Matthew Stadler's Personal Weblog

The End

Wed, 23 Jan 2008 11:18:08 -0800

My Personal Weblog #21

Wed, 03 Oct 2007 08:15:13 -0800

Dear UB3 participants, moderators, and guests, I have some information about the Ultimate Blogger contest that is vitally important to everyone who has been participating or observing the events. It all started when I noticed an unusual feature on the site the B.F.F. created to tell the world about “themselves”. I was initially suspicious when I saw the unusual bulge under Mike Merrill’s fastidious suit jacket (examine the picture here http://www.ultimateblogger3.com/about.html ). After the events of episode 3, I ceased my weeping and gin drinking briefly to study the picture in more detail. There was clearly something there, but what? With a small, hand powered microscope, a packet of grape kool-aid, and a visual analysis program I hand- coded using the DNA from the barely detectible fingerprint grease smears on the Tonka truck Merrill touched sometime in the Spring of 1989, I was able to unambiguously identify the bulge as a tentacular appendage approximately fifteen centimeters in diameter. It seemed to be writhing beneath the surface of the jacket inconsolably, torpid with its massive blood meal. The smears of dried blood, comprising only a few dozen pixels, present on Steve and Jona’s clothing, clearly bespoke the rest of the story. It still shocks me that none of the rest of you noticed, that is, if the rest of you really are you – that is, fully human. I have my suspicions about the lot of you. Bodycity – the mechanical jerkiness of your movements, the Stalinistic collective “we”-ness of your ludicrous posing – clearly points toward the presence beneath your skin of some kind of complex device merely simulating the appearance of human beings. I am very close to making a breakthrough and with my hand powered microscope will soon have deciphered the binary code contained in the thread in your fascist uniforms – I have to decipher it pixel by pixel, so it has eaten up every waking hour, but when I am finished, I will post the truth, and the world will no longer be in your sway. Existential Media, beneath your supposedly utopian charm lurks something darker, something insidious. I suppose you would deny participating in that tele-dildonic orgy with me, Mike, and Jona sometime around Christmas of 1998 – you know, the one in which you collectively licked warm cheese dip off my heaving flanks? I said it then, and I’ll repeat it now – I DON’T LIKE CHEESE DIP. The smell lingered for days and I’d swear I could see insects gathering in the corners of my vision, getting ready to feast from my skin. You sicken me. Of course, TJ Norris ceased to be TJ Norris quite some time ago. I’m surprised I’m the only one who noticed, especially given the way a prominent think tank has proven that “he” designed a complex machinic system to produce all of “his” blog posts. As to what shape and form the “actual” TJ Norris might take, no one is quite certain, although it seems clear that “he” must be a flaming genius. I am impressed with his ingenuity and verve, but I have to admit that I’m quite shocked that the moderators (or “moderators”, as it were) seem to think that his work, rather than mine, is the more authentic. Ludicrous. As for G-RAD, what the hell, man? As one of the last true organisms around here, you’d think you might be on my esteemed side. The fact that your kind originated as a kind of protoplasmic, gelatinous smear really doesn’t bother me. Many of my best friends are protoplasmic gelatinous smears. I suppose it’s possible that the bulge in Mike’s suit might have gotten to you quite some time ago. I am currently doing some very large batch processing jobs that might enlighten me further on this matter. The point is that those of you who are still human may be in dire trouble from the thing I can only name “the bulge”. I’ve tried again and again to sneak coded messages to all of you, but so far my warnings have been for naught. I’m trying one last time in this completely public venue in the hopes that someone, anyone, might take this post for what it is – an earnest plea to save yourselves before you become its next blood meal. I have cried myself to sleep night after night clutching a bottle of gin, worrying over the toxic pixel songs being broadcast under the names of the B.F.F. So many innocent souls will be drowned in the onslaught! I’ve taken to buying my gin in gallon jugs because my hands have become so tremulous – that way, I can get enough into my mouth to drown my troubles without wasting it to the floor. Last night, I broke my last jug and made my tongue bleed by lapping it off the floor, glass shards and all. I’ve become like a sick animal, wasted with need and grief. It burns, oh god, it burns! I hate what I’ve become, this drunken wreck with the splintered tongue, the yellowed skin, the eyes dry as sand from the hours spent huddling over the microscope. I thought I’d found the truth, but is it merely a delusion? Oh god, what have I done? What have I done to all of you? I’ve caused so much suffering, so much misery. This poison in my veins. Makes me sick, grotesque. So fuming with repugnancy I can’t even tell you … can’t even find the words … to explain … how much I love you.

