For all you wonderful, teeming masses who read this journal with all the furor of a Twilight fan club, which I mean in the best way possible (what are we up to now, 4 regular readers? I think something like that), I have some wonderful news: If you can't get enough of what my meandering mind has to say on whatever subject it sees fit, I am now online! Or, I should say, even more online. Specifically, I'm over at [link] .

The benefits to going over there are so many that I can't even think of all of them. But for starters I will be updating it (probably) more often than I do here. So far I have at least. By like, twice more. I'll still post some stuff here, occasionally, but when something new pops into my head, and there's not enough to say about it to legitimize a whole post here (the longer and best ones will be posted here and there simultaneously), I'll post it there.

Also, pictures. And videos. The nice thing about Blogspot is it allows me to not just link to, but also imbed YouTube videos and pictures (captions included, at no extra charge!) for your veiwing pleasure.

So, if you crave more me, more of the time, just head on down to [link] . If you don't want any more of me, and don't really like the me that's already here, well you can just keep on surfing. And if you kind of like the amount of me that there already is, but don't feel the need to committ to any more of me, well, you'll be just fine popping by here whenever you feel like it. So, there.

Oh, where does the time go? I'm not entirely certain, but I just know time management of any kind is really hard. Here I am, the middle of the day, entirely unable to focus on what I know I'm supposed to be doing.

Anyone who knows my current situation understands that I technically have a lot of free time. I have neither a job nor school to worry about, and it turns out that without responsibilities like that, the day is actually quite a bit longer than you might think. Unfortunately, with that free time comes the necesity of using it to look for a job so that you won't have that same free time anymore. Kind of a Catch-22, I know, but it's how the rules of the planet seem to work. Like that eskimo parable wherein the man made a discovery when he tried to bring the bonfire with him while he fished, you can't have your kayak and heat it, too. Or something to that effect. Either way, this is my situation. I have several projects I would like to work on (a comic, a novel, training myself to hone my human echo location abilites to become a non blind Daredevil). All these things require time and effort, and while I always have a ready supply of effort, and currently have a surplus of time, every ounce of publicly taught common sense tells me that spending this free time on something as trivial as projects I want to do is a bad idea, so when I do spend the days working on something like that, I always have this sickening level of dread that by using the time "selfishly", I'm missing out on some grand opportunity to better myself, get a job, get rich, and eventually retire. Because of my taking time off and working on something I'm vaguely interested, I am dooming all of my descendents to a life of perpetual poverty and probably slavery when in the near future this legendary, lower-class-hating figure some people refer to as "the Obama" descends from his throne in the lofty, celestial heavens at the end of every 500 years to inevitably enslave the poorest in society and make them serve the higher and more prosperous. In this mythological future society that they speak of on that wisest and most reliable of news outlets (Fox), I want my kids to be the oppresors who violently exploit the slave class, not the other way around, and it appears the only way I can ensure this will happen is to give up my dreams and aspirations, and trudge my way into the job market, or something similar to it.

Then again, as I have learned over the last week or two spent actively job hunting and taking the occasional odd jobs at barely humane levels of pay (Grandma, that Batman painting I did was worth way more than $20) is that I, like most of America, hate working. There is a reaso they call it "funemplyment", after all, because while you may be dirt poor, eating out of garbag cans, and begging for enough cash to spend on the rent for your cardboard box, you don't have to deal with paper jams, carpal tunnel syndrome, or office politics. And boy, I hate that office politics. My sister has a job, and you know what she gets out of it? Spending money and cankor sores, that's what! I don't have a job, and you know what I get out of it? Nothing! That's right, and like they say, no thing is good thing, am I right? Well, no, but that's besides the point. I may not have my job, but I have my dignity (until the guy at the Pawn Shop can give me a good price for it). And I plan on keeping it that way. I'll take this free time, and I'll do something great with it, like pen a beautiful novel to be remembered for centuries, or illustrate a glorious web comic that brings joy and enlightenment to the internet, or compose a tear jerking symphony that brings man and beast together in peace to the glorious sounds of music. But wait, I can't do any of those things, not without some form of supplies. And to get the supplies I need money, and to get the money, I need a job, and to get a job, I must sacrifice my free time. Oh crap, I'm back to square one.

