The "Paragraph?"

I'm so in love with my routine that I'm just going to continue, at least, the working out one. It works out if you do. Nobody but me says that. I should probably TM (ya know trademark, copyright, the whole shebang) is. If any website continues to use anything along the lines of "I love routine" it's mine. I'll probably prosecute, because I know Google takes an imprint of this. BAMN! EVIDENCE MOFO.

Therefore, thanks to a wonderful film of a friend of I can now say and with for certain that this is the trademark.

and it applies immediately. good think I have a lawyer



* While the above peace is literally insanity, it is fiction and at best,.... a paragraph.

My Opinions

The Hoppers is going extremely well. Everything is going to be okay. There's a few weird adjustments, but come to think of it, there are always adjustments (I at first thought the lead for a female was awful, I was plain jane wrong).

It's absolutely the most fascinating tale of contemporary cinema. I just read the script. The writer takes the reader on a ride, whether or not you relate to the morals, everyone has their own code. For it's life with twists and turns (I'm reminded of the saying "we know what's gonna happen, but just don't know how it's going to happen.") It's fun.

I'm gonna do a "There are two kinds of people in this world" :

There are two types of people in this world. Those who particpate. And those who watch. I think they're never both when it comes down to  sheer practicality.

Give It A Rest Paul

"I had forgotten-
"I HAD FORGOTTEN TO THINK ABOUT WHAT I WAS SAYING."
"I had forgotten to, to -  uh THINK about what I's saying."
"I HAD FORGOTTEN TO THINK ABOUT WHAT I WAS SAYING."
"I Have to forgotten i think."
"I HAD FORGOTTEN TO THINK ABOUT WHAT I WAS SAYING."
"Would you, uh, - ugh give it a rest, Paul?"

Matthew Herz: Gamer Bringing SNES Back With The Power of Mac

Honestly, if you're 25, 24, or even 26 27, you know that SNES was, by far, a superior to every console. It rivals the playstation, and i would say rivals playstation 2 where it's very own predecessor doesn't.

It stands the test of time. It's games graphics are unique and fully inhabit the imagination. The role playing games of SNES were like the best fantasy books ever. The gorgeous characters like Sabin and Terra from Final Fantasy III (I could go on... shout out to Locke, btw), to the very integrative nature of  being in control of their destiny's within their dynamic, hospitable, dangerous, adventurous, intriguing, beautiful, graceful,  self-enclosed world that was all accessible to us only through SNES and of course SNES emulators (what gamer wouldn't love a newly wrapped SNES for Xmas?)

It is for this reason that I am telling you, you must pay attention to Matthew Herz.

Matt Herz intimately and lovingly understands the collective love for the SNES RPG, and he captures the look and feel of being in those worlds with his first, what i'll call a mini-game, taking about 30 minutes to beat for the best gamers.

The story revolves around Thaddeus (You already know it's going to be good), a rabbit like character who is turned into another creature after eating a mysterious carrot. When an old lady finds that Thatddeus the Cabbit, that's half rabbit half cat, ate up her precious, ripe vegatables, she knocks him into the underworld. Taking a cue from Zelda's A Link In Time on SNES, the room designs are what give this game such great staying power. It provokes the "journey" sensation that gave those SNES games their awesomeness (i honestly can't think of a better word).

Interview With The Twisted Sisters

I decided to give an exclusive to The Twisted Twins.

"And What If I Don't"

Katherine and her mother were usually silent on the ride to school. While Katherine was up and ready by 7 AM, her mother was far more cumbersome at this hour. Her mother was actually a fascinating figure: A two-time best-selling non-fiction author on "The Habits Of The Most Successful", and she was successful: financially, she pulled in more than half a million in book royalties every year since her first self-help book, "How To Prove Your Potential". She'd taken dozens of courses on the subject of success, and read just about every publication available, until one day, she decided that the answer wasn't in these books, or magazines; it was these books and magazines. (She'd written and sold the book to a major publishing house with 2 months and it felt like even less.)


Still, with all of the advice her mother had doled out over the years, at seminars, on the internet, and through her best-selling hardbacks (not to mention the paperbacks and e-books), she was, and never intended to be a "morning person." It was actually one of the tenants she wrote in her second book (The 5 Pillars To Pulling Off The Impossible). It said: Be who you are, and don't struggle to be what you're not.


Her mother would cite herself whenever Katherine's voice became to excitable during that 20 minute car ride to school. Generally, she knew to keep quiet, and when she was successful, she couldn't help but wish for a brother, or sister, or even a cousin to keep her company. And it wasn't just that car ride in which she needed an ally (or a playmate as she could imagine her mother would have put it), it was those awkward dinners with her, her mother's boyfriend Kent, and her mother. Those nightly formalities that were really kept going by her mother's ego, rather than any real desire to spend time with anybody.


"Some people like people, some people like books, and some people like work," is how Kent put it once, when Katherine had just begun to realize just how much attention her mother had diverted to her "empire". It was a shabby empire, full of poorly designed websites, and a monthly column in the Wall Street Journal (Mother's Making Money it was called). The column was her pride and joy just as much as Kent or Katherine, thought this was something she'd be less than likely to admit, even with the toughest psychologists (which they had started seeing from time to time after Katherine was caught with marijuana at school in 9th grade. Although, she actually was just holding it for a friend. Katherine had never ingested anything one could consider a drug in her entire life, save the morning Ritalin her mother required that she take (she was no clear cut case of the disorder, either. This was just a precaution.).


"Are you going to teach me how to drive soon?" Katherine asked her mother, only half-expecting a serious answer.


"I'll have to schedule some time for that."


"Why don't I driving us to school."


"Oh, honey, you know I'm not a morning person."


"But the drive to school is probably the most important drive I'l have to make until after high school, anyway."


"Oh honey. I just don't know if I'd really be the best teacher at this time in the morning. You know I'm not a morning..."


"I know, okay!" Katherine, in a slight rage, began to push her argument. "You're not a morning person. You never have been. When you were in grade school, you nearly got kicked out cause you were late so many times! But maybe sometimes you don't do things, or you do do things just because..."


"Just because," her mother said, glancing at her. As if.


"I'm not trying to argue with you. I'm just trying to tell you that from my perspective, from the perspective of someone who'll be getting their license in a matter of months."


"7 months, honey" Her mother interjected.


"Months, still," Katherine said. "Besides, maybe it would be good to stop all this "morning person" crap anyway."


"Excuse me?" Her mother shrieked.


"I'm sorry," Katherine said, looking straight ahead. "I just think that maybe there are things about the morning you're just not giving enough credit. Like the cool air, or the foggy sky."


"I've had enough cool air and fog in my day," Her mother said, still angry about her daughter's use of the word 'crap'. "I've built my career off trusting my instincts, and one of those instincts tells me that I just wasn't meant to be too cognitive..."


"Cognitive..." Katherine said, rolling her eyes and scoffing with her mouth.


"Conversation postponed until dinner."


"I can't wait," Katherine said sarcastically.


"Please just accept that I am NOT a morning person."


"And what if I don't?"

Let's start kicking ass milennials... or whatever we're called.

Mid 20's Sucks

All of my friends who are around my age, who are still living with their parents, or working dead-end jobs... yes that was an extremely cliche sentence, but is also something that has become extremely cliche, I always tell them the same thing "DO WHATEVER YOU WANT TO!"

That means dropping the act that you love going into the office day to day, or that you love interning for free or whatever the hell you're doing. There's gotta be something you like, and if you can make a website devoted to that thing you like so much, you can make it a career.

Click Here If You Want To See It Already

This is called Member Snap. They teach you everything you would normally learn the hardway.

I couldn't recommend taking a course like this more. It's one thing to be able to build a site using blogger or wordpress, but making it into a full fledged business, which is possible, takes experience or good teaching. I've gone over the product and for the sake of loving your life, either sign up with Member Snap or learn everything that you can.

Seriously. WORK AT HOME! LOVE YOUR JOB. I sound like a damn advertisement, but I just know how soul crushing it is to do a job you don't love and being an underling at the same time.

We're smarter than the Empire generation. Let's prove it. Start here. If you can't afford it, don't. But if you can, this is real knowledge. Not college or high school. It's like a vocational school. The one's that actually lead to jobs!

Let's All Be Our Own Bosses

I really believe in this whole make your website thing because I've seen it happen. I want you to be happy. I want our generation to be happy and to be home as much as possible.

They just referred to a terrorist off of his Facebook page.



CNN

Producers

The best producers are the ones who have such taste in movies, that they literally decide to live in them. They marry actors, actresses, or they obsesses about them (see Pauline Kael). They are the impetus for the creators. And they don't enter in the creating process, and they damn well not say too much once it's done, but the thing they should say, should be... well, something like leveling a crooked picture.

More Than A Million

They say a picture is a worth a thousand words, but i'd say a million or infinity. We are gone, fleeting creatures, that are shoved through time and forced into circumstances (some good, some bad). But you know what. You can take a picture of anybody.

What I Really Look Like

This is what I look like sometimes.

Broken Doors

“The door hasn’t been fixed,” I mutter to myself, stepping into the condo. The Author, as I like to call him from time to time, wasn’t home.

“Business dinner with Charlize Theron and Richard Branson,” or something like that. It’s all fine and good, except for the damn lock on this door. It’s not only been broken for months, but it doesn’t shut right and I don’t know if you can lock it yet.

“This place is CRAZY!!!” I get a text from The Author and I three quarters smile before plopping myself down on the couch.

I wasn’t tired in the way you are when you want to sleep, but I was exhuausted. (Why do I associate coming home with a big sigh of relief?)

The fucking door is open, just a crack. There’s nothing I can do but fiddle with the metal parts until the door at least covers the kitchen it opens into.

It’s a clean looking play, though I tend to muck it up on a regular basis (I spilled a bottle of bright red win on a 10 thousand dollar couch just last week. Not even the fucking professionals could get out that last length of purple (It was less red than the win, anyway.

(I took some heat for it, but boy, did I have fun that night. The Author was in the office, and I was getting hammered and stoned in the living room, doing lines off the kitchen counters every 5-10 minutes (How the hell long is a line supposed to last anyway?)

(I’m playing piano, I’m watching some T.V. The Facts of Life is on repeat all night, and I’m on my third (yes third, and if you know anything about a Jewish boy’s constitution than you can guess what I felt like waking up.)

(He was quiet about the couch, though I knew it must annoy him daily. In order to make breakfast he has to walk past the now, nearly bleached, white circle on his beautiful tan couch (which is damn gorgeous and I think anyone would say so.)).

So I’m home. The Author should be home in an hour and a half. If there’s one thing I could say without a doubt about him is that he is punctual. Comes in at the same times week after week. Mon Wed Fri 4:15 on the dot. Ever other Tuesday: 2 on the dot. And when he says he’ll be back in an hour and half that means he’ll without a doubt in my mind be back for 2 hours maximum.

I manage to close the door (though the way it wiggles is worrisome. Especially because if you press hard enough it pops right open.) “We’ve got to get this fixed.”


I text him, “We have to fix the door.” He doesn’t text back because he’s at a business dinner with so and so. What’s more important the door or the dinner? The dinner pays for the damn door anyway, and it’ll pay for the dudes to fix that fucking lock. I swear, if we didn’t live in a building with a doorman, I don’t know that we’d still be living (thanks to all kindred spirits the Author has. The Author’s only kindred spirit is tequila, by the way.)


I don’t know what I even ate that night. Some unit of tamales that you literally just throw into the microwave without puncturing and bam your food is up after 3 and a half minutes (which is just about a minute longer than I’ll spend eating it. I’m no foodie, shall we say, though I can tell when a dish is up and beyond because of the years of being wined and dined by… well I guessa few of them did. One day, people are going to wake up and realize that you cannot force someone to love you, and that they can fall out of love with you while you’re still blissfully ignorant. I’ll bet the majority of dumpees get cheated on right before they get dumped. God damnit I wish I could fix that fucking lock.

I cut myself off from think about the door and I sit on my white spot on the couch and watch The Rachel Maddow show, which I think has way too much sarcasm. Say what you mean and mean what you say, I always say (I mean, I would/should. Do you ever get called out for saying “sorry.” I think “sorry” is one of the sorriest words in the English language. In any language it’s in. Maybe Mandarin’s translation is “I regret what occurred” or “Rock and roll, deal with it.” I think I’m able to deal with The Rachel Maddow show, though tonight’s episoe will not receive a world class attention from me.


I pick up my guitar, which I know his horribly out of tune, and I start to play some song or other I wrote, when I hear the door shake, at least four times. The bizarre layout of the condo pushes wind around and sometimes shuts doors, but it’s a one-time thing. It doesn’t shake the door three or four or however many times it just shook.


“It’s open!” I yell, assuming something as the business dinner went wrong, or horribly right, or they were just done and The Author didn’t know it. There’s no answer and the door is still again. “Come in, babe!” I yell. No answer and then the door starts to shake wildly for four seconds. It was long enough to make me think earthquake, and short enough to know that someone is fucking with me because in the past 2 years The Author has never fucked with me. Not even a pop scare here and there (I revel in those.)


But this is scary and I know that The Author’s admirers are numerous (to which one of his friends rolls his eyes at… actually most people don’t take the “numerous admirers thing to kindly. Rock and roll?...) I know nothing’s wrong. The door has stopped rumbling. The “10 dollar apartment with the million dollar view,” as he once put it, was now dead quiet. A half eaten Smores Pop Tar is sitting on top of it’s foil wrapping over on the kitchen table, and I begin to forget about the door and seriously consider eating the pop tart.


(Pop Tart’s are strangely better in theory than in reality. They are pretty much, never as good as you hope they’ll be. Maybe it’s because I don’t toast them?”


I heard in this inspirational movie or book or something once that we are only one step away from being the perfect version of ourselves. I’m going to attack this person behind the door. I start to justify assault (but your honor, he came to my premises and purposefully… whatever I need to say, right? I mean, I’m not going not going to fucking jail… something I’d feared since childhood. What if I accidentally killed someone? I would then imagine myself in the showers. A big black guy turns to me and asks why I have an erection.  I don’t even try to explain it. I shrug and he violently rapes me. That latter part is not a fantasy I like by the way.)


The door is still again. It did move with the wind again? How does wind circulate through here when there isn’t a window open… maybe in the office? So when I see it move in it’s typical winded fashion, I start to think that I should lay off the weed. But then the door opens, and it’s a tall man. He’s not the tallest man I’ve ever seen, and somehow he’s masked in silhouette (isn’t that impossible?) He’s got a cane and I can see the gold tip at the bottom.


He vanishes, (I really should lay off the weed and the cocaine.), but the door is still open and broken. I stand there for, I suppose quite a while, because he, The Author walks in and says ,”Hey.”


“Are we ever gonna fix that that lock?” I ask. I don’t care that much, there’s a doorman anyway.


“Yeah, we’ll ask Harry (our doorman) to send someone up tomorrow.”

I'm playing piano and I'm working on the sunshine girls. Here's a little bit about them

Anyone wanna hear their theme tune?
It's the song that started it all:

"We Are The Sunshine Girls"
Coming Soon