My Personal Weblog #20

Sat, 08 Sep 2007 09:30:39 -0800

Dear loyal readers, There is great news that I have been announced as an eligible contestant in Ultimate Blogger 3. As tears roll in my eyes, the tears are not of some curse or predicament, but on my selection as Ultimate Blogger 3. My source of joy is the fruit I have got out of my effortful blogging for 19 weeks and my 20th blog has reached me to the pinnacle of success. Blogging started as an hobby has fructified to a selection as an Ultimate Blogger. You all could of enjoyed the intimacy I had with my girl friend Elizabeth in my last blog. This blog will enthrall with excitement of success and throw light about the features of success. Success comes and go, but efforts should be continuing process. As Management expert say, in an organization, training is continuous process , efforts in life should be continuous ,success may come or not. Success should not make you proud, but should make your humble and more open. My blogging stint started in February’8 2007 and going steady without any disinterest. But the tast of the pudding is in eating, my success in blogging has been reflected on my selection in Ultimate Blogger 3 . My efforts to blog within my available time was very hard, but time was allotted judiciously for it.In a nutshell, you procrastinate when you put off things that you should be focusing on right now, usually in favor of doing something that is more enjoyable or that you’re more comfortable doing. Procrastinators work as many hours in the day as other people (and often work longer hours) but they invest their time in the wrong tasks. Sometimes this is simply because they don't understand the difference between urgent tasks and important tasks, and jump straight into getting on with urgent tasks that aren't actually important. They may feel that they're doing the right thing by reacting fast. Or they may not even think about their approach and simply be driven by the person whose demands are loudest. Either way, by doing this, they have little or no time left for the important tasks, despite the unpleasant outcomes this may bring about. Another common cause of procrastination is feeling overwhelmed by the task. You may not know where to begin. Or you may doubt that you have the skills or resources you think you need. So you seek comfort in doing tasks you know you're capable of completing. Unfortunately, the big task isn't going to go away - truly important tasks rarely do. Other causes of procrastination include: • Waiting for the “right” mood or the “right” time to tackle the important task at hand; • A fear of failure or success; • Underdeveloped decision making skills; • Poor organizational skills; and • Perfectionism ("I don't have the right skills or resources to do this perfectly now, so I won't do it at all.") How to Overcome Procrastination: Whatever the reason behind procrastination, it must be recognized, dealt with and controlled before you miss opportunities or your career is derailed. Step 1: Recognize that you're Procrastinating If you're honest with yourself, you probably know when you're procrastinating. But to be sure, you first need to make sure you know your priorities. Putting off an unimportant task isn't procrastination, it's probably good prioritization. Use the Action Priority Matrix to identify your priorities, and then work from a Prioritized To Do List on a daily basis. Some useful indicators which will help you pull yourself up as soon as you start procrastinating include: • Filling your day with low priority tasks from your To Do List; • Reading an e-mail or request that you've noted in your notebook or on your To Do List more than once, without starting work on it or deciding when you're going to start work on it; • Sitting down to start a high-priority task, and almost immediately going off to make a cup of coffee or check your e-mails; • Leaving an item on your To Do list for a long time, even though you know it's important; • Regularly saying "Yes" to unimportant tasks that others ask you to do, and filling your time with these instead of getting on with the important tasks already on your list. Step 2: Work out why you're Procrastinating Why you procrastinate can depend on both you and the task. But it's important to understand what the reasons for procrastination are for each situation, so that you can select the best approach for overcoming your reluctance to get going. Common causes of procrastination were discussed in detail above, but they can often be reduced to two main reasons: • You find the task unpleasant; or • You find the task overwhelming Thus in this blog, my secret of success is shared and welcome your comments.