Hmmm... I need to think about this. While I contemplate how to deal with this issue, I'm going to go ahead and play some video games. Animal Crossing will get these mind grapes going for the next few hours...

Zack Snyder has learned quickly from his time adapting Frank Miller comics. He has learned that most important of lessons regarding gender relations, that all women are prostitutes first, and other professions second. Or at least that's what the buzz on his latest "film" seems to imply, as its about a prostitute in the 50's trying to violently escape from an insane asylum. But the oddest part is not really the subject matter, it's the star; High School Musical star and Disney Channel princess Vanessa Hudgens. This brings me to my topic for today: the idiocy brought to the screen and being passed off as movies.

I'm not one for celebrity gossip. What famous people do in their spare time is none of my usiness, and I have no more interest in personal lives than I do in those of any other complete strangers. But when bad decisions get brought to the screen, tainting a little more a media I try so hard to believe in, that is when I have something to say. This right here is one of those situations. It almost seems to me that Ms. Hudgens is vying for the attention against the Disney Channel's other little brat. Everyone is so busy gasping at the latest scandalous photo of she-who-shall-not-be-named-but-rhymes-with-a-state that they seem to be glazing over the fact that the singing senior has bared it all in a "leaked" photo. Honestly, if naked cell phone shots can't maintain a bad girl reputation, what can? Oh hey, there's always the movies. Now I suppose one thing going for it is that Hudgens has come out and upfront told everyone she's not going to be actually naked for the movie. Turns out it's not just your average insane murderous prostitute movie, it's an insane murderous prostitute movie with some class.

But really, how much damage can this movie do? Aside from the hours of commercial and commercial, TV spot after TV spot I'll be forced to endure and the fact that it's aiding in the destruction of the career of a starlet I actually liked (Emily Browning, how could you? We could've gone places; we could've been on Doctor Who!) it's not really going to be a very remembered or respected movie. Neither the director nor the star are particularly popular in any circle of supposedly smart movie goer, so a product they do together will have a brief flash in the pan, then be forgoten as soon as the next Harry Potter movie comes out. Let the teeming masses of meatheads on Myspace ogle the gun toting hookers in their movies, while reserving the artistic accolades for those who really deserve it. Right?

(This is the part of the post where I feel the need to mention something. I wasn't going to actually write this subject at first, not when all I had was the first part. While totally ridiculous and desperate of a project as that movie seems, it didn't seem to justify much of a rant against modern movies. Then I saw a trailer that sparked off a new bevy of tirades.)

Have you heard about Jennifer's Body? Of course you have, you're the internet. Megan Fox is starring in a sleaze fest slasher where she just basically acts sexy and then kills people for 90 minutes. While slashers disgust me, I have nothing personal against Megan Fox. It's tough to make a living in Hollywood with no discernable acting skills, and when she chooses roles that ignore that requirement and instead accentuate her other, ahem, assets, that's not much disrespect to a media as it is good business planning. My problem with this movie lies not with her, but with thw writer: Academy Award winner Diablo Cody. Let's pause a moment to let that phrase sink in. It doesn't really sound right, does it? Something like Grammy Award winning William Hung, or Emmy Award winning Dog the Bounty Hunter, right? But alas, poor skill at a certain craft doesn't necesarilly bar you from being commended for it in the industry's most respected ceremony. So, there you have it, Academy Award winner Diablo Cody writing a High School slasher flick. Go ahead and YouTube the preview. Finished? That's right. There's very nearly girl on girl kissing. Megan Fox says suggestively (in her defense, she really can't say anything any other way) "I go both ways". We're talking a movie that's about a moment away from "Oh, I dropped my pencil; let me bend over and pick it up" at any given scene. Again, written by an Academy Award winner. You know, I'm almost glad this movie is coming out; maybe it will show the Academy what a mistake they made, and make them notice the countless other they have made and are going to make. By giving the Award to the person who used "Thunder Cats are go!" as a legitimate line in her movie (which does not have any Thunder Cats), you have now unleashed (quite literally) a (movie) monster! I speak directly to the Academy now when I say watch that preview again! Look at it! Fester in it! GAZE UPON YOUR SHAME!

So, Academy, has this scared you straight yet? Are you ready to do the right thing this year? Remember this forever, and in the future, always award responsibly.

