17 December 2008

What I like to call limbo time

"Why can't unconsciousness rain on me?"

I stayed awake till 6 in the morning the night before last. I woke up throughout the "night" and finally kept conscious at an hour past noon and by 8 this night was tired and falling asleep to a documentary about Danny Trejo. I went to bed at 10 and awoke from nightmare dreams of grading essays and dealing with students who are confused by simple things and now it is 1 am and I can't sleep. My girlfriend is asleep. The world is asleep. The dog is awake, but that's it. I have no desire for anything but oblivion. Don't want to be on the internet, or read, or watch DVDs of shows or movies. Me and the dog and I'm stuck in someplace I like to call limbo time where only I truly exist, whether I want to or not.

14 December 2008

All work and no play...?

I feel like Jack Nicholson in The Shining--Except I'm not as cool as Jack.

I hope my death comes with this absolute feeling of helplessness.

This is something I thought the other day while commuting my 40 miles to work on a gloomy day in my gloomy car and luckily the HOV lane was open and as I entered it I glanced at what is the exit ramp for when the HOV lane travels westbound and not eastbound and imagined a car bursting into the HOV lane and pushing my car over the wall and that I would hope that I would have a feeling of absolute helplessness as time would slow down in order for me to truly appreciate the moment and the consequence like the time I almost got my ass kicked by the bully of whichever grade it was while I was in middle school and in the then present I laughed, because it was one of those days when I wanted nothing but solitude, only I had to man my position at my workplace and I supposed that in oblivion I would find solitude, but it was just a thought, perhaps in too much simple, yet straightforward detail, and I kept driving without incident on this gloomy day that could have been any weekday or perhaps even a weekend day.

And I laughed.

Certainly not the best night ever...

I have this immense feeling of muted anxiety centered in my chest. If it's my destiny, I'm not sure where it's pulling me. My chest feels sort of heavy and it slightly feels like it's difficult to breathe, though I know it's not.

I had this feeling two nights before Thanksgiving, when I knew I'd be going to New York. After Tuesday night's sleep I felt fine, though all of Tuesday was enmeshed in this feeling. This feeling has been gone since.

Now it's back. I think this is the feeling I had two-and-a-half years ago, before I left for Arizona. I had several months of waiting before my departure. I had to bide my time as I counted down the months, weeks, and days before I could attempt to find myself at age twenty and five.

If this is the same feeling it must be a form of anxiety exerting itself as I finish grading for the semester, meaning I have nearly a month of wanton free time. I have plenty of things to do over the next month, but it seems my body wants me to travel. To take to the road and disappear. If only... Maybe it's really my mind. I think so. It dislikes this...static feeling.

If Charlie felt infinite, then I feel so finite.


04 November 2008

I Want to Believe...

"No matter what, you're going to have a wait."

This is what one of my new friends has told me.

In preparation of the vote

This was hardly true and I'm glad for it, though I was worried. I live in Newport News, Virginia now. The commonwealth has registered around half a million new voters for this election and the news media has predicted chaos at the polling sites, McCain is suing, people are being lied to and told that Democrats vote on Wednesday, and black folks are being screwed out of their votes during another presidential election in more ways than one.

Given all this information, I wanted to be prepared. After a mere two hours of sleep, I woke up before the sun (which I hate to do). I put on wool socks, a thick hoodie, gloves, grabbed my folding camping chair, a booklight and a pocket-sized book and left for my polling station at 5:30, in the humid morning drizzle.

Upon arrival, and amid parking chaos, there were only about 2o people ahead of me on the line outside of the church doors. I set my chair down and proceded to play Lego Racers on my cell phone. Right around 6 am, when the polls opened, the line began to move and I made light conversation with other folks. We wondered if the ballots were electronic, with no paper trail, which I thought to be the case.

The parking chaos seemed to be the main focus of conversation, as perhaps, like myself, no one thought it appropriate to talk politics while at this point in line. Maybe they all saw the guy with what looked like a rifle case slung over his shoulder walking in the parking lot. I'm hoping it was merely his own camping chair...

Moving quickly now, I found myself down a hallway covered in Jesus, with the occasional sample paper ballot taped to the wall between this Biblical scene and that Biblical scene. I passed this information on to the two concerned black women I'd spoken with earlier, all of us relieved that if anything went wrong, there is a paper trail.