My Personal Weblog #19

Sat, 25 Aug 2007 13:49:49 -0800

A few days after my last entry, I was awakened from probably the best sleep I'd had in months. The phone by my bed rang at a little after 2 o'clock in the morning. This reminds me: remove phone from bedside! I realize that the only reason I ever hooked up my phone there in the first place was because of all the movies I'd seen where an emergency call was received in the wee hours of the morning that the person sleeping in bed would have otherwise missed. People in movies are always answering the phone next to the bed. But this wasn't an emergency. It was just annoying. The call came on Friday night, the 10th. Or, I should say Saturday morning. I looked at the alarm clock to regrettably find that it read 2:17 am. Who in the hell could be calling me at 2:17? My heart skipped, thinking it may be that emergency I was forever afraid of. But a fraction of me thought that it could only be a wrong number, for no one had ever called me so late…or, early. When I answered, I could barely speak. I had just been awoken – interrupted – from a heavenly, deep sleep that I could only imagine was what researchers referred to as R.E.M. I was dreaming of Alaska, strange as that seems. I went on a trip with my father when I was very young. I may have not been older than five, though I can't exactly recall my definite age. All I know was that I was terrified of the ice. We cruised by bergs on a boat that was stocked with fishing equipment and life vests. I hung on to mine as a baby clings to his security blanket. In my dream, however, I was sailing alone. I was fishing and swimming. I may have even been flying. The cold was not cold at all. It was warm and inviting. Imagine having been torn from this dream where freedom and fantasy collide. When I discovered who was on the other line, I was even more dismayed. My ex-girlfriend, Elizabeth! Now, I realize you have not the foggiest notion of whom I speak. But trust in this: a call from Elizabeth is never a good call at all! Especially at 2 in the morning! All anger aside, she sounded sweet on the phone. I should know from past experiences that her sweetness is merely a disguise for bitterness and the need for constant attention. Still, it succeeded in calming my own irritation and after five or so minutes, I softened to her kind and charming voice. She asked how I was, told me she'd just gotten home after a long night at the club and that she was catching an early flight to PDX. She would be in Portland for a week before moving on to Seattle. Her motive? She said she needed to get away, that she wanted to see me to "catch up." I detected reluctance in her voice when she said "catch up," and knew right away there was something more, something she wasn't telling me. Still hopeful about catching a few more good hours of sleep, I agreed to meet her at the airport and hung up the phone. As you may have guessed, though, I couldn't get back to sleep. I thought about Elizabeth for four more hours before rising out of bed and hopping in the shower. Elizabeth was a party girl, constantly moving and looking for newer and better. This was undoubtedly why we never worked as a couple. She bored of me faster than I could say, "What happened?" and left me brokenhearted five years ago. Over the years apart, I'd occasionally hear from her but never called her myself. I learned a long time ago that you don't go chasing something that doesn't want to be caught. Even writing this, though, after what I've experienced the past couple of weeks, seems futile. I feel like everything might have changed dramatically and I am still waiting for it to settle in. After I picked Elizabeth up from the airport, we had lunch. Lunch led to dinner which led to helping her find a place to stay. As usual, she hadn’t made any firm plans, which of course left me feeling responsible for her. There were no vacant hotel rooms nearby and it was getting late in the evening. I told her she could sleep on my bed and I'd take the couch. She seemed thankful and also a little sad. I joked and told her that if she really wanted it, she could have the couch. She didn't laugh. The sky was getting dark and streetlights were beginning to cast strange shadows. That's when Elizabeth leaned in to kiss me. We spent the next week together, going to coffee shops and window shopping. I showed her my favorite restaurants and teased that I would take her if and when she decided this time it was for good. You see, I'm just too old to play games anymore. I like Elizabeth; hell, I loved Elizabeth. On Sunday, when her plane was set to take off for Seattle, she looked at me and promised she'd be back in a week. I spent the past six days thinking of what she'd promised me and if it could mean more. Could "I'll be back" mean she was coming back to stay? If not, I would curse myself for falling into her tricks again. One more day and all shall be revealed…

My Personal Weblog #18

Wed, 08 Aug 2007 23:54:00 -0800

What a week. The past nine days have been somewhat overwhelming. I’ve been thinking about mistakes. One thing I am admittedly terrible at is coming clean with my faults. In the past, I have run – even so far as to another continent – to escape the realities of my life and the what-ifs I’ve created for myself. I’m not going to mention my past indiscretions, for once again, that would mean dropping names you don’t wish to hear. After all, it’s still summer (for a few more weeks, anyway). Come autumn and I may just reinvent myself again and thus, create a new list of ideals. I can be good…as long as I have a new season and a new year and a new chance to change everything around. How can one stay in a single place for their entire life? I get restless in one spot for too long. I don’t see the point in remaining stagnant. It seems had I adopted this way of life, I might grow old twice as quickly. Whereas this once might have seemed a delicious thought to me, it scares me now that I am older and, let’s face it, wiser. Time will do that to a person. Now I am older and have more responsibilities, dare I say a family, people to please, etc. In short, I am forced to slow down and face the fears I tried for years to leave behind. Some people say, “The only way around is through.” Meaning in order to get over something – a hardship, a bad memory, a deadly sin – is by going straight through it. Confronting in directly. While this may seem terrifying, it must be done. In certain instances, there is absolutely no other way. I still maintain that in some cases, it is better to run, to forget the past and move ahead with your life without ever looking back. However diligently I pound this lopsided notion into my brain, I still find myself wondering: what did it all mean, anyway? Maybe I am a sadist and secretly, deep down, want to feel the pain I caused returned to me. Maybe I am just thinking too much because the summer is dragging on. There will be a certain peace when the seasons change. With the trees, I will turn over, change color, begin to die only to be regenerated and renewed. It is this metamorphosis I look forward to and count on to preserve my sanity. One thing I know for sure is that I am thinking way too much, locked in my own mind’s prison. It truly is the loneliest place to be, inside one’s head. I can’t seem to break through, no matter how many television programs I force myself to watch. Comedy usually does it. There is nothing better than laughter to pull you from the wrenches of your past. I never was a fan of clowns or tricks as a kid, but nowadays it seems those frivolous acts are a necessity to me. I need people to make me laugh, frolic around me with ridiculous costumes on and prance on my melancholy, beat it down to the ground. I may find my way to the airport soon, perhaps “find myself” (in more ways than one) somewhere other than here. Thinking of people of the past, I feel there is nothing better than to be straightforward. I must quit hiding from myself and others. I am only backtracking and wasting valuable time. Contrary to previous ways of thinking and outdated beliefs, I am neither invincible nor will I live forever. Yes, I am quite sure of it: it is time for a change. Change your mind, change your life. Where did I hear that? So many sayings and sound bytes. It all gets so repetitive and begins to make my life sound like one big cliché. I hate clichés! At least, I thought I did. The more I think about it, the more each and every cliché holds some sort of truth in my life. Every cheesy saying I ever read on the back of greeting cards or in the Sunday paper, every billboard and commercial with a schmaltzy message, every caption under photographs hanging in museums…they all make a sort of sense to me now. Am I just aging and giving into my sentimental side? Is the cynic in me dissolving and leading way to the pushover, the naïve schoolboy? Or am I just desperate to find meaning in an otherwise bleak past? I won’t solve this tonight. For now, I will just leave this open-ended question here for you all to wrap your heads around.

