll have in your old rockin’ chair.
Enjoy yourself. It’s later than you think.
Enjoy yourself while you’re still in the pink.
The years go by as quickly as a wink.
Enjoy yourself. Enjoy yourself. It’s later than you think.=
You’re gonna take that ocean trip, no matter, come what may.
You’ve got your reservations made, but you just can’t get away.
Next year, for sure, you’ll see the world. You’ll really get around.
But how far can you travel when you’re six feet underground? CHO.
Your heart of hearts, your dream of dreams, your ravishing brunette,
She’s left you and she’s now become somebody else’s pet.
You never go to nightclubs and you just don’t care to dance.
You don’t have time for silly things like moonlight and romance.
You only think of dollar bills tied neatly in a stack.
But when you kiss a dollar bill, it doesn’t kiss you back. CHO.
This song made me feel guilty. I work too much. It’s time to go enjoy myself with my ravishing brunette.
I found her in a parking lot. I built her a lovely home out of an old Ragu jar. I named her Markeshia. I hope she doesn’t die like my previous queen ants.
Did you know that all worker ants are asexually reproduced? Did you know that male ants come from the only fertilized eggs? Did you know that the worker ants determine whether or not a female larva becomes a queen or not based on the food they feed it? Did you know that a queen ant gets all the sperm she’ll ever need for her eggs in one action-packed orgy in the air with a bunch of drones from other colonies (so as to avoid inbreeding)?
Bees are even weirder. Did you know that when a queen bees murder other would-be queen larvas by stabbing them with her stinger? Did you know that queen bees are the only bees that don’t lose their stingers, giving them unlimited firepower? Did you know that when a queen bee is getting old and not producing as well as she used to, a worker bee breaks off one of her legs, thus signifying to the other bees that it’s time to smother the old queen to death and make a new queen?
Anyone who ever tells you that nature is pristine and holy is full of it. Nature’s sick. Man was made to dominate over it. Which is why I have an ant farm. Not really. I just like ants.
A montage of short films and videos showcasing my previous work as a director, director of photography, editor, screenwriter, composer, actor, puppeteer, and digital artist.
I used to think I was a food bigot. My opinions on vinegar products and ethnic cuisine were correct, and those who disagreed were wrong. Then I realized that I’m actually a food liberal activist. It’s not that my arbitrary preferences trump those of others, it’s that I’m so in love with all of God’s edible creations and the diverse staples of life of the human family, that I can’t bear to hear others esteem these things as naught. To hear someone say, “I don’t like Mexican food” is like saying, “I don’t like Mexicans.” Because Mexicans and their food are so deeply connected. And then I want to stand up for the oppressed tamales and chimichangas and plead for tolerance and open … mouths. Who could stand before the judgment seat of Christ and say, “I don’t like your tomatoes. Or your mushrooms. Or you olives. You really messed up on those.” Did you know that God cries every time someone picks olives off of their pizza? It’s a fact.
I checked out a documentary on Feng Sui, because our house is a mess, and I thought we could learn something about cleanliness from Chinese mystics. This is the bagua, a tool in Feng Shui that’s superimposed over a floor layout to determine how one’s home measures up to an ideal qi flow:
Depending on whether your front door is on the left, center, or right side of your house, it will always fall under the “knowledge”, “career”, or “helpful people” section. Our upstairs bathroom falls in the wealth section. According to the documentary, this means that we’re symbolically flushing our wealth down the toilet. Which would explain a lot of things. Another disappointing realization is that our our dilapidated deck of terror falls in the marriage section, which means that our marriage is dilapidated and terrible. I had no idea!
Tonight Teresa and I gathered with NFP friends and made space ships out of common items such as cardboard, plastic cups, tape, and silver spray paint. We then filled the space ships with various assortments of fireworks and observed how to make cool explosions for future space movies. In my opinion, the “flower” fire crackers yielded the most cinematic damage, especially when supplemented with sprinkles of corn starch. I was skeptical at first, but I learned for myself the value of practical explosives. There’s so much random carnage in nature that CGI just hasn’t mastered yet. True you can get some spectacular glitz with CGI, but sometimes the magic is in the less than spectacular crumples and flaking, and irregular distortions.
I’ve been applying for lots of jobs. How boring and serious.
It’s that time of year again, when I can’t go down the stairs without groaning on behalf of my torn thighs, the result of a 10k race for which I had not adequately trained.