Edric had some choice words to say about my previous blog entry. Little did he know that he was making the wrong choice when he decided to raise up on KZ without provocation.

Edric: that was disappointing. too much hype, not enough substance. i was expecting something funnier.

Kevin: i was expecting you to be funnier!

Edric: nice comeback, writer =)=)

Kevin: YOU are a nice comeback, writer!
…
Kevin: Nothing to say, huh? I’ll take your stunned silence as a concession of defeat.

Edric: oh…i’m sorry, did you say something? i was waiting for something worth responding to.
…
Edric: hah! now i stunned you into silence.

Kevin: oh, you’re still on that? that was so 3 minutes ago. you’re so 2000-and-late.

Edric: hatez

Edric: by the way, what’s up with you Zings and cats? get a real animal, like a dog.

Kevin: Awesome things meow. Cats meow; therefore, cats are awesome. Simple, really.

Edric: I never thought of it that way. You are a wise man, KZ. I especially enjoyed your sarcastic syllogism, which was humorously, intentionally, and satirically unsound. Might you have been teaching me a lesson by “coming down to my level”? Also, might I add that I appreciate the way you faithfully reproduce online conversations for the viewing pleasure of your blog readers? You report the truth with such competence and integrity. In short, you are my idol, KZ.

Kevin: hellz yeah, i don’t make shit up.

Edric: remember the time i dropped my ice cream cone, and i cried for 12 hours?

Kevin: maybe i should take a snippet of this conversation and post it in a blog entry. i’ll make it look like i won, of course, because on the whole, i did.

Edric: such lies. =)=)

Kevin: get your own blog then, and fight back!

Edric: those lies of yours are unbecoming of a wannabe journalist. =)=)

Kevin: i pay no heed to the voiceless

This dollar bill traveled all the way from Phoenix, Arizona to San Jose, California. I don’t really buy into all of that Where’s George bullcrap, but I had to give credit where credit was due on this one. There are some discoveries in life that are just too precious to keep to yourself.

The message written on the bill says the following:

Please return this bill to me
Gary
. . . . . . . . .
Phoenix, AZ 85053
I am very poor.

You may be a poor man, Gary, but I tip my hat to you for having the guts to write your address on a stray dollar bill. You are a far richer man than you may ever know.

By the way, just so we’re clear on this, I’m not sending this one back to you.

Writer’s block is a bitch — but you already knew that.

Sometimes when I sit down to write, I end up sitting still for long stretches of time, hovering a pen over an empty page while I sort out my thoughts. More often than not, the words just never seem to come. It’s always during these moments when I’ve reached the most agonizing depths of writer’s block that my cat, Momo, will sit down to watch me write. Without having to look up, I’ll feel his gaze. It’s hard to ignore those wide, golden eyes piercing the back of your shoulder.

For as long as I remain still, Momo’s gaze never wavers. He stays fixed to his spot, forever vigilant, ever watchful of my desperation, my creative stupor. Momo is the fiery sentinel who guards the unwritten word, the gatekeeper of clarity and literary madness.

Momo will stare at me perplexedly with his limited understanding, asking me in that silent way of his, “You could be doing anything with your free time right now, so why are you sitting still?” Most of the time, I’m not even sure of the answer myself. Am I a writer, or aren’t I? Why does writing have to be such an unnatural, labored act for me? How can I be a novelist if I lack the discipline to write on command, or to update a blog on a regular basis?

Then my attention drifts to other questions. What is the point of writing, in the end? How far removed is the desire to be heard from the crassness of vanity? Why am I doomed to serve this agonizing compulsion to express a collection of thoughts that I never seem to have at my command?

Sure, Momo never intended to thrust my thoughts into a spiral of introspection and self-doubt, and yet he takes me there with that curious little stare. How can I write with that furry little inquisitor judging me so passive aggressively, posing those debilitating questions through his muffled, unspoken meows?

Momo has a staring problem.

Just a while ago, a community outreach program in my resident city gathered a bunch of volunteers to paint over the graffiti in my neighborhood. The neighborhood was a better place for it, but I have to admit that I was little sad to say goodbye to the muralistic masterpiece behind my apartment building, which will forever be hailed in the annals of awesomeness as the “VNG, Fack You, Thug Life” wall. Nothing gold can stay, am I right? Ponyboy knows what I’m talking about.

For nearly one whole week, the wall behind my apartment building stared out defiantly at all those punk kids with its clean, untarnished surface. It was gray, and dark, and severe, but hell, at least it was clean. That was a good week.

By the following week, some hardcore, schoolyard gangster decided that enough was enough, and so he cut second period and most of recess in order to spray up the neighborhood walls. I came home from work that afternoon to find that the recently reformed “VNG, Fack You, Thug Life” wall was now the “S … s … SC” wall.

Isn’t that one of the saddest things you’ve ever seen? Either the person responsible for this tagging has no confidence in his penmanship, or else he just has a huge stuttering problem, and he’s using this public medium as a forum for catharsis.

Fail, motherfucker. You fail hard. You’re not fooling anybody with those fancy manuscript lines running down the completed “SC”. I still see your rough drafts on the left, you stupid amateur shit.

I might have forgiven the kid’s attempt to advertise his dubious gang affiliation with criminals whom he’s probably never met, but only if his graffiti had been the slightest bit impressive. In light of the genius that was once the “VNG, Fack You, Thug Life” wall, I’m offended that I have to look at this half-assed garbage every day.

Fail, motherfucker.

F … f … FAIL.

Call it a crisis of confidence, but sometimes I wonder what all of these writing aspirations of mine are really worth. It’s just easier to let somebody else say it for you. Everything has already been written. Anything significant has already been said. That all happened much longer ago than most of us suspect.

So where does that leave us? The entirety of human expression amounts to a feeble shriek, a derelict distress call doomed to echo in dutiful repetition.

That’s just my suspicion, anyway.

Honestly, I get it. But then again, I kind of don’t. Why do people always wait until the 1st of January before they initiate all of those lofty, life-altering projects of radical self improvement? I’ve never believed in making new year’s resolutions because I’ve never viewed the start of a new year as a monumental event. Life is life, no matter the date, and no matter the year. The quality of life is generally unaffected by the numerical value that we’ve assigned to our days.

Whenever people tell me they plan to lose weight as part of their new year’s resolution, I always have to prevent myself from blurting out something snarky like, “I never knew being a fat-ass was a seasonal condition.” Okay, so I’m a sarcastic, holiday-bashing asshole, but at least I’m skinny, you Auld Lang Syne bitches! But seriously, consider this: I lost thirty pounds in 2009 between the months of May and August. When I finally got serious about losing weight, I didn’t stop to make sure that the earth had made its full rotation around the sun before I got my shit together. If there’s something that needs to be done, and you aren’t doing what you’re supposed to be doing, then don’t blame the position of the planet for your lack of action.

So on that note, I’m going to contradict myself and make a new year’s resolution without any sense of irony. I resolve in 2010 to write a novel. I’ve been kicking around ideas for more than eight years now, and all of my good intentions have amounted to an unimpressive collection of notes and infrequent blog entries. This year will be different. I’m not sure what I’m going to write about, and I’m not sure if what I have to say is really all that worthwhile. I just know that I have to try for once, instead of coasting dreamlessly through the gentle, ferocious monotony.

Kevin: You never understand my Simpsons references.

Diana: That’s because all of your references are stupid and obscure.

Kevin: They’re not obscure, they’re subtle. You know, like the “b” in “subtle”? You don’t really notice it in there, and you never, ever see it coming. It’s just a silent letter. It’s kind of funny when you stop to think about the word, actually. The letter “b” subtly epitomizes the very essence of the word, “subtle”. That’s a highly unusual thing, isn’t it? I mean, isn’t it fascinating how the letter “b” in a word like “subtle” can so perfectly illustrate the definition of the word that contains it?

Diana: . . . (sigh)

Kevin: You like that, Diana?

Diana: Nope.

Kevin: That’s always your answer. Do you ever like anything?

Diana: Not anything that ever comes out of your mouth.

Kevin: Well, that’s not very subtle. That’s like the “s” in “subtle”. Or the “t” in “subtle”. Or to a lesser extent, the “l” in “subtle”. Because you see, you hear the “l”, but it’s not as pronounced as . . .

Diana: Kevin, go away.

The mysteries of life and existence reveal their truths to us in many ways. I suppose that’s the appeal of staying alive — the romance belying the promise of unraveled complexities. Yet while the answers tantalize us from eternities of near horizons, the mysteries of life have a way of disappearing when you deconstruct them to their simplest components. The world doesn’t seem as romantic a place when you peel away the assumptions of awe, profound purpose, and reverent wonder. And after all, what’s life without a little romance? I ask that question earnestly, because I’m not always sure I know the answer.

We imbue our lives with so much significance and insist on the eminence of such things as God, love, society, and principle. I don’t claim to understand any of these things. I am no scientist, and I am no philosopher with a viewpoint worth a damn. All I know how to do is to deconstruct without remembering how the pieces fit back together when I’m done. At times lately, the mysteries of life seem to do nothing more than exhaust me. It’s a tiring game, pretending that life still enchants you.

As far as my imagination will allow me to comprehend, it occurs to me that life, the universe, and existence can all be summed up into a simple phrase: crude physicality. Humanity defines its salvation on the belief that we transcend beyond mere flesh, that we are so much more than just a collection of cells and chaotic particles: molecules, atoms, strings, and quarks, all stirring about in the cosmic stew. But what does it mean to be saved when you reduce the most precious things in our universe to crude physicality?

Everything within the realm of human understanding is rooted in something physical. Thoughts and emotions are a mix of chemicals and electrical charges running through our bodies. Words and songs and poems and laws and inspired revelations are mere conceits of the mind, all rooted in physical stimuli darting about our brains. The most beautiful sounds ever heard, the most profound revelations ever conceived, and the deepest sensations of passion ever endured can all be reduced to mundane explanations of biology and body chemistry. We exist as complex formations of mass perceiving existence through waves of vibrations in matter both within and without us. We exist on a plane of particles and space, actions and reactions, friction and collision. The human body is merely a vessel, crudely calibrated to experience existence on a physical plane.

The mysteries of life and existence seem less distant and a little less significant as you approach the realization that nothing we can define is truly intangible. What romance is there left to find when you reduce everything to a heap of stimuli and oscillating atoms? What is romance at all? What is life?

The best among us might persist in the face of so much pessimism and sing a hopeful song about the beauty of life; but what is song? The most beautiful sounds a human can create begin as electrical impulses in the brain, which travel organic conduits to inform the lungs and the tongue and the diaphragm to inflate and sing. Gentle sounds pass through vibrating bags of flesh up a tube and through the lips, and the sounds stir surrounding air molecules and send waves of vibrating measures traveling to every living thing with an eardrum within range. These sounds penetrate chambers of ears and stimulate tiny eardrums, which dutifully report the sensations to their own corresponding brains. And that’s how song can travel from one mind to another. Song is the perception of creation, one mind almost literally touching another through a vibration of particles in a delicate dance of reciprocity. Song is such a marvelous thing, yet what is song if nothing more than a complex vibration of particles in the air? Song is merely sound, matter set into motion by breathing bags of liquid, flesh, and gas. Life is a mere gathering of mass haplessly prodded into untidy motion. Salvation can seem like less of a sure thing in the course of so much crude physicality.

I suppose this litany reveals me as something of a cynic, though I’ve always thought myself as more of a grudging optimist. In the midst of all this nihilism and detachment, I’ve sought out refuge in even the most unlikely corners. Of all of the strange places to look for reassurance, my journey has led me to a fundamental law of physics: The Law of Conservation of Matter. According to the matter conservation law, while matter is constantly changing its form, it is neither destroyed nor created. In a closed system, while the same sample of water might transform freely between drops of liquid, chunks of ice, or wisps of vapor, the number of atoms within the system would always remain the same. There is no destruction or creation. Matter is merely rearranged.

The physicality of existence is not something that we should necessarily despair. Even without the mysticism of the sacred intangible, there is beauty yet to find. All that has ever existed, and all that has yet to exist, are one and the same. The same substances that make up our bodies, the same particles that we live to breathe, the same molecules that we consume and digest, the same chemicals that swell deep emotions inside our chests — it’s all the same stuff that once composed the dinosaurs, the same particles that those ancient beasts breathed, the same atoms and molecules that once composed ancient civilizations, the same complex amalgamation of chemicals and mass that once inspired our ancestors in distant times to write poetry, to fall in love, to celebrate and commune, to go to war and to make peace. The stuff of life and existence is constantly in a state of reformation and revision.

There is so much triviality that serves to divide us, yet so much uniformity of substance and form that reminds us that we are all but individual specimens of a vast, astonishing whole. In life, though we might act with a fair degree of independence, we all walk fundamentally in step, coasting the interminable waves of mass in unified momentum. Life is a dance of sensations, a barrage of vibrating stimuli, motions of matter that affect us in ways that are significantly the same. There’s a curious kind of harmony underlying our chaotic state. In death, I don’t claim to understand the intricacies of the everlasting soul, but I do know that the compounds of molecules within our bodies never cease to be. In death, there is no destruction, but deconstruction. We are merely rearranged. Perhaps when I die, the nutrients from my body will form into a tree which consumes carbon dioxide expelled from living lungs, and which exhales oxygen into the atmosphere for living lungs to breathe.

Everything that was and is to be exists in a state of infinite possibility. What is life? What is existence? The truths to those mysteries are far more exciting than they might at first seem.

In response to my super lengthy complaint letter to Six Flags Magic Mountain, I received the following letter from the park’s Senior Guest Relations Supervisor:

Dear Kevin,

Thank you for taking the time to forward your comments about the Ride Lockers and our Loose Article Policy.

Six Flags has identified several rides at each park where riders bringing loose articles onto the ride platform was slowing down the dispatch times significantly and making the ride wait times longer. At some of these rides, we have installed short-term lockers for the storage of articles. In an effort to increase capacity and shorten wait times, we are not allowing any items that can not be secured in a pocket to be brought onto the ride dock of these rides. Riders may choose to rent a locker, to leave the items with a non-rider, or place the items in their personal vehicle. We have tried to communicate this message to our Guests with signage, personnel stationed at the entrance to the rides, as well as updated text in the Park Map & Guide, and on our website.

Your letter gave us very valuable insight to your experience at the park regarding this policy. I want to assure you that I have forwarded your letter to our Senior Park Managment.

We hope you understand our only intent here is to minimize wait times for everyone. Again, we thank you for your comments, and hope to see you in one of our Park’s again soon. If you have any questions do not hesitate to contact me directly.

Sincerely,

Mr. B., Six Flags Magic Mountain Guest Relations

I do appreciate that Mr. B. took the time to write me back, but his letter reads more like an automated form letter than a thoughtful reply. Forgive my cynicism, but I’m not convinced that Six Flags’ main concern is “wait times”. If that were truly the only motivation for these temporary-use lockers, then why not make them free? Aside from that, I reject the premise that these lockers actually make the lines move faster. These locker checkpoints cause plenty of delay all on their own. Just because the bottleneck occurs somewhere other than the boarding platform, that doesn’t mean the line delay has magically disappeared.

Mr. B. also failed to address my complaint about the abusive manner in which the corporate Loose Articles Policy was being enforced. Was it absolutely necessary, for example, for the employee working on the Scream ride to throw away my souvenir cup? I guess corporate policy mandates that all employees act like absolute dicks, right?

I should also point out that some friends of mine recently visited Six Flags Discovery Kingdom in Vallejo, California. The locker policy is being strictly enforced there as well, which means that this bullshit is not exclusive to just the Valencia branch.

I’m done with Six Flags. I encourage everybody who reads this to think twice before patronizing your local Six Flags park. Every theme park shamelessly gouges you, but Six Flags is willing to stoop lower than most others out there. When your company values quick, ill-gotten revenue over customer satisfaction, then you don’t understand the first thing about making money, and you don’t deserve to stay in business. That’s not to say that I expect Six Flags to miss me very much, but I assure you the feeling is mutual.

I have a story for you, but there are two things you should know first.

(1) I hate redundant language. I hate it when people say “tuna fish”, or “PIN number”, for example. What used to bother me most of all, though, was when people said “ATM machine”. I mean come on, really? “Automatic Teller Machine Machine”? Ick.

But being the optimist that I am, I’ve come to understand that when people say “ATM machine”, I should give them the benefit of the doubt and assume that they wouldn’t purposely utter something so idiotically redundant as “Automatic Teller Machine Machine”. If you’ve been to the websites I’ve visited, then you’d know that ATM can also stand for “Ass-To-Mouth.” Let’s just say in my world, when somebody tells me they’re going to the “ATM machine”, I’m always caught breathless by the shameless depravity of it all. Secretly, I’m also a little bitter that my bank doesn’t offer the same generous service at their own numerous locations.

By the way, Diana finds it really irritating when I refer to “Ass-To-Mouth Machines” in everyday conversation.

(2) Recently one night, Diana asked me to lend her some cash. I didn’t have enough in my wallet, and so I ended up driving to the local bank to make a withdrawal from the ATM.

So that’s where my story begins. I came home, handed Diana the cash, and told her that she’d better appreciate what I’d done for her, because I had just been mugged. She seemed oddly unmoved. Unperturbed by Diana’s cold silence, I pressed on with the full account:

It was dark when I got to the ATM, and I was all alone. So I thought, anyway. I had just inserted my card and punched in my PIN when this big dude with a knife came out of nowhere and pinned me to the wall near the ATM.

“Well, well,” he said, “Here we are at the Ass-To-Mouth machine. Hey boy, do you like ATM?”

I said to him, “Just to be clear, when you say ‘ATM’, you mean ‘ass-to-mouth’, right?”

“Of course, boy, what else could I have meant?”

“Oh.” I said. “Well then, no.”

Then the dude seemed really disappointed and lowered his knife a bit and said, “Oh, that’s too bad. Because I had a real hankering for somebody to fuck me in the ass and to put it in my mouth afterward.”

I realized then that I had misunderstood his intentions. He wanted me to play pitcher, not receiver. I kind of felt bad for the guy, so I ended up fucking him in the ass and going ATM near the finish. You’d think the dude would have walked away happy after that. But the thing is, after we were done, he stole my money anyway, and I had to withdraw more cash before coming home.

It was the strangest mugging ever.

Not one single laugh from Diana. She just continued to stare at me until I left the room. Why do I waste all of my good material on her?