My Personal Weblog #17

Fri, 27 Jul 2007 09:33:38 -0800

It’s the weekend! When one sits in front of a computer screen as much as I seem to, you get to weekend and get excited. Excited for what? For two days of cramming in as much things as you can possibly do in not enough time? We suspend our lives while we work. We don’t do enough fun things and we get lousy paychecks and heart attacks. I still love my weekends though. Weekends are the nights that everyone goes out on the town to let go. People abandon their lives, their worries, and their convictions. I have seen some strange things out here in the night life. The way people interact, it’s amazing. It’s nice to not be working a weekend this week. My schedule has been a bit hectic. Sometimes I think I am getting somewhere, that lecture in Portland, but then there are times when I just sit here and wonder if I am really doing it. Is this my dream? My brain seems so locked into an idea of something that I can’t give up on it. But sometimes my heart seems completely vacant. Nothing stirs it as much anymore. I miss that passion and drive I had when I first started. That innocent youth, well maybe that isn’t the best expression of it. Youth hasn’t been my strongest point. I always strove so hard to get away from youth and now I fondly remember that time. I was in such a hurry to “grow up.” Like getting to that point where life would just fall into place before my eyes. I think my mother had a lot to do with that. Being so pushed away and feeling abandoned made me dislike not being the adult in the situation. I missed out on so much. So I always strove to be better than others in everything. I had to prove I was not her, I am not Nanay. I now look back on all that wasted time. I wasted it. But there is nothing I can do about that now. I am here. I am living the dream. I still am amazed at my surroundings. Life here is more than I expected it to be. The colors and sounds are so different from home. But nothing I do to capture it seems to do justice to this place. A photograph cuts out the sounds and smells. And while my writing seems to lead to a place where I can convey the ideas and thoughts I have of this place, nothing is like being here. When I can sleep, I revel in the bright sunlight as it comes through my window, reminding me I am alive for another day. And when I can’t sleep, I watch the people passing by. Some are returning from work and some are going to it. They are just regular people in their regular lives. I like watching them. It’s like some voyeuristic view into another person’s life. I see some of the same people night after night. I have started making stories up about them. It’s better that than obsessing over other things when I can’t sleep. I wonder why someone would want to be working from dusk to dawn. Maybe that should be my new task. I will write stories, fictitious of course, of these people I see. That can’t be any worse than any other project I am pretending to work on right now. Nothing seems to inspire me to continue with my writing these days. I have fallen into a pattern of starting something I can’t finish. But maybe I should abandon that idea as well. It seems like this place is getting to me. It may be time to move on somewhere else. I just don’t like staying in the same place long. But where should my adventures take me to now? I don’t want to venture back to home. It is not home for me now. As much as I have loved it here, sometimes staying in the same place to long is hard. I liked going to France, but my French is only barely tolerable. Germany was wonderful, the people are amazing. But it is too much like home to want to stay there long term. So here I am. Asia is a good enough place for now. I should apply myself to something better. I must keep writing. I must finish something. Regain what notability I once had. All while pretending I don’t care and I do what I want. Just remember smile, because no one wants to see you when you are down. I’ll keep writing.