As you might have notices, my most recent updates have all been complaints of things in our modern era. It seems I'm making a habit of treating this lonely little blog as just a dumping of my personal angers, and forgetting the ever present opportunity it provides to inform. Case in point, I figure I'll change pace (temporarily, at least) and do some educating. The topic is: mustaches.

Now, those of you who know me personally, (at least for the last 2 years or so) know that I recently grew a mustache, and even more recently got rid of it. Now, most guys seem to have that experimental desire to grow some form of facial hair, but they generally hold it in as long as they can (due in most part to the request of one, if not more, wiser female family members.) However, as they grow older and bolder, and farther away from the benevolent forces of any maternal instincts, the temptation will invariably grow too much for their feeble self restraint and the facial hair will be grown like mad. This generally happens in the independent college years, and by this point all that restraint has built up to insurmountable amounts of curiosity; thus nothing short of a full beard will satisfy them. Now, I've never been one for following the norm, and eschewing the traditional approach, I opted to do a little less a little earlier. Thus, half way through mny Junior year of High School, I began to sport a thin mustache. The results that followed astound me to this day.

1. I don't look good in a mustache. But there is some bizarre filter between my eyes, my brain, and my self respect that for the several months that I had this hairy abomination that I truly believed I looked dashing, debonaire, and even (dare I say it) sexy. All because of an additional set of eyebrows that were lower down on my face.

2. It does make me look older. Whether this older is the "wiser and experienced" kind, or the "creepy uncle" kind, I'll never know. I do know that those two girls behind me in the snack line at the school cafeterium managed to hold their giggles in long enough to ask me if I was a Senior, and hear me say (again, with a mustache distorted sense of self worth) "No ladies, but I am single."

3. Turns out mustaches do have fans among the ladies. Don't take this the wrong way, but it turns out Mexican women seem to like mustaches. I was actually being modestly flirted with by a cashier at Luby's, right in front of my mom. I have never had that before, since, and probably will not ever after. And by that I mean being flirted with in general, regardless of facial hair. After complimenting my mildew, she proceeded to confide that she liked her guys hairy (if I had possessed a full beard, the brain mouth filter would've been distorted enough for me to return with, "Well, my name IS Harry.")

4. Turns out they actually have two fans. The other's name is Evan. A kid who's family has recently joined out congregation first met me while the mustache was in full swing, and immediately loved it. I easily became his favorite person there, and although he couldn't remember my name, he remembered my mustache. Having shaved it off, I'm not sure he's forgiven me since.

5. Mustaches cloud your memory. In the short time that I had the little catipillar, I completely forgot what I looked like, and felt like, without a mustache. As if it had a mind of its own, and was hellbent on its survival, it not only rooted itself into my brain to convince me keeping him was a good idea, but it also removed all my memories of having been lacking of him at any previous point. I could've been born with the mustache for all knew while my mind was still under the influence of that parasite. Upon shaving it, however, I was ambushed by a rush of memories of what I was before, as well as the strange sensation of seeing my recent, mustache distorted self as a clear thinking, mustache-less bystander. I could see myself with the artificially inflated ego, making cocky self sure remarks, and could do nothing but stand on the sidelines screaming madly, "No, you fool! Can't you see what it's doing to you?!"

Alas, it remained far longer than it should have. So, in conclusion, let me go ahead and tell you as a final lesson (something of a combination of History, Ethics, and maybe some Algebra); do NOT grow a mustache. There are a very, VERY limited number of people in the world who do in fact look good with a mustache, and their low percentage in the world means the likelihood you are one of them is extraordinarily against you. So, just remember this, and let my mistake be a light shining on your pathway.

I just spent 40 extra minutes at the Tire store because I missed it when they called my name. While I was sitting there in my "extra" time, however, I did happen to pick up and read an article in Newsweek. And it sickened me.