The Vote

I entered the line for A-G and talked with a man named Carter, who works for a funeral home. He was personable and told me he was a lobbyist when I mentioned my concerns about Virginia being the Ohio of 2004 and the Florida of 2000. He'd said that most of Virginia is on the straight and narrow, and this had to do with the military mindset. He told me about the Fightin' Ninth district, on the west side of the state, where politics are corrupt, so far from my own Hampton Roads. We talked about the winter weather here and in the mountains of Northern Arizona, where he'd visited not long ago, pronouncing Presscot like an outsider, how I used to say it. Various locals, probably mostly churchgoers, greeted Carter. He'd told me about one local winter, during which he had a vision of a burning bush and how that's when he'd realized, maybe really realized, about God. I wanted to make a joke about seeing a burning Bush in the White House, but held my tongue, simply hoping for Obama's win. I liked Carter and enjoyed his conversation. He began chatting it up with other people he knew.

My line was held up. A black woman was taking up a lot of time. After a few minutes she stepped aside and I moved closer to the sign in table. She told us how she had moved six years ago, voted in the last election and in the primaries this past season at her current address, yet all of a sudden the paperwork had her registered at her old address. I said, loudly and clearly, that this sounded fishy. I hope she gets to vote. I am a resident of only three months, my voter registration dated 4 September, exactly two months ago, yet I was in the paperwork...

Finally, I checked in, giving my driver's license and voter card to the woman who referenced her paperwork. I declared my full legal name and address, and was marked in at number 28 of A-G by the other woman working the table and was handed my blank paper ballot.

I took this ballot to the "voting booth," which was a small row of tables with sort of private walls. I then used the provided marking pen to completely fill in the circles for Democrats Obama, Warner (Senate), and the vote for the House for my district. I brought my form over to the machine that looks like a giant paper shredder, placed my form down face up, and the machine sucked in my vote. Then I got my sticker!

After the Vote

I got into the car and turned on the CD player. Bruce Springsteen's "The Last To Die" from the 2008 We Thought We'd Live Forever live concert bootleg came on.

Who'll be the last to die for a mistake
The last to die for a mistake
Will Darlin' tyrants and kings fall to the same fate
Strung up at your city gates
Who'll be the last to die for a mistake

Whatever the results of the election, good-bye George W, good-bye. I'll tell him. You tell him too, Bruce.

I suppose this is enough to rejoice given the past eight years of economic downturns, warmongering, profiteering, religious hatred, political hatred, and everything else that represents the horrific Bush legacy. Could a McPalin administration really keep up this level of horror and ultra-violence?

Still, I hope G. B. Trudeau is correct in his prediction, otherwise we'll have a week of Doonesbury reprints.

Voter Protection

Photographer Clayton Cubitt lets us know what to do in case you're told you can't vote.

Making it Count: How to Protect Your Vote & Spot Dirty Tricks

The Email

The message I attached to an email from Moveon.org as I forwarded the organization's email about getting out to vote for Obama, and working class families to 103 friends and family that I am proud to know (even if they vote McPalin):

My friends and family,

Most of us are working class people. This election is not about lower class, or middle class, or upper class. It's not about black interests, or white interests. It's about, we, the working class and the power to control our futures.

Do you really need to think about who is best for the working class? Do we need to think of who will help us and who will harm us? Who will provide us with more opportunities to better our lives, and the lives of those we love?

I voted today at approximately 6:15 am, after waiting for 45 minutes. Not much of a wait at all.

Please. Vote today. Four more years of Bushie tactics, lies, and turmoil, or the chance for something new, and for the redemption of our country, The United States of America?

So whether you're in New York, Arizona, California, Nevada, or where ever...think about your future, our future, because we all share in the mirth as well as the misery. Let us take part in our Democratic Republic and choose mirth together.

With love, respect, and admiration for you all,
Paul Gasparo Jr

01 September 2008

The 12 Labors

There should be a law against this.

This post is dedicated to all those who had to work today, on Labor Day, and who don't necessarily get their mandatory ten-minute breaks if there isn't anyone (say, a manager) to cover for them. Ah yes. Celebrate the humble, hard-working American worker. Put him (or her) on a pedestal today (for at least ten minites, twice).

Today is the day we celebrate workers here in America. The first Monday of September.* A "holiday" if you will. I suppose it's a holiday if one doesn't have to work on this day.

So what did I do today, on Labor Day? I got some work done for my job. Then, for dinner I partook in the great American gluttonous pastime of the buffet. I don't know about other parts of the world, but America is littered with the buffet. During my five days in the St. Louis area this past June, I partook in no less than two sessions at the buffet. One "Chinese" and the other was international of sorts.

The buffet is where the consumer (very literally a consumer) pays one price at a food serving establishment and then proceeds to gorge themselves on what is generally a great variety of foods. Tonight, the buffet was celebrated at Wok N Roll, which serves so-called Chinese style food.