My Personal Weblog #16

Thu, 12 Jul 2007 11:33:40 -0800

I am still in Asia. Yes, nitpicking this woman's brain. There is more to her poverty, er uhm, her angst. She started to write. This is long overdue. When too much emotions and questions mingle I just cannot form it into words. There was much contemplation, but the adulation is undoubtedly in my heart. I just cannot weave it from start to finish. I will try today. We love our mother so much. We call her Nanay. It's a sort of an extra credit that I got her major looks. Her deep set eyes, her tall nose, wide forehead. A classic beauty they say. It made me feel like a first class citizen with relatives' hushed tones of "there's Maria's carbon copy..." I can feel adoring looks in my surroundings it almost made me levitate. It's because of this I grew up knowing and feeling I do have the looks. However, it was my mother's legacy that I tried my best to keep her face, to take care of myself. We were poor then but Nanay treated us like princesses. She never made us do any housework, she just wanted us to study the whole day. No, there's no compulsory discipline in any way, she just wanted us to grow up loving the whole business of learning, and be successful individuals – each one of us, no one left behind. She got criticized for not ordering us around -- to do laundry, to wash clothes, to clean the house -- she had four girls and she's not raising them the proper way she ought to. Well she had her reasons, or maybe pains for doing so, she was actually rebelling the way she was confined to the kitchen and not allowed to go schooling during her younger days. It had hurt her too much she made sure it's not going to happen to her children. Nobody knew that, of course, the way nobody knew one's inner pains. It's going to be difficult for me, to concretize the things that have lodged in my heart. It had to be because sooner or later I'm going to die with it. And once in one's life there will come a phase one gets everything figured all out. And I owe it to myself and to her. She sent me – my words show that what happened to my life I feel it is her causing it to – she sent me to relatives when I was in my elementary years because of poverty, that ugly word. We had to be helped out, and since I'm one of the elder siblings I had to be the one to go. My young mind then didn't grasp it that way. She sent me. And I slept every night of my young life with that thought. I did go home to her every weekends, my father picks me up Fridays to spend Saturdays and Sundays with them – but for a duckling, that is never enough. When I had to go back Sundays, I saw her toughness as indifference. I was leaving and she wouldn't budge. Her back is always at me, I almost clung to our door. She was washing dishes or what have you and I am drowning in tears. I was walking wounded. My father would snap, stop it Irene, what is the problem, you go home weekends. I now have my son and it took years for me to realize Nanay herself is choking in her own tears back then. She just wouldn't want to add to my burden. She always had her back at me, but not her heart. I had to be a mother to know. It was in college that I finally got to be reunited with her. I was finally allowed to live with the family because UP – my university, is nearer in our own house. Unfortunately the past experience ruined me emotionally. My ignorant heart accusses disloyalty. I questioned my self-worth. I clung to anyone who would show some form of attention. I distrust anyone who at the slightest shuns me. I do not want to forgive. I should be loved. Nevertheless, my tears went on endlessly. Big Brother would have thought I am indeed the Drama Queen. I cry myself to sleep. I had a lot of questions (which actually boils down to one) and scenes. I was in Grade 3 when I was nominated to be Ms. Holland in the school's United Nation's Day. I had the costume alright, thanks to my aunt's money, but for some reason or another no one was there to attend to me. I saw my classmates all made up and I thought I could put on my own lipstick, which I did. It was an experience that shattered my soul. They were laughing at me and other moms helped me out, fixed my face. It stuck in my heart several, several years after. I used to hate my mother for not being there. Now I hate poverty. It wasn't her fault. I will never ever let lack of money hurt me again. My mother died of breast cancer when I was eighteen. In the midst of our clashes and emotional fights. I was a teenager and troubled and hurt. She didn't seem to understand. I myself was amazed at who I was. At the anger. It was all love lost. Or rather love restrained. I love Nanay and I miss her just too much. I know everything she has it all figured out too. I know she knows, because I came from her womb. My eyes got welled in tears. I mean my male eyes. I think I can make a movie.

My Personal Weblog #15

Wed, 04 Jul 2007 00:30:51 -0800

I’m not sure if I am subjecting myself to a pseudo behavioral self-study or what have you, but with the aid of a voodoo guru from Kenya I allowed myself to transfer – yes, myself! – into somebody else’s body and write about what happened. Short of nitpicking or intellectual rights violation, but I will win this case because it was done with consent and with a fee. I suddenly became a woman in Asia! Oh my God. I am in front of this low tech computer that doesn’t even have a camera on it, and this woman is looking for ways to pay her bills. Nope, prostitution is out of the question I told you this is Asia. So I, the woman, went on searching for work-at-home sites and looking for ways to earn cash online. Gee, there’s a trillion of them. But, uh, wait, please encode you mastercard or visa card number… This woman doesn’t even have a purse…Has she heard of a credit card? I can’t stand it, I went out of the room and there’s this boy waiting to be fed. Okay, no problem. I reached out to the kitchen and found some warm, nutritious, vegetable soup and some pieces of yummy fried chicken. Don’t forget the milk and the vitamins, my woman brain says. What? I am going to spoon feed the 6 year old boy? Asia. That’s why white men are going gagas over these girls. Nurturing, loving…pathetic. I am going back to my own body. Is it 700 words yet? I went out into the streets and saw the dusty, dirty roads that they have. People are all over the place, like the earth is all theirs as birth right. There’s a river over here and it’s stinkingly dirty, with garbages floating all over. There are makeshift houses made of cardboards and old wood on the side of the river. I wonder why they don’t fall over. It looked so weak and yeah, poor. These houses looked just like boxes, where do they do their thing? The river stinks so truthfully. I rode in the public transport which they call jeepney. These things are works of art, it has paintings all over it and if I just know the language I could have easily decoded what they meant. Uhuh, I shall have to pay but my money’s in dollars. “It’s okay!” The dirty, two-toothed driver waved out with a big grin, relaying he understands my plight. Wow, how could a dirty country be filled with happy people? And everywhere I looked, people are just smiling or telling some funny stories or laughing out loud. Harmony in adversity. It seemed like I’m doomed. This is a place that knows no names, how can I exist without name-dropping? This is entirely at the extreme end from the intellectual world that I live in. No opera premiers to brag about, no authors beside me and definitely no pretense. I have fallen into the trap of pretending landing in this unpretentious life. This is life as it is. People exist day by day meeting the needs for survival, yet, unbelievably amazing though, is that they continue to be happy and alive. There’s some place in their hearts that allows then to see the good things in life, despite what seemed to me as dirt. Dirt cheap, dirt poor, I’ve seen it as other writers have written about it. It’s starting to rain. Four boys started running all over the streets, shouting and grinning. They took a bath in the rain. They asked for alms too, with smiles on their faces. I felt cold, and I opened my eyes.

