We're Going to Australia! (also, I suck at planning)

Did I say Australia? Yes, I did. Did I say videos? Yes, I did. Will either of these things make this post any more entertaining, readable, or even just tolerable? Probably not. After all, I'm still the one writing. But if I can just take the time to write these haphazard posts when I remember to then I'd like to think I am getting some use out of my English degree.

Though sometimes I think this might be a better option

What was I... right, we're going to Australia! I'm assuming your reaction is either "Wow, that's cool!" or "Wow, you're finally doing something cool!" unless you're one of my co-workers, then its probably "You're going to be gone for a week?! I'm not doing your work. Fuck you, Alan!" Don't worry, though, I've got it all planned out. And if you read the title you know that's a lie. Honestly, I plan to just leave a list of work on my desk and hope everyone can split it without burning the place down. Haha, yeah, that's what my parents would always say when they left my siblings and I alone. "Don't burn the house down," they'd say as they drive off. Such confidence my parents had in our survival skills.The saddest part is they still say it. All the time.
   Damn, distracted again. Okay, plans. I was talking about plans. Yep, three of us will be traveling to Australia. I assume everyone in the group has already made a list of things to do. I am hoping, if they have a chance to get away from their daily lives, to meet up with some of my old Plume IS dorm mates and do Australian stuff (like ride kangaroos, compare knives, and um...kangaroo boxing... I know nothing about Australian culture). Also, we will probably, hopefully, take a much needed (I am anticipating) day to all split up and wander off individually, because if you've ever spent a week straight with me, you're either family or else have been driven clinically insane (as the old saying goes, Not everyone whose clinically insane is family, but everyone in my family has been fitted for a straight jacket).
     Yep, one week Down Under (do people still call it that?). One week in a country stereotyped as the land where everything is actively trying to kill you. One week of trying to keep my sanity as I watch the toilet flush counter-clockwise (I promise a video if this is actually true). One week in a country whose main attractions, according to the Internet and my search preferences, are koalas, kangaroos, Drop Bear myths (a thank you to Jane for the link and for causing me to piss my pants when I thought they were real), that's-not-a-knife jokes, and stalking this girl (you will be mine)

It's gonna be great!
....Sadly, that's where all my contributions to the planning of this trip end. Because I suck at planning.
   Thinking back to all the trips I've been on, I tend to contribute as little as possible to the planning of trips. I know this is probably going to piss you guys off if you're reading this right now, but it's the truth. Luckily, no one ever reads this so my secret is still safe. It's not on purpose. Honestly, it's because the things that sound interesting and I suggest we do usually turn out to be quite horrible (more on that later). Besides, wandering around and even getting lost is sometimes the best part of traveling. But seriously, very little is given to the planning process by me. My contributions to the Seattle trip was giving everyone a ride to the airport and this dialogue (practically verbatim):
    Ben: "Hey, we're going to visit Allison in Seattle over spring break. Wanna come?"
    Me: "OK"
This is also the same conversation I had regarding the Kyoto trip planning:
    Terry: "Hey, wanna go to Kyoto?"
     Me: "OK"
I take that back, I did say that we should wander around Fushimi Inari shrine. Remember how I said that the things I plan turn out to be horrible? Yeah, but that turned out to be fun, right?

The stairs would never end. And there wasn't anything at the top. Yeah, Terry still won't let me live that bad idea down. Thanks again for planning out all the other sites to visit as well as booking the round trip bus ride and hostel rooms.
    Though, I'll also admit that my lack of planning does get me into trouble at times. Like apparently  the reason you hike Mt. Fuji in the summer is because doing it at any other time during the year will kill you, and not because it's hot and humid like the rest of Japan. And at the top of a mountain is ice so you should dress in your winter clothes... but I'm from Hawaii and winter is just a story you hear about in school... you know, until you actually experience cold

Honestly, I also avoid planning because nothing ever goes according to plan, not even partially. Everything usually goes awry right from the start and I don't even make it through phase one. But, luckily, I travel with people who are not only great planners, but they've got luck on their side, usually.


As a side note before I go, I would also like to acknowledge that my knowledge of Australia (and everywhere else, in fact) is severely limited by my lack of travel as well as my laziness to actually research into this place we call the Earth to the point that it is almost offensive and possibly inaccurate to say that I live on this planet. That being said, most of what I know about Australia comes from that one movie, you know, with the American in Australia.

No, not Crocodile Dundee. The other movie, with that one character with the European accent.

No, not Quigley Down Under, either. Wow, you are horrible at this. Come on, what was the name of that movie... it had the European one, the American one, and the Australian one... oh, and John Candy was in it... ah, I got it

Yeah, that's the one.

The Origin Story (and more writing junk)

So, a lot of you have been asking me where the name of the blog came from. That's not true. No one's been asking. No one ever asks... Anyways, I just needed a set up so I could spend time talking about where the name Funhouse Building comes from. I take that back, its half true as people have asked me about the sketchiness of the name alansfunhouse and why, when they visit, they can't seem to find any child pornography, as the name suggests. Well, to those people, I say you're just not looking hard enough.