There are 12 Herculean labors that are an integral part of eating at the buffet.

How do the 12 labors work, you ask? Here I will list them in the order in which God (Zeus or the American President and his corporate friends-since we have freedom of religion, you choose) deems.

1) Get seated at a table only to get up and go back to the front of the joint and serve yourself.

2) Pile your plate high. Those snow crab legs don't grow on trees, nor are they cheap.

3) Pile that plate higher; you paid a lot of money.

4) Sit and stuff.

5-8) Repeat steps 1-4 as many times as you can until the manager gives you an angry look or you feel you'll burst. This is where many ignore nature's signals regarding the cessation of eating. Of course, nature and science are for silly liberals. We Americans have the God-given free choice to eat as much as we can afford.

9) Now that you can't eat any more food from the buffet, go and get some dessert.

10) It's mostly sugar, so it doesn't really count as food. Make sure you get a lot of dessert, becase these are empty calories, hence, they don't take up room.

11) Be sure you've eaten your $--.-- worth of food. This is especially true on "holidays" in which the price of entry on this ride nearly doubles.

12) Now force down that fortune cookie that's been sprung on you at your final moment; it's the coup de grĂ¢ce of this Herculean experience.

While I refer to the buffet as American, its origins spring forth from some other culture(s) in ancient times. Surely the Romans enjoyed a great spread, hence the need for a vomitorium. Did they have an actual buffet in Petronius' day-I am not sure. I'm pretty sure cultures from the "East" enjoyed the buffet on occasion as well. As it were, I refer to an occasion, as in, once in a while. Please, fellow Americans. Should the buffet be a common occurence for you, check yourself. Your body never intended you to eat this way, unless maybe you're of a nomadic people who scarcely eat once every two weeks, but if this was true, you'd have learned to cure and carry, and dispense food over time.

But hey, this is another festival style holiday in which we're supposed to be celebrate the fruits of our labors, the cooling winds of the fall to come, and have one last hurrahl into the toilet before we return to work and supposed mandatory ten-minute breaks.** Have another bite, America; it's on me.

*In other countries, Labor Day may be celebrated on 1 May.

**This is why you should always crap during work hours. Can you imagine, getting paid to shit? I can.

28 August 2008

Nothing Like That Smile at Seventy-Five MPH

There's something about a good day that sets me ablaze with a love of being alive.

Most importantly, this feeling comes as I drive and drive fast with the wind whipping through my hair as I lean into the steering wheel, bringing my face as close to the hood and to the ground as possible as if I need to feel my wheels, on my body, thrusting me over the ground.

23 August 2008

The Lego Minifigure Turns 30 and so do I (soon enough)

I'll have to find some good quotation on aging...

In less than three years I turn 30. I know I'm getting old. Although I've been complaining about teenagers since I was a teenager, I think I complain about them more now that I work with them. I've got to trim nose hairs (for a few years now), for God's sake (if there is one, that is).

I had a conversation with my friend M a few weeks ago about pants no longer fitting. It's that damnable top button that never wants to give a little more. We both agreed that if it really became an issue, we'd actually get off our asses and do something about it instead of simply bitching about getting old. For now, I suck it in, latch that button and pray it holds.

What the fuck, Adam Sandler? I think it's his comedy in which he refers to hitting age 30 and noticing how metabolism slows down and the weight starts adding on. Yeah. Two years ago I remember being around 165. Now I'm around 190? Shit. Time for new pants and more physical activities. If only my body had waited until I turned 30.

Who do I blame? The English Department at NAU. Yeah. Three novels a week. Let me do all that reading at the belabored pace I often read at because I can't help it. While some comics are same way, most of them aren't so laborious to read. I don't really blame the Lit. program; they're my scapegoat. I signed on for it. I could've walked more, gotten out more, but I'm a procrastinator.

Now all you older readers are going to scoff at me and my youth and somewhat unwarranted complaints. You've all dealt with this for 10, 20, 30 or more years. What the hell do I have to crank about? I wasn't expecting it this early. That's what.

And now the Lego minifigure reaches a few milestones. Happy Birthday Lego minifigure - from me and Wallpaper.com. I still love you no matter how fat and old you get. No matter if your pants fit and your nose hairs splay themselves without scruples.

According to that hyperlink, there are over 4 billion minifigures populating the world. How many of those 4 billion do you think I possess?

27 July 2008

Life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness no matter the cost #1

This is the first entry in a series on some basic information regarding what goes on in my life.