The article starts with a certain miss Jodi Picoult, author of such wonderously optimistic books like My Sister's Keeper, which you may recognize the title from the upcoming movie. Despite the fact that it's about the legal battles of a little girl who realizes she was conceieved solely with the purpose of donating potentially matching blood for her sickly older sister, the film is notable for being not depressing and critical-y enough for the original star, Dakota Fanning. The author, likewise tends to write books mostly about modern ethical controversies, bringing us now 17 tales sure to bore and sadden you for the rest of the day. And as much as this seems to be the rhetoric needed to make modern literary critics salivate at the mere mention of her name, there does appear to be a problem: she's apparently very popular, and get this, with real people. So, unfortunately for that degenerate sub species of Homo Sapien that review (read: criticize) books for a living, the fact that she's popular with actual human beings automatically removes her from any kind of critically likable table. Leading us finally to what the article was really about: the heirarchy of good books vs. bad books according to the eyes of critics. Due to her accessibility, Ms. Picoult is apparently deemed barely one step above the likes of Stephenie Meyers and her precious Twilight. On top of that, Twilight is ranked so low not just because of the accessible and popular nature of her novels (if they can even be called such), but because Twilight is considered to be excapist literature, and therefore should not under any circumstance be even contemplated by the likes of higher minded literary readers.

Are you starting to see what I took umbridge to? Let's take a look at the analysis. This literary theory states that the difference between the good, proper, literarily important books is that they are inaccessible and unrelateable to the average reader (and thus strictly unentertaining), whereas books that are considered bad, vulgar, and low brow are the ones people might actually enjoy while reading. All of this takes no consideration into the actual skills (or lack thereof) of the author in question, but simply judges the books on how they treat the audience. Therefore, whole genres, like escapist fiction, that are written with the purpose of entertaining are entirely written off, while other genres, like depressing ethical controversies, depends on how intense the "screw you, readers" attitude of the book is.

Now, by this point in my life, I am fully aware of the irritatingly snobbish selection of what is considered good in literary circles, so I am not offended at their criteria for considering something good. What sickens me instead is that they throw "everything else" into a lumpsome, considering it all one and the same as some primordial literary soup. In effect, they compared books like my absolute favorite A Princess of Mars to the bane of my existence that is Twilight, on the basis that both are considered entertaining, and therefore are both equally primitive. They judged an entire genre to be as bad as the worst of it, ignoring the individual faults and merits of the authors themselves. To give you a cinematic equivalent, they said that something like The Hudsucker Proxy is on the same level as White Chicks, given that both are considered "comedies".

Let's take a look at the quality of the books in question. Just as examples, let's use Edgar Rice Burrough's A Princess of Mars vs. Stephenie Meyer's Twilight. Princess was the original space opera, creating sci-fi staples still being used today, writing in a style that even modern critics begrudgingly praise as surprisingly good for a pulp novel, and demonstrating the most ingenious imagination the world of fiction has ever known. Wherease Twilight on the other hand kickstarts a series of books that explore all facets of the theory that countless 6 year old have no doubt postulated: could a vampire drink animal blood and therefore be an okay guy? It follows that premise with a series of plotless, teenage diary entries that run on for 500 pages. Seeing as how the average reader can get through all 500 pages in about 2 to 3 days, I'm going to assume that it's written in size 72 font, and probably triple spaced for extra length. But despite the obvious differences in quality, both books are considered basically one and the same because they are popular with human beings.

This leads me to a conclusion that has been a long time coming. I know this may sound a bit inclusive and generalizing, but I swear it's true: Professional critics are the worst thing ever. Sure, the idea of a reviewer is a wonderful thing, in theory. It's like a wider, and more published version of having a friend see a movie before you and tell you whether its good or not so that you don't have to waste your money. But professional criticism is like when that friend starts telling you, "trust me, don't go: there were other people in the audience, and I'm pretty certain they liked it." They're getting paid to be that snobish guy in college with the unsubstantial musache who only watches Wes Anderson movies. And quite frankly, that foreknowledge of whether a movie is good enough is vastly overrated. It doesn't take a genius to recognize that Baby Geniuses 2 wasn't going to be good. Likewise with books. The book critics have gone crazy with what they consider good and bad literature, and it's getting out of hand. And the worst part is, there are people who believe them. A literary Jihad is culminating as we speak and soon they will rise up like SS Stormtroopers to purge this inferior world of all books that dare to entertain. They are lying in wait, and it could be your neighbor, or your best friend, or even your significant other. They want nothing more than a homogenozation of all literature so that we can't read anything that doesn't involve somebody dying of cancer and lots of moping. If we don't act quickly to eliminate this threat, soon there will be nothing left to fight for. We must fortify our escapist literature now, NOW WHILE WE STILL HAVE IT!