Satori # 12
Unsigned rock bands that play cover songs choose songs that will increase their chances of getting laid by 60%.
posted by Billy at 1:49 AM
0 comments
Sunday, January 30, 2005
Some Inane Trivia
1. How tall were the Smurfs?
2. What planet was Alf from?
3. What was Alf's real name (hint: it's NOT "Alien Life Form")?
4. Who's catch phrase was: "It's a big big big big go-ril-il-il-il-il-il-a!"
5. How many notes did Andy get right while playing the bone-piano in The Goonies?
I'm severely bored. Anyone who can answer ALL of these questions WITHOUT looking them up on Google (or any other search engine, for that matter) will get a special Prize. For real.
2. What planet was Alf from?
3. What was Alf's real name (hint: it's NOT "Alien Life Form")?
4. Who's catch phrase was: "It's a big big big big go-ril-il-il-il-il-il-a!"
5. How many notes did Andy get right while playing the bone-piano in The Goonies?
I'm severely bored. Anyone who can answer ALL of these questions WITHOUT looking them up on Google (or any other search engine, for that matter) will get a special Prize. For real.
posted by Billy at 1:27 AM
4 comments
Saturday, January 29, 2005
Ramblings
A Macrocosmic All to encompass the whole of creation. An ever-expanding universe, a superluminal sphere; where, at the very edge, roaring and foaming and seething like a fiery surf, we might hear with special ears, and see with special eyes, the divine tonal utterance, the echo of God's voice, the force of universal birth.
Impossible to reach that fiery edge. Like Time it marches forward, it extends immediately and eternally and unalterably into forever; and, just as we slip from one moment into the next, unaware and unable to halt or falter that passing, so too does the Infinite Edge.
Immutable laws written into the fabric of space and time, designed (cunningly enough) with no loopholes, to bind man to Earth.
Given the capacity to understand and discern the universe around him; to question and wonder and seek out answers, despite the faultless cruelties of chance, fate, and probability. Empowered by an unstoppable drive, a relentless will, to know all, understand all, and, in the end, master all. And yet we know so little.
When you're driving in your car and you slam on your brakes, your body's momentum carries it forward. That's called inertia. It's recently been theorized that inertia is actually a drag force caused by an invisible energy field (called the zero-point energy field) passing through every atom of your body at the quantum level. If scientists found the link between inertia and the zero-point energy field, they could hypothetically manipulate inertia via ordinary electromagnetic means. That includes increasing or reducing it, or "switching" it on and off.
Following that logic, if you "switched" off your inertia, you could stand in a vast room, flip on a flashlight, and the beam of light itself would propel you across the room at the speed of light. And even the smallest thread of your shirt striking the wall would stop you instantly, with no harm done (since you had no inertia, you wouldn't feel the force of acceleration or halting).
Put on your space-suit, cut off your inertia, flip on the flashlight, and go visit the stars.
Impossible to reach that fiery edge. Like Time it marches forward, it extends immediately and eternally and unalterably into forever; and, just as we slip from one moment into the next, unaware and unable to halt or falter that passing, so too does the Infinite Edge.
Immutable laws written into the fabric of space and time, designed (cunningly enough) with no loopholes, to bind man to Earth.
Given the capacity to understand and discern the universe around him; to question and wonder and seek out answers, despite the faultless cruelties of chance, fate, and probability. Empowered by an unstoppable drive, a relentless will, to know all, understand all, and, in the end, master all. And yet we know so little.
When you're driving in your car and you slam on your brakes, your body's momentum carries it forward. That's called inertia. It's recently been theorized that inertia is actually a drag force caused by an invisible energy field (called the zero-point energy field) passing through every atom of your body at the quantum level. If scientists found the link between inertia and the zero-point energy field, they could hypothetically manipulate inertia via ordinary electromagnetic means. That includes increasing or reducing it, or "switching" it on and off.
Following that logic, if you "switched" off your inertia, you could stand in a vast room, flip on a flashlight, and the beam of light itself would propel you across the room at the speed of light. And even the smallest thread of your shirt striking the wall would stop you instantly, with no harm done (since you had no inertia, you wouldn't feel the force of acceleration or halting).
Put on your space-suit, cut off your inertia, flip on the flashlight, and go visit the stars.
posted by Billy at 2:25 PM
2 comments
Friday, January 28, 2005
Adversaries Won (A Short Story)
My first run-in with the Psychonauts occured about nine and a half years ago, at a Mexican-themed bar in Horton City.
I'd come there to visit my good friend, Clayton Ham, in response to some wild letters he'd written me a few months earlier. Clayton was a third-year undergrad who'd managed to get a rull ride at Edward Elmer Smith University on a creative writing scholarship. He'd done fairly well at EESU the first two years, but by the end of the third, he'd skipped a lot of classes and didn't show up to a couple of important interviews. He almost lost his scholarship.
Around this time, Clayton began to bombard my mailbox with dozens of crazy stream-of-conscious letters. They made absolutey no sense. He kept raving about asphodels, inherited-memory regression, OBEs, pyschonauts... I became concerned. So I came up to Horton City to check up on him, make sure he was ok and wasn't doing too many drugs.
I found Clayton in perfect mental health. But when I asked him about the letters, he became confused. He'd never sent me any letters, he said. When I showed them to him, his eyes got big and he lost a little color. I asked him if he recognized them. He said Yeah, I do. Then he asked me if I'd made any copies of the letters. I told him no, why would I? Then Clayton crammed the letters into his jacket pocket without folding them and told me, in a very stern voice, to meet him at El Mundo Cerveza at 9:00 PM that night.
I arrived at the bar around 8:30 and ordered a Corona with a shot of tequila. I took the shot and drank the beer and then lit a cigarette. I waited, staring at the TV, my mind lost in thought. Suddenly I got an incredible headache, and I became dizzy. Sharp ice-picks of pain lanced through my brain again and again, making it throb in agony. I dropped my cigarette into the ashtray and clutched my temples. A fresh sheet of sweat burst out of my face and down my back. Tunnel vision started creeping in... I was about to pass out...
And just as suddeny as it'd started, the pain stopped. My vision returned. I looked around the bar. Nobody had noticed me. I sat there for a seconds to get my head straight. Then I noticed my cigarette still burning in the ashtray. I picked it up and took a long drag. My hands were still shaking. What the hell just happened?! I wondered furiously.
I was still lost in thought when I felt a hand slap my shoulder. I turned around and there was Clayton Ham. His brown eyes were red-rimmed and glassy. He looked nervous. Standing next to Clayton was a tall, thin, shifty-looking character in black denim. He had pale skin and black hair, and his eyes seemed to throb inside his skull. He looked pretty intense. Clayton looked around the bar suspiciously before introducing me to his companion.
"Hal, this is Zeke Bancroft. He's a very important man. Zeke, this is Hal Sterling, a good friend of mine."
We all shook hands. "Please, sit down," I told them, but Clayton refused and insisted on getting a booth in the back. I couldn't understand what the fuss was all about, so I quietly paid my tab and followed them to the back of the restaurant, near the kitchen. There was an empty booth there, and we sat down.
I was the first to speak. "Listen up, Ham, what the hell's going on? Are you in trouble? What's with those damn letters? And how come Zeke over there is a very important man?"
Clayton gave me a calming look and said in a quiet voice, "All your questions will be answered in time, Hal."
"Does 'in time' mean by the end of this conversation? Because if it doesn't, I don't think I have the patience to wait. Besides, this is my last drink. I already paid my tab.
"I've got the next round of drinks," said Zeke, and for some reason I felt a twinge of irritation at hearing his voice for the first time. It sounded soft, feathery, like a guru or a mother. He flagged a waiter and ordered three beers. Who was this guy?
"Tell me about the letters, Ham," I asked. "What's up with those? It looks like you had a head full of acid when you wrote them. And how come you don't remember sending them to me?"
Clayton paused for a moment before answering. He was thinking about something intensely. I could see it in his eyes. Finally he turned to me and asked, "What do you know about Carl Jung?"
"I don't know," I answered. "Not much, I guess. Wasn't he a German psychologist back a long time ago?"
The waiter came back with the beers.
"Swiss, actually," Clayton corrected me apologetically. "And he was a psychiatrist, not a psychologist, but you're close enough. He was an important pioneer in the contemporary psychological study of the unconscious human mind."
I sipped my beer and continued to listen. "He was a student and close friend of Freud, but they eventually had a falling out. But that doesn't matter. The point is, Jung posited that the mind has two primary states, the conscious state, and the unconscious state. The conscious state is like the tip of an iceburg. We only see a tiny portion of it. The unconscious state is the rest of the iceburg, the mass of force that remains unseen, unhidden, but is the most dominant."
I took another sip of my beer and lit another cigarette. "Ham," I asked, "what the hell are you talking about?"
"I'm getting there, I'm getting there. Just hold on."
"A to B, Ham. A to B."
"Shut up! Let me finish!" He took a frustrated sip of his beer. "Anyway... We experience the conscious state of the human mind all the time. We know it directly. All of our surface-level cognitive functions, what we think, feel, sense and intuit, come from this consciousness. It is through conscious awareness and activity that the human being becomes an individual. It’s the part of the mind that we “live in” when we're not asleep, and contains information that is in our immediate awareness.
"The unconscious is different. It's not to be confused with the subconscious. The subconscious may influence your conscious actions, but your subconscious is influenced by your unconscious, which lies deeper, further down into your memory, on the cellular level."
I raised my hand to pause Clayton for just a moment. "Wait a minute. My cells have memories?" I asked, half-sarcastically. I was eager to hear his answer.
"In a way, yes. Whatever you experience, your unconscious retains. It records this information via chemical means and uses electrical pathways between neurons to transfer it to the nucleic acid found in the nucleus of living cells; that is to say, your DNA. The cells accept the new information and encode it into your DNA structure, for all time. This information is transmitted genetically to your descendants, where it is built upon by their own conscious experience, until they pass it on to their descendants, and so on...
"That is called the collective unconscious, Hal. Each and every one of us, you, me, Zeke, even the drunks here in this bar, we all possess an infinite reservoir of memory, our ancestors' memories, memories that reach all the way back to the beginning of human consciousness. All inside a single human cell."
"Now that is some crazy shit if I ever heard it," I said with a laugh. "Interesting theory... Exactly how many doobs did you guys smoke to get to this conclusion?"
Clayton leaned in close to me, and said in a whisper, "It's a fact, Sterling. I know this is true. I've experienced it for myself. And I haven't smoked any dope. But I have learned how to access that memory, Hal, I have learned how to do it." Clayton's hand gripped my wrist and tightened. His eyes bored into my own, and I could sense the earnestness behind them. I could see he actually believed what he said to be true.
"Clayton, seriously, man... Are you sure you're OK?"
He released his grip on my arm and leaned back in his chair in disgust. He turned to Zeke. "I told you he wouldn't believe me. I told you. I think you need to show him."
"Show me what?" I asked, staring at Zeke, who suddenly appeared dangerous.
"Other people have learned to access this genetic memory, Hal... this collective unsconsious," Clayton continued, cutting off Zeke's reply. "They've learned how to move back and forth inside it, like lucid dreaming. They've discovered things, awesome things, terrible things... Things that gave them power... and incredible insight. Telepathy is one of those powers."
I rolled my eyes. This was getting ridiculous. Fun, but ridiculous. And a little scary. "Give me a break, Ham. There's never been any scientific proof of the existence of telepathy... or mind powers... it's just a part of science that hasn't been explained yet." I immediately regretted saying that, because it only baited him further. I saw the flashing in his eyes.
"He wants proof, Zeke," Clayton said flatly.
"I don't think this is necessary, Clayton. We should leave," Zeke said, his voice again soft and meek. He still looked dangerous to me.
"Not yet," I said. I pointed my beer at Clayton. "You still owe me an explanation about the letters, Ham."
Clayton sighed and set down his beer. He nudged Zeke's shoulder. "Proof, Zeke. Prove it to him first." He turned to me. "Then I'll explain the letters."
"Yeah, Zeke," I said, antagonizing him. "Prove it to me. Prove to me you're psychic."
"Prove it," repeated Clayton.
Zeke sighed. He relaxed in his chair and closed his eyes. His head lowered. For a few seconds he was silent. Suddenly he looked up and stared straight into me... or rather... through me... "When you were five years old you took your little cousin into the pool while the adults were in the condo and you held her under the water until she almost drowned. When you let her up, she ran away crying, and you told all the adults she fell into the water."
Silence. The heavy kind, that smothers everything. My face flashed and my heart pounded from overpowering shame and guilt.
I looked at Zeke, but I didn't see him. I saw myself, two decades ago, five-years-old, doing the one thing I could think of that would frighten my little cousin. When I achieved that goal, my satisfaction immediately turned to guilt and shame. I wasn't thinking about what I'd done, I just did it. I thought it'd be funny. There was nothing evil behind it, no intent to kill, or even injure. I couldn't think that way yet. I was only five years old.
"That was the very first time I ever lied," I said out loud. "Everyone believed me. But somehow -- even then -- I knew what I'd done was wrong, even though I didn't know why at the time."
My eyes focused on Clayton. He didn't have a look of smug satisfaction on his face. He wasn't flashing me the "I told you so" look. Instead I could see understanding in his eyes... and acceptance. "The truth is painful, Hal."
I kept going. I felt compelled to talk, to confess. "I never forgot that incident. I never forgot that lie, that very first lie. And I never, ever, EVER, told that to anyone. Ever.
"And yet you knew it," I said, staring back at Zeke. "How? How did you know it?"
Clayton leaned forward, closer this time. "Listen, Hal. Those letters... They're trance writing... I wrote them while in a trance. My unconscious must've been calling to you, otherwise I would've remembered sending them myself. I don't want anyone to see them, because there's something going on at EESU that could threaten us if this kind of thing got out."
He nudged Zeke's shoulder. "Zeke here is a Psychonaut. Before you ask, I'll answer. The Psychonauts are a subversive group of students and professors working out of the EESU underground. They're spread across the entire U.S., but they're mainly located here, in Horton City."
I started to catch a buzz.
Clayton continued. "They've learned a lot of stuff in their studies, stuff that's pretty damn serious. I don't think I'm at liberty to say what kind of stuff, but believe me... it's heavy.