huh, I swear I posted it there last week

Sadly, the worst part about that joke - I spent roughly two days trying to think up the perfect pedophile joke for you... and that was the best I could come up with. I know, you deserve better and I'll try to do better... but don't get your hopes up (besides, I've accepted that I'm not that funny, you should too).
     Back on topic. Funhouse Building. I stole it. Sort of. Yeah, I stole it. But before you go getting all high and mighty on me, remember this quote from Lionel Trilling: "Immature artists imitate. Mature artists steal." (yeah, I'll even take quotes from people to fit where I need them). Back when I was in college, I read John Barth's short story Lost in the Funhouse and the story stuck to me. Why? For the most part, its a story about writing, at least that's what I interpreted it as. The Funhouse being the story, the lovers wandering through it as the readers, and the narrator is the one who builds the funhouse. Also, through the narrator's ramblings, you get a first-hand glimpse at the difficulties of building a story and that related to me (the confusion, the writer's block, the characters not following the paths laid out for them, etc). And thus I titled this Funhouse Building.
     And now you're probably wondering why I'm only bothering to tell you all this now, especially since I started this blog a couple years ago already? Honestly, its because I finally joined the twenty-first century and started ordering crap from the internet. And my first purchase? Yeah, I'm sure you guessed

And yes, I bought a whole book just for one short story

I finally gave up looking for it at Barnes and Nobles (the last bookstore on Oahu). As I've already said, it was definitely one of the better reads I had during my time in college. Its too bad I never got a chance to scan the story before reselling the textbook back, especially since no one is willing to buyback the book once you've taken an X-acto knife to it.
     Anyways, that's where I got the name for the blog. But as everyone whose read comic books knows, it takes more than just a cool name to be a superhero. Not to say that having a cool name isn't important, just not enough to get you out there fighting crime. They need that initial motivating factor (usually a parental figure being killed in front of them). So, I think I started trying to write maybe either my freshman or sophomore year of college and when I got to Japan I found myself with more free time than I knew what to do with (I spent 12 hours a week in school with less homework than I've had since elementary school... I had some time to kill). So, with my new-found free time, I spent more time writing and coming up with ideas which I had hoped to use as starting points for new stories

to think, just 4 years ago these were all taped to my wall

     While visiting, Jacob suggested I should start a blog to write all of these... and I did. Yep, its as simple as that. And yes, I know that's a horrible picture of him since it doesn't even show his face but its all I've got. If you're curious, check out his blog as well as his experiences teaching English in Korea (both of which can be found on the side bar to the right under No Laughing Allowed and Nowhere Korea).
    And, if you've got the time, I figured I'd get out everything I had on the topic of writing all at once with more on my personal writing method (and as you can tell from my infrequent posts and unfinished stories, it's not a good method, nor is it a productive one and thus not one to be copied... by anyone). If you're not interested in anymore reading however, here's a video for you instead

Hope you enjoyed that little flashback video from four years ago. Sorry, I missed fireworks this year for Fourth of July and its just not the same without them, though I guess its good since now I don't have to wonder if this will be the year when my neighbors burn down my house (since I'm pretty sure these are the same people who were allegedly shooting guns in the air instead of fireworks this year).
    But back to what we were talking about... which was... writing. First off, as I'm sure I said before, I'm pretty incapable of writing on my laptop for a variety of reasons. Spending 8 hours a day at work in front of a computer is one of them. Also, with a basic lack of focus I tend to work on multiple stories at once so I would need a bunch of windows open when its so much easier to switch from packet of paper to packet of paper. What do I mean by "packet" you ask? You didn't.... well, I'll tell you anyway. With all the scratch paper we accumulate at work, I figure we shouldn't let it go to waste, so I steal it, staple about a dozen or so pages together and take it home to write on (it doesn't count as company theft if they were just going to throw it away, right?). Also, I tend to be a stickler with pens. As in I buy pens based on the way they write, how much pressure I need to apply to the paper for it to write, how smoothly it writes without skipping, if they have click-tops, etc. Its just as bad as when I used to write only with newly sharpened pencils. I still refuse to use the pens provided at work, meaning all the pens on my desk are my own.

So are all of these

And that's it for now. Also, if you were wondering how I got this post out so fast (you know, compared to the month I normally would take between posts) well, I've been trying to fight my minor motion sickness to start writing on the bus on my way to and from work rather than just sleeping all the time. Plus it stops me from leaning on people while I sleep, which I tend to do depending upon which seat I get, though to be honest I'll lean on people no matter what seat I'm in.

The Sovereignty (part 6)