My Personal Weblog #14

Tue, 19 Jun 2007 14:45:01 -0800

The first two weeks of June, school being out, my globetrotting lecture schedule being completed, I decided to take some time off. Time for reflecting on this fascinating experiment of entering the blog world. Time for soothing my harried, overly intellectually rigorous, somewhat chaotic soul after a demanding series of events at which I've barely hinted on the blog. Time for... well, you get the point. I booked June 6-10 at an insight meditation retreat at a Buddhist center near my home, thinking that the mindfulness and silence would clear my head. In fact, it only made me notice how many things I have in my head and how frightfully active they are at all hours of the day and night. Twittering, chattering, talking, chirping, whirling, jumping things are in my head. Also, there was too much green tea. So I left a little early, after lunch on June the 8th. It took me about three days to sleep the whole thing off. My next idea was to take a long walk by the water, and I found this a much more fruitful pursuit than vipassana meditation. As I looked at the gentle rhythms of nature unfolding before me, and my thighs moving in a soothing, regular pattern, I felt at peace, more sure of my goals and dreams. I began to see what I needed to do next. Accordingly I came away from this walk with the following resolutions for the summer: 1. Eat more ice cream. Because you might die at any time. And ice cream is as strong as death. (I began to implement this resolution on June 18th at a location all my insider Portland readers will immediately be able to guess.) 2. Stop dropping so many names on my personal weblog. It is making me look as if I want to demonstrate how many literary and artistic luminaries I know, have bathed in honey with, etc. etc. Who cares if you got in a fistfight with Nicholas Bourriaud, Matthew? Who cares if you met Ken Kesey and his friend "Merry Prankster," whatever the hell that means, even if Ken has in fact been dead since 2001? Who cares if you get advised on clothing by William Leith instead of the guy at J.C Penney's? Who cares if you saw "Zoo" with its writer Charles Mudede and its director Robinson Devor? A LOT OF PEOPLE DO THESE THINGS. Besides, as a person of high writerly stature myself, I need to take to heart the concept of "noblesse oblige." I resolve to begin behaving about my dazzling international array of professional connections the way a Boston Brahmin does about his vast personal fortune: simple, unassuming, almost austere. I need to begin conceptualizing my artistic life more pragmatically and with understated severity. Like, as a white buttondown broadcloath shirt. Made by L. L. Bean. And perhaps purchased at 20$ off. Even though I could afford to pay full price or in fact buy the factory in Mali where the shirts are produced by hapless child laborers who might lose a finger at any moment. 3. Get more involved in protesting sweatshops (actually I just added that one right now) 4. WIN THE$50,000 JACKPOT ON NATIONAL BINGO NIGHT ONE FRIDAY. Download maybe 50-60 sets of cards and just win the fucking thing. I have become mesmerized by that Indian man whose job is to say "Noooo Bingoooo" and wave his arm as if he were scattering genetically modified Monsanto cumin seed across a dusty field outside Mumbai. I must win National Bingo Night, or seriously, somebody is going to get hurt. 5. Just go ahead and do this: Tell Urban Honking what I have been secretly wanting to say for some time now, that their color scheme looks like a Target bathroom textiles aisle. I resolve to demand a more edgy scheme that connects well with the provocative word "Honking" and also communicates subtle enthusiasm for universal health care. I called on June 19 for an appointment with their CEO, COO, and CFO and I will be presenting this critique to them in two days from now. 6. Go to Chicago and see the Hopper exhibit. That does not count as name-dropping because I never knew Hopper. Meditate especially on his works "Nighthawks" and "Chop Suey." While in town, eat authentic Mexican at Rick Bayless' Frontera Grill. That also does not count as name-dropping because he just happens to be the chef of the Frontera Grill and that's where I want to eat. Authentic Mexican such as Frontera Grill serves is not at all like Tex-Mex. It includes corn fungus, for one thing, and you aren't going to see any self-respecting Texan eating any black engorged corn fungus. Having made these six life-changing resolutions, I then flew to Chicago to see the Mariners play the Cubs in a three night stand at Wrigley Field. (The Hopper exhibition isn't there yet; another time.) Seattle won the first night, but the Cubs took the last two. Raul Ibanez had a really great night at the Thursday game, where an adopted Korean child threw up on my shoe from the sheer excitement of witnessing The Great American Passtime. Then, of course, it was straight home so I could make it in time to watch "National Bingo Night" on NBC. Nooo Bingooo! Nooooooo Bingoooooooooo! NOOOOOOOO BINGOOOOOOOOOO!