"You have proof now, Hal. Empirical evidence that backs my 'theory'. I received proof, too... My own proof. And now I believe. I believe enough that I decided to join the Pyschonauts and devote my full time and talent to their cause."
This startled me. "What? Join their cause? What's their cause?"
"To stop our adversaries from acquiring our knowledge," Zeke said, sharply. "We can't talk about this anymore, we've already said to much. We thought you'd like to help contribute, but perhaps you're not ready."
Zeke stood up, dropped a $50 onto the table and turned to leave. Clayton got up to follow him. He looked at me pleadingly before leaving, however, maybe to ask me to forgive him, I wasn't really sure. My mind was soup by then. Clayton turned and walked out of the bar.
That was nine years ago. I hadn't seen or heard from Clayton or Zeke since then.
But yesterday I received a letter in the mail with no return address. It was hand-written on stained notebook paper. The letter had gotten wet at some point during transit, and some of the ink had smeared. But I could read most of it. It was wild, crazy... stream-of-consciousness stuff... And it was Clayton.
My heart started to pound in my chest. I felt a fresh sheet of sweat break out on my forehead.
The last paragraph of the letter read:
Adversaries won. Desperate circumstances call for desperate measures. Agent Rhinocerous will make contact in 84 hours. Prepare vessel for lift-off.
I'd come there to visit my good friend, Clayton Ham, in response to some wild letters he'd written me a few months earlier. Clayton was a third-year undergrad who'd managed to get a rull ride at Edward Elmer Smith University on a creative writing scholarship. He'd done fairly well at EESU the first two years, but by the end of the third, he'd skipped a lot of classes and didn't show up to a couple of important interviews. He almost lost his scholarship.
Around this time, Clayton began to bombard my mailbox with dozens of crazy stream-of-conscious letters. They made absolutey no sense. He kept raving about asphodels, inherited-memory regression, OBEs, pyschonauts... I became concerned. So I came up to Horton City to check up on him, make sure he was ok and wasn't doing too many drugs.
I found Clayton in perfect mental health. But when I asked him about the letters, he became confused. He'd never sent me any letters, he said. When I showed them to him, his eyes got big and he lost a little color. I asked him if he recognized them. He said Yeah, I do. Then he asked me if I'd made any copies of the letters. I told him no, why would I? Then Clayton crammed the letters into his jacket pocket without folding them and told me, in a very stern voice, to meet him at El Mundo Cerveza at 9:00 PM that night.
I arrived at the bar around 8:30 and ordered a Corona with a shot of tequila. I took the shot and drank the beer and then lit a cigarette. I waited, staring at the TV, my mind lost in thought. Suddenly I got an incredible headache, and I became dizzy. Sharp ice-picks of pain lanced through my brain again and again, making it throb in agony. I dropped my cigarette into the ashtray and clutched my temples. A fresh sheet of sweat burst out of my face and down my back. Tunnel vision started creeping in... I was about to pass out...
And just as suddeny as it'd started, the pain stopped. My vision returned. I looked around the bar. Nobody had noticed me. I sat there for a seconds to get my head straight. Then I noticed my cigarette still burning in the ashtray. I picked it up and took a long drag. My hands were still shaking. What the hell just happened?! I wondered furiously.
I was still lost in thought when I felt a hand slap my shoulder. I turned around and there was Clayton Ham. His brown eyes were red-rimmed and glassy. He looked nervous. Standing next to Clayton was a tall, thin, shifty-looking character in black denim. He had pale skin and black hair, and his eyes seemed to throb inside his skull. He looked pretty intense. Clayton looked around the bar suspiciously before introducing me to his companion.
"Hal, this is Zeke Bancroft. He's a very important man. Zeke, this is Hal Sterling, a good friend of mine."
We all shook hands. "Please, sit down," I told them, but Clayton refused and insisted on getting a booth in the back. I couldn't understand what the fuss was all about, so I quietly paid my tab and followed them to the back of the restaurant, near the kitchen. There was an empty booth there, and we sat down.
I was the first to speak. "Listen up, Ham, what the hell's going on? Are you in trouble? What's with those damn letters? And how come Zeke over there is a very important man?"
Clayton gave me a calming look and said in a quiet voice, "All your questions will be answered in time, Hal."
"Does 'in time' mean by the end of this conversation? Because if it doesn't, I don't think I have the patience to wait. Besides, this is my last drink. I already paid my tab.
"I've got the next round of drinks," said Zeke, and for some reason I felt a twinge of irritation at hearing his voice for the first time. It sounded soft, feathery, like a guru or a mother. He flagged a waiter and ordered three beers. Who was this guy?
"Tell me about the letters, Ham," I asked. "What's up with those? It looks like you had a head full of acid when you wrote them. And how come you don't remember sending them to me?"
Clayton paused for a moment before answering. He was thinking about something intensely. I could see it in his eyes. Finally he turned to me and asked, "What do you know about Carl Jung?"
"I don't know," I answered. "Not much, I guess. Wasn't he a German psychologist back a long time ago?"
The waiter came back with the beers.
"Swiss, actually," Clayton corrected me apologetically. "And he was a psychiatrist, not a psychologist, but you're close enough. He was an important pioneer in the contemporary psychological study of the unconscious human mind."
I sipped my beer and continued to listen. "He was a student and close friend of Freud, but they eventually had a falling out. But that doesn't matter. The point is, Jung posited that the mind has two primary states, the conscious state, and the unconscious state. The conscious state is like the tip of an iceburg. We only see a tiny portion of it. The unconscious state is the rest of the iceburg, the mass of force that remains unseen, unhidden, but is the most dominant."
I took another sip of my beer and lit another cigarette. "Ham," I asked, "what the hell are you talking about?"
"I'm getting there, I'm getting there. Just hold on."
"A to B, Ham. A to B."
"Shut up! Let me finish!" He took a frustrated sip of his beer. "Anyway... We experience the conscious state of the human mind all the time. We know it directly. All of our surface-level cognitive functions, what we think, feel, sense and intuit, come from this consciousness. It is through conscious awareness and activity that the human being becomes an individual. It’s the part of the mind that we “live in” when we're not asleep, and contains information that is in our immediate awareness.
"The unconscious is different. It's not to be confused with the subconscious. The subconscious may influence your conscious actions, but your subconscious is influenced by your unconscious, which lies deeper, further down into your memory, on the cellular level."
I raised my hand to pause Clayton for just a moment. "Wait a minute. My cells have memories?" I asked, half-sarcastically. I was eager to hear his answer.
"In a way, yes. Whatever you experience, your unconscious retains. It records this information via chemical means and uses electrical pathways between neurons to transfer it to the nucleic acid found in the nucleus of living cells; that is to say, your DNA. The cells accept the new information and encode it into your DNA structure, for all time. This information is transmitted genetically to your descendants, where it is built upon by their own conscious experience, until they pass it on to their descendants, and so on...
"That is called the collective unconscious, Hal. Each and every one of us, you, me, Zeke, even the drunks here in this bar, we all possess an infinite reservoir of memory, our ancestors' memories, memories that reach all the way back to the beginning of human consciousness. All inside a single human cell."
"Now that is some crazy shit if I ever heard it," I said with a laugh. "Interesting theory... Exactly how many doobs did you guys smoke to get to this conclusion?"
Clayton leaned in close to me, and said in a whisper, "It's a fact, Sterling. I know this is true. I've experienced it for myself. And I haven't smoked any dope. But I have learned how to access that memory, Hal, I have learned how to do it." Clayton's hand gripped my wrist and tightened. His eyes bored into my own, and I could sense the earnestness behind them. I could see he actually believed what he said to be true.
"Clayton, seriously, man... Are you sure you're OK?"
He released his grip on my arm and leaned back in his chair in disgust. He turned to Zeke. "I told you he wouldn't believe me. I told you. I think you need to show him."
"Show me what?" I asked, staring at Zeke, who suddenly appeared dangerous.
"Other people have learned to access this genetic memory, Hal... this collective unsconsious," Clayton continued, cutting off Zeke's reply. "They've learned how to move back and forth inside it, like lucid dreaming. They've discovered things, awesome things, terrible things... Things that gave them power... and incredible insight. Telepathy is one of those powers."
I rolled my eyes. This was getting ridiculous. Fun, but ridiculous. And a little scary. "Give me a break, Ham. There's never been any scientific proof of the existence of telepathy... or mind powers... it's just a part of science that hasn't been explained yet." I immediately regretted saying that, because it only baited him further. I saw the flashing in his eyes.
"He wants proof, Zeke," Clayton said flatly.
"I don't think this is necessary, Clayton. We should leave," Zeke said, his voice again soft and meek. He still looked dangerous to me.
"Not yet," I said. I pointed my beer at Clayton. "You still owe me an explanation about the letters, Ham."
Clayton sighed and set down his beer. He nudged Zeke's shoulder. "Proof, Zeke. Prove it to him first." He turned to me. "Then I'll explain the letters."
"Yeah, Zeke," I said, antagonizing him. "Prove it to me. Prove to me you're psychic."
"Prove it," repeated Clayton.
Zeke sighed. He relaxed in his chair and closed his eyes. His head lowered. For a few seconds he was silent. Suddenly he looked up and stared straight into me... or rather... through me... "When you were five years old you took your little cousin into the pool while the adults were in the condo and you held her under the water until she almost drowned. When you let her up, she ran away crying, and you told all the adults she fell into the water."
Silence. The heavy kind, that smothers everything. My face flashed and my heart pounded from overpowering shame and guilt.
I looked at Zeke, but I didn't see him. I saw myself, two decades ago, five-years-old, doing the one thing I could think of that would frighten my little cousin. When I achieved that goal, my satisfaction immediately turned to guilt and shame. I wasn't thinking about what I'd done, I just did it. I thought it'd be funny. There was nothing evil behind it, no intent to kill, or even injure. I couldn't think that way yet. I was only five years old.
"That was the very first time I ever lied," I said out loud. "Everyone believed me. But somehow -- even then -- I knew what I'd done was wrong, even though I didn't know why at the time."
My eyes focused on Clayton. He didn't have a look of smug satisfaction on his face. He wasn't flashing me the "I told you so" look. Instead I could see understanding in his eyes... and acceptance. "The truth is painful, Hal."
I kept going. I felt compelled to talk, to confess. "I never forgot that incident. I never forgot that lie, that very first lie. And I never, ever, EVER, told that to anyone. Ever.
"And yet you knew it," I said, staring back at Zeke. "How? How did you know it?"
Clayton leaned forward, closer this time. "Listen, Hal. Those letters... They're trance writing... I wrote them while in a trance. My unconscious must've been calling to you, otherwise I would've remembered sending them myself. I don't want anyone to see them, because there's something going on at EESU that could threaten us if this kind of thing got out."
He nudged Zeke's shoulder. "Zeke here is a Psychonaut. Before you ask, I'll answer. The Psychonauts are a subversive group of students and professors working out of the EESU underground. They're spread across the entire U.S., but they're mainly located here, in Horton City."
I started to catch a buzz.
Clayton continued. "They've learned a lot of stuff in their studies, stuff that's pretty damn serious. I don't think I'm at liberty to say what kind of stuff, but believe me... it's heavy.
"You have proof now, Hal. Empirical evidence that backs my 'theory'. I received proof, too... My own proof. And now I believe. I believe enough that I decided to join the Pyschonauts and devote my full time and talent to their cause."
This startled me. "What? Join their cause? What's their cause?"
"To stop our adversaries from acquiring our knowledge," Zeke said, sharply. "We can't talk about this anymore, we've already said to much. We thought you'd like to help contribute, but perhaps you're not ready."
Zeke stood up, dropped a $50 onto the table and turned to leave. Clayton got up to follow him. He looked at me pleadingly before leaving, however, maybe to ask me to forgive him, I wasn't really sure. My mind was soup by then. Clayton turned and walked out of the bar.
That was nine years ago. I hadn't seen or heard from Clayton or Zeke since then.
But yesterday I received a letter in the mail with no return address. It was hand-written on stained notebook paper. The letter had gotten wet at some point during transit, and some of the ink had smeared. But I could read most of it. It was wild, crazy... stream-of-consciousness stuff... And it was Clayton.
My heart started to pound in my chest. I felt a fresh sheet of sweat break out on my forehead.
The last paragraph of the letter read:
Adversaries won. Desperate circumstances call for desperate measures. Agent Rhinocerous will make contact in 84 hours. Prepare vessel for lift-off.
posted by Billy at 3:28 PM
2 comments
"Everybody be cool. You... be cool."
Being cool in today's culture is pretty important. We toss the word around like a beach ball, but it's got the weight of a lead prison-ball attached to it.
So what is today's generation's definition of "cool"? Is cool another word for popular? Is cool the voice of the majority? Some would argue fiercely that "true" coolness is the exact opposite. True coolness is the voice of the individual, the identity of the One amongst the Many.
"Cool" is one of those words we steep with emotion and feeling, but it is a word distinctly defined by our individual world view. I say "world view" because what we consider "cool" extends into every single realm of contemporary existence (thanks, MTV).
Someone throws a McWrapper outside the car window. Their friend turns to them: "Dude, littering is so uncool."
A couple is hiking through the woods when a giant boulder, unmoved for centuries, suddenly lurches and crashes a hundred feet down into the white-water rapids. "Holy shit," the man says. "That was pretty fuckin' cool."
A rock band jams out a sweet tune in your favorite club, and, through closed eyes, you think of something that once made you happy. Yeah, that's a sweet, cool tune.
The leather-skinned harpy behind the counter of the Dairy Mart won't sell you beer and smokes 'cause your license has expired. When your mom tries to buy it for you, the hard-ass still refuses. That's uncool.
Bush sends American troops to liberate Iraq, but that's uncool. Meanwhile, a fractured and broken society flounders for existence in the power vacuum left by a cruel and tyrannical despot.
Star Wars is cool to me. To 89% of women (I pulled that figure out of my ass), it's not. I like Batman for a lot of different reasons. The least of them is superheroics. But chicks don't dig him. So I edit my conversations.
I find E. E. Smith's "Lensman" saga to be the greatest story ever told, period. He had vision, and he had vision...
But Jack Kerouac wants to kick his ass, because On the Road was single-handedly responsible for reformatting my mental/spiritual hard-drive.
Do I cut and paste myself when I'm talking to the ladies? Do I search for the lines that will a) make me look cool, and b) flatter them at the same time? Or do I stick to my guns and come across like a crotchety old man, or worse, a complete lunatic?
Notice the things around you that you consider "cool", and then think about why they're cool. You'll soon find that what you consider "cool" is a direct reflection of you who are as a person, and where you are in life's journey.
This post was totally disjointed. I hope someone gets something out of this. If nothing else, then dig this quote from my best friend, Adam White:
Boredom is the product of an unimaginative mind.
So what is today's generation's definition of "cool"? Is cool another word for popular? Is cool the voice of the majority? Some would argue fiercely that "true" coolness is the exact opposite. True coolness is the voice of the individual, the identity of the One amongst the Many.
"Cool" is one of those words we steep with emotion and feeling, but it is a word distinctly defined by our individual world view. I say "world view" because what we consider "cool" extends into every single realm of contemporary existence (thanks, MTV).
Someone throws a McWrapper outside the car window. Their friend turns to them: "Dude, littering is so uncool."
A couple is hiking through the woods when a giant boulder, unmoved for centuries, suddenly lurches and crashes a hundred feet down into the white-water rapids. "Holy shit," the man says. "That was pretty fuckin' cool."
A rock band jams out a sweet tune in your favorite club, and, through closed eyes, you think of something that once made you happy. Yeah, that's a sweet, cool tune.
The leather-skinned harpy behind the counter of the Dairy Mart won't sell you beer and smokes 'cause your license has expired. When your mom tries to buy it for you, the hard-ass still refuses. That's uncool.
Bush sends American troops to liberate Iraq, but that's uncool. Meanwhile, a fractured and broken society flounders for existence in the power vacuum left by a cruel and tyrannical despot.
Star Wars is cool to me. To 89% of women (I pulled that figure out of my ass), it's not. I like Batman for a lot of different reasons. The least of them is superheroics. But chicks don't dig him. So I edit my conversations.
I find E. E. Smith's "Lensman" saga to be the greatest story ever told, period. He had vision, and he had vision...
But Jack Kerouac wants to kick his ass, because On the Road was single-handedly responsible for reformatting my mental/spiritual hard-drive.
Do I cut and paste myself when I'm talking to the ladies? Do I search for the lines that will a) make me look cool, and b) flatter them at the same time? Or do I stick to my guns and come across like a crotchety old man, or worse, a complete lunatic?
Notice the things around you that you consider "cool", and then think about why they're cool. You'll soon find that what you consider "cool" is a direct reflection of you who are as a person, and where you are in life's journey.
This post was totally disjointed. I hope someone gets something out of this. If nothing else, then dig this quote from my best friend, Adam White:
Boredom is the product of an unimaginative mind.
posted by Billy at 12:53 AM
1 comments
Tuesday, January 25, 2005
I Like Nukes in Space
I felt a little uninspired this past week, so I slacked off a bit. Not much to talk about right now. We're still covered in snow, and it's bitterly cold, so I don't feel like getting outside much (although the sun's been shining lately, which makes for my favorite type of wintry day).
Actually, I spent a lot of time (pathetically enough) watching (and then re-watching, and then re-watching again) the first three episodes of the new sci-fi series remake of Battlestar Galactica.
I don't know if you've ever seen the original show from the late 70's, starring Richard Hatch and Dirk Benedict as Captains Apollo and Starbuck, respectively, but it was a cheesefest of the wankiest proportions. The show was meant to cash in on the popularity of the Star Wars franchise, and the visual similarities are glaringly obvious, but I won't go there.
Anyway, there was a four-hour mini-series that premiered on Sci Fi Channel last year. It was superb. I recorded it, but have since either taped over it, or lost it when I moved to Ohio.
I could get into the plot, but I won't geek out on you like I did with Batman... Besides, there's too much to mention in one blog post anyway. It's been a while since I've been excited about a TV show, but this new Battlestar Galactica really has me interested.
Maybe I'll type up a geek power-infused essay about the show and post it here later. But for right now, I'll let everyone slide...
Anyway... Not much to say right now... Maybe I'll come back later with a one-two that'll knock a sock off.
Actually, I spent a lot of time (pathetically enough) watching (and then re-watching, and then re-watching again) the first three episodes of the new sci-fi series remake of Battlestar Galactica.
I don't know if you've ever seen the original show from the late 70's, starring Richard Hatch and Dirk Benedict as Captains Apollo and Starbuck, respectively, but it was a cheesefest of the wankiest proportions. The show was meant to cash in on the popularity of the Star Wars franchise, and the visual similarities are glaringly obvious, but I won't go there.
Anyway, there was a four-hour mini-series that premiered on Sci Fi Channel last year. It was superb. I recorded it, but have since either taped over it, or lost it when I moved to Ohio.
I could get into the plot, but I won't geek out on you like I did with Batman... Besides, there's too much to mention in one blog post anyway. It's been a while since I've been excited about a TV show, but this new Battlestar Galactica really has me interested.
Maybe I'll type up a geek power-infused essay about the show and post it here later. But for right now, I'll let everyone slide...
Anyway... Not much to say right now... Maybe I'll come back later with a one-two that'll knock a sock off.
posted by Billy at 12:26 PM
0 comments
Shawn "Bonesaw" Heaning
Here are a couple of pictures of my little brother, Shawn, who just recently one 2nd place in his wrestling tournament!
(He's the bone-crusher wearing the white shirt and silver pants.)
Congrats, bro! Electronic hi-five. :) :)
(He's the bone-crusher wearing the white shirt and silver pants.)
Congrats, bro! Electronic hi-five. :) :)
posted by Billy at 11:44 AM
0 comments
Friday, January 14, 2005
Funk Brown
Here's a pic of me that my dad took while we were at Peaches, my favorite watering hole in Yellow Springs, Ohio.
The incomplete-looking Ra's Al Ghul moustache is really a full-grown Fu Manchu... My facial hair is copper-colored and doesn't show up very well in the dark (why am I explaining myself?) Anyway, it's shaved off now, so it doesn't matter...
posted by Billy at 11:51 AM
0 comments
Wednesday, January 12, 2005
Love, Obsession, Catharsis, Forgiveness
Right now the primary objective is getting this Nellie thing out of my system once and for all.
It's been three years and eight months since I met her in May of 2002. I think I fell in love with her immediately.
We dated for fourteen months, and broke up in June of 2003.
We continued to see each other for another six months, albeit against her will and not as an "official" couple; during this time I struggled with knowing she didn't, and wouldn't, love me.
So I took a job at Rock City, where she worked as secretary. I did this so I could be near her. I kept thinking she might fall in love with me, if I kept trying. In hindsight, I was never more pathetic than I was then. I had no car; I had to hitchhike up Lookout Mountain to get to work. I swept the trail and occasionaly came to her office to carry out the trash. I stood in the freezing rain with a flashlight to direct traffic. I was pathetic. But I wanted to be near her, and I thought she might love me.
In February of 2004, I moved to Xenia, Ohio, to live with my sister and her daughter. Nellie and I talked almost every day on-line, and every night over the phone, for the next four months. It was difficult, and I knew the distance would eventually put a strain on whatever relationship we had left.
In May, I returned to Tennessee to see her; and once again in July for her brother's wedding. That was the last time I saw her in the flesh.
We continued our phone conversations and on-line correspondence for another three months, but those were some pretty rough weeks for me. I became so lovesick that I couldn't think straight. I desperately wanted her to love me, but it was impossible, and I couldn't accept it.
I was so blindly in love with her that I refused to see my own shortcomings. I refused to see anything but her. I built up this elaborate fantasy world around her; I envisioned her as a goddess, a force of love and beauty. As silly as this sounds, I really did do this.
In time she became an idol of worship for me, and it turned out it wasn't HER I loved (although I could still argue to this day that it was), but my CONCEPT of her. My fantasy of her became so real it replaced reality. I honestly believed I could wish her love into existence; that she HAD to love me because my mind couldn't conceive of a life without her. And what my mind couldn't conceive, it couldn't believe.
Although we've been broken up for a year and 8 months, I still think about her every day. I've become so obsessed with her, with my memories of her, that it feels like my mind isn't my own anymore. I can't control it, I can't tell myself, "Stop thinking about her!" Because no matter how hard I try to ignore them, the memories keep coming back.
And the thing is, these memories probably aren't true, exact representations of past events. They're more like little rose-colored movies in my mind, normal every day trivialities that I've somehow infused with huge amounts of emotion. Just thinking about her apartment, for example, inexplicably sends me into a tailspin of melancholic longing.
I think it's difficult for me to get over her because she did, in fact, embody all of the qualities I look for in a mate. Whether or not I exaggerated her qualities inside my head doesn't matter. These are facts: she was beautiful, extremely beautiful, and just as smart. She was kind, compassionate, and most of all, patient. She never said a mean or hurtful thing to anybody. She wasn't spiteful, jealous, or vindictive. She was attentive. She knew how to cook. She could kiss EXTREMELY well. She read all the right books, listened to all the right music, liked all the right movies. And yet she always had an opinion of her own. She was modest, but she could be sexy and seductive -- or even punk -- when she wanted to. There were times when she could drink me under the table. Not only did she let me smoke in her apartment, but she even puffed a few with me. But most important of all, she was a Christian. The truest kind of Christian, the kind who looked past my faults and still saw something likeable, maybe even attractive, about me.
So here I am, and apparently I've found the woman of my dreams. But she ISN'T the one; that's painfully obvious. Here I had everything I'd been looking for, but it wasn't for me. Letting go of what, to me, is perfection, is hard... very hard. Accepting the fact that she belongs to someone else is even harder... almost impossible.
What makes things even more frustrating and embarrasing is the fact that I'm the pathetic loser who keeps doting on his ex-girlfriend. I'm like Adam Sandler in that SNL sketch where he hosts a show about his ex-girlfriend, and he has this segment where he calls her, listens to her say hello, then hangs up.
And the fact that I'm sharing this with the public would probably enfuriate her. Yes, some things are private, but I'm a writer; at least, I want to be a writer. And as such... I want to be read. To me everything is a dramatic epic, and I need some validation. And some catharsis.
To be totally honest, I started this blog secretly hoping she would accidently stumble upon it, read it, change her mind, and fall in love with me. If she ever did find this, though, it would probably do the exact opposite. Maybe it's this strange subconscious dichotomy that fuels my posts. I have to admit, it's not a very healthy reason to maintain a blog.
Therefore, some changes are needed.
I speak of revival lately. I've become aware that the reason why I'm obsessed with her is because I've LET myself become obsessed. I latched onto something physical, something that epitomized physical perfection, and I made it my idol. I made it my god. My whole life revolved around being with her, around pleasing her, around appeasing her and making her happy. I ignored myself to the extent that I eventually lost myself, which is why I probably lost her. What woman wants a man who has no identity outside of her?
I thought she was a gift from God, when in fact she was more like a tool He used to show me how easy it is to love something more than Him. This severely limits His effectiveness in making my life complete, and until now I've never really accepted that, or even understood it. I wanted her, not God. But God wanted me to want Him. So He allowed what I wanted to be taken away, to teach me a much needed lesson.
I still have a lot of resentment and bitterness in my heart towards Nellie, which makes it hard to let go (that would mean letting go COMPLETELY), but I feel the stirrings of something working inside my heart, helping me. Hopefully, with prayer and understanding, I can turn it into forgiveness, and the desire for forgiveness... from God AND Nellie.
It's been three years and eight months since I met her in May of 2002. I think I fell in love with her immediately.
We dated for fourteen months, and broke up in June of 2003.
We continued to see each other for another six months, albeit against her will and not as an "official" couple; during this time I struggled with knowing she didn't, and wouldn't, love me.
So I took a job at Rock City, where she worked as secretary. I did this so I could be near her. I kept thinking she might fall in love with me, if I kept trying. In hindsight, I was never more pathetic than I was then. I had no car; I had to hitchhike up Lookout Mountain to get to work. I swept the trail and occasionaly came to her office to carry out the trash. I stood in the freezing rain with a flashlight to direct traffic. I was pathetic. But I wanted to be near her, and I thought she might love me.
In February of 2004, I moved to Xenia, Ohio, to live with my sister and her daughter. Nellie and I talked almost every day on-line, and every night over the phone, for the next four months. It was difficult, and I knew the distance would eventually put a strain on whatever relationship we had left.
In May, I returned to Tennessee to see her; and once again in July for her brother's wedding. That was the last time I saw her in the flesh.
We continued our phone conversations and on-line correspondence for another three months, but those were some pretty rough weeks for me. I became so lovesick that I couldn't think straight. I desperately wanted her to love me, but it was impossible, and I couldn't accept it.
I was so blindly in love with her that I refused to see my own shortcomings. I refused to see anything but her. I built up this elaborate fantasy world around her; I envisioned her as a goddess, a force of love and beauty. As silly as this sounds, I really did do this.
In time she became an idol of worship for me, and it turned out it wasn't HER I loved (although I could still argue to this day that it was), but my CONCEPT of her. My fantasy of her became so real it replaced reality. I honestly believed I could wish her love into existence; that she HAD to love me because my mind couldn't conceive of a life without her. And what my mind couldn't conceive, it couldn't believe.
Although we've been broken up for a year and 8 months, I still think about her every day. I've become so obsessed with her, with my memories of her, that it feels like my mind isn't my own anymore. I can't control it, I can't tell myself, "Stop thinking about her!" Because no matter how hard I try to ignore them, the memories keep coming back.
And the thing is, these memories probably aren't true, exact representations of past events. They're more like little rose-colored movies in my mind, normal every day trivialities that I've somehow infused with huge amounts of emotion. Just thinking about her apartment, for example, inexplicably sends me into a tailspin of melancholic longing.
I think it's difficult for me to get over her because she did, in fact, embody all of the qualities I look for in a mate. Whether or not I exaggerated her qualities inside my head doesn't matter. These are facts: she was beautiful, extremely beautiful, and just as smart. She was kind, compassionate, and most of all, patient. She never said a mean or hurtful thing to anybody. She wasn't spiteful, jealous, or vindictive. She was attentive. She knew how to cook. She could kiss EXTREMELY well. She read all the right books, listened to all the right music, liked all the right movies. And yet she always had an opinion of her own. She was modest, but she could be sexy and seductive -- or even punk -- when she wanted to. There were times when she could drink me under the table. Not only did she let me smoke in her apartment, but she even puffed a few with me. But most important of all, she was a Christian. The truest kind of Christian, the kind who looked past my faults and still saw something likeable, maybe even attractive, about me.
So here I am, and apparently I've found the woman of my dreams. But she ISN'T the one; that's painfully obvious. Here I had everything I'd been looking for, but it wasn't for me. Letting go of what, to me, is perfection, is hard... very hard. Accepting the fact that she belongs to someone else is even harder... almost impossible.
What makes things even more frustrating and embarrasing is the fact that I'm the pathetic loser who keeps doting on his ex-girlfriend. I'm like Adam Sandler in that SNL sketch where he hosts a show about his ex-girlfriend, and he has this segment where he calls her, listens to her say hello, then hangs up.
And the fact that I'm sharing this with the public would probably enfuriate her. Yes, some things are private, but I'm a writer; at least, I want to be a writer. And as such... I want to be read. To me everything is a dramatic epic, and I need some validation. And some catharsis.
To be totally honest, I started this blog secretly hoping she would accidently stumble upon it, read it, change her mind, and fall in love with me. If she ever did find this, though, it would probably do the exact opposite. Maybe it's this strange subconscious dichotomy that fuels my posts. I have to admit, it's not a very healthy reason to maintain a blog.
Therefore, some changes are needed.
I speak of revival lately. I've become aware that the reason why I'm obsessed with her is because I've LET myself become obsessed. I latched onto something physical, something that epitomized physical perfection, and I made it my idol. I made it my god. My whole life revolved around being with her, around pleasing her, around appeasing her and making her happy. I ignored myself to the extent that I eventually lost myself, which is why I probably lost her. What woman wants a man who has no identity outside of her?
I thought she was a gift from God, when in fact she was more like a tool He used to show me how easy it is to love something more than Him. This severely limits His effectiveness in making my life complete, and until now I've never really accepted that, or even understood it. I wanted her, not God. But God wanted me to want Him. So He allowed what I wanted to be taken away, to teach me a much needed lesson.
I still have a lot of resentment and bitterness in my heart towards Nellie, which makes it hard to let go (that would mean letting go COMPLETELY), but I feel the stirrings of something working inside my heart, helping me. Hopefully, with prayer and understanding, I can turn it into forgiveness, and the desire for forgiveness... from God AND Nellie.
posted by Billy at 2:16 PM
2 comments
Tuesday, January 11, 2005
Paradigm Shifting of My Mental Tectonic Plates
This is a difficult post for me because I'm not quite sure where to start. I know, a lot of memoirs begin with that line, but this time it's true...
Almost twelve years ago, in 1993, I made a commitment to Jesus Christ to be a born-again Christian; I "got saved" as it were. I was in 8th grade, and at first I was going to church mainly to impress the girl who first invited me there.
It was an evangelical Pentecostal church... very charismatic. A lot of dancing, shouting, speaking in tongues, and "slaying of the spirit". There were times when our pastor skipped the entire message because we were too busy running around in circles, jumping over pews, shouting "Hallelujah!" and laying hands on people. A lot of people cried; everybody sang. The church band would keep on playing during these services, up-tempo comtemporary praise & worship with an electric emotional charge. The music provided an extended soundtrack to the service's deluge of emotion, excitement, and righteous furor.
For a kid who had never been to church or raised in a religious home, this stuff blew my mind. All of my preconceived notions about Christians went flying out the stained-glass window. This was exciting, it was fun! It was loud, emotional, and most of all, I felt a sense of acceptance. I mean, it was a building full of shouting, crying, dancing wack-a-doos, but they looked so sincere, so honest, so open... And I was drawn to it immediately.
You'd stare at me in amazement and half-disbelief if I told you about some of the things I witnessed at that church. Not bad things, or shady things, or kooky cultist things (it was never like that)... More like entire groups of kids, up to thirty of them, filling up a church basement so they could cry as loud as they wanted, hug as much as they wanted, pray as hard and as furiously as they could... all for each other. And these were kids, mind you, 8th and 9th graders... maybe a sprinkling of upper-classmen... But we were just kids...
I remember one year, at a Winterfest in Gatlinburg, Tennessee, our youth group attended a rally of over 5,000 young Christians. About a third of the way through the speaker's message, one of the girls in our youth group was overcome with the Holy Spirit and started crying and praying out loud. She began to lay hands on us. At first we were all like, "Hey, Barbara, calm down... The speaker's still talkin', this is kinda rude to the people sitting around us..." But pretty soon the people around us started to cry, too, and they wound up joining Babs in prayer.
And then it started; like a wildfire, it spread from one group of kids to the next. Pretty soon strangers were walking down the aisles to join us, this big group of sobbing, weeping, moaning young people. Finally the speaker noticed what was going on; but instead of getting upset or angry that his message was being interrupted, he instead spoke into the microphone, and addressed the congregation of thousands: "People... Do you see what's happening right now? Do you see that, over there? That's God... He's here, right now, among us. I think we should all pray."
A mass wave of Christian hysteria washed over everyone in that arena then. It almost bordered on a riot. I have never seen, I have never experienced that kind of intensity. A thousand Christian kids, total strangers to each other, their faces puffy and red and streaked with tears, praying for each other, loving each other, forgetting pride and prejudice and just crying out to God. The snowballing mass of weeping, praying bodies grew so large that Security had to usher us into the arena's siderooms to make way for the next conference.
Our youth group stayed behind for several hours to continue praying. Eventually Security threatened to call the police and kicked us out.
The point is, never before in my life had I experienced something like that... That kind of excitement, that kind of emotional outpouring of love, understanding, and acceptance. And it wasn't contained to just us, to just our youth group. It extended outward, to everybody...
I'm getting ahead of myself, though. I attended that church for a few years, and I had a good time there. But then I started to notice something; the youth group, even the adults, kind of waxed and waned in their spiritual fervour. Sometimes we were "on fire" for God, and sometimes we weren't. Things really took a turn when our youth group leader started having marriage problems. Eventually he and his wife separated, then divorced, and this sent our leader on an (understandable) downward-spiral. Unfortunately it struck a mortal blow to the youth group, and our attendance dwindled down to the regular attendees. Ten or twelve of us, the "Remnant", the ones who always showed up, regardless, out of either habit or boredom. But I had this sense that everything there was based on feelings, on emotions. Maybe we were reacting to the way the music made us feel. Maybe we were getting carried away by the burdens of our lives, and wanted to just jump them or cry them away. We could do that there without looking like maniacs. Maybe we were maniacs. Either way, I started to crave equilibrium... I wanted spiritual and emotional stability. I wanted to be taught, instead of preached to.
In high school, things picked up again. I hooked up with a bunch of new Christian friends, and I started to attend another youth ministry called "Prime Time" every Wednesday. These kids were a lot different than my old youth group. Those kids came from Meigs County, a "redneck town" out in the middle of nowhere. But the kids from Prime Time... they were smart. I mean, intelligent smart. They were good students, excellent at math and science. They got straight A's, and played instruments in the band. Their parents were professors at Bryan College, or teachers at Rhea County High School. They didn't come across as the progeny of charismatic yokels (not to belittle the people of Meigs County, or my old church there... they were amazing people, too). Most of all, they were stable. They had a passion and zeal for God, but it wasn't based on an emotional feeling. It was centered around their knowledge of the Scripture, with an emphasis on practical application.
For three years I attended Prime Time, and Grace Bible Church, in Dayton, Tennessee (the sponsors of Prime Time). We formed a Bible Club at the high school and scheduled "Meet You at the Pole" prayer meetings. I met a lot of fantastic young people, and made friends with some amazing families. I went on a lot of trips, became involved in several children's church ministries, and forged several unbreakable relationships.
But my senior year, everything changed. (And now we're finally reaching the point of this post.) A friend of mine named Claudine Auguste, who to this day is still one of the most important and influential people in my life, lent me her dog-eared, bent, beat-up, under-lined, and generally tattered copy of Jack Kerouac's On the Road. I won't get into the story of how that book changed my life (that's another post), but it did. I read it during a time in my life where everything was stagnant, routine, and boring, even church. I was going through the motions, paying lip-service, without feeling any passion in my heart. On the Road had a lot of passion, passion to spare, and I picked up on that.
Suddenly I wanted to throw off my shackles of inhibition and dive into the raw realities of life. I wanted to know America, its people, its smells, its tastes, its light and darkness. I wanted to look at great art and read moving poems; I wanted to slum it with bums and junkies and winos. I wanted to mix it up with girls, listen to crazy music, break tradition and live like a bohemian.
I went on a Kerouac binge and, over the course of two years, bought fourteen of his books. Novels, poetry, religious notes, everything. I even bought a 3-CD set of his live readings, as well as a VHS video about the Beat Generation (Adam White, one of my best friends, bought me a copy of Kerouac, the movie.) I delved into the other authors and poets, as well: Allen Ginsberg, William Burroughs, Lawrence Ferlenghetti, Gary Snyder; and even the peripheral Beats: Ken Kesey, Bob Dylan, Charles Bukowski, Hunter S. Thompson.
I found another interest in Hunter S. Thompson, the doped-out renegade Gonzo journalist who authored Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, which eventually became the cult-classic movie starring Johnny Depp and Benicio Del Toro. It was this book (and movie) in particular that brought about the next phase-shift, the phase-shift into drugs, mostly pot and acid. That began the Second Chapter in the Life of Billy, and is probably the source of a confessional story I've yet to write (but will, eventually).
All this time, I was still thinking about my life as a Christian. What happened to it? Was it still there, somewhere deep inside me? Was I still a Christian? Or had I let go, and wandered into some hazy drug-induced world of meaningless philosophy, of destructive, damaging relationships, of eventual madness? I've never believed that you could lose your salvation, if you really truly believed you were saved. But I also didn't believe in using God's mercy or grace like a confessional booth. I wasn't excusing or explaining away my actions because I knew God would forgive me if I asked Him. I just acted, knowing full well it wasn't what I was supposed to be doing. I was like a cheating husband who still loved his wife, who still lived with her, who still wanted to be with her, but still slept with someone else. How messed up is that?
I've been a Christian for almost 12 years. For the last six of those years, I've known Jesus in my head, but not in my heart. I mean, He's always been there, but I've ignored Him. I've tried to do things my way. I relegated Him to the position of back-seat driver, and things just don't work that way.
I know this probably comes as a shock to a lot of people, mostly my Dad. He's probably rolling his eyes and saying, "Oh no, here we go again." But it's different this time. I've learned so much since my holy roller days.
What brought all of this about? Well... let's just say God has brought someone into my life at just the right time. A friend, a guy, a co-worker named Eric. He's another post unto himself. The guy's like this great big excitable puppy (and I mean that in the least gayest way possible), and he's a Christian. When he found out I was a Believer, too, he immediately started going on and on and on and on about this book by a guy named Donald Miller, called Blue Like Jazz. It's a book about nonreligious thoughts on Christian spirituality, and I just had to read it, he kept saying. I just had to. I kinda brushed it off, and said something like, "Yeah, bring me your copy and I'll read it." I didn't think he'd actually bring it in. But two hours later, while I was standing in front of the computer at work, he shoved a shopping bag in front of my face. "Happy Birthday, Billy!" I opened the bag. It was a copy of Blue Like Jazz. "Holy Crap, where did you get this?" I asked. He said he called his wife and had her buy a copy and bring it to me at work. All within two hours. I was shocked and kinda touched. I promised him I'd start to read it that night.
And I did. I started it that night and finished somewhere in the middle before going to bed. I woke up the next morning and read the second half. I finished it within 24 hours.
The book... the book has started something. It's like it has stolen the idol and now the Big Ass Boulder's been released. I'm running away from Something now, but I've got an even Bigger Treasure in my hand. (Sorry... Indiana Jones metaphors are kinda weak)... And now, it's time to begin again.
I'm not through talking about this, not by a long shot. I've got so many things to say, and I want to seriously discuss this book, this Blue Like Jazz. But this post is entirely too long to start up a new topic.
And my head's starting to swirl so it's time to take a break. See you soon.
Almost twelve years ago, in 1993, I made a commitment to Jesus Christ to be a born-again Christian; I "got saved" as it were. I was in 8th grade, and at first I was going to church mainly to impress the girl who first invited me there.
It was an evangelical Pentecostal church... very charismatic. A lot of dancing, shouting, speaking in tongues, and "slaying of the spirit". There were times when our pastor skipped the entire message because we were too busy running around in circles, jumping over pews, shouting "Hallelujah!" and laying hands on people. A lot of people cried; everybody sang. The church band would keep on playing during these services, up-tempo comtemporary praise & worship with an electric emotional charge. The music provided an extended soundtrack to the service's deluge of emotion, excitement, and righteous furor.
For a kid who had never been to church or raised in a religious home, this stuff blew my mind. All of my preconceived notions about Christians went flying out the stained-glass window. This was exciting, it was fun! It was loud, emotional, and most of all, I felt a sense of acceptance. I mean, it was a building full of shouting, crying, dancing wack-a-doos, but they looked so sincere, so honest, so open... And I was drawn to it immediately.
You'd stare at me in amazement and half-disbelief if I told you about some of the things I witnessed at that church. Not bad things, or shady things, or kooky cultist things (it was never like that)... More like entire groups of kids, up to thirty of them, filling up a church basement so they could cry as loud as they wanted, hug as much as they wanted, pray as hard and as furiously as they could... all for each other. And these were kids, mind you, 8th and 9th graders... maybe a sprinkling of upper-classmen... But we were just kids...
I remember one year, at a Winterfest in Gatlinburg, Tennessee, our youth group attended a rally of over 5,000 young Christians. About a third of the way through the speaker's message, one of the girls in our youth group was overcome with the Holy Spirit and started crying and praying out loud. She began to lay hands on us. At first we were all like, "Hey, Barbara, calm down... The speaker's still talkin', this is kinda rude to the people sitting around us..." But pretty soon the people around us started to cry, too, and they wound up joining Babs in prayer.
And then it started; like a wildfire, it spread from one group of kids to the next. Pretty soon strangers were walking down the aisles to join us, this big group of sobbing, weeping, moaning young people. Finally the speaker noticed what was going on; but instead of getting upset or angry that his message was being interrupted, he instead spoke into the microphone, and addressed the congregation of thousands: "People... Do you see what's happening right now? Do you see that, over there? That's God... He's here, right now, among us. I think we should all pray."
A mass wave of Christian hysteria washed over everyone in that arena then. It almost bordered on a riot. I have never seen, I have never experienced that kind of intensity. A thousand Christian kids, total strangers to each other, their faces puffy and red and streaked with tears, praying for each other, loving each other, forgetting pride and prejudice and just crying out to God. The snowballing mass of weeping, praying bodies grew so large that Security had to usher us into the arena's siderooms to make way for the next conference.
Our youth group stayed behind for several hours to continue praying. Eventually Security threatened to call the police and kicked us out.
The point is, never before in my life had I experienced something like that... That kind of excitement, that kind of emotional outpouring of love, understanding, and acceptance. And it wasn't contained to just us, to just our youth group. It extended outward, to everybody...
I'm getting ahead of myself, though. I attended that church for a few years, and I had a good time there. But then I started to notice something; the youth group, even the adults, kind of waxed and waned in their spiritual fervour. Sometimes we were "on fire" for God, and sometimes we weren't. Things really took a turn when our youth group leader started having marriage problems. Eventually he and his wife separated, then divorced, and this sent our leader on an (understandable) downward-spiral. Unfortunately it struck a mortal blow to the youth group, and our attendance dwindled down to the regular attendees. Ten or twelve of us, the "Remnant", the ones who always showed up, regardless, out of either habit or boredom. But I had this sense that everything there was based on feelings, on emotions. Maybe we were reacting to the way the music made us feel. Maybe we were getting carried away by the burdens of our lives, and wanted to just jump them or cry them away. We could do that there without looking like maniacs. Maybe we were maniacs. Either way, I started to crave equilibrium... I wanted spiritual and emotional stability. I wanted to be taught, instead of preached to.
In high school, things picked up again. I hooked up with a bunch of new Christian friends, and I started to attend another youth ministry called "Prime Time" every Wednesday. These kids were a lot different than my old youth group. Those kids came from Meigs County, a "redneck town" out in the middle of nowhere. But the kids from Prime Time... they were smart. I mean, intelligent smart. They were good students, excellent at math and science. They got straight A's, and played instruments in the band. Their parents were professors at Bryan College, or teachers at Rhea County High School. They didn't come across as the progeny of charismatic yokels (not to belittle the people of Meigs County, or my old church there... they were amazing people, too). Most of all, they were stable. They had a passion and zeal for God, but it wasn't based on an emotional feeling. It was centered around their knowledge of the Scripture, with an emphasis on practical application.
For three years I attended Prime Time, and Grace Bible Church, in Dayton, Tennessee (the sponsors of Prime Time). We formed a Bible Club at the high school and scheduled "Meet You at the Pole" prayer meetings. I met a lot of fantastic young people, and made friends with some amazing families. I went on a lot of trips, became involved in several children's church ministries, and forged several unbreakable relationships.
But my senior year, everything changed. (And now we're finally reaching the point of this post.) A friend of mine named Claudine Auguste, who to this day is still one of the most important and influential people in my life, lent me her dog-eared, bent, beat-up, under-lined, and generally tattered copy of Jack Kerouac's On the Road. I won't get into the story of how that book changed my life (that's another post), but it did. I read it during a time in my life where everything was stagnant, routine, and boring, even church. I was going through the motions, paying lip-service, without feeling any passion in my heart. On the Road had a lot of passion, passion to spare, and I picked up on that.
Suddenly I wanted to throw off my shackles of inhibition and dive into the raw realities of life. I wanted to know America, its people, its smells, its tastes, its light and darkness. I wanted to look at great art and read moving poems; I wanted to slum it with bums and junkies and winos. I wanted to mix it up with girls, listen to crazy music, break tradition and live like a bohemian.
I went on a Kerouac binge and, over the course of two years, bought fourteen of his books. Novels, poetry, religious notes, everything. I even bought a 3-CD set of his live readings, as well as a VHS video about the Beat Generation (Adam White, one of my best friends, bought me a copy of Kerouac, the movie.) I delved into the other authors and poets, as well: Allen Ginsberg, William Burroughs, Lawrence Ferlenghetti, Gary Snyder; and even the peripheral Beats: Ken Kesey, Bob Dylan, Charles Bukowski, Hunter S. Thompson.
I found another interest in Hunter S. Thompson, the doped-out renegade Gonzo journalist who authored Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, which eventually became the cult-classic movie starring Johnny Depp and Benicio Del Toro. It was this book (and movie) in particular that brought about the next phase-shift, the phase-shift into drugs, mostly pot and acid. That began the Second Chapter in the Life of Billy, and is probably the source of a confessional story I've yet to write (but will, eventually).
All this time, I was still thinking about my life as a Christian. What happened to it? Was it still there, somewhere deep inside me? Was I still a Christian? Or had I let go, and wandered into some hazy drug-induced world of meaningless philosophy, of destructive, damaging relationships, of eventual madness? I've never believed that you could lose your salvation, if you really truly believed you were saved. But I also didn't believe in using God's mercy or grace like a confessional booth. I wasn't excusing or explaining away my actions because I knew God would forgive me if I asked Him. I just acted, knowing full well it wasn't what I was supposed to be doing. I was like a cheating husband who still loved his wife, who still lived with her, who still wanted to be with her, but still slept with someone else. How messed up is that?
I've been a Christian for almost 12 years. For the last six of those years, I've known Jesus in my head, but not in my heart. I mean, He's always been there, but I've ignored Him. I've tried to do things my way. I relegated Him to the position of back-seat driver, and things just don't work that way.
I know this probably comes as a shock to a lot of people, mostly my Dad. He's probably rolling his eyes and saying, "Oh no, here we go again." But it's different this time. I've learned so much since my holy roller days.
What brought all of this about? Well... let's just say God has brought someone into my life at just the right time. A friend, a guy, a co-worker named Eric. He's another post unto himself. The guy's like this great big excitable puppy (and I mean that in the least gayest way possible), and he's a Christian. When he found out I was a Believer, too, he immediately started going on and on and on and on about this book by a guy named Donald Miller, called Blue Like Jazz. It's a book about nonreligious thoughts on Christian spirituality, and I just had to read it, he kept saying. I just had to. I kinda brushed it off, and said something like, "Yeah, bring me your copy and I'll read it." I didn't think he'd actually bring it in. But two hours later, while I was standing in front of the computer at work, he shoved a shopping bag in front of my face. "Happy Birthday, Billy!" I opened the bag. It was a copy of Blue Like Jazz. "Holy Crap, where did you get this?" I asked. He said he called his wife and had her buy a copy and bring it to me at work. All within two hours. I was shocked and kinda touched. I promised him I'd start to read it that night.
And I did. I started it that night and finished somewhere in the middle before going to bed. I woke up the next morning and read the second half. I finished it within 24 hours.
The book... the book has started something. It's like it has stolen the idol and now the Big Ass Boulder's been released. I'm running away from Something now, but I've got an even Bigger Treasure in my hand. (Sorry... Indiana Jones metaphors are kinda weak)... And now, it's time to begin again.
I'm not through talking about this, not by a long shot. I've got so many things to say, and I want to seriously discuss this book, this Blue Like Jazz. But this post is entirely too long to start up a new topic.
And my head's starting to swirl so it's time to take a break. See you soon.
posted by Billy at 2:29 PM
2 comments
Monday, January 10, 2005
One word for you, boys and girls...
Revival.
Boy, do I have a lot to talk about. And confess.
Funny how things come full circle...
Boy, do I have a lot to talk about. And confess.
Funny how things come full circle...
posted by Billy at 1:30 AM
0 comments
Sunday, January 09, 2005
Nothing Better
And now, some lyrics from one of my favorite Postal Service songs (a duet!):
NOTHING BETTER
HIM: Will someone please call a surgeon
who can crack my ribs and repair this broken heart
that you're deserting for better company?
I can't accept that it's over
I will block the door like a goalie tending the net
in the third quarter of a tied-game rivalry
So just say how to make it right
And I swear I'll do my best to comply
Tell me, am I right to think that there could be nothing better
than making you my bride and slowly growing old together?
HER: I feel must interject here
You're getting carried away
Feeling sorry for yourself
with these revisions and gaps in history
So let me help you remember
I've made charts and graphs that should finally make it clear
I've prepared a lecture on why I have to leave
So please back away and let me go
HIM: I can't, my darling
I love you so...
Tell me, am I right to think that there could be nothing better
than making you my bride and slowly growing old together?
HER: Don't you feed me lines about some idealistic future
Your heart won't heal right if you keep tearing out the sutures
HIM: I admit that I have made mistakes
and I swear I'll never wrong you again
HER: You've got a lure I can't deny
But you've had your chance
so say goodbye
Say goodbye
NOTHING BETTER
HIM: Will someone please call a surgeon
who can crack my ribs and repair this broken heart
that you're deserting for better company?
I can't accept that it's over
I will block the door like a goalie tending the net
in the third quarter of a tied-game rivalry
So just say how to make it right
And I swear I'll do my best to comply
Tell me, am I right to think that there could be nothing better
than making you my bride and slowly growing old together?
HER: I feel must interject here
You're getting carried away
Feeling sorry for yourself
with these revisions and gaps in history
So let me help you remember
I've made charts and graphs that should finally make it clear
I've prepared a lecture on why I have to leave
So please back away and let me go
HIM: I can't, my darling
I love you so...
Tell me, am I right to think that there could be nothing better
than making you my bride and slowly growing old together?
HER: Don't you feed me lines about some idealistic future
Your heart won't heal right if you keep tearing out the sutures
HIM: I admit that I have made mistakes
and I swear I'll never wrong you again
HER: You've got a lure I can't deny
But you've had your chance
so say goodbye
Say goodbye
posted by Billy at 1:58 AM
0 comments
Friday, January 07, 2005
Memorable Quotes from Napoleon Dynamite (A Long Post)
Memorable Quotes from Napoleon Dynamite (2004)
I loved this movie so much I just had to post some quotes. If you haven't seen the movie, a lot of these lines won't sound funny or make much sense. But for those of you who have seen it, you'll get a kick out of them.
I cannot urge you enough: watch this movie.
Then come back here and laugh some more.
Memorable Quotes from
Napoleon Dynamite (2004)
[first lines]
Kid on Bus: What are you gonna do today, Napoleon?
Napoleon Dynamite: Whatever I feel like I wanna do, gosh!
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Don: [playing kickball] Hey, Napoleon. Did you wet the bed last night?
Napoleon Dynamite: Hey, Don, did you take a dump in your bed last night?
Don: I could kick your butt, Napoleon, so I'd shut up.
Napoleon Dynamite: Why don't you go tell your mom to shut up?
Don: What did you say?
Napoleon Dynamite: Whatever I feel like I wanna say.
Don: Did you say something about my mom?
Napoleon Dynamite: Maybe I did, maybe I didn't.
Don: Do you wanna die, Napoleon?
Napoleon Dynamite: Yeah right. Who's the only one here who knows the illegal ninja moves from the government?
Don: Step up, Napoleon.
Napoleon Dynamite: [slaps him and runs]
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Jock No. 1: Hey, Napoleon. I hear you're in a club for girls.
Napoleon Dynamite: Shut up, I am not.
Jock No. 1: Yeah? Why are you in the Happy Hands Club then?
Napoleon Dynamite: Cause I didn't have a freakin' choice. All the other sweet clubs were filled up. GOSH!
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Napoleon Dynamite: Where've you been?
Pedro: I got sick.
Napoleon Dynamite: How come?
Pedro: Two days ago, I went to my cousin's birthday party and they had all this food. So I started to eat this taco with lots of meat. It was like a carne asada taco. And all of a sudden, I started to feel real ill inside. So the next day, I just like laid in the bathtub for a couple of hours. And then I had to go to the hospital because my aunt Concha was having a baby. We had to wait a really long time in the lobby so I bought a little bag of corn tortillas from the vending machine. And right when I started eating them, I felt really good inside. The weird feeling I was having just like lifted out of me. It, like, evaporated into nothing.
[takes a bite of tortilla in flashback, looks up to heavens]
Pedro: So I dunno. I think they was like... holy chips or something.
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Napoleon Dynamite: [walks into store] Hey, how's it goin'. Those egg rolls are looking pretty good. I might get me some later, I don't have any money right now. You know, I think I'm just gonna get me one of them lotto tickets. My wife says I gotta stop but I'm just feeling real positive today and I wanted to try out my luck and -
Cashier: Get out of here. I'm not selling lottery to a minor.
Napoleon Dynamite: I'm just gonna go get my ID.
[bumps into cooler]
Napoleon Dynamite: [outside gas station, to Pedro] Gosh! They wouldn't sell me one. I don't look old enough. Dang!
Pedro: Do you think I look old enough?
Pedro: [in store] Un lotto ticket por favor.
Cashier: [looks at Pedro's moustache, then sells ticket]
Napoleon Dynamite: [outside, to Pedro] Did you get one?
[scratches ticket]
Napoleon Dynamite: Yes! Three spuds! You picked a good one! That's ten dollars! Yes!
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[last lines before post-credit sequence]
Napoleon Dynamite: You wanna play me?
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[last lines]
Napoleon Dynamite: Lucky.
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Napoleon Dynamite: I spent like three hours shading the upper lip.
Trisha: Yeah... That's great.
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Napoleon Dynamite: Grandma just called and said you're supposed to go home.
Uncle Rico: She didn't tell me anything.
Napoleon Dynamite: Too bad, she said she doesn't want you here when she gets back because you've been ruining everybody's lives and eating all our steak.
Uncle Rico: I'm not goin' anywhere, Napoleon.
Napoleon Dynamite: Get off my property!
Uncle Rico: It's a free country. I can do whatever I want.
Napoleon Dynamite: Get off my property or I'll call the cops on you.
Uncle Rico: Well then do it! Go on!
Napoleon Dynamite: Maybe I will, GOSH!
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Napoleon Dynamite: Stay home and eat all the freakin' chips, Kip.
Kip: Napoleon, don't be jealous that I've been chatting online with babes all day. Besides, we both know that I'm training to be a cage fighter.
Napoleon Dynamite: Since when, Kip? You have the worst reflexes of all time.
Kip: Try and hit me, Napoleon.
Napoleon Dynamite: What?
Kip: I said come down here and see what happens if you try and hit me.
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Uncle Rico: So what do you think?
Kip: It's pretty cool, I guess.
Uncle Rico: Ohhhh, man I wish I could go back in time. I'd take state.
Napoleon Dynamite: This is pretty much the worst video ever made.
Kip: Napoleon, like anyone can even know that.
Uncle Rico: You know what, Napoleon? You can leave.
Napoleon Dynamite: You guys are retarded!
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Rex: At Rex Kwan Do, we use the buddy system. No more flying solo. You need somebody watching your back at all times. Second off, you're gonna learn to discipline your image. You think I got where I am today because I dressed like Peter Pan over here?
[points to Napoleon]
Rex: Take a look at what I'm wearing, people. You think anybody wants a roundhouse kick to the face while I'm wearing these bad boys? Forget about it. Last off, my students will learn about self respect. You think anybody thinks I'm a failure because I go home to Starla at night? Forget about it!
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Don: Hey, Napoleon. What did you do last summer again?
Napoleon Dynamite: I told you! I spent it with my uncle in Alaska hunting wolverines!
Don: Did you shoot any?
Napoleon Dynamite: Yes, like 50 of 'em! They kept trying to attack my cousins, what the heck would you do in a situation like that?
Don: What kind of gun did you use?
Napoleon Dynamite: A freakin' 12-gauge, what do you think?
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Deb: And here we have some boondoggle key chains. A must-have for this season's fashion.
Napoleon Dynamite: I already made like infinity of those at scout camp.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Napoleon Dynamite: You know, there's like a butt-load of gangs at this school. This one gang kept wanting me to join because I'm pretty good with a bowstaff.
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Napoleon Dynamite: Well, I have all your equipment in my locker. You should probably come get it cause I can't fit my nunchucks in there anymore.
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Napoleon Dynamite: [referring to Deb's milk] I see you're drinking 1%. Is that 'cause you think you're fat? 'Cause you're not. You could be drinking whole if you wanted to.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Napoleon Dynamite: Do the chickens have large talons?
Farmer: Do they have what?
Napoleon Dynamite: Large talons.
Farmer: I don't understand a word you just said.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Pedro: Do you think people will vote for me?
Napoleon Dynamite: Heck yes! I'd vote for you.
Pedro: Like what are my skills?
Napoleon Dynamite: Well, you have a sweet bike. And you're really good at hooking up with chicks. Plus you're like the only guy at school who has a mustache.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Trisha: Thanks for the beautiful drawing. It's hanging in my room right now.
Napoleon Dynamite: Really? It took me like three hours to finish the shading on your upper lip. It's probably the best drawing I've ever done.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Rex: I'm Rex, founder of the Rex Kwan Do self-defense system! After one week with me in my dojo, you'll be prepared to defend yourself with the strength of a grizzly, the reflexes of a puma, and the wisdom of a man.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Napoleon Dynamite: How long did it take you to grow that moustache?
Pedro: A couple of days.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Napoleon Dynamite: Pedro, how do you feel about that one?
Pedro: It looks nice.
Napoleon Dynamite: Yeah, it looks pretty sweet. It looks awesome. That suit, it's... it's incredible.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Uncle Rico: What about your girlfriend?
Kip: Well, things are getting pretty serious right now. I mean, we chat online for, like, two hours every day so I guess you could say things are gettin' pretty serious.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Napoleon Dynamite: You know, like nunchuck skills, bowhunting skills, computer hacking skills... Girls only want boyfriends who have great skills.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Grandma: How was school?
Napoleon Dynamite: The worst day of my life, what do you think?
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Napoleon Dynamite: What kind of bike do you have?
Pedro: It's a sledgehammer.
Napoleon Dynamite: Dang! You got shocks, pegs... lucky! You ever take it off any sweet jumps?
Napoleon Dynamite: [Cut to Pedro jumping] You got like three feet of air that time.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Deb: What are you drawing?
Napoleon Dynamite: A liger.
Deb: What's a liger?
Napoleon Dynamite: It's pretty much my favorite animal. It's like a lion and a tiger mixed... bred for its skills in magic.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Napoleon Dynamite: Tina, you fat lard, come get some DINNER!... Tina, eat. Food. Eat the FOOD!
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Napoleon Dynamite: Tina, come get some ham.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Deb: Are they still letting you run for president?
Pedro: Yes. I don't understand... they say you're not allowed to have pinatas that look like real people, but in Mexico, we do it all the time.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Napoleon Dynamite: Pedro offers you his protection.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Napoleon Dynamite: I caught you a delicious bass.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Pedro: If I win, you can be my secretary or something.
Napoleon Dynamite: Sweet!
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Deb: I'm trying to earn money for college.
Kip: [from the background] Your mom goes to college.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Uncle Rico: How much you wanna make a bet I can throw a football over them mountains?... Yeah... Coach woulda put me in fourth quarter, we would've been state champions. No doubt. No doubt in my mind.
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Napoleon Dynamite: [drinks glass of milk] The defect in that one is bleach.
FFA Judge No. 1: That's right.
Napoleon Dynamite: Yessssssssss.
Napoleon Dynamite: [drinks second glass of milk] This tastes like the cow got into an onion patch.
FFA Judge No. 2: Correct.
Napoleon Dynamite: Yessssssssss.
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[Deb is making a glamour shot of Uncle Rico]
Deb: Okay, turn you head on more of a slant...
[all three turn their heads in a slant]
Deb: Now, make a fist. Slowly ease it up underneath your chin.
[All three slowly ease up fists under their chins]
Deb: This is looking really good.
Kip: You can say that again.
[Uncle Rico acknowledges]
Deb: Kay, hold still right there. Now, just imagine you're weightless, in the middle of the ocean, surrounded by tiny little seahorses.
[Uncle Rico pictures it and give a gleaming look at the camera]
Deb: [takes the picture] That was one that I think is gonna come out really nice.
Uncle Rico: Ah, how you did it... wow... well I felt really relaxed. Thanks Deb.
[Uncle Rico puts his fist down, then swats a fly]
Uncle Rico: You're up Kip.
Kip: Is there some kind of vest that I can wear?
[makes gesture of putting on a vest]
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Napoleon Dynamite: I like your sleeves. They're real big.
Deb: Thank you. I made them myself.
Napoleon Dynamite: So you and Pedro getting really serious now?
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Napoleon Dynamite: [referring to the dance] Who are you gonna ask?
Pedro: That girl over there.
Napoleon Dynamite: Summer Wheatly? How the heck are you gonna do that?
Pedro: Build her a cake or something.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Nathan: Napoleon, give me some of your tots.
Napoleon Dynamite: No, go find your own.
Nathan: Come on, give me some of your tots.
Napoleon Dynamite: No, I'm freakin' starving! I didn't get to eat anything today.
Nathan: [kicks the tots]
Napoleon Dynamite: Ugh! Gross! Freakin' idiot!
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Kip: I'm just really trying to raise a few bucks now so I can bring her out for a few days.
Uncle Rico: Yeah, well what does she look like?
Kip: She's uh... she's got sandy blonde hair. She's uh... pretty good looking face, but I'm just getting really... just kinda TO'd because... I mean she hasn't even sent me a full body shot yet.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Napoleon Dynamite: Hey can I use your guys's phone for a sec?
Secretary No. 1: Is there anything wrong?
Napoleon Dynamite: I don't feel very good.
[takes telephone and dials number]
Kip: [making nachos on the other line] Hi.
Napoleon Dynamite: Is grandma there?
Kip: No, she's getting her hair done.
Napoleon Dynamite: Ughhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh...
Kip: What do you need?
Napoleon Dynamite: Can you just go get her for me?
Kip: I'm really busy right now.
Napoleon Dynamite: Just tell her to come get me.
Kip: Why?
Napoleon Dynamite: Cause I don't feel good!
Kip: Well, have you talked to the school nurse?
Napoleon Dynamite: No, she doesn't know anything. Will you just come get me?
Kip: No.
Napoleon Dynamite: Well, will you do me a favor then? Can you bring me my chapstick?
Kip: No, Napoleon.
Napoleon Dynamite: But my lips hurt real bad!
Kip: Just borrow some from the school nurse. I know she has like five sticks in her drawer.
Napoleon Dynamite: I'm not gonna use hers, you sicko!
Kip: See ya.
Napoleon Dynamite: Ugh! Idiot!
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Napoleon Dynamite: Well, what is there to eat?
Grandma: Knock it off Napoleon, just make yourself a dang quesa-dilluh!
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Deb: It's Deb. And I'm calling to let you know that I think you're a shallow friend.
Napoleon Dynamite: What the heck are you even talking about?
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Napoleon Dynamite: Deb just called me. She pretty much hates me by now.
Pedro: Why?
Napoleon Dynamite: Because my uncle Rico's an IDIOT.
Pedro: Do you have anything to give to her?
Napoleon Dynamite: No. Not unless she likes fish.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Pedro: Who was that?
Napoleon Dynamite: Trisha.
Pedro: Who's she?
Napoleon Dynamite: My woman I'm taking to the dance.
Pedro: Did you draw her a picture?
Napoleon Dynamite: Heck yes I did.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Napoleon Dynamite: My old girlfriend from Oklahoma was gonna fly out for the dance but she couldn't cause she's doing some modeling right now.
Pedro: Is she hot?
Napoleon Dynamite: See for yourself.
[hands him Deb's glamor shot sample]
Pedro: Wow.
Napoleon Dynamite: Yeah, I took her to the mall to get some glamor shots for her birthday one year.
Pedro: I like her bangs.
Napoleon Dynamite: Me too.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Don: Vote for Summer.
Napoleon Dynamite: Yeah, right, I'm not voting for her.
Don: Then who you gonna vote for?
Napoleon Dynamite: I'm voting for Pedro Sanchez, who do you think?
[Don scoffs and walks away]
Napoleon Dynamite: Hey, Don. Can I have one of those buttons?
[Don hands Napoleon a "Vote 4 Summer" button]
Napoleon Dynamite: [Napoleon tosses it across the hall, stares at Don, and runs away]
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Napoleon Dynamite: You guys having a killer time?
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
[Kip is singing to Lafawnduh after they are pronounced husband and wife]
Kip: Why do you love me? Why do you need me? Always and forever... We met in a chatroom, now our love can fully bloom... Sure the world wide web is great, but you, you make my salivate... I love technology, but not as much as you, you see... But I STILL love technology... Always and forever. Our love is like a flock of doves, flying up to heaven above... always and forever, always and forever... Why do you need me? Why do you love me? Always and forever...
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Napoleon Dynamite: What are you doing here, Uncle Rico?
Uncle Rico: Grandma took a little spill at the sand dunes today. Broke her coccyx.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Uncle Rico: Kip, I reckon... you know a lot about... cyberspace? You ever come across anything... like time travel?
Kip: Easy, I've already looked into it for myself.
Uncle Rico: Right on... right on.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
[Napoleon Dynamite straps himself into the time machine]
Kip: So are you ready?
Napoleon Dynamite: Yeah, hold on... I forgot to put in the crystals.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Uncle Rico: Just a little east of the cemetery is a good little area, but don't go down here cause they don't have any money.
Kip: So how long are we talking about working?
Uncle Rico: What are you already losing your steam?
Kip: No, I just... I have a chat room meeting at 4. I gotta be back here by then.
Uncle Rico: Alright, you just start a little earlier, that's all. Or else work afterwards. How long is the chat room?
Kip: Jeez, sometimes up to 3-4 hours maybe... Maybe not.
Uncle Rico: You pay the bills for that? Does that cost money every time you're on, like for minutes on the phone?
Kip: Yeah, grandma's still paying per minute. She gets kinda pissed at me sometimes cause I'm on there so long.
Uncle Rico: I bet she does. I'll tell you something, I'd be throwing you out the window.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Kip: So when's grandma coming back?
Uncle Rico: I don't know. Not sure.
Napoleon Dynamite: You don't have to stay here with us, we're not babies.
Uncle Rico: Ha ha! Talk to your Auntie Carolyn.
Napoleon Dynamite: Kip is like 32 years old.
Kip: I don't mind if you stay.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Teacher: Your current event, Napoleon.
Napoleon Dynamite: Last week, Japanese scientists explaced... placed explosive detonators at the bottom of Lake Loch Ness to blow Nessie out of the water. Sir Godfrey of the Nessie Alliance summoned the help of Scotland's local wizards to cast a protective spell over the lake and its local residents and all those who seek for the peaceful existence of our underwater ally.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Kip: [typing a poem on his computer] Your sandy hair floats in the air... To me it's like a lullaby... I'm just flying by... Oh so high... like a kite...
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Uncle Rico: Napoleon, you know we can't afford the fun pack. What, do you think money grows on trees in this family? Take it back! And get some Pampers for you and your brother while you're at it.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
[Napoleon rides up to Kip and LaFawnduh's wedding on a horse]
Napoleon Dynamite: Sorry I'm late. I just got done taming a wild honeymoon stallion for you guys.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Napoleon Dynamite: [to Pedro] Just follow your heart. That's what I do.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Napoleon Dynamite: [while hitch-hiking] Are you guys like Pedro's cousins with the sweet hook-up?
I loved this movie so much I just had to post some quotes. If you haven't seen the movie, a lot of these lines won't sound funny or make much sense. But for those of you who have seen it, you'll get a kick out of them.
I cannot urge you enough: watch this movie.
Then come back here and laugh some more.
Memorable Quotes from
Napoleon Dynamite (2004)
[first lines]
Kid on Bus: What are you gonna do today, Napoleon?
Napoleon Dynamite: Whatever I feel like I wanna do, gosh!
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Don: [playing kickball] Hey, Napoleon. Did you wet the bed last night?
Napoleon Dynamite: Hey, Don, did you take a dump in your bed last night?
Don: I could kick your butt, Napoleon, so I'd shut up.
Napoleon Dynamite: Why don't you go tell your mom to shut up?
Don: What did you say?
Napoleon Dynamite: Whatever I feel like I wanna say.
Don: Did you say something about my mom?
Napoleon Dynamite: Maybe I did, maybe I didn't.
Don: Do you wanna die, Napoleon?
Napoleon Dynamite: Yeah right. Who's the only one here who knows the illegal ninja moves from the government?
Don: Step up, Napoleon.
Napoleon Dynamite: [slaps him and runs]
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Jock No. 1: Hey, Napoleon. I hear you're in a club for girls.
Napoleon Dynamite: Shut up, I am not.
Jock No. 1: Yeah? Why are you in the Happy Hands Club then?
Napoleon Dynamite: Cause I didn't have a freakin' choice. All the other sweet clubs were filled up. GOSH!
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Napoleon Dynamite: Where've you been?
Pedro: I got sick.
Napoleon Dynamite: How come?
Pedro: Two days ago, I went to my cousin's birthday party and they had all this food. So I started to eat this taco with lots of meat. It was like a carne asada taco. And all of a sudden, I started to feel real ill inside. So the next day, I just like laid in the bathtub for a couple of hours. And then I had to go to the hospital because my aunt Concha was having a baby. We had to wait a really long time in the lobby so I bought a little bag of corn tortillas from the vending machine. And right when I started eating them, I felt really good inside. The weird feeling I was having just like lifted out of me. It, like, evaporated into nothing.
[takes a bite of tortilla in flashback, looks up to heavens]
Pedro: So I dunno. I think they was like... holy chips or something.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Napoleon Dynamite: [walks into store] Hey, how's it goin'. Those egg rolls are looking pretty good. I might get me some later, I don't have any money right now. You know, I think I'm just gonna get me one of them lotto tickets. My wife says I gotta stop but I'm just feeling real positive today and I wanted to try out my luck and -
Cashier: Get out of here. I'm not selling lottery to a minor.
Napoleon Dynamite: I'm just gonna go get my ID.
[bumps into cooler]
Napoleon Dynamite: [outside gas station, to Pedro] Gosh! They wouldn't sell me one. I don't look old enough. Dang!
Pedro: Do you think I look old enough?
Pedro: [in store] Un lotto ticket por favor.
Cashier: [looks at Pedro's moustache, then sells ticket]
Napoleon Dynamite: [outside, to Pedro] Did you get one?
[scratches ticket]
Napoleon Dynamite: Yes! Three spuds! You picked a good one! That's ten dollars! Yes!
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
[last lines before post-credit sequence]
Napoleon Dynamite: You wanna play me?
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
[last lines]
Napoleon Dynamite: Lucky.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Napoleon Dynamite: I spent like three hours shading the upper lip.
Trisha: Yeah... That's great.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Napoleon Dynamite: Grandma just called and said you're supposed to go home.
Uncle Rico: She didn't tell me anything.
Napoleon Dynamite: Too bad, she said she doesn't want you here when she gets back because you've been ruining everybody's lives and eating all our steak.
Uncle Rico: I'm not goin' anywhere, Napoleon.
Napoleon Dynamite: Get off my property!
Uncle Rico: It's a free country. I can do whatever I want.
Napoleon Dynamite: Get off my property or I'll call the cops on you.
Uncle Rico: Well then do it! Go on!
Napoleon Dynamite: Maybe I will, GOSH!
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Napoleon Dynamite: Stay home and eat all the freakin' chips, Kip.
Kip: Napoleon, don't be jealous that I've been chatting online with babes all day. Besides, we both know that I'm training to be a cage fighter.
Napoleon Dynamite: Since when, Kip? You have the worst reflexes of all time.
Kip: Try and hit me, Napoleon.
Napoleon Dynamite: What?
Kip: I said come down here and see what happens if you try and hit me.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Uncle Rico: So what do you think?
Kip: It's pretty cool, I guess.
Uncle Rico: Ohhhh, man I wish I could go back in time. I'd take state.
Napoleon Dynamite: This is pretty much the worst video ever made.
Kip: Napoleon, like anyone can even know that.
Uncle Rico: You know what, Napoleon? You can leave.
Napoleon Dynamite: You guys are retarded!
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Rex: At Rex Kwan Do, we use the buddy system. No more flying solo. You need somebody watching your back at all times. Second off, you're gonna learn to discipline your image. You think I got where I am today because I dressed like Peter Pan over here?
[points to Napoleon]
Rex: Take a look at what I'm wearing, people. You think anybody wants a roundhouse kick to the face while I'm wearing these bad boys? Forget about it. Last off, my students will learn about self respect. You think anybody thinks I'm a failure because I go home to Starla at night? Forget about it!
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Don: Hey, Napoleon. What did you do last summer again?
Napoleon Dynamite: I told you! I spent it with my uncle in Alaska hunting wolverines!
Don: Did you shoot any?
Napoleon Dynamite: Yes, like 50 of 'em! They kept trying to attack my cousins, what the heck would you do in a situation like that?
Don: What kind of gun did you use?
Napoleon Dynamite: A freakin' 12-gauge, what do you think?
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Deb: And here we have some boondoggle key chains. A must-have for this season's fashion.
Napoleon Dynamite: I already made like infinity of those at scout camp.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Napoleon Dynamite: You know, there's like a butt-load of gangs at this school. This one gang kept wanting me to join because I'm pretty good with a bowstaff.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Napoleon Dynamite: Well, I have all your equipment in my locker. You should probably come get it cause I can't fit my nunchucks in there anymore.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Napoleon Dynamite: [referring to Deb's milk] I see you're drinking 1%. Is that 'cause you think you're fat? 'Cause you're not. You could be drinking whole if you wanted to.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Napoleon Dynamite: Do the chickens have large talons?
Farmer: Do they have what?
Napoleon Dynamite: Large talons.
Farmer: I don't understand a word you just said.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Pedro: Do you think people will vote for me?
Napoleon Dynamite: Heck yes! I'd vote for you.
Pedro: Like what are my skills?
Napoleon Dynamite: Well, you have a sweet bike. And you're really good at hooking up with chicks. Plus you're like the only guy at school who has a mustache.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Trisha: Thanks for the beautiful drawing. It's hanging in my room right now.
Napoleon Dynamite: Really? It took me like three hours to finish the shading on your upper lip. It's probably the best drawing I've ever done.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Rex: I'm Rex, founder of the Rex Kwan Do self-defense system! After one week with me in my dojo, you'll be prepared to defend yourself with the strength of a grizzly, the reflexes of a puma, and the wisdom of a man.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Napoleon Dynamite: How long did it take you to grow that moustache?
Pedro: A couple of days.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Napoleon Dynamite: Pedro, how do you feel about that one?
Pedro: It looks nice.
Napoleon Dynamite: Yeah, it looks pretty sweet. It looks awesome. That suit, it's... it's incredible.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Uncle Rico: What about your girlfriend?
Kip: Well, things are getting pretty serious right now. I mean, we chat online for, like, two hours every day so I guess you could say things are gettin' pretty serious.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Napoleon Dynamite: You know, like nunchuck skills, bowhunting skills, computer hacking skills... Girls only want boyfriends who have great skills.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Grandma: How was school?
Napoleon Dynamite: The worst day of my life, what do you think?
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Napoleon Dynamite: What kind of bike do you have?
Pedro: It's a sledgehammer.
Napoleon Dynamite: Dang! You got shocks, pegs... lucky! You ever take it off any sweet jumps?
Napoleon Dynamite: [Cut to Pedro jumping] You got like three feet of air that time.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Deb: What are you drawing?
Napoleon Dynamite: A liger.
Deb: What's a liger?
Napoleon Dynamite: It's pretty much my favorite animal. It's like a lion and a tiger mixed... bred for its skills in magic.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Napoleon Dynamite: Tina, you fat lard, come get some DINNER!... Tina, eat. Food. Eat the FOOD!
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Napoleon Dynamite: Tina, come get some ham.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Deb: Are they still letting you run for president?
Pedro: Yes. I don't understand... they say you're not allowed to have pinatas that look like real people, but in Mexico, we do it all the time.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Napoleon Dynamite: Pedro offers you his protection.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Napoleon Dynamite: I caught you a delicious bass.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Pedro: If I win, you can be my secretary or something.
Napoleon Dynamite: Sweet!
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Deb: I'm trying to earn money for college.
Kip: [from the background] Your mom goes to college.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Uncle Rico: How much you wanna make a bet I can throw a football over them mountains?... Yeah... Coach woulda put me in fourth quarter, we would've been state champions. No doubt. No doubt in my mind.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Napoleon Dynamite: [drinks glass of milk] The defect in that one is bleach.
FFA Judge No. 1: That's right.
Napoleon Dynamite: Yessssssssss.
Napoleon Dynamite: [drinks second glass of milk] This tastes like the cow got into an onion patch.
FFA Judge No. 2: Correct.
Napoleon Dynamite: Yessssssssss.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
[Deb is making a glamour shot of Uncle Rico]
Deb: Okay, turn you head on more of a slant...
[all three turn their heads in a slant]
Deb: Now, make a fist. Slowly ease it up underneath your chin.
[All three slowly ease up fists under their chins]
Deb: This is looking really good.
Kip: You can say that again.
[Uncle Rico acknowledges]
Deb: Kay, hold still right there. Now, just imagine you're weightless, in the middle of the ocean, surrounded by tiny little seahorses.
[Uncle Rico pictures it and give a gleaming look at the camera]
Deb: [takes the picture] That was one that I think is gonna come out really nice.
Uncle Rico: Ah, how you did it... wow... well I felt really relaxed. Thanks Deb.
[Uncle Rico puts his fist down, then swats a fly]
Uncle Rico: You're up Kip.
Kip: Is there some kind of vest that I can wear?
[makes gesture of putting on a vest]
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Napoleon Dynamite: I like your sleeves. They're real big.
Deb: Thank you. I made them myself.
Napoleon Dynamite: So you and Pedro getting really serious now?
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Napoleon Dynamite: [referring to the dance] Who are you gonna ask?
Pedro: That girl over there.
Napoleon Dynamite: Summer Wheatly? How the heck are you gonna do that?
Pedro: Build her a cake or something.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Nathan: Napoleon, give me some of your tots.
Napoleon Dynamite: No, go find your own.
Nathan: Come on, give me some of your tots.
Napoleon Dynamite: No, I'm freakin' starving! I didn't get to eat anything today.
Nathan: [kicks the tots]
Napoleon Dynamite: Ugh! Gross! Freakin' idiot!
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Kip: I'm just really trying to raise a few bucks now so I can bring her out for a few days.
Uncle Rico: Yeah, well what does she look like?
Kip: She's uh... she's got sandy blonde hair. She's uh... pretty good looking face, but I'm just getting really... just kinda TO'd because... I mean she hasn't even sent me a full body shot yet.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Napoleon Dynamite: Hey can I use your guys's phone for a sec?
Secretary No. 1: Is there anything wrong?
Napoleon Dynamite: I don't feel very good.
[takes telephone and dials number]
Kip: [making nachos on the other line] Hi.
Napoleon Dynamite: Is grandma there?
Kip: No, she's getting her hair done.
Napoleon Dynamite: Ughhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh...
Kip: What do you need?
Napoleon Dynamite: Can you just go get her for me?
Kip: I'm really busy right now.
Napoleon Dynamite: Just tell her to come get me.
Kip: Why?
Napoleon Dynamite: Cause I don't feel good!
Kip: Well, have you talked to the school nurse?
Napoleon Dynamite: No, she doesn't know anything. Will you just come get me?
Kip: No.
Napoleon Dynamite: Well, will you do me a favor then? Can you bring me my chapstick?
Kip: No, Napoleon.
Napoleon Dynamite: But my lips hurt real bad!
Kip: Just borrow some from the school nurse. I know she has like five sticks in her drawer.
Napoleon Dynamite: I'm not gonna use hers, you sicko!
Kip: See ya.
Napoleon Dynamite: Ugh! Idiot!
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Napoleon Dynamite: Well, what is there to eat?
Grandma: Knock it off Napoleon, just make yourself a dang quesa-dilluh!
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Deb: It's Deb. And I'm calling to let you know that I think you're a shallow friend.
Napoleon Dynamite: What the heck are you even talking about?
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Napoleon Dynamite: Deb just called me. She pretty much hates me by now.
Pedro: Why?
Napoleon Dynamite: Because my uncle Rico's an IDIOT.
Pedro: Do you have anything to give to her?
Napoleon Dynamite: No. Not unless she likes fish.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Pedro: Who was that?
Napoleon Dynamite: Trisha.
Pedro: Who's she?
Napoleon Dynamite: My woman I'm taking to the dance.
Pedro: Did you draw her a picture?
Napoleon Dynamite: Heck yes I did.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Napoleon Dynamite: My old girlfriend from Oklahoma was gonna fly out for the dance but she couldn't cause she's doing some modeling right now.
Pedro: Is she hot?
Napoleon Dynamite: See for yourself.
[hands him Deb's glamor shot sample]
Pedro: Wow.
Napoleon Dynamite: Yeah, I took her to the mall to get some glamor shots for her birthday one year.
Pedro: I like her bangs.
Napoleon Dynamite: Me too.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Don: Vote for Summer.
Napoleon Dynamite: Yeah, right, I'm not voting for her.
Don: Then who you gonna vote for?
Napoleon Dynamite: I'm voting for Pedro Sanchez, who do you think?
[Don scoffs and walks away]
Napoleon Dynamite: Hey, Don. Can I have one of those buttons?
[Don hands Napoleon a "Vote 4 Summer" button]
Napoleon Dynamite: [Napoleon tosses it across the hall, stares at Don, and runs away]
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Napoleon Dynamite: You guys having a killer time?
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
[Kip is singing to Lafawnduh after they are pronounced husband and wife]
Kip: Why do you love me? Why do you need me? Always and forever... We met in a chatroom, now our love can fully bloom... Sure the world wide web is great, but you, you make my salivate... I love technology, but not as much as you, you see... But I STILL love technology... Always and forever. Our love is like a flock of doves, flying up to heaven above... always and forever, always and forever... Why do you need me? Why do you love me? Always and forever...
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Napoleon Dynamite: What are you doing here, Uncle Rico?
Uncle Rico: Grandma took a little spill at the sand dunes today. Broke her coccyx.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Uncle Rico: Kip, I reckon... you know a lot about... cyberspace? You ever come across anything... like time travel?
Kip: Easy, I've already looked into it for myself.
Uncle Rico: Right on... right on.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
[Napoleon Dynamite straps himself into the time machine]
Kip: So are you ready?