     I propped Blaine up against the far wall of the break room then ran back to lock the door. "That's not going to work," he said, barely loud enough for me to hear across the room. Hell, it would've been quiet in a monastery. I took a seat at the single, round table in the center of the room and tried my best to slow my breathing. I knew the door wouldn't hold for long. We needed a way out. In the corner of the room was a mop and bucket, nothing that would stand up to that psychic armor. Materialized imagination. Complete bullshit. And no way for Blaine's mind-control to get to him with that helmet.
    "Why'd you come back?" Blaine wheezed with every syllable, confirming the broken ribs theory. But he still asked, knowing how much pain every word caused as he uttered them. One of his arms held his side as he spoke. His ceramic mask was cracked and parts of it had already fallen off so I could see his bruised and swelling cheek. There was blood on his shirt and coat though I couldn't tell where the blood was coming from.
    I looked at my left arm, still hanging at my side and throbbing with pain. "Because you're an asshole." I paused and shook my head. "Why do you think I came back." I stared at the floor. I really should've just ran away. Now I was stuck hiding in the break room with a half-assed supervillain and the cops would probably be charging me with aiding and abetting if I got the chance to get out of here without being killed by the possible sociopath that the League sent. All because of Blaine. Would a friend force you to break your own arm? Would a friend put you in a possible life or death situation? Would a friend rob a bank you work at without telling you to at least take the day off?
     Blaine reached up, slowly, and took off the mask. Underneath, his face looked a lot worse than I thought: a mass of swelling and bruising and bleeding. That Red Armor guy had turned his face into a Picasso painting.
     But he was smiling. That fucking asshole. Reluctantly, I smiled back.
     "Come on out, little piggy's." One knock. Two knocks. The third felt like it shattered my eardrums as the sound echoed throughout the room. The force of it shook the shoddy cabinets and even shifted the table a couple inches. Have you ever felt shock? That moment when everything stands still and your body and brain aren't even sure what to comprehend, can't seem to figure out what just happened? Because I think that 's how the door must've felt. Hell, from the sound alone, I thought the door was going to fall off its hinges. Instead, it just stood there, steady. For about two seconds. Then it exploded. Splinters spread like shrapnel across the room: lodging into the cupboards, the table, and three in my legs and roughly a dozen in my arms.
     There he was, standing where the door just was a couple seconds ago. A thin red line ran across his forehead and down the side of his face and his red coat was slightly singed and ruffled. Pretty good for just getting blasted across the bank lobby with a bolt of lightning. "So, you fuckers think that was funny, huh." He cracked his knuckles and started forward.
      I fell off the chair and crawled on my ass back to the wall where I had leaned Blaine. I was up against the wall now, literally, praying that I might be able to just slide into it and disappear - either into the wall or even through it. Last resort time, I thought as I saw the red gauntlet start to materialize around his fist and forearm. "I think we all know that you've got us beat so let's just call the cops in here and we'll surrender." Better jail than dead, after all.
     He let out a laugh and brought his right arm back. I looked over at Blaine. He was either pretending to be asleep or he was unconscious. "Actually, I don't think anyone's gonna mind if we have a little fun together first." The red knuckleduster formed, perfectly as before, and he swung.
     Even as I threw my hands in front of my face out of fear (as if that would protect me from something that could vaporize a door) I couldn't take my eyes off of the gleaming red, shinning bright and bathing the room in the same glow. And, as I stared, my eyes began to burn. No, not my eyes, but that area just behind your eyes. A searing pain, like a migraine on steroids, traveling, no blazing like an avalanche of fire across the rest of my skull, my brain. I tried to shut my eyes, thinking it would help, but I couldn't get them to close. No, looking back, I think I just didn't want to close them, not with his fist so close. And just as it approached my outstretched hands, it appeared.
      It was red, too. The same tone and tint, identical. It was small, square, about the size of a quarter. Yet I couldn't see any of this from the other side of my hands, but I could feel it, sense it, just on the other side of my palms. Another wave of pain scorched my skull and the red square grew, doubled, tripled. It continued until it was twice the size of my hand.
     Then the fist connected. And it stopped.
     The fist - covered in the epitome of what every gauntlet dreams of growing up to be from the time the iron is first poured until the blacksmith pounds in the final details, that same gauntlet imagined into reality by a Super who could create weapons from merely his psychic thoughts - collided with the red square -  a red tile stolen right out of a checkerboard or from the toy store's colorfully-patterned floor, manifested through some unknown, almost deus ex machina means, while a scalding wave of pain burned over my brain - and it stopped.
     I stared at the two red objects, the gauntlet and the tile, frozen in the air. The gauntlet didn't advance and the tile didn't give an inch. I exhaled a little, but didn't dare drop the hands in front of my face. Red Coat's eyes were wide. Psychic armor was notoriously hard to stop. Strength only played a small factor in its power, the rest coming from its user's mental will and desire.
      His eyes narrowed and he released a roar that made me cringe, a roar that I would hear in my nightmares for the next month. Obviously he was mentally focused on crushing me. He strained his fist forward and I watched tiny fissures crack into the tile.
     I screamed. Not a yell or a shout of surprise. No, I'm not proud of it, but there's definitely no use lying about what it was. And as my voice hit notes I thought I'd lost after puberty, the space in front of me erupted.
    No heat or fire, just pure, concussive force. Tears ripped through the plaster walls like a chainsaw through thread. The glass cabinets exploded, raining shards everywhere. Though the force of the blast should've been enough to fly me through the wall, most of the energy went into a psychic wave that curled me into a ball on the ground, withering in pain as a brush fire engulfed my mind. Imagine the throbbing, constant pain of the worst migraine you've ever had. Introduce him to a ladle-full of wasabi and that scorching sensation she delivers as she moves from your mouth, through your nose, and eventually up behind your eyes. Now supervillain-style meld the two beings into a single creature with all of their abilities and none of the weaknesses and bathe it in a vat of radioactive goo until its power level increases so far that the overdose of Tylenol would not only kill you but you'll be the only person in the afterlife still asking God if he's got an aspirin. So yeah, I screamed again. Don't judge me.
     In a minute, the pain eased up just enough that I could open my eyes to a squint. Red Coat was already on all fours, panting, but starting to rise to his feet. I tried to move and instead felt like I was going to puke. I heard grunting. I coughed, phlegmy. I heard the sound of boots scuffing the floor. I rolled on the floor trying to stand, like an eighteen-year-old at his first college binge trying to right himself, and something stabbed me in the thigh. By the time I finally got to a seated position against the wall again Red Coat already managed to get to his feet and was standing over me.
     "I don't know what the fuck just happened, but I'm gonna beat you til my head stops pounding." With one hand, he grabbed my chin and steadied my head. The other hand reared back. His eyes tightened and the thin line of blood from his nose darkened slightly as he concentrated on what I assumed was the last of his energy into his fist. The red light of his psychic helmet flickered and dulled slightly as he focused more on the gauntlet. A faint red glow enveloped his hand. Unrefined, it looked more like he had pulled his hand out of a big blob of red Jell-O. In my daze, I reached into my pocket to find the source of the stabbings. Inside I felt tiny pieces of glass and some sort of grainy powder, like sand but slightly finer. My vision blurred slightly as I started to lean. I remembered Blaine, still against the wall next to near me, probably waiting and waiting for an opening to use his mind control once his helmet faltered. Red Coat yanked me back upright before I hit the ground. The sudden jerk sent another stabbing pain in my leg and I smiled. His fist flew forward.
     I smiled wider. "Fuck you." I pulled my hand from my pocket and flung the mixture of glass and black pepper into his face. It was enough. His fist stopped and the glowing red light surrounding his hand and head disappeared as he let out a series of sneezes.
     My vision blurred again and I started to slide to the floor but I didn't care. I only wish that I had said something more clever than just Fuck you. I'll work on that later. "Now, get him Blaine!" I shouted. Just before I blacked out, I managed to turn just slightly and saw Blaine sitting on the floor against the wall. He was unconscious.