  • Item: Now living in Newport News, Virginia.
  • Item: We're looking to move to Hampton, the city south of Newport News by next week.
  • Pretty sure I have work teaching at a CC.
  • Item: People who slow down while driving into the I-64 Bridge & Tunnel are fucking idiots. 55 mph! Anyone going slower should be thrown to the sharks. It should not take 1.5 hours to go 30 miles to the ocean, especially Saturday evening. Next time people go slow, I say flood the tunnel. See if Stallone can save your asses then with a 20% approval rating.

The Origin of Best. Morning. Ever.

"It's sort of thanking and making fun of T all at once, as

all titles inspired by the most beloved friends should do."

Why the hell did I come up with this title? Well, let me tell you via email transcripts, having received an email with the subject line "BEST. MORNING. EVER." this morning.



(This colon is followed by a long pasting about Hugh Jackman (Wolverine) at the San Diego Comic-Con and the excitement of the crowd viewing clips from the upcoming X-Men Origins: Wolverine (2009) movie.)

Me: Um...fanboy rave reaction does not mean a good final product with a worthwhile story. If there's no emotion, nothing really at stake, then it's simply fanboy hype, fight scenes, and special effects sequences.



Me: Sigh...You're a fucker, you know?

X-Men 3 would have been totally worthless if it weren't for the emotional investment we have in those characters, and of course, if the first half of the movie did not exist, because most of the fights and special effects in the second half were worthless. Half a hundred mutants with super leaping power? WTF?

Me (again, without waiting for a response): PS: Next time you title an email as you did your initial one regarding the Wolverine movie, it better be because you just had the best sex ever.



Mind you, T always types in all CAPS.

Apparently what makes a good movie is fights and explosions and leaping mutants. There need not be character development, emotional impact, or any inkling of drama. Fuck me if I, and all those dead Athenian playwrights, been wrong all these years.


The idea to write a blog where I can selfishly rant and rave with little thought for purpose and consequence has somewhat been inspired by a bloke I've just met via Bookmooch. This guy Ethan Kaye (who likes to Google himself) writes for Toyfare Magazine and
comic book magazine Wizard Universe (online). I now enjoy reading Ethan's blog, Feed Me a Kitten, which I have bussed in via RSS feed every time he posts.

I also cannot forget to mention writer Warren Ellis. Finally able to latch onto a fraction of the web-based technology which he uses to broadcast his mind across the electronic world, I can read everything from his site on my nifty feed. He's like the mother's breast I could never suckle at as a child, so now I insert the feeding tube from his braintips (his brains likely number at least ten and are located in his fingertips) into my stomach directly. Last night I went to bed in hunger. Tonight I sleep a nirvanic sleep like all his other bastard cyber-children. He once responded to an email I wrote him, but that post is for another day.

Behind it all

This is simply a space for me to be my weird self, whether or not I am ever original or truly creative. There's a whole philosophical debate raging in my head at the moment about the definitions of these terms and whether or not they can even possibly be applied using the generally accepted definitions.

I am a product of my environment and all your environments which can't help but interact with my weather systems. Cheers to that.


So to friends new and old, real-life and internet, and of course real or imagined, I thank you all for past, present, and future inspiration, as the definition of inspiration should include all time designations.

Welcome to Best. Morning. Ever.

Welcome to Best. Morning. Ever.

Every time I compose a new post it will be your best morning ever when you wake up, get your coffee or cola and sit down to read my ideas represented in the form of mostly English words. A morning reading my blog is like a day in the corps. Every meal is a banquet and every paycheck a fortune. Hoo-rah!

This is my new blog where I rave, rant, and rouse while being raw and raucous. This is not the family friendly words that you might generally be appropriate for my travel blog or on the ArmzRace blog. Nope. This is me mean, wicked, pissed, happy, sad, ecstatic, and anything else I might be feeling and thinking. This is where I cultivate my sardonic future-cult followed writer personality as seen on the internet.

This will be basic day-to-day updates on my life as well. Where am I? What's going on in my life? Find those answers here.

The best way for you to keep up with my postings on the various blogs I write and contribute to would be to register and use Google Reader, which is an RSS feed reader. You don't need to know what the hell this means to use it though. I've typed "Google Reader" as a hyperlink to get you started. If you already have a Gmail account, you'll already have a feed reader account. There are other readers available, such as one through Yahoo! mail.

Basically, an RSS feed reader allows users to feed updates from various web sources onto a single page. Let's say you enjoy skimming through six different blogs a week, but sometimes forget one or another. Now you'll be able to see all updates on a single page by using one of these readers.

How do you know when you can add a page to your RSS feed reader? Simply look for something like this and figure it out from there: