My Gift to You

It's been so long since I've done this. Writing about myself feels weird; I'm used to writing about my characters. Before the end of this post, I will have waded hip-deep through a sewer in search of a kidnapped dog or something. You know, something heroic and ridiculous.

Tomorrow I travel north and see the family which is both exciting and instantly tedious. My Christmas break is like sand slipping through fingers and I need to web that shit up. Spending time with my family is great; spending days is going to be a hassle. But the booze flows freely and there are sure to be numerous gaffes. Ought to be a bizarrely good time.

There is always a crunch to see long-lost friends during the holidays, because everyone left the MOTHERLAND and moved to some far-off locale and good for them, right? But unless the Venn diagram of our lives coincides serendipitously, I have a hard time making the effort. This is probably the reason why most people remember me fondly but loath me in actuality. Honestly, I can live with that.

What else? My generosity with Christmas gifts--at least monetarily--has reached a new level this year. In regard to creativity and personality, not so much. Getting someone a gift they like is great. Getting them the means to get something they love is better, though. Sure, it's basically the gift of more work, but if you don't want the fucking free money I'll find a use for it.

Of course, this is all preemptive. Maybe everyone will love the opportunity to get out and enjoy some after Christmas sales! We are in a recession, assholes. Do your part.

Once again, I'm convinced I'm dying. That's pretty much it. I'm not sure what's killing me, but it's not me. The lack of control in the matter is distressing. I persevere still, because why not? My inner super-villain (Jungle Jim, who takes the powers of all animals in the jungle one at a time) loves torturing those around me.

National Dust: Primo

It should affect me more, but my inability to escape the teenage ennui that I embraced before really is the shits. The worst part about it is that as a form of existential torture its not even fuckin' unique; my entire generation (the lamentable, irascible, irrelevant Millennials)suffers from this. Or would suffer, if we'd get off our couches, put down the cookie-cutter fads, pull up the pants, and get our shit together.

What bothers me most is that this used to be a credible yet ridiculous lifestyle choice. Squares wouldn't give you the time of day on the street but deep inside those double-breasted jackets a dark seed of respect would gestate. It wasn't being crazy to make a point, it was being crazy because the fire was at your feet and joining the race looked so good when the beers wore off, but they never did, did they? Today you've got people killing themselves for hours about which pair of shoes looked more ironic with their ensemble. Open a newspaper and watch it bleed; it still won't make you puke like the tragically hip.

Awash in a sea of post-modern, post-post, post-transcendence troglodytes and the only thing keeping you afloat in the jetsam of fixed-gear bikes and flotsam of scarves-in-summer is your own two fuckin' hands, broken from pounding on your head to drown out the indomitable noise. But I ain't spilling bile on these good-natured folks, no sir; when family falls all you have is your peer group. I wouldn't piss on another person if they were burning, but I would point towards the nearest latrine.

No, what gets my teeth a-grindin' is the helplessness. And that big middle finger I give the high-brow Ivory Tower Society gets shoved right back in the old mug. As kid, it was running to and fro, trying to score ladies and flee from responsibility and the culture feeds on that. Being the clown is all fun and games until the paint comes off and then what? Just a fuckin' slob with greasy hands and a silly wig. You can cram 15 people into a phone booth but you can't pick up the goddamn receiver.

While it may sound all bleak and boo-hoo, remember that a fella's gotta have a little respite every now and then. You got to strip yourself bare, go find a cave, and throw a bone through your nose. Live like a wild person and fight for supremacy. Don't misunderstand: I'm not sayin' go join a commune with their psychosomatic dogma what makes you feel guilty for living and even guiltier trying to find the escape hatch. All it is is this: sometimes, you gotta go just a little crazy. If people push you away, bite the motherfuckers. Like, with your goddamn teeth. Supersanity is the deadliest disease sweeping this great United States of America, and if you vaccinate yourself with a little crazy they wrap you in a blanket and toss you on the fire.

And that, suckers, is when those toes start to get red hot again...

Psychotic Reactions

A potpourri of thoughts. For instance:

--While I haven't seen it, there is no way "The Social Network" makes up for the myriad ways in which Facebook ruined my life. If we can have cars with built-in breathalizers, we need computer monitors with the same. Facebook chat and cheap rum mix like George W. Bush and the NAACP.

--Some entrepreneurial young person will put together a montage of Julia Roberts' face over the past fifteen years, and it will horrify you. Also, she played herself in Ocean's Twelve, a movie which is primarily blamed for my skin cancer.

--Blogger has a few suggestions for labels for this post, and they include the following: scooters, vacation, and fall. Prescient in all the right ways. Did you hear? The CEO of Segway died whilst riding a Segway. While not the literal definition of "irony," that's a pretty fucking close shave.

--It's fall in the Midwest, which can mean only one thing: hipsters in Uptown now feel vindicated for never taking that scarf off. Without knowing it, I just fulfilled one of Blogger's labels! Thanks for the tip, computer.

--My entire stereo system was built in the early 1990s; I either have to replace the entire setup or shell out big bucks for a new turntable. At times like this, I have to ask myself: "How much do I want to listen that goddamn 'Mountain' album?" And the answer is always "a lot."

--Looking back, the only celebrity deaths that have really made me feel shitty have been comedians. I didn't go to class for a week when Richard Pryor died and I called in sick the day after Greg Giraldo passed. I also did a shit-load of prescription drugs those days, so their legacy lives on!

--O.J. Simpson beats the murder rap. Kobe Bryant is acquitted of rape charges. Magic Johnson beats AIDS. I'm just saying.

That's it for tonight! Hooray!

Carrying the Zero

As a skeptic, I am very interested in how the universe works. Currenlty I'm reading a book by Michio Kaku called Parallel Worlds, which has been the source of many, many nightmares. Theoretical physics has always been a weird interest of mine, because these guys are spitballing reasons as to why the universe is the way it is--philosophers in a scientific sense. But the things these cats can do... We've got scientists, probably somewhere in Switzerland, teleporting atoms across the room. Ladies and gentlemen creating blueprints for a physically-accurate time machine... These things terrify me. I have had nightmares about this.

In Back to the Future II, Marty travels into the future, and meets his future self, a loser. According to this book, this type of travel is not only possible, but likely on a quantum level--we could travel through a wormhole into a parallel universe and meet a different version of our own person. And this is the idea that I find mortifying: what if parallel Adam is more success than me? Better looking? What if he's some secret agent? Is that version more real than me? It's terrible to think about unrealized potential, but that's the lynch pin of M-Theory, and it really scares me.

It's hard to describe, but the feeling is like, "What would I do if I disappointed myself?" In a solitary universe, who cares? Who you are is who you are. But I've got millions--infinite!--versions of myself I have to live up to. As self-centered and sociopathic as it may seem, the one person I'm afraid to let down is myself. Somewhere in the jetsam of the multiverse, a version of me is lounging on a yacht, firing nuclear missiles at some Eastern European country. He just doesn't care. Adam Prime, though? Feeding his fat cat, writing his blog. How unfortunate.

On the other hand, how can you compare? A million different versions of myself won the lottery, bought big houses, and bet on contests that required a human being to die. Only one version is as messed up, vulnerable, crazy, and self-aware as me. That must count for something. I mean, on the bright side, all these geniuses can't figure out how to reach these alternate realities, so who do I have to impress? Myself? I'm not there yet, but it's coming. In the meantime, things are going to work out just fine.

Fooled With the Wrong Guy

When it comes to other people, I'm terrified. I've written about falling in love, about death and how it changes me; in the past, I've written (in a comedic fashion) about the fallacy of caring about the world and modern notions of the modern man, and how they are anything but. I've always felt like I had a pretty good handle on reality, but then things go changing.

In my mind, my grasp on life is absolute. I wear a suit, expensive ties, and shoes that denote not class but status. When I tell a story, people listen, rapturously. Tiny lives revolve around tiny me, with tiny celestial events occurring in between. Literally and figuratively, I am a star.

In reality, my personal style is mid-1990s grunge with sprinkles of modern metro-sexual--a truly confused visage. My command of a room is tenuous; for each person I feel is into my tale, another is repulsed. Life does not revolve around me. Copernicus was right, and he was a shitwizard. What happened? I thought I had this locked down.

It would be easy to point to a sickness, an illness, and ascribe my shortcomings to it. "I am depressed." I don't feel very sad. Mostly, I just feel solitary. The difference is palpable and horrible. If I was depressed, medications and therapy could cure me. As a singular entity, external help doesn't exist. I have always hated the guy who described himself as a "people person." But the only way to form meaningful connections is to work and accept and, metaphorically, be singular.

At this point, I'm not sure what else to do. I am exhausted and I have exhausted all outlets of personal connection. What happened? Why am I compelled to concoct elaborate lies to avoid personal interaction? What am I running from? When I first moved here, I felt like I was finally at home. All I can do now is scour the landscape for an escape path. What happened in between?

Recently, I saw many of my high school friends at a concert. We hugged and shook hands and exchanged tales of what we had been doing. It was a reality existing parallel to my own. We were doing the right things but the outcome was different. Did I outgrow them? Did they outgrow me? It should have been a celebration of old friends reuniting, but I've never felt more like an anchor.

You can't go home again. There is no home, really. There is now and there is then, and they exist simultaneously but not together. And you can't be in both. Life is the choice between the two. I've never had to make a choice like this before, and it's pretty scary. If life is choice, then making no decision is suicide. What do you do when both seem wrong? What then?

On Death

Everything I know about my maternal grandfather is based upon a story; George Paul died before I could remember him. He was a fighter pilot in World War II, and his plane was hit by German flak. He was a member of the Free Masons up to a point. He disagreed with one of their rituals and attempted to quit. Rumor has it he took issue with their racial policies. Years later, when he died, the Masons stepped in took care of all of the finances—the funeral, the coffin, and his old membership dues. Apparently, they took care of their own, and respected a secret taken to the grave.

My paternal grandfather, Vaughan Robinson, died long before I had a chance to meet him. After the death of my father’s mother, Vaughan, a truck driver, retreated into himself and died shortly after. A broken heart can be, and often is, fatal. After Vaughan passed, my father, only a teenager then, took it upon himself to care for his three siblings. He grew old and became a parent before his time, and it wasn’t fair to him. But there was a common thread among my forbearers: they understood responsibility.

Apparently, at the dinner table, George Paul would ask basic trivia questions to his children and grandchildren, and those who answered incorrectly were met with a rap from the handle of a butter knife. Why, after his heroic and selfless life, this is the only thing I remember about him, I have no idea. It just goes to show how death informs life, and how questions left unanswered remain mysteries. There is no denouement.

When I was a child, I used to ride my Big Wheel around the driveway, pretending I was Rodimus Prime or something. Kid stuff, I guess. One day, when I was too young to accurately remember things, I was adventuring through Cybertron when my father pulled into the driveway with a screech. He moved briskly and said little which was not unusual for him. But on this particular day, my brother, always the Megatron to my Prime, was poised on the deck overlooking the driveway, carefully lining up his shot. He was trying to drop an empty milk crate on my head. My father saw this, and, wordlessly, stormed into the house, emerged onto the deck, and grabbed Luke by the scruff of his neck. Luke received a spanking. At one point, Luke tried to block my father’s hand, resulting in a broken thumb. I can’t remember what happened after that.

It wasn’t until I was an adult that I learned what happened: my uncle Sean, my father’s brother, had died. This came as a surprise, because I had no idea my father even had a brother! I had a good relationship with my aunt, Beth, and had spoken to my other aunt, Patti, on the phone. But, incredibly, there was another sibling. One day, when my father was at work, my mother took me into our basement and showed me some artwork. The photorealistic style was impressive, even to an amateur such as me. My mother explained that nearly all of the art that hung in my house was created by my uncle Sean, my father’s younger brother, whom he had taken care of since the passing of their parents.