As promised, part 6 of The Sovereignty within the week. Sorry, its a little longer than I would normally like these parts to be but, as you read, there really wasn't a part that I felt comfortable stopping at and leaving the rest for part 7 (I'm still not sure if they actually count as chapters so I'm not going to call them that). Besides, this finishes all that I have written and actually planned for the story. It has a lot more potential (I think, anyways) but I'm not sure yet how to continue the story. I've got a couple directions to go, but I've also got other stories I'd rather be working on. I will also have another post hopefully within a week as well (as I promised last time, the new format calls for a, non-fiction-story post).

The Sovereignty (part 5)

     Typically, one of the positives about being under mind-control is you don't have your own thoughts and, in my case, you don't feel your own pain. Not this time.
     I had just released my arm and turned to walk into the bank when it all came back at once. All of my senses. The slight breeze on my skin reminding me I was outside the bank. The glare of the setting sun blinding my eyes and the sirens piercing my eardrums. And there was my shoulder. All that pain, all at once. I dropped to my knees and reached for my shoulder. Dislocated. I tried my best to steady my breathing. Panic took my chest and raced my thoughts. My arm, my arm, how was I going to get it back in, why would Blaine do this, the pain, inhale, exhale, inhale, exhale. Pain.
     Then it all stopped. Well, not completely, but it did dull as a new thought entered my mind, Why could I feel pain? Why could I feel at all? I looked up to the bank door but couldn't see much through the tinted glass and closed blinds. For all my senses to come back at once, it could only mean the connection was broken, forcibly. In the same way you don't just go unplugging random cords from a computer, you don't just disconnect from mind control or there's a chance you'll fuck up your victim, or worse, yourself.
     "Son, are you okay? Come down here, if you can," the guy with the megaphone said from behind the police barricade at the bottom of the steps.
     My senses blurred for a second, just long enough for me to hear Blaine's voice in my head. Just two words. "Help me."
     I blinked twice and then I could see clearly again. There was an officer crouched next to me, one arm around my shoulders and trying to help me to my feet.
     You would think it would take longer to decide to break the law and aid a criminal, especially one who not even five minutes ago, took over my body and forced me to break my own arm. A smart person would probably need to take some time to contemplate the decision and heal their wounds before taking on such a venture.
    Its too bad I was never known for making good decisions.
    Before he could steady himself next to me, I shoved the cop over and ran into the bank. The bank lobby was empty. All the hostages, the two security guards, even the two duffel bags of cash that were left at the teller windows, all of them gone.
     "Blaine!" I let my voice echo around the huge lobby before shouting again. "Blaine! Where the fuck are you?"
     I heard the solid, sturdy footsteps of steel-toed boots on the linoleum floor from the other side of a set of cubicles to my left as well as a familiar voice call out to me. "Ah, sounds like you've brought reinforcements."
    Wrong voice. The man stepped into view, his red coat billowing around his ankles. He still wore no shirt, allowing his abs to gleam in the florescent lighting. On his face, a black, racoon's eyes mask, worn seriously, as if it were actually meant to fool anyone. Over his head, however, a shining red helmet, like the old leather helmets football players used to wear back in the day, except it looked as if it were cut from gleaming red glass. Psychic armor.
     He paused, studying me before he spoke. "You know, you look familiar." He started forward and I could see a red glow beginning to emit from his fist, like the first spark of a campfire before it burns the whole forest down.
     I started backing away toward the door, muttering such a string of profanities under my breath so long I wasn't even sure it was in English anymore. Just before I got to the door, I tripped and landed hard on the tile floor. Now, I officially regretted my decision to come back.
     "Ah, the psychic," Red Coat said with a snap of his fingers. "Well, let's just consider this payback for last night. Oh, and before you try, just like your friend you'll find your mind control won't work on me with this baby sitting on my head." He pointed to his helmet with his empty hand while the gauntlet finished forming on his right.
     "Hey, asshole," called Blaine's voice. I couldn't see him from the floor, but I saw Red Coat turn toward the source of the voice and all I could think was what's the point of getting his attention and losing the element of surprise, you dumbass. Red Coat's jaw dropped and the gauntlet disappeared from his hand. He raised his left and a wall like a red pane of glass appeared in front of him. "Does it protect you from this?" A bolt of lightning struck the psychic shield and shattered it. Though the shield stopped a majority of the blast the force still sent him flying across the room, colliding hard twenty feet up the wall under the raised ceilings of the bank before crashing back down onto some brochure tables.
     A dull thud brought me out of shock and I walked around the corner to see Blaine staggered, holding onto a cubicle wall for support while the security guard who still had both arms lay on the floor at his feet. "We should get out of here before he wakes up. Or The League sends another super in here." He tried to stand on his own, but instead started sliding down the cubicle wall. I didn't catch him.
     "Where's the money?" His clothes were a mess, one sleeve of the coat torn and blood partially soaked the collar of his shirt. His green and red ceramic demon mask was cracked and parts of it were even chipped away, revealing bruises underneath.
      He laughed, painfully holding his side as he did. "He took it. Managed to get in, free the hostages, and take the cash while both of us were outside." He shook his head. "He got all of it." That part he said in barely a whisper. It would've been hard to hear if we were in a monastery.
     I looked at my arm, still dangling at my side. In all the excitement, I'd forgotten about the pain, but now it flooded back. "Why me? Why my arm?"
     He laughed again, even harder, knowing that every breath put more strain and more pain on what I assumed were broken ribs. "Because I knew you'd be the only one to forgive me."
     I started at him. Because I'd forgive him, he said, what the fuck did that mean? Well, I did come back, even when the mind control broke. I did come back to see what was happening. And I was going to rescue him. I reached down, punched Blaine in the face, and he fell to the floor. Judging by the almost cartoonish fall - mostly he just slid slowly against the wall until he landed on his side - I guess I didn't hit him as hard as I thought I would. "Now you're forgiven." He lifted himself back up and I helped him to his feet with my good arm. We leaned on each other as we headed down the hall to the emergency exit.
     We'd gotten halfway down when I heard boards move. I looked over my shoulder to see Red Coat start to stir. No time to get to the door, I thought as we half walked, half dragged each other into the breakroom off to the side.



And that ends part 5. Oddly enough, I should have part 6 up in a week. Before you start making bets, I actually do have it written out and the only thing left is to type it. I had planned to put the whole thing together as one piece, but that would be too much to ask anyone to read (and too much for me to type at one time). Also, I like these alternating blog post so I think this will be the new layout: one story post and one "not-a-fiction-story" post (the last one being "Office Awkwardness and You"). Those are actually a lot easier to write, require less thought (since I don't really need to plot and write them more stream-of-consciousness), and maybe I'll even add more pictures to those ones (don't get your hopes up, its just a thought).

Office Awkwardness and You

Or rather, Office Awkwardness and Me. I don't really know what kind of problems you are having at your job.

So, I've been working in my first office for just over a year and half now. Its the same office from my earlier posts and, no, I'm still not going to explain what it is that I do since I still don't know how to explain what I do without going into some rambling, long-winded tale.

however, here is a picture of my desk

This job also marks the first time I've worked in a place with a dress code, female employees, and air conditioning (sweet, sweet air-conditioning). Obviously, either my co-workers are very tolerant people or I've learned to give a shit since I've been able to stay at this place for so long. And, as much as it goes against my nature, I think its the latter because I've been running into these moments of awkwardness. Note: if you think this is going to be a guide on how to deal with these situations, its not. They are just general awkward situations I've run into at work (and as I think about them, I'm almost certain I'm using the word "awkward" wrong). But, if you do have any solutions, feel free to leave a comment.

Facial Hair

 How do you properly grow facial hair? If you're wondering, this was the thought that inspired this whole post so that's why we're starting with it (I forgot to shave one day and as I scratched at my five-day old stubble, this thought seemed to find me). But seriously, is it even possible to grow a mustache, beard or even just a simple set of mutton chops cleanly? (thanks to my co-worker who found that link through reddit) Not that I've been trying to grow a beard, but rather I've been forgetting to shave every so often causing a stubble on my face. Trust me on this beard thing, my co-worker and I did the whole No-Shave November thing and not only was it as itchy as a john's crotch after a night with a back-alley prostitute (you know, because of the crabs), but, according to my other co-workers, I was starting to look like the Unabomber.

clearly, not everyone appreciates the beard

 Anyways, back on topic, is there a way to CLEANLY grow hair on your face? You know, without looking like you just overslept and didn't care about your dishevelment before coming to the office. I mean, obviously the first, and what I assume is the only step, of growing a beard is to not shave. But its not as if you grow that magnificent Galifinakis or Norris beard overnight. No, there's that period when its just a stubble, then it grows darker and more visible and people start taking notice, asking "Oh, are you growing a beard?" or, more commonly (if they're the people I know), "What's up with that shit on your lip?". I guess you could constantly trim the hair, keeping it even and styled as it grows, but that seems like a lot of work and it goes slow. And until it comes into its full form, that overgrown mess on your face just makes you look like a homeless man in a collared shirt (which, while working with the people applying for disability benefits, you do not want to look like one of the clients).

