3...2...1...Blog

I find it stereotypical to begin one's blogging career by saying things like:

"So this is my first blog, I hope you like it." or "This is an experiment really, who knows where it will lead." or "This first entry is a test. TEST!" or "I'm funny and good looking, listen to what I have to say." or "THIS WILL BE THE BEST BLOG EVER!" or "Sometimes, I write incredibly personal things down so that the whole world can read them and share in my pain--won't you please cry with me today?"

No... I scoff at the stereotypical gibberish that so frequently adorns the maiden blog post. I feel instead that this first entry should express to you, my adoring readers (there must be at least two of you by now--hi mom), what it means to navigate the convoluted gray matter of my ever-wandering, ever-pondering mind. That way you can leave now, while you still have a chance. And I must warn you, I cannot be held responsible for the confusion, nostalgia, deep thought, forgone bowel movements, or random outbursts of laughter and spit that my writing may elicit.

You have been warned.

So, in today's post we explore the essence of me--lover, dreamer, and covert rock star. I say "covert" because no one really knows I'm a rock star. In fact the only thing I play is the guitar... and I suck at it. But that's what keeps me under the radar, you see? As long as I don't develop any real talent or skill in that arena, my fans will leave me alone and stop snapping shots of me picking my nose at the Circle K. (and when you have the twin habits of mining for nasal nuggets and downing obscenely over-sized fountain drinks, that can be a bit of a problem) So, with that said, it's just you and me who are in the know on the rock star thing... let's keep it between us, shall we? I'll sign something I've sweat and/or wiped a bodily fluid on and send it your way to make it worth your while.

You may have found that previous paragraph quite random. If so, congratulations! You've now learned something of vital importance about me and my noggin. You see, most people's brain waves move in a continuous S-pattern. My brain waves, on the other hand, tend to complete one cycle, get scared by what they find at the end of it, and scatter--leaving my neurons hopelessly lost as to where to fire next. This cerebral chaos tends to leave me with a kaleidoscope of ideas parading through my brain at any given moment.

Not many of these ideas stick, however. I stay tuned in to the ones I need and do my best to suppress the ones I don't. For example, those voices that tell me to embrace my inner nerd: "Sure man, buy the floor-length Anime inspired jacket. If Keanu wears one, you know it's gotta be cool... You know we could avoid going from computer to computer all the time if you just wore your jump drive around your neck on a snazzy Halo 3 lanyard... How long do you think it would take us to put together a full-length ASCII version of all 22 bond films... We should splice together random clips from the A-Team and sync it up with Hanson's MmmBop--our YouTube compadres would dig it..." I SUPPRESS THESE THOUGHTS AT ALL COSTS. I don't have a WoW subscription and I'm proud of it. The day I'm addicted to Mountain Dew and old reruns of Dragonball Z, is the day I mount the bridge of the Starship Enterprise and throw myself off.

All that's not to say I don't have nerdy tendencies. I appreciate technology and I have a couple Mario Brothers T-shirts. I enjoy Rock Band and TiVO Heroes without fail. But that's about where I draw the line. I refuse to be consumed by my gadget-loving, slurpee-drinking, Steve Jobs worshiping, "I'm about to beat this level so go to bed without me, honey" alter ego.

That's not the only side of my personality that I need to keep in check, though. Somewhere in the dark recesses of my mind sits an old philosopher--graying, blind, and brimming with poetic exultations on humanity. It is he who drives me to analyze every good book, deconstruct the latest Hollywood blockbuster, and tune in to the emotional fluctuations of my relationships. He wants to read, to think, to learn. He longs to be locked in an old library, with nothing but the smell of musty paper and worn leather to keep him company; and nothing but the ideas and creations of men and women past to keep him fed (I know he's blind, but if you're literarily savvy then you know the man I described is the archetypal oracle... let's just say he knows what the books say before he even picks them up [no, I'm not precognitive myself--I can only wish (this may be the longest and most layered parenthetical statement in recorded history)]). Anyway, this old philosopher drove me back to school when I thought I was ready to be done, and I think he will continue to force my mind to stretch, even when I feel I can stretch no more.

You no doubt witnessed my zanier, A.D.D.-prone side coming through during the liberal parenthetical usage in the previous section... Now you see how these sides of my personality really can challenge one another for attention. In fact, I like to picture these divergent elements of my psyche duking it out. In the case of the Nerd and the Oracle, we have a respectable duel to say the least. On one side we have a white-haired man, hunching over a worn wooden staff and holding an hour-glass in his hand. He wears a thin old robe and his eyes flash blue like sapphire. On the other, we have a chubby, acne-prone teenager. He wears a Strong Bad T-shirt that's two sizes too small, an open fanny pack full of cheetos and bite-size Milky Ways, and has his gamer-tag tattooed on his upper-arm. He has a spool of ethernet cable at his side like a whip, a one-up mushroom for a belt buckle, and he shakes under the weight of the Highlander's sword.

In this case, I don't think either personality would come out on top. The Oracle is far too wise and patient to succumb to the Nerd's obnoxious acronym slinging and pompous IT-lingo, and the Nerd has spent too much time watching 300 to trust a thing the Oracle says. So, we're left with a stalemate.

All this randomness brings me in a roundabout fashion to my lead personality, and the one you as the reader should take note of. You see while the Nerd and the Oracle are competing voices in my thoroughly jumbled mind, they are frequently subjugated for more pressing personality traits--the Professional, the Socialite, the Rocker, the Lover, etc. (all personalities you may see come out in a later post). One personality that rarely falters is the Writer--a side of me I have affectionately named Quill. (Yes, I named a portion of my personality. You can call me schizo or you can call me a philosophical genius. I won't lie, I prefer the latter.)

You have no doubt noticed that no matter which "personality" I speak of (I'm using quotes now so you'll think I'm less crazy), I have a tendency to wax poetic or run on verbosely. I won't deny it. I am a lover of words and the ability to combine them to tell a story, convey a message, change a mind, or touch a heart is a skill I hold most dear. This is why I've chosen Quill to be my voice to you here. May his ramblings interest you as they've interested me.

I hope you've found this post disjointed, confusing, and thoroughly enjoyable. Don't expect future posts to be this off-the-wall, but I wanted to hit you with my craziest work first so you'd know what you're getting into.

I tried to warn you. Now on down the rabbit hole...