No one had mentioned Sean to me because Sean died of AIDS. He was gay. My father, for all of his inherent greatness and faults, decided it was better that my brother and I just kind of knew about this guy in the periphery of our lives. Dad was old-fashioned, and when he discovered Sean wasn’t “normal,” took it personally: he felt like he failed as a surrogate parent. I can’t imagine that: only 17 and thinking you had failed at raising one of your three children. Life is rarely fair.

And still, the idea of death existed tangentially. I knew neither Sean nor George nor Vaughan. Death seemed to be a vacation to me; you saw the time share and just bought unlimited access. Then I went to college and did what everyone does. I grew up.

While I never knew the person—male or female, name, age, whatever—when I saw that person jump from the sixth story window, an unknown gear turned. Things changed irreparably. Later, when I saw the picture in the school paper, I convinced myself that we’d never had an encounter in dining hall or the elevator. I convinced myself that I was still innocent. And then I went home.

We had had Beau since she was a puppy. Her name was delightfully ironic; a girl dog named after the French word for male beauty, she was rambunctious and loyal and she was mine. We grew up together. Beau was the only friend that made the journey from Alaska to Minnesota with me. She loved her new life, what with three acres of prime land to explore and be wild. One day, while walking to the end of the drive way to get on the bus, I heard a gunshot and, for a split second, a yelp. I knew immediately it was Beau. I ran back to my house and tearfully told my parents what had happened. They did all they could: they told me it was probably nothing, and solemnly drove me to school. Later that day, they took me from classes early. Beau had been shot, and was at the local veterinarian’s. We always knew who had shot her, and that it was done simply out of spite, but never took any vengeance. This is frequently something I think about before falling asleep; it is my private shame.

Beau survived the attack, but lost a leg. She lost none of her personality and spunk, however. We placed boxes all over the house so that she could jump to her favorite spots: the living room couch, my bed. She was more timid, and more reserved, but she was still Beau. And when I would leave my house to go to high school and later to college, Beau was on the forefront of my mind. Loyalty is, sometimes, just a word. And sometimes, it’s palpable.

When Beau was diagnosed with cancer, my parents again did all they could. They invited me into their home, and they gave me plenty of time to spend with her. And on that Saturday, they took Beau in for a routine appointment, but returned red-eyed and puffy-cheeked. We didn’t talk about what happened. I went into the driveway, sat down, and cried harder than I ever had before. And when the rain started, I walked back inside, and I gathered my laundry, and I drove back to college.

Today, I frequently think about my own death. I don’t think about taking my own life, but I often wonder what people would think about me. With Beau, I had lost a companion, and a pet, and a part of me, and in a way, my innocence. Will I be missed? Will I be mourned? Part of me, the shameful, tragic part, wants there to be a tearful woman in attendance at my funeral, lamenting my loss. But mostly, I envy Sean. Those who knew and loved him mourned, and those who didn’t were able to look back at his life’s passion and work, and be inspired. But I’ve grown up, and life is rarely fair.

The Unspoken Things

I fall in love on a daily basis, many times with the same person. This has been a constant source of personal turmoil for me. Much of the time, my love goes both unspoken and unrequited; this is to be expected, because I am cowardly and vainglorious and stupid. But girls don’t make it easy.

When I was in the third grade, the librarian at my elementary school, a warm but homely woman named Mrs. Adams, stormed into my class and sternly asked me to join her. Because I was a nerd, this immediately reminded me of the scene in The Empire Strikes Back, in which Darth Vader unsuccessfully asks Luke to join him on the dark side—ha!—and rule the galaxy together. I was never interested in sleeping with my sister, so I would have gone with him. That inclination proved well-minded.

Our library was relatively small, but only when you weren’t looking. The stacks held all the usual suspects—Shel Silverstein, Bernstein Bears, etc.—along with a small bank of computers used primarily to kill daughters of dysentery in Oregon Trail. Tucked away behind the furthest wall, past the “big kid books” like Dune and such, was a dusty old door. Through this door was a small, windowless room filled with ancient machinery used to test the senses; basic visual tests, hearing tests, and the like were performed in here. When I walked in, I was administered these tests, and I assume I had passed, as Mrs. Adams seemed coldly placated. She then sat opposite me at the tiny table in the room, and asked me some of the toughest questions of my life.

“What is a group of crows called?” She asked.

“Spell ‘garage’.”

“What’s the square root of 64?”

And so on. Although I spelled it correctly, the fact that I had to think about how to spell “garage” and eventually pinned my success on a guess wakes me in the night. After she was finished, I was sent back to class with a terse “Well done,” and that was it. Or so I thought.

The next day, Mrs. Adams appeared to me, this time much more excited to see me. After lunch, she told me to meet her in the library. Met with a brief wave, I was whisked to the opposite corner of the library that hid a massive staircase cordoned off with a velvet rope. How I had never seen this before, I have no idea. She led me up the staircase to a loft littered with real books—dictionaries, thesauruses, collections of poems—globes, maps, computers, and a large round table, around which sat five kids I had never seen before.

This was my first introduction to ELP, the extended learning program, a new initiative at our school that sought out the brightest kids and brought them together to thrive. It was in the fucking loft of our library! The librarian was the group’s administrator! J.K. Rowling would have creamed her jeans if she knew. It was incredible; we’d do mind-teasers, engineering projects, algebra, and general smart-kid stuff. We probably solved a crime or two, I don’t know. But none of that interested me. I was interested in Laura.

She didn’t exist in my universe before then. She had a soft personality, delicate, and freckles on her nose. She was constantly brushing her hair behind her ear. Almost twenty years later, I remember how she chewed on the end of her pencil, not out of frustration, but out of a kind of curiosity. She was quiet, and we had shared classes since kindergarten. During ELP, we would share jokes about transcribing miles to kilometers and planetary orbits. She would smile, and softly tap the back of my hand with her pencil. It was a whirlwind romance. It occurred during a single day.

The next day, at lunch, I looked for her, hoping to sit next to her and be smart together. And, from across the lunch room, we locked eyes. They widened slightly. Although I knew who was there, I couldn’t bring myself to look to her left. She said nothing, but her eyes desperately sent me a message, which I received. These unspoken things have a bizarre capacity to unleash oceans of pure pain upon a person.

At ELP, she sat next to me, took my hand, and squeezed. We never looked at each other, but she squeezed my hand the entire forty-five minutes. Third grade was psychologically destructive. I saw her everyday over the next four years, and every day I fell in love with her again, sometimes for weeks, but mostly for minutes. It was the same with Amanda, and Theresa, and Nicole, and Sara, and all the rest. The times I’ve been legitimately in love were similar, but stretched out over months and years. I like to think my real relationships could have worked, had I gotten the unspoken things. I like to think that.

I’m not complaining. I love the girls I’m interested in today, mostly because I can be myself around them. And that cowardly, vainglorious, stupid man will always love them, because he can’t help himself.

When I visited Alaska, two years after I had abruptly moved, I saw her again. At 16, she was industrious; she made sandwiches at Subway. She recognized me, she had to, but clearly she didn’t remember. I ordered my sandwich, and like always, she was delicate: tenderly laying the ham in the bread, spreading the mustard, sprinkling the lettuce. It was just like our first encounter, shifted a few degrees to the left. When I paid, she gave me the scripted “thank you” her employed required. The restaurant was empty, and I could have eaten there, but she didn’t want me to. It was in her eyes. It was one of those unspoken things.

Just like that: in love, and out. A terrifying oscillation.

It's Not Easy Being Green

This one is from the archives! Enjoy.

I remember growing up and watching The Muppets and The Muppet Babies. “Watching” probably doesn’t capture the essence of what I did; in the case of The Muppet Babies, I would pretend to be sick to stay home from school to watch this show. I did this until I was 17 years old. I knew Rowlf was a pimp before I even knew what a pimp was; Statler and Waldorf probably played a larger part than my parents in shaping my personality. And then, of course, there’s Kermit the Frog, who was loveable and dopey and kind of a pussy. Now, speaking for all of us at Reactionary Century, you should never, under any circumstance, hit a woman. That being said, I’d fucking kill Miss Piggy with a shovel.

Kermit’s big claim to fame was his catchphrase and signature song, It’s Not Easy Being Green. This sentiment couldn’t be anymore prescient; “being green” or being an environmentalist or whatever is, I guess, a pretty good thing. And popular, too! It seems everyone has opinion on where my old newspaper and cardboard ends up. Judging by the stares I get, my best guess is it goes up my neighbor’s ass, but that’s not really the point. The point is that being green is great, but everyone is doing it wrong. So, as a scientist/magician, I thought it was my duty to educate people on how to really stay green. The following will ensure that you are truly green and not some judgmental faux-environmentalist. I’m the judgmental one here, assholes. Anyway! The tips:

 DON’T buy anything. According to The Sierra Club, every product available for purchase contains some part of a bald eagle. The shrink-wrap on that Iron Man DVD you just bought is actually made of a film that’s produced when you take eagle eyeballs and boil them. I’m pretty certain this is true. Consumer products aren’t shipped by truck or train or plane anymore, either. About twelve eagles are attached to a crate, and they just fly around the country. This of course exhausts and kills the eagles, but we don’t feed the dead eagles to the homeless or anything, we just let them sit there. You can eat the eagles in China, though. I guess we know where the real democracy is, don’t we?

 DON’T leave your house. Every time you start a car, millions of tons of pollution are released into the air. This pollution forms a protective cocoon around the earth, keeping it warm and melting the ice caps and generally providing more opportunities to swim. Swimming is an amazing aerobic exercise, so people who fight this “global warming” are also pro-obesity. Doesn’t that fact just make you sick? The reason you shouldn’t leave your house is simple: the swimming pools are coming to you, so why bother? That’s just common sense.

 DON’T have sex with anyone, ever. Something tells me that if you’re reading this website, that’s probably not going to be a problem anyway. But overpopulation is a big issue for the health of our planet. With such a huge number of people roaming the earth, it was only a matter of time before someone just decided to give vapid human atrocities the limelight. I find myself wondering what advanced civilizations will make of our time on the planet. Here’s hoping they annihilate us for our bad decisions!

 DO protest something. Protesting is the greasy eagle’s oil that lubricates change in our society. All real environmentalists know that standing on a street corner, holding a sign, and chanting “What do we want? _______! When do we want it? Now!” is how all social movement has occurred throughout the country’s history. I don’t even care what you decide to protest; the sheer act of protesting displays a sort of unity that prompts our leaders to get shit done. Ah, I’m just kidding. Protesting is about as useful as writing a letter to your local congressman. But still protest, though. I have a fantasy of driving down the street, opening my car window, and throwing a hamburger at some guy’s chest.

 DO quit school. Do you have any idea at all how many trees are needlessly killed in order to make all those books that no one ever reads? If you’re sitting at your computer thinking, “Gosh, Adam, I certainly read those books in high school,” go back to your Dungeons and Dragons campaign, nerd. I was too busy partying with the cool kids to read your precious books. Besides, what did school ever do for you? Your fancy-pants education has done wonders saving the planet. Leave the thinking to the real geniuses.

It may seem like I’m coming down hard on you “green” folk. That’s because I am. Being the smartest person in the room is a burden I don’t enjoy bearing, but someone has to save the planet. As Kermit said, it’s not easy being green.

Our Nintendo Life

My relationship with my older brother has always been awkward. While five years is really not much to overcome, we straddled different generations. Luke, my brother, was on the tail-end of Generation X (an incredible name, by the way) and I was on the bleeding edge of the Millennial Generation (a significant step down in generational names). When we were kids, we truly loved each other in a way that only brothers can. But time will pass, and it has a tendency to change things.

This may surprise you, but I was a quiet kid growing up. I mean, now I’m known for Lewis Black-esque rage sessions about videogames and pop culture but, growing up, I was kind of shy. Luke was anything but shy, though. He was boisterous and in love with the limelight; he’d tell the same story three different ways in order to be the focus of the party. It was simultaneously amazing and infuriating. Things like that came easy to him. Me? Videogames came easy to me.

I don’t remember getting a NES, but I do remember playing Super Mario Bros. with my brother. As far as Luigis were concerned, I was a cancer. When his Mario died, I’d take over for multiple levels. We’d even do the “toss some elbows, fuck the other guy up” kind of one-upsmanship. It didn’t matter what kind of game we played, but I was always superior to him. After a while, I would throw him a game or two. I’d say, “Dang, Luke, you are getting really good at this,” but he would know what was going on. He would never say anything, but our gaming sessions would get shorter and shorter as time went on.

While I don’t have a Nintendo-64-Kid like documentation of the occasion, I remember getting a Nintendo 64 for Christmas. We didn’t get it at launch; we got it with Mario and Pilotwings and, most damning, Star Fox. The day after Christmas, Luke and his best friend, J.J., played Star Fox for hours. I would sit there, studying each craft movement, what each button did, how each evasive maneuver was beneficial in a given a situation. After a while, J.J. passed the controller to me, and I dominated the following games. For an hour, I was a furry Red Baron. Each time I would win a round, my brother would put the controller down harder, until he was slamming it against the coffee table. It, unlike other things, never broke.

In 1999, my family moved from Alaska to Minnesota. At this point, I was 14 and just discovering my personal identity. Luke was 19 and had moved out of the house; he had had a falling out with my parents over a number of different issues. He stayed in Kodiak while I moved away. The fact that this didn’t bother at me the time is something that, today, shakes me to my core. I sometimes wonder at which point in our lives we stopped being brothers and became acquaintances, but I dismiss the thought. You can recover what was lost.

When we moved to Minnesota, I decided to change myself. I was going to be outgoing and loud and funny and just like Luke. And it worked. It didn’t take much effort to make myself into a person I barely knew. Osmosis is very funny that way. One thing I never gave up, though, was videogames. I kept playing and buying and getting better. And unbeknownst to me, so did he. While our lives were on separate courses, our passions remained parallel.

Eventually, Luke moved to Minnesota, but only just so: he lived in a town that was close but still a drive. We saw each other, as family should do, but only on special occasions. When we talked, it was stilted and awkward until, of course, we talked about what the other had been playing. We didn’t know what to say to the other person, but we knew what games were good, and could recommend them to each other.

When we would hang out, we would have to get drunk to have any sort of rapport; that is, unless we played games. On my own, I was lucky enough to afford all of the major systems: the Wii, the 360, the PS3. It was bizarre; I had all of these gaming consoles, but very rarely played by myself. If friends or family came over, it was time to break out the games and grease the wheels. Luke and I would visit from time to time: his now-wife was pregnant and my job was going well and boy, he’d really like a chance to play that Playstation 3 and man, I would love to have someone to play Smash Brothers with.

For a very long time, my brother was a stranger that I was attached to through fate. We had some similar hobbies but our interactions were forced and uncomfortable. Recently, my girlfriend, who I was planning to marry because that’s what you do, broke up with me. Alone for the first time in my adult life, stranded at the age of 24, I called the only person who I knew would talk to me. Luke drove down to Minneapolis at 11:00 pm, sat with me while I cried, and played Goldeneye with me. In the morning, we watched the Super Mario Bros. Super Show and had pancakes.

My brother and I are completely separate people; we want different things out of life and have opposite tastes in almost everything. But we will always have Nintendo, and videogames, and those unspoken moments of companionship when you earned an extra life. I regret that, as a person, I will never know and understand his motivations. In the end, though, we both strove for the same thing: a green and white mushroom, which signaled the chance to spend one more minute with each other.

The Post-Modern Times: Part Two: The Core Allegory

Remembering old movies is so much more fun than re-watching them. Plot points become confused over time, characters melt into each other, and circumstances start to exaggerate. That’s why every time The Core is on TV, I turn the set off, pour myself a glass of red wine, and take myself back to a time when the Earth wanted us dead.

The plot of The Core is great: for some reason that I cannot remember (which invariably leads me to believe that the reason didn’t exist), the Earth’s molten core stops spinning, which causes all of the world’s scientists to say “Fuck it, let’s drill down in there.” I hate to say this, but that would be my first instinct, too. When are you going to get another chance for something like this?

The premise—trying to save the planet with science—could be good. But the movie follows the thriller/horror tropes gleefully, with Earth’s molten core diabolically picking off the intrepid scientists one by one. Isn’t that fantastic? Somewhere, a mole man is screaming “SOME THINGS MAN SHOULD NOT KNOW!” and clapping. In the pantheon of horror movie villains, the planet Earth stands shoulder-to-shoulder with the goblins in Troll 2, in the section labeled “Utterly, flagrantly ludicrous.”

Aha! Flash-forward to today: China is continually rocked by earthquakes that decimate entire cities (while the Earth was aiming for one person, just like in The Core, all Chinese people look the same so it ball-parked. Zing!). The godless heathens of the Gulf Coast are either drowning in water from hurricanes or oil from rig spills. Haiti—oh, Jesus Christ, Haiti—gets an earthquake, probably because the Earth was targeting one guy again (Hey-O!), followed by insufficient government and barren lands. Volcanoes are erupting whenever they damn well please, and Pierce Brosnan is nowhere to be found.

These are scientific facts proving that the planet is fighting back. But why? Sure, the reasons behind China and Haiti are locked down like the Atlanta Hawks’ offense, but the rest of the stuff? What is going on?

Much of the world’s recent disasters, if they can be so called, have served to inconvenience humanity in one way or another. Sure, the loss of life involved in these things is regrettable, but we have like a bajillion people on this planet. And it’s not like the dead care. They don’t have to wade into greasy marshlands and collect dead dolphins. They don’t have to put up people displaced by collapsed houses and have them crash on your couch. And they especially don’t have to tolerate and endless stream of media talking heads telling me how bad I should feel.

I am not being cynical. This is realism. We, as a society, pillage and plunder and rape our way across the planet, and like Jodie Foster in every Jodie Foster movie ever made, the planet has had enough abuse and finally bought a gun.

My advice is this: let’s rewrite the script to these movies. Let’s be proactive. Let’s learn the lessons available in The Core: get a big drill, and nuke the motherfucker already.

A Talk With George

Sometimes, it's the little things that make you realize life is worthwhile. Jonathan Coulton, known mostly for anthemic nerd rock, wrote a song called "A Talk With George" which is ostensibly about an older relative telling you about how much "the good old days" were better than today. Us young-uns! We never know what we have unless someone explains it to us. A few parts of the song break from the comedic overtones and really drive home the point: "Love your friends/and miss them when they go."

Maybe it's the music, maybe it's the lyrics, maybe it's the earnestness with which the words are sung, but that part always gets me. I recently wrote a piece called "Our Nintendo Life," detailing how the relationship I have with my brother is defined and reinforced by videogames. It may seem pathetic and it may seem counter-intuitive, but what my brother and I have works. "Perfect" is the not the first word I would use to describe it, but we have a relationship. We have what many siblings do not: a functioning dialogue informed by something more than a genetic bond. So what if it is defined by something materialistic? So what if, when we decide to hang out, we talk more about the Playstation 3 than our personal lives? We have something. It's delicate and volatile and the cause for consternation. But it brings us together, and it is important to us.

On a personal level, I'm petrified that someone will discover that I spend my lunch breaks writing jokes or that when I get home I play a few rounds of Street Fighter. While these may not define me, they certainly inform my persona. Is that really so bad? I like comic books and music and movies and videogames and stand-up comedy. At what point did this become unacceptable? When did I stop doing what mattered to me and start doing what I thought was acceptable?

Our society is based solely on image, both physical and metaphysical. Strangely, it means more to be about something than to be something. Many of my contemporaries, from which I learn volumes daily, have learned this lesson before, and will be quick to pat my head and say, "Oh, son..." But when you spend your whole life living it as someone else, to please someone else; well, these things can come as sort of a revelation.

Every time I attempt to define Adam Robinson, I'm surprised to discover something I didn't know. I like cooking, I like drawing. I like things about myself that I had thought I hated. Personal journeys of discover are supposed to be personal and embarrassing and, in many situations, kind of tragic. But when you discover what you are all about, what's not be incandescent about? This is pretty joyous. I feel joy. I still have no idea who I am or what my place in this world is, but it's fun to try things. Living a life filled with regrets is what is expected. While scary, the unexpected has a tendency to be so much more fun.

The Post-Modern Times: Part One: The Beginning of the End

Putting much stock into the Mayan doomsday calendar—the one that predicts the end of the world in 2012—is ludicrous. The Earth is not going to crumble or explode; John Cusack is not going to fly a plane between two collapsing buildings, and why should he? Just pull up, guy from Say Anything. I don’t have thousands of hours in the cockpit, but you know… That’s just common sense.

Be that as it may, I am certain that society as we know it is at its end. Look around you! We are in the eighth season of American Idol. We officially stopped scraping the bottom of the barrel six years ago. We’re now officially pulling up the pile of shit the barrel was resting precariously on. Look at the Gulf Coast—look at either fucking one, really—and see nothing but abject destruction. New Orleans just pulled out of Katrina and here is this big oil slick, ready to penetrate with a rapist’s gusto; over in the Middle East, you still have people blowing themselves up for imaginary creatures. I have said that I am a smart man, but mostly I’m just diabolical. But even I can see that this is just not sustainable.

Some of you may know me from “Onward & Downward,” my previous column on Reactionary Century. In it, I brutally removed the skin of pop culture and peered deep into the soft tissue to discern why we—not just Americans, but humanity as a whole—were intent on rewinding all of the progress we had made. My new column, “The Post-Modern Times,” takes this to the nth degree. In it, I’m going to examine all aspects of society and demonstrate how life in the pre-apocalypse is going to inform the end times and ever after.

Today, I want to talk about my own personal Armageddon. These things are like eels: try to control it and you’ll get shocked by electricity and piss your pants. For me, it’s my ambition. Deep down, I understand that I am incredible. Some might even say I’m a “generational voice” (that quote is attributed to me), but for some reason, I cannot be bothered.

My ambivalence boils down to my sense of entitlement. I have discussed this on my blog (http://ad-rob.blogspot.com), but this generation grew up knowing nothing other than this: once you graduated college, there was a posh job waiting to pay you $40,000 starting to come in and wreck up the place. And even before I graduated college—when I was laid off the first time before I fucking graduated motherFUCKER—I knew this wasn’t the case. But it can be hard to disconnect the things with which you’ve been hardwired. Even though I know that nothing is going to come to me because of my innate talent and ability, I still feel that with time it will all fall into place. I can toil on my masterpiece for years, never showing it to anyone, hoping to be discovered for my raw, unbridled genius; indeed, my talent is like a proud mustang, waiting to be broken. But you have to play the game. That’s a lesson that’s always been apparent, but we frequently choose not to see it. At what point do you stop letting life do the living and take control?

Before I start to sound like a Diablo Cody screenplay, I’ll leave you with this: there is no reason to life. No divine path, higher calling, or greater meaning. What you want, you have to carve from bone and gristle and pain. And every second you don’t, you contribute to the mutilation of the future. Have a good night!

My Event Horizons

Morality: Even after everything I've done (jokingly trying to get a friend to kill herself, treating people like garbage for fun, casually shirking my professional and personal responsibilities, and subconsciously pushing away those close to me), people still allow me back into their lives. If I wasn't so grateful, I'd think it was kind of pathetic. The fact that people can forgive--that I can forgive myself--is powerful. It resounds in the soul with a deep vibrato. My status as a complete monster is, as of yet, unconfirmed. But many would consider me a magnificent bastard. This is a trade-off that increases the stats on the back of my trading card.

Profession: Regardless of my current socioeconomic stature, I refuse to give up hope. I mentioned it last time, but even as a member of the "trophy generation," I cannot abide by an alien definition of success. Ambition is easy to dislocate. Work ethic: decidedly more so. With the twin attack power of gumption and oomph, things will work out as planned. Well... You know, once I have a plan.

More to come.

The Straits of Magellan

The pop-fuzz of the light bulb burning out haunted me. Things have a certain transience, and it's sad. When all you take for granted is light, the room for improvement is narrowing.

I intellectually kidnap every idea I've ever had. When something strikes me--for instance, when I was in college, I had this great idea about superheros in a dorm setting, a kind of Dawson's-Creek-meets-the-X-Men kind of thing--I feel the need to share this idea with someone. And as soon as I open my mouth--as soon as the syllables come out--Seth Green has that shit wrapped for a comic, or a shitty CW series, or some other abomination. This guy has sleeper agents all over the country, listening in to what I'm doing, taking all the credit. "Bitter" does not even begin to describe my feelings towards his work; it's entertaining, yes, but only so far as abortions can be entertaining. My work is pure like a rich, untapped vein of gold, while his is accessible and marketable. That's not art! That's robbery. I would stop short of saying he needs to go to prison and be raped, but you know... He needs to go to prison and get raped.

On the other hand, I'm curious about the "ownership of ideas." Our modern economy is built upon this principle. Seriously, look at some of this high-level shit going on, like this Goldman Sachs debacle. They're in trouble for making theoretical bets on hypothetical situations. I'm not defending their actions--i.e. the manipulation of livelihoods in order to eek out profit--but that's some Grade-A mental arithmetic right there. Who am I to judge Seth Green (a talented guy, who seems pretty cool in his own right) for taking the ethereal from me? Do you punch a dude in the face for breathing your air? "Hey, prick," you seethe, "That's my fucking oxygen."

It's a dangerous precipice. "Intellectual property" and the copyright laws that define it are muddy and open to interpretation and just disgusting on a whole. I'm not sure I've seen these laws used to enforce the sanctity of an idea so much as I've seen them employed to secure the exploitation of a property. Who gives a shit? A good idea is universal. If his--Seth Green's--interpretations of my work are more suited to mainstream predilections, what right do I have to be pissed off? My hat's off, sir. Well done.

That being said, I'm not going to tell another living soul my idea for my new story until the rights have been sold at auction to a publisher. I will use the industry parlance to describe it, however: "It's a genre-straddling work of epic proportions; it redefines the modern interpretation of family and identity."

Isn't this fun? Hyperbole is an excellent diversion. I was telling a friend tonight how our generation feels this sense of entitlement, and she said it's because we're "the trophy generation," which means rewarded for showing up to the contest. Or responding to the internet invitation. I think this is apt. For one, I apply this line of reasoning in my everyday life--"Hey, I took a pretty good shit a few minutes ago. Complete elimination! Way to go!"--with great results. The discord between reality and this nega-reality--which is informed by media and, most damning, our parents--is staggering.

But I don't really care. I just took an amazing shit. What do I have to worry about?

The Tipping Point

It is deceptively simple how quickly a life can topple. This is a fact I learned only hours ago.

Complacency is a killer. My whole life has been predicated on the notion that "life happens," which is to say that fate or destiny or the invisible hand of god shuffles us around some game board. God, I can't believe that I built my life around that theory. When you write it out, it makes a lot of things just seem arbitrary. My inability to act in my life--no momentum, no effort, nothing--has just cost me the single most important thing in my life.

Sitting here, watching the cursor blink as it waits for my keystrokes, I feel hollow. Watching the person I have loved for so long explain that she can not stand by while I wallow in mediocrity, that she can not trust me because it's always words and no action... What have I done with my life? How did I get here?

How do you measure the potential of a person? I was brilliant yet unambitious in school, charismatic yet cold in social settings; at my jobs, I had a tendency to rise to the top of me field. Those indicators alone should demonstrate that I had potential. Or does it? Can you fake potential? Deep down, am I still that person that's going to really be somebody, or am I always going to be this sad sack?

Worse still: Can you squander potential? Have I procrastinated so long that I'm doomed to this existence--a hollow shell of a person who wakes up, puts on a mask, and goes about his day? That will not do.

I refuse to be that person any longer. My life choices--no, my life indecision--has cost me too much. This is my tipping point--I will no longer be a zombie. Today has been, categorically, the worst day of my life, bar none. But tomorrow I'm going to get things in order. I'm going to build something for myself. At every turn, I have disappointed. That changes now.

I will always, always love you, Terri. I will be the person you saw in me. I am so sorry that this had to happen. It would be so easy to resent you for this, to hate or revile you for upending my life, but you did not do this malice. That's what made it so hard.

My Childhood: A Picture for Trevor Burks

Seriously SHUT UP

"I'll have the face rub, yeah? But I don't know if I'll have the bum tube."

This is the plan for now: write one blog per day for the next two weeks. That way I'll be funny more consistently!

Let me tell you about my god damn brakes.

Did you know this about cars: cars are the worst fucking invention ever. They have this incredible feature where as soon as you buy it, a guy from the dealership comes to your house at night, leers into the bedroom window, and violently masturbates. Even when you know he's there! Especially when you know he's there. When he's finished, he walks over to your car and rubs his feces all over it. You may be asking yourself, "Is this hyperbole? Can I buy this line of reasoning?"

You know he is there.

I bring this up because my car is apparently rubbish. Like, shit-from-a-butt style. My brakes are essentially gone; the only thing saving you from becoming twisted metal when I'm on the road is tire-to-the-ground friction. Obviously, I don't want to kill anyone (in that manner), so I took the ol' car in for an estimate.

Three hours later, the guy tells me it's going to be $1,992. One thousand nine hundred ninety-two dollars and some cents.

Firstly, it's a little offensive to add cents to a bill that big. "Excuse me, sir," the rapist says, violently squirming inside of you, "But I just finished raping your family. Enjoy that knowledge." This is a good analogy: going to a car garage is a lot like being a rape victim; it's a question of powerlessness. There is no way that you are going to be able to identify all the problems with your car unless you are some Asperger's savant. In a garage, the guy could say, "Shit, man... Your galactronix matrix is leaking mallerious fluid. We can, uh... We can fix that."

What do you say? What could you possibly say to that?

When the guy--who otherwise seemed quite personable--showed me the estimate, the first words out of my mouth were, "You are a liar." I am not kidding around; I verbalized the fact that this guy was playing jokes on my wallet and my masculinity. He looked at me for what felt like a minute--a long, piercing gaze, designed to size up what kind of shit I was going to toss at him--and finally said this: "Well, this is just a suggestion."

Perhaps I'm ignorant on stuff like this, but does this kind of bullshit happen at, say, a barbershop? Does the barber take a look at your hair and say, "Hey, I can give you a little Justin Bieber on top, but I could also trim your pubes, you know." All this time, the belt remains buckled, pants snugly at your waist.

And what did I get for my troubles? More work. I am continuing to search for a body shop that can fix my car without breaking my asshole. I'll keep you posted.

On the Self

A coworker today asked which parent I identified with most. Most questions that are asked of me can be easily answered, but this one was much more difficult. Physically, my father and I are nearly identical; strangely, this is a trait my girlfriend has found to be attractive. What does that mean? Does she want to fuck my dad? Does she want to fuck both of us? These are the kinds of questions that keep me up at night.

But strictly speaking, I don't necessarily identify with either of my parents on a psychological level. They are conservative, supporting crazy shit like a flat tax and open gun rights and yadda yadda. These are ideas that I find repulsive in a literal sense. Don't get me wrong--my parents are fine people, and have done a great job raising a crazy kid, but I can't look at them and see myself. Apparently this is something you are supposed to see.

When I think about the people who've influenced my way of interpreting life, I am equally confounded. I think it's because I draw on everything around me. When I wake up in the morning, I am a blank slate, and I choose who I want to be that day. Granted there are a few commonalities between personas (I really like comics and my life's dream is get punched by Iron Mike Tyson), but overall, I like to keep people guessing.

Or do I? I don't know. I think being a randomized person (a fleshy iPod on shuffle) is a more romantic idea than actuality. More likely is that I'm in love with the idea of shifting; of being a different person from day to day. Almost certainly is that I want to avoid the eventuality of soul searching and discovering the person deep down.

I think I'd like what I find, but most others may not. Just a chance I don't want to take at the moment.

Schweinfurt

While reading Malcolm Gladwell's What the Dog Saw, I was struck by an idea he presented in an article about mammography, pictures, and tactile experience. In essence, people subconsciously adhere to the philosophy of "a picture says thousand words"; or, to put it another way, we tend to believe pictures without any further analysis or stimulation. In regards to mammography, we can see pieces of evidence that may indicate the presence of breast cancer but this can be misleading--calcifications occur in many areas and in many shapes and sizes, but what one radiologist may see can differ wildly from another. However, tactile breast examination (or, as I would call it, "the good kind") can give us a much better idea of cancer growth, location, and lethality, all while utilizing an examination that lasts as little as five minutes per breast. I would assume that this would be less painful than getting your breast squeezed by an X-ray shooting robot.

In World War II, the Allies were convinced that eliminating the German ability to produce ball bearings--essential components in tanks, planes, and guns--would cripple any chances of the Nazis advancing any further. Thus began the mass bombing of Schweinfurt, Germany by planes outfitted with scopes allowing bombardiers to "put bombs in pickle buckets from 20,000 feet." This offensive proved to be a bust; with more accurate bombs, payloads could be decreased, resulting in explosives that damaged buildings and did little to the machinery inside. Gladwell's assertion is that with advances in photo imaging, we can see so much more detail, requiring an exponential increase in analysis to decipher said details.

To boil it all down, we can see things more clearly, but we need much more hands-on with things to fully understand them. Put this in perspective with a media and entertainment company; for the purposes of this discussion (and because they are my favorite), let's examine Nintendo.

As a subjective observer, Nintendo falls on both sides of this idea. Even with the advancements in imaging (focus groups, beta tests, et al), Nintendo continues to produce products that, upon tactile consideration, continue to perform. On the other hand, Nintendo has examined and refined all the information out there about market composition and, in my estimation, missed the mark by skewing simpler. Again, this is subjective, but I can't help but feel as though many recent releases condescend to competent, experienced gamers. I know full well that this perspective is counter to smart business practice ("Yes!" They'll scream. "Let's cater to an aging and decreasing consumer base! Straight to the top of the charts!"), but let's go back to Schweinfurt.

We could accurately place the bombs wherever they needed to go; in this case, ball bearing factories. This decreased the need for large, highly-explosive bombs that spread over a large area. Now all that was needed were smaller, more compact bombs--so small that you could fit many, many more on the plane. But these new explosives were anything but, doing only superficial damage to the structure and having no impact. The same strategy is implemented today by Nintendo: unleash a phalanx of titles defined to a certain audience and watch as they bounce off of the collective consciousness, making impacts on only a few. This makes me reminisce about the good old days, where titles like The Legend of Zelda: The Wind Waker transcended all demographics and was simply a great experience. They've still got that magic--take a look at New Super Mario Bros. or Super Mario Galaxy--but I can't help but wish this blitz would end.