Lunch Places

      Ever walk into an eatery of any kind (restaurant, diner, food truck) and, for whatever reason, just walk out without ordering anything? Maybe you don't like the specials that day? or the line is too long? or maybe you just realized a craving for whatever weird stuff you eat is just too strong to resist? (not that the food you eat is weird, though it probably is) There's a multitude of reasons, but the common factor is that you walk out without ordering anything at all. I feel awkward doing this at places I go to just once in a while and even more so when the counter person has acknowledged my existence, already keying up the register for me when I turn and walk out.
      Its even worse when its one of the two plate lunch places I eat at during the week because THEY KNOW ME. How well do they know me, you ask. The guys at Island Style know me by name, even writing it on the plate instead of what the order is (which happens everywhere else on the island). They even let me order things not on the menu as long as they have the stuff to make it (chicken katsu curry loco moco, for instance). The lady at the register at Kevin's Drive-Inn II not only knows that once a week I'll be ordering Sweet Sour Pork with Fried Rice, but I like to think that she got it put back on the menu just for me (ok, its always been on the menu, but for two weeks they just didn't have it anytime I tried to order it). Add all this to the fact that I've been frequenting these two places for breakfast and lunch for the past year and a half and you can see that I'm a very familiar face to them now.
      But back to what I was talking about (got sidetracked there for a bit). THESE PEOPLE KNOW ME! Is it not weird to walk out of a place you frequent so much that they know the sound of our footsteps? I only ask because about a month ago, I did just that at Island Style (the line was long and I only have a half hour for lunch). And I got caught. I swear I was only by the front door for a second or two but as I'm walking away I hear Mama-san's voice call my name. As I made it into Kevin's, I looked back to see Mama-san (the owner's nice, elderly mom who works the counter) outside the doorway. And she's looking at me. We made eye-contact, so I know she saw me and she knows I saw her see me. And I'm thinking there's going to be some sort of backlash for this betrayal - possibly just one scoop of rice with a double scoop of mac salad in all my plates for a week). Luckily, she thought I left because they ran out of the rib-eye steak so we're all still on good terms.

Restroom Etiquette

Before we start with that, watch this:

      Basically, its all the rules one need to follow when using the restroom. You would think that with these rules in place, nothing could possibly go wrong. And you would be wrong. With the amount of people using the restroom on our floor, there's going to be some interaction. I don't know about you, but I like to have as few interactions with others, not only within the walls of the restroom, but on my way to and from as well.
      On this topic, I may be able to offer some advice and tips to avoiding awkward interactions - by avoiding interactions altogether. No, you don't understand. No interactions at all. If I see anyone in the office disappear with a key, I'll hold back the flow not only until he gets back, but roughly three minutes and twenty-seven seconds after that time just to avoid interacting with the smell he may or may not have left behind. If a male (or possibly deep-voiced female, hey, I can't see through the walls of the clinic) asks the nurse for the key, I'll wait until I hear the sound of the client returning the bathroom key before heading to the toilet (trust me, its hard to miss the sound of a two-liter bottle with a key zip-tied to it falling on a wooden desk).
 When I've become properly situated in the stall of my choosing (they took out the one urinal so now there's just the two stalls), I take care of business at my own pace depending on my mood and how quickly I want to get back to my desk (and also whether I'm just bleeding the lizard or dropping the kids at the pool). And should a new challenger to the porcelain throne arrive before I get out, I also plot my escape accordingly. If I'm done hiding in the stall and avoiding work (it used to work great at the auto shop), I'll try to time my exit just as he enters the other stall. Sometimes, I'll wait him out and stay seated until he leaves. If we somehow manage to finish at the same time, I'll take my time until he leaves: doing the double flush, spend an extra minute or two adjusting my belt, or even pretend to wipe down the seat (because I'm as courteous as I am a horrible shot).
      Why all the hostility? As I pointed out, I'd like to avoid interacting with anyone at any point of my bathroom usage procedural but, by placing yourself in such a proximity to myself it interferes with that voice telling me its rude not to make small talk. Think about it: we're both in the restroom, one of us is washing his hands at the only sink - soup, water, more soap - while the other just stands behind him, waiting, unsure as to what that single brown speck on his hand is (I swear it was there before I got into the restroom). Its almost expected for one of us to make some crude poop joke, but that would violate the Restroom Code and I'd expect the CIA or launch a drone offensive on my position just for breaking it.
      Nothing, however, is more awkward a situation than meeting the eyes of someone who just got out of the bathroom. I'll be at one end of the hallway, or perhaps coming out of the office and someone will exit the restroom at the other end of the hall. And its not like I'm just staring at the restroom door to see if anyone comes out, its just that I've got an attention span like my dog, who will look whenever she hears a door open, as if its a surprise to see someone coming out of it. I see you coming out of the restroom, and I know you see me see you coming out, but its not like either of us want to talk about what the fuck you may or may not have been doing in there, or, worse, what I'm about to do in there (its exactly what you're thinking if you wanted to know).
  And the worse part - its the WOMEN'S restroom that's right there

literally, its right there in the hallway

 As you can see from my crude diagram that is the set-up on the our floor of the building. Also, speaking of crude drawings, Hyperbole and a Half is back (thus all of my horrible Paint drawings). If you don't know, at least check out my favorite post so far. So, now, if one of my female co-workers, one of the other women in the other office, or one of the female clients walks out of the restroom not quite prepared for an audience and is still adjusting some article of clothing, while simultaneously my ears hear a door and my eyes trace the source of the noise and out eyes lock and now I'm the one reporting for Saturday morning sexual harassment classes (this is a joke, I have no idea if the classes are always on Saturday). On this I am at a complete loss of what to do to avoid this situation. I mean, the obvious response is to not look, but curiosity and my poor attention span tell me this is impossible.


Wow, did you actually read all that? No shit. I am thoroughly impressed. Well, thanks for putting up with that. And just for you, here's something actually entertaining. There's more videos, but this is my favorite so far:

Also, before we're completely off the topic of work, I'd thought I'd let you all know my iPod may be sentient since it has decided, completely on its own, that it is required to play the following songs at least once a day even when on full shuffle. I'm not kidding. I've noticed it playing those songs with what seems like more frequency than anything else (or else I'm just noticing these songs more than the others and there is really nothing to worry about).

• Berlin - Black Rebel Motorcycle Club
• Handlebars - Flobots
• Dolls - 9Muses
• Bulletproof Heart - My Chemical Romance
• This Elegant Suit I've Been Wearing - Lemon Party
• Queens are Trumps - Scandal

The Sovereignty (part 4)

But first, a brief recap of what's happened so far: Peter and Blaine get caught up in a super-powered bar fight; they escape with some ingenuity; Peter goes to work at the bank; the bank is in the middle of getting robbed by a figure in a black coat and demon-like mask. And that's it (I know, I thought I would be further in than that by now, too)


I looked down at the dozen or so people lying on the ground. They were lying flat on their stomachs, some with their hands behind their heads, some with their arms spread wide. All of their expressions, though, said they were all as high as kites. Smiles, all of them, some goofy, some almost laughing. One man actually looked like he just came in his pants.I looked at the robber and the demon mask glared back at me. A psychic, I thought, and a pretty good one by holding that many people at once. Either C, maybe even a B-class if it wasn't the full extent of the abilities.

If the person was a psychic, then I was fucked. Not only had I been pressing the alarm button, but I'd been thinking about it this whole time. Hell, I was still thinking about it right now. Stop thinking about it. I looked back to the demon mask, unable to see any facial expression underneath it. From the foot-tapping though, I could see impatience.

I opened the cash drawer and started emptying out the bills. Maybe it wasn't psychic, or at least not the mind-reading type. The police might still have a chance to get here before he realizes that I already pressed the alarm. Slowly, I placed each bundle of bills into the duffel bag, making sure to separate them by denomination and sometimes even the color of the band wrapping them together. Maybe The League would send someone as well. This was a bank after all. I watched the robber's coat drag across the linoleum floor as he paced the room. None of the people had moved since they fell to the floor. Neither had the two guards at the door. My co-worker was still packing money into her bag, eyes focused solely on the bag in front of her. All I needed to do was stall until everyone showed up. I smiled, briefly, as the plan was fool-proof.

"Hey, what are you smiling about?" the voice was all bass this time and I dropped the duffel onto the floor, spilling the cash. Quickly, I dropped under the counter to pick it all up while my mind let out a string of profanities against my betraying face.

"Uh," I stuttered, "nothing." I grabbed another handful of bills and put them in the bag. I bit my lower lip and a bead of sweat made its way down from my temple to my cheek. My eyes went quickly to the alarm, still pressed under the counter, to the demonic mask towering over my crouched self. His eyes did the same.

"You pressed it! You fucking pressed it!" He (I think by this point it was a safe bet to guess that the robber was male), stumbled back several paces. I managed to make eye contact with my co-worker. She dropped her bag on the table and shook her head as she backed away to the wall. Her hair fell over her face, but I could still hear the sobs as she crouched to the floor.

There was a loud bang as the man in the green and red mask slammed his hands against the table. "Did I say to stop filling the bags!" After filling my bag without anymore delays, I started over to my co-worker to finish her bag. Then the sirens came.

I froze. That's the only way I could describe it. I just froze. There was nothing else. I didn't twitch. I didn't breath. It was the moment when all your faults just come crashing down. I panicked and triggered the alarm. I tipped him off about the alarm. I thought I could stall, that the cops out there could help us in here when I really had no idea what this guy was capable of. I could have just done as he asked and he would have been out of here without anything more happening. All these people in the bank. My co-worker crying against the wall. The two guards in need of serious medical attention. They weren't going to be hostages anymore; they were about to become victims, casualties.

There was the sound of a megaphone being turned on that brought me back to reality. I exhaled, tasting stale air as it emptied my lungs. A faint buzzing sound appeared, droning louder and louder until it dulled out even the amplified voice of the megaphone. Everything else, everyone of my other senses dulled as well. My vision started to blur, first starting around the edges and moving in until my eyesight felt like it had plummeted by a hundred points.

And yet none of it mattered. All that mattered was him. He was the only thing that mattered, the man in the black coat and mask. Yes, I was certain he was a man now. His presence dominated all of my senses. There was nothing else. I was vaguely away of the smile spreading across my face as I moved around the counter, through the lobby, and out the door. The sun was shinning right into my face, but with my blurred vision, it didn't matter. Through the glare, I noticed the flashing blue and red lights and the crowd of people, blurred together into a single mass with a yellow line through the center of it.

He was still in the lobby, grabbing the two duffel bags. They were heavier than he thought they would be and he smiled briefly. Still he hadn't expected the robbery to take so long that the cops would get here. The arctic air conditioning in the lobby kept him from sweating, especially in the black coat. He knew he needed a show of force to keep the police and eventually the Supers away until he escaped. He made his way outside. Even with all of my senses dulled, I still knew that he was just three feet behind me. Or, more precisely, twenty-seven degrees behind me and to my right at a distance of forty inches.

He spoke and it came through clear. "I am taking this money. I will be leaving out the back. No one follows or I kill all the hostages. That's twenty lives versus my one. Back off. Now." It sounded calm, his voice, but I could feel it tremble. He didn't come here to kill anyone. It wasn't in him to do it. I was in tune with him now. It was one of the side effects of his ability after all. Invading his victims minds to the point that all they knew was him, and wanting to please him. Invading so thoroughly that a back-door opens up and the victim is able to feel everything about him as well. The last time I felt this way I woke up in my underwear doing a handstand on the fourth floor balcony of my dorm during finals week. Yes, this was Blaine's ability. And this person was Blaine.

He gestured with his hand and my smile grew wider. It was an order. No, a request. Kings don't command after all, they merely ask and their subjects are pleased to obey. I knew it was Blaine, that all I needed to do was fight it, but I couldn't. My body went partially limp - my chin dropped to my chest, my arms hung by my side, my knees bent. I swayed a bit as I lifted my face to the audience. "This is your only warning," Blaine said as he turned his back and returned into the bank. The door closed just as my right hand snatched my left wrist cobra-quick and yanked the shoulder out of its socket.



Pretty decent for having no editing besides spell check and giving it a once over as I typed it all out. As bad as I am at plotting, its not completely stream of consciousness since I don't write exclusively on the computer and I do try to plot a little on paper before writing scenes. Honestly, I spend enough time during the day staring at a computer screen to do the same thing when I get home. And I would write in and fill-up all those extra notebooks I've got lying around, but right now I prefer using all the scratch paper I've been taking from work (don't worry, they're all blank cover sheets and fax transmission reports, nothing with any client data on it). If any of my co-workers are reading this though, its not like you were going to use it. Besides, how else would that box under my desk get emptied from time to time. I'll try to keep going with this story but I think I'm only one or two more posts from knowing what the hell is going on and them I'm really gonna really have to start making stuff up as I go (which, according to my last English professor, I am not as good as I think I am at it).

Spring Cleaning

Originally, I was gonna call this one "Apologies, Excuses and Seeds", but supposedly its the start of Spring and this title sounded a whole lot better and, even better, it gets me back into the whole "one-post-per-month" thing I was working on.

But back to the post. Okay, so I've definitely been neglecting my writing. "I know," I say as I listen to your nagging voices (or is that my nagging voice... I don't know anymore), "it was supposed to be one themed post per month but I got lazy and you know how that goes. It starts with getting sick one month and you think, 'guess I gotta skip this month' and then it carries over into the next month and into the next month." This is exactly the reason I was never good at long term class projects - procrastination. Besides, some months are harder to come up with a theme than others (usually I just think of whatever holiday is coming up and focus on that).

And yes, with all the non-writing I've been doing, I have thought about not writing anymore. However, with all the daydreaming I do I figure its best to keep writing these things down before they start bleeding into my perception of reality. Now I'm wondering if my flashbacks right before my death will include any of these scenes from my characters' lives as well? Will my memory really know the difference between the two after succumbing to whatever horrible and traumatic event takes my life? Or will it just say "fuck it" and dump a whole pool of images without filtering through it?

Also, America, its time to up your cigarette packaging game. Thanks to my co-worker for the box in middle from her trip to Australia, and to Ben for the other two from his trip to South Korea.

Lamborghini insignia? Check.

Literally, the prettiest cigarette I've ever seen

Sidetracking aside, I know both of you have been waiting for more from The Sovereignty storyline, but I think I've either fallen away from it or else I'm actually thinking about restarting it again with a better protagonist. I honestly have no idea how many people read this (especially since I don't actually plan to link this post), but I figure thinking that there are at least two people in my audience is generous seeing as I don't update consistently and everyone else is probably wondering why I don't write more often. As much as I've thought about scraping this story, it just keeps hanging around, kinda like that one something you've always meant to throw out but never got around to it. "Maybe it'll come in handy later," you rationalize to yourself just to hold onto it for another year. "Maybe that missing button will turn up" or "Maybe this will be the year I finally get around to using blank." Its the same thing. Hmmm, maybe I'll  just keep it around for the sake of writing on the fly without a proper outline or goal to begin with. It'll look real glitchy and probably crash and burn, but meh its not like it'll hurt.

On a positive note, in the four months or so since I haven't been writing I beat a couple video games (Halo 4, Assassin's Creed 3, Dead Island), I finished the The Magician King, the Nightside series and started on the Dresden Files series (so pretty much just jumping from one series about a paranormal detective to another), and I haven't been fired from work (which I probably should have by now especially with all of the inappropriate comments and such). Unfortunately, I just re-started Dead Island (4 different characters means... actually it means nothing since they all follow the same storyline but it does mean 4 distinct ways to power-up my character) but I'll try to keep my video game addiction under control for awhile.


 Sadly, the only positives that have come this whole time in regards to my writing are these few seeds which, if I actually apply myself and take the time to plant, water, fertilize and weed them, might make decent stories.

Plant references, because I still work on the orchid farm.

• When does the good of the few outweigh the needs of the many?
• What if Fate forgot about you?
• What would you give up to change the world?

I actually do still have the three storylines still in my head that need to be worked on, two of which need to be entered by May 1st to their respective magazine contests and once again, my neglect is probably gonna cost me. And yes, when I say three, I do mean three different storylines. I seem to still have a hard time keeping focused on one story at a time (which is why I probably did better when I was taking those two fiction writing classes at the same time).

Besides, writing gives me more excuses to listen to more no lyrics/non-English music (which I find I am growing increasingly fond of). And, thanks to my love of Anime and my association with Kristian and Sunny, I have access (or at least an introduction) to both on where to start looking. Below, my two favorites at the moment:

 My two favorite Japanese bands on stage together! If only they covered Shoujo S...

Sadly, I hadn't even heard of them until I started listening to Prodigy. Thanks, Sunny

Its excellent for background noise when no one's screaming lyrics or at least when I can't understand what anyone is saying and thus less distracting than having someone screaming into my ears and their words somehow ending up on my papers.