My Personal Weblog #13

Tue, 05 Jun 2007 14:10:22 -0800

May 23, Oh, don't you just love Mondays? Time was that I used to hate them, just like most other people. But these days Mondays have taken on a whole new meaning. You see, because I tend to work all weekend just lately, the reason I love Mondays is that I feel justified again in working. And also I know that most other people are having to do it too. If I've got to, then I derive some twisted pleasure out of knowing others are working as well! That's not to say there's nothing good about working weekends. The great thing about it is this: most of our colleagues/clients/employers (call them what you will) don't work the weekend. This means that our working days become far more fruitful because we are not constantly answering the phone, responding to e-mails, and generally being pushed and pulled in several directions at once. We did, however, manage to find time to pop out for Sunday lunch, which for me was a bacon cheeseburger, while Red opted for the altogether more healthy tuna niçoise salad. So, all in all, not much to report today. My latest bits of ink are healing nicely. My weight is yo-yoing like Ricki Lake's. I watched Mean Girls on TV and think Lindsay Lohan is not so annoying as I had expected. And I've posted a new review over at Such As They Are. And now... to work. Catch you all later, blogpals! Last-minute edit: How could I forget that we've also started watching this year's Big May 24, Stuff and stuff Sunday: Worked all day, but found time to do a little post about shaking my spear, below. Monday: Worked all day, despite it being a holiday in the UK. Tuesday: Worked until lunchtime, then headed out to the tattooist for some recolouring on a tattoo that I never got finished. It's two years since it last had any work done on it. Now I think it's finished. Though I can't help but feel it still needs a little sumpn sumpn. Wednesday: Worked all day and got mad pissed off with some people we're working for. What is with people? I know not all people are cunts, but sometimes... sometimes it sure seems that all people I have to deal with are. I also found time to update Such As They Are for the first time in a month. I made a silent promise to post a new movie review over there at least once a week. And Lord knows I have a backlog to wade through. Thursday: Started the day, as we do most days at the moment eating breakfast while watching an episode of Seinfeld, the show about nowt after which this blog was named. We've been working our way through the DVDs while waiting for Season 5 of Scrubs to get released. Then we headed out to Asda to do most of our weekly grocery shopping. We couldn't find the tofu. I knew it was a mistake but I thought I'd ask a member of staff. "Excuse me, do you know where I'd find tofu?" "Uh, find what?" "Tofu." "Toad food?" "No, tofu." "What is it?" "It's ... [I tell myself not to mention beancurd or allude to anything 'foreign'...] It's a meat substitute for vegetarians." "Oh, then it's probably in the meat aisle." "I don't know," I say. "You carry other products by Cauldron, and they produce tofu. So I thought it might be in the freezer section." "Oh... I'd better find someone who'll know. Come with me." I follow her. She talks to another staff member. She too looks confused by the word tofu. I suggest that it could be in the chilled section, rather than frozen. "Let's have a look there, then," says the second woman, and we walk towards that section. "It's not something I've been asked for before." We stand there looking at the shelves. My eyes alight on the Holy Grail. I reach for the tofu. "Here it is!" I exclaim gleefully. "I'd better check the sell-by date, since no one knows you sell it!" It's all good. "You'll know where it is now next time someone asks," I suggest. Fortunately they don't kill me. You never know in this neck of the woods. And Asda. Sunday, May 25 Shaking my spear Oo er, that sounds a bit like a euphemism for having a wank, doesn't it? Anyway, that's not what was intended. Instead it was just to say we're going to see some Shakespeare. Not something I do every day of the week, but then it's not every day of the week that the legendary Eamonn Walker (of Oz fame) comes back to his home town of London to play the Moor, Othello, at Shakespeare's Globe Theatre, no less. How could we not treat ourselves to an anniversary matinée? Trouble is, I know Red has A Bit of a Thing for Eamonn (spelling mistakes notwithstanding), so I'll need to keep a close eye on her after the show, lest she starts telling him how his performance was like a cultural orgasm or something along those lines. When I phoned the box office to ensure Mr Walker would be playing all shows, including matinées, the posh and elderly sounding woman on the phone said: "Well, I think so. I mean... well... he's... well, he's the man, isn't he?" "Yes," I replied. "He is the man." People, we are going to see the great Kareem Said in the flesh, playing Othello. Does Shakespeare get any better than that? I rather think not. Friday, May 26 Hello Daddy. And up the Hilary. All the news that's fit to print! And some that probably isn't... Well, it finally happened. My mother, long-suffering woman that she is, has remarried. It happened on 11 May, but she didn't tell anyone until a week later at a celebration party. I was invited but simply couldn't make it (work, kitchen, 400-mile round trip). So I now have a stepdad. And I've never met him. I think that's bloody bizarre, but what can yer do?! And me sister's up the Hilary. Up the duff, that is; having a bairn; with child; got a bun in the oven. Pick your own euphemism. This will be her fourth. She's not even 30. And her three kids are between eight and 12 years old. I'm not a having-kids type of guy, as most visitors here know by now. So I simply cannot understand why someone would have another kid just at the point that she is starting to reclaim her life back. Oh well. As my wise old gran would have said: "You can't educate pork." Thursday, May 27 It's not got quite the same punk ring to it as as "Too Drunk to Fuck", has it? Imagine, though, if the Dead Kennedys were making it big now. Maybe their most famous hit would be "Too Busy to Blog". Or "Too Tired to Blog", since that scans better. But of course I'm simply making a statement in the title here about my own lack of words on screen these last few days. Thanks for all recent comments, though. I always like to try to respond to them all, but that too is beyond my temporal capabilities. Or something. If only I were Doctor Who. Or Hiro. Or even Marty McFly. And I could go back and literally make time to write shit. Oh well. I'm not. So back to work I go. Hope you all are having a lovely Thursday. It's hot in the office today. Tell you what, as a bit of colour, I'll upload a sneak peek at a bit of our new kitchen. May 28 Chick, chick, chick, chick, chicken... For Sunday lunch yesterday, because we had nothing in the house and we didn't have time to go shopping, what with little bits of DIY and great loads of work needing to be done, the wife and I headed to the new eatery in our vicinity. A few weeks ago it opened its doors. And the queues on that first Friday evening were quite a sight to behold. Unfortunately we didn't have a camera with us at the time because it was most definitely "bloggable". Anyway, that's the past remote. Let's talk about the past recent. The eatery? KFC, as you might have guessed from the pic of the Colonel. We're not really big fast-food types, but now and again it must be done. People say not very nice things about fast-food-joint staff -- y'know, stuff about how dumb they are, how no qualifications are needed to do their job, a trained monkey could do it, etc. But I gotta tell you this: while you may or may not need a brain to work in these places, you damn well better have one if you intend to order there. All I wanted was a bite to eat, but first I had to figure out what. I opted for one of the "meals", but then I had to choose between the standard Zinger meal or the Wicked Zinger meal. "I'll have the Wicked one." "Which side order would you like?" "What are the choices?" "Baked beans, coleslaw, or corn on the cob." "I'll have the coleslaw, please." "And what extra chicken portion would you like? Wings or an extra piece of chicken?" [Like "extra piece" is some technical term for a chicken bodily part.] "The extra piece please." "And what drink?" AAAAAAAAAAGGGHHHHHHHHHHHH! And then KABOOOOOOM! My head exploded. It was quite the mess all over the restaurant floor. And they're burying me today. Still, it was worth it. No, sorry, the other thing: not worth it. Definitely not worth it. June 6, Jizz cocks and piss kidneys And so another season of Peep Show comes to an end. This is, without a doubt, the single best comedy show to have come out of Britain in the past decade, if not ever. Yes, there I said it. You can take your Monty Pythons and Fawlty Towerses, your Porridges and Young Oneses: we've all seen them one time too many, thanks to the glorious BBC's reruns policy. Peep Show is king, the boss of them all. No, it's not that kind of peep show. I could say I was there from the beginning of the first episode, the night it was first aired, but that would just make me sound like a piss kidney. Or a jizz cock. But it's true. Earlier that week, way back whenever it was, Red and I had seen stars Mitchell and Webb on some breakfast TV show, flogging their imminent wares. They showed a clip. "What odd fucking shite is this?" I might have wondered aloud. It looked silly, with it's first-person-POV camerawork. But nothing else was on TV that fateful night, so we gave it a go. It fucking rocked back then, and it still rocks now.