Napoleon Dynamite: Yeah, hold on... I forgot to put in the crystals.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Uncle Rico: Just a little east of the cemetery is a good little area, but don't go down here cause they don't have any money.
Kip: So how long are we talking about working?
Uncle Rico: What are you already losing your steam?
Kip: No, I just... I have a chat room meeting at 4. I gotta be back here by then.
Uncle Rico: Alright, you just start a little earlier, that's all. Or else work afterwards. How long is the chat room?
Kip: Jeez, sometimes up to 3-4 hours maybe... Maybe not.
Uncle Rico: You pay the bills for that? Does that cost money every time you're on, like for minutes on the phone?
Kip: Yeah, grandma's still paying per minute. She gets kinda pissed at me sometimes cause I'm on there so long.
Uncle Rico: I bet she does. I'll tell you something, I'd be throwing you out the window.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Kip: So when's grandma coming back?
Uncle Rico: I don't know. Not sure.
Napoleon Dynamite: You don't have to stay here with us, we're not babies.
Uncle Rico: Ha ha! Talk to your Auntie Carolyn.
Napoleon Dynamite: Kip is like 32 years old.
Kip: I don't mind if you stay.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Teacher: Your current event, Napoleon.
Napoleon Dynamite: Last week, Japanese scientists explaced... placed explosive detonators at the bottom of Lake Loch Ness to blow Nessie out of the water. Sir Godfrey of the Nessie Alliance summoned the help of Scotland's local wizards to cast a protective spell over the lake and its local residents and all those who seek for the peaceful existence of our underwater ally.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Kip: [typing a poem on his computer] Your sandy hair floats in the air... To me it's like a lullaby... I'm just flying by... Oh so high... like a kite...
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Uncle Rico: Napoleon, you know we can't afford the fun pack. What, do you think money grows on trees in this family? Take it back! And get some Pampers for you and your brother while you're at it.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
[Napoleon rides up to Kip and LaFawnduh's wedding on a horse]
Napoleon Dynamite: Sorry I'm late. I just got done taming a wild honeymoon stallion for you guys.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Napoleon Dynamite: [to Pedro] Just follow your heart. That's what I do.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Napoleon Dynamite: [while hitch-hiking] Are you guys like Pedro's cousins with the sweet hook-up?
posted by Billy at 12:22 PM
0 comments
Thursday, January 06, 2005
423 magic
I'm listening to "And I'm Wearing It to Bed" by The RadioFix, and only an hour ago I was scrolling through photos of downtown Chattanooga, taken by my good friend Matt Dyer on his digital camera.
I can feel it. Again. A bolt of electricity surging through the Scenic City. A revivial of All the Good Old Things. Music, art, comradery. Clubs, shows, gallery viewings. It's even more interesting now because some of us are grown up and we own the clubs... Something's going to come of all this, friends, and I'll go so far as to finger the principles in this, our Future Scene...
Matt Dyer, Steve Sapp, and myself... the writers.
Adam White, Alex Agee, and even Peter DeLong Vaughn... the artists.
Claudine Auguste... film.
Chad Hughes, Jim Barnett (God please), Adam Newport, Michael Gordon, Beau Riggles, Chris Dotson, and yes, even Dave Phillips... the musicians.
There are so many more I fail to mention...
I know what I have to do. I know my purpose in life. I have a direction now, a goal to achieve.
I'm going to finish school and graduate as fast as I can. Then I'm going to bombard Rhea County High School with my application and resume. Nothing would please me more than teaching English Lit at my old high school.
As back up, I'll saturate the surrounding Chattanooga area with my resume, as well. I'll nip at their heels like a hound. I will teach in the 423 area code. Dammit.
Ideally, I will rent an apartment in downtown Dayton (or Chattanooga, depending on where I'm teaching). Eventually, after saving enough money, I will purchase a little bit of land on Dayton Mountain or in the Frazier area. I'll design and build my own home (that is, have it built). There I will live out the rest of my days, grow old, and die.
When I'm seventy-five years old, I'll want nothing more than a rocking chair on a porch overlooking the Tennessee hills, with a dog at my heel, a cat on my lap, and a cool glass of Jack Daniels clenched firmly in hand.
Whether or not I'm married in this fantasy depends entirely upon my wife's willingness to spend the rest of her days in Dayton, Tennessee. And I seriously doubt any sane girl would agree to that.
Meanwhile, the entire time, I'll be cultivating relationships with the various artists, musicians, and writers lurking in the Chattanooga/Dayton/423 area; introducing, combining, unifying everyone into one great big force of... of... of fantastic f*cking art. Art for the sake of art, m*therf*cker!
Chattanooga... Something about that city... Something's gonna happen.
I gotta be there.
I can feel it. Again. A bolt of electricity surging through the Scenic City. A revivial of All the Good Old Things. Music, art, comradery. Clubs, shows, gallery viewings. It's even more interesting now because some of us are grown up and we own the clubs... Something's going to come of all this, friends, and I'll go so far as to finger the principles in this, our Future Scene...
Matt Dyer, Steve Sapp, and myself... the writers.
Adam White, Alex Agee, and even Peter DeLong Vaughn... the artists.
Claudine Auguste... film.
Chad Hughes, Jim Barnett (God please), Adam Newport, Michael Gordon, Beau Riggles, Chris Dotson, and yes, even Dave Phillips... the musicians.
There are so many more I fail to mention...
I know what I have to do. I know my purpose in life. I have a direction now, a goal to achieve.
I'm going to finish school and graduate as fast as I can. Then I'm going to bombard Rhea County High School with my application and resume. Nothing would please me more than teaching English Lit at my old high school.
As back up, I'll saturate the surrounding Chattanooga area with my resume, as well. I'll nip at their heels like a hound. I will teach in the 423 area code. Dammit.
Ideally, I will rent an apartment in downtown Dayton (or Chattanooga, depending on where I'm teaching). Eventually, after saving enough money, I will purchase a little bit of land on Dayton Mountain or in the Frazier area. I'll design and build my own home (that is, have it built). There I will live out the rest of my days, grow old, and die.
When I'm seventy-five years old, I'll want nothing more than a rocking chair on a porch overlooking the Tennessee hills, with a dog at my heel, a cat on my lap, and a cool glass of Jack Daniels clenched firmly in hand.
Whether or not I'm married in this fantasy depends entirely upon my wife's willingness to spend the rest of her days in Dayton, Tennessee. And I seriously doubt any sane girl would agree to that.
Meanwhile, the entire time, I'll be cultivating relationships with the various artists, musicians, and writers lurking in the Chattanooga/Dayton/423 area; introducing, combining, unifying everyone into one great big force of... of... of fantastic f*cking art. Art for the sake of art, m*therf*cker!
Chattanooga... Something about that city... Something's gonna happen.
I gotta be there.
posted by Billy at 1:51 AM
0 comments
Monday, January 03, 2005
I'm sorry I waited so long to post. Gosh.
Napolean Dynamite.
I rented this movie last night. Ingenious hilarity. Just looking at him made me laugh. His voice alone... gut-busting.
I couldn't determine if he was mentally retarded or not. He seemed normal enough. Incredibly awkward, but normal.
His obsession with "numchucks" and "secret ninja moves from the government" echoed my own 7th-grade obsession with Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, and Masaaki Hatsumi, 56th Grandmaster of the Frisco Ninja Clan. At one point in my youth I struck up a correspondence with him. In return I received free pamphlets of timeless ninja wisdom.
For example, to tell if a distant enemy is approaching or retreating, hold up two fingers in the "I'm squishing your head" position. If the tiny figure of your distant enemy rises upwards towards your top finger, he is retreating. If the figure descends towards your lower finger, he is approaching, and it's time to flee...
As for Pedro, with his Speedy Gonzales voice, catatonic stare, and greasy moustache... We all knew the one kid in high school who had a full-blown moustache. Or beard. Or goatee. Whatever. In sixth grade it was this 130 lb kid named Brad. To this day my mental image of him is this thirty-year-old hairy dude who reminded me of Ray Stanz. He disrespected my grandmother one afternoon in gym and I slammed my palm into his chest. The kid flew backwards at least fifteen feet, which blew my mind because he was twice my size; he staggered up and clutched his chest in pain. I felt bad, because I hurt the school freak.
Remind me to tell you guys about Sammy Williams.
The move looks like it's set in 1980-something. The haircuts, the clothes, the sets... What's it called when something from the future appears out-of-time in a story? Like a telephone in Charles Dicken's England... Something out of place historically in a story... There's a literary term for it. This is embarrasing, because I'm an English major and I can't think of the damn term...
[EDIT: 1/4/05. The word is anachronism. Thanks, Matt.]
The point is, the movie bridges on fantasy because there are several allusions to things that definitely originated in the 90's. For example, Napolean's dissing his 32-year-old quasi-gay brother, who retorts with, "Don't be jealous of me because I've been chatting online with hot chicks all day." (Even more hilarious because the brother is Andrew/Trudy Wigel's serial killer lover from Reno 911).
Repeated references to "e-mail" and "cyberspace" would seem to place this movie somewhere between '92 and '94 (even a Backstreet Boys song makes a sign-language-montage appearance)... but the costumes and sets and hairdos are straight out of '86 . I don't think this is a bad thing. It reminds me of the early American literature I studied in 11th grade English. And Austin, Texas, '89.
Napolean himself... The kid's so damn pitiful he's borderline hysterical. No... he's over the borderline... "What are you drawing?" a shy, nerdy, yet interested girl asks him on the school steps. "A liger," he replies. "It's a cross between a lion and a tiger. It's like only my favorite animal to draw, ever. It's even greater than the tigron in its magical abilities."
Or when the same girl shows up at his house selling glamour portraits and friendship bracelets door-to-door. "Would you like to buy a bracelet? It's a must for this season's fashion."
"Uh, like no, we made a hundred of those at Scout camp this summer."
If you haven't seen Napolean Dynamite yet... Rent it. The movie's flippin' hilarious. Full of sweet moves. Gosh.
On another note, I'm having nightmares again. They're not your typical nightmares, but they're greatly disturbing to me. It's my subconscious blatantly smacking my nose to get my attention. I guess I haven't progressed as far as I thought... She keeps commandeering my thoughts, like some kinda mutant telepath.
Well, listen here, Powder, I don't like having my mind seized by past memories. Let me let go... I don't know how much this heart of mine can swell before it bursts...
In a self-destructive way, I want you to call me....
I rented this movie last night. Ingenious hilarity. Just looking at him made me laugh. His voice alone... gut-busting.
I couldn't determine if he was mentally retarded or not. He seemed normal enough. Incredibly awkward, but normal.
His obsession with "numchucks" and "secret ninja moves from the government" echoed my own 7th-grade obsession with Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, and Masaaki Hatsumi, 56th Grandmaster of the Frisco Ninja Clan. At one point in my youth I struck up a correspondence with him. In return I received free pamphlets of timeless ninja wisdom.
For example, to tell if a distant enemy is approaching or retreating, hold up two fingers in the "I'm squishing your head" position. If the tiny figure of your distant enemy rises upwards towards your top finger, he is retreating. If the figure descends towards your lower finger, he is approaching, and it's time to flee...
As for Pedro, with his Speedy Gonzales voice, catatonic stare, and greasy moustache... We all knew the one kid in high school who had a full-blown moustache. Or beard. Or goatee. Whatever. In sixth grade it was this 130 lb kid named Brad. To this day my mental image of him is this thirty-year-old hairy dude who reminded me of Ray Stanz. He disrespected my grandmother one afternoon in gym and I slammed my palm into his chest. The kid flew backwards at least fifteen feet, which blew my mind because he was twice my size; he staggered up and clutched his chest in pain. I felt bad, because I hurt the school freak.
Remind me to tell you guys about Sammy Williams.
The move looks like it's set in 1980-something. The haircuts, the clothes, the sets... What's it called when something from the future appears out-of-time in a story? Like a telephone in Charles Dicken's England... Something out of place historically in a story... There's a literary term for it. This is embarrasing, because I'm an English major and I can't think of the damn term...
[EDIT: 1/4/05. The word is anachronism. Thanks, Matt.]
The point is, the movie bridges on fantasy because there are several allusions to things that definitely originated in the 90's. For example, Napolean's dissing his 32-year-old quasi-gay brother, who retorts with, "Don't be jealous of me because I've been chatting online with hot chicks all day." (Even more hilarious because the brother is Andrew/Trudy Wigel's serial killer lover from Reno 911).
Repeated references to "e-mail" and "cyberspace" would seem to place this movie somewhere between '92 and '94 (even a Backstreet Boys song makes a sign-language-montage appearance)... but the costumes and sets and hairdos are straight out of '86 . I don't think this is a bad thing. It reminds me of the early American literature I studied in 11th grade English. And Austin, Texas, '89.
Napolean himself... The kid's so damn pitiful he's borderline hysterical. No... he's over the borderline... "What are you drawing?" a shy, nerdy, yet interested girl asks him on the school steps. "A liger," he replies. "It's a cross between a lion and a tiger. It's like only my favorite animal to draw, ever. It's even greater than the tigron in its magical abilities."
Or when the same girl shows up at his house selling glamour portraits and friendship bracelets door-to-door. "Would you like to buy a bracelet? It's a must for this season's fashion."
"Uh, like no, we made a hundred of those at Scout camp this summer."
If you haven't seen Napolean Dynamite yet... Rent it. The movie's flippin' hilarious. Full of sweet moves. Gosh.
On another note, I'm having nightmares again. They're not your typical nightmares, but they're greatly disturbing to me. It's my subconscious blatantly smacking my nose to get my attention. I guess I haven't progressed as far as I thought... She keeps commandeering my thoughts, like some kinda mutant telepath.
Well, listen here, Powder, I don't like having my mind seized by past memories. Let me let go... I don't know how much this heart of mine can swell before it bursts...
In a self-destructive way, I want you to call me....
posted by Billy at 9:30 PM
0 comments
Saturday, January 01, 2005
HAPPY FREAKIN' NEW YEAR!
Well, it's 2 and a half hours after the New Year and I've already kissed a girl. And I've drank a six pack.
I'll fill you in tomorrow. Meanwhile, enjoy this song. Seriously. Listen. Dammit.
I'll fill you in tomorrow. Meanwhile, enjoy this song. Seriously. Listen. Dammit.
posted by Billy at 2:32 AM
1 comments
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