My Personal Weblog #12

Wed, 23 May 2007 07:36:08 -0800

As you all know I love teaching. Another thing I love is traveling. Over the past couple of weeks I've had the opportunity to do both. First, on May the Tenth I traveled to Portland, to give a lecture on travel photography. Giving a lecture to Americans on art before going to France, was good practice. It was more than travel photography, it was about black and white travel photography. I talked to them about black and white film development, and creating a portable studio. The audience found it interesting you didn't have to worry about film damage at the Airport X-Ray machines, if you developed your own prints while on the road. Many folks came up to me afterwards and, asked about the details of how to construct one of these portable labs. The lecture itself ended at 3 in the afternoon, and my flight for Europe was at 6, so I didn't have long to answer questions. It had been thirteen years since I'd been out the country, and now I was spending about two weeks abroad. Of course the security procedures where defiantly bewildering, and I was thankful, that I had recently discovered the miracle of portable film development. In Paris I knew I'd be speaking in broken French (gasp), giving the "Inventors of art," advice. Actually I had thought of the French as more into beauty and the arts then they where. The audience I had was generally easy going, sans a couple of folks. When I lecture to them about film processing on the road, and stated "It would lead to better photos," a mumble spread through the room. I learned to talk less about art, and the times I did cover it, the audience appeared skeptical, which lead to me delivering an even less sound lecture. So I talked more about the technical side of film development. Apparently a lot of French artists have converted to digital photography, and so they where generally interested in the techniques used in mobile film processing and printing. But the next morning when I was to meet Herve Caumont. The lecture hall was the first real piece of France I observed, as my flight came in at night. It was a gigantic room, it probably seated in excess of one thousand people. As I walked through the halls, the sound was perfectly rendered. A foot step even sounded beautiful. I thought this was because of my sleep deprivednes. But when I met Mr. Caumont, the hall still had the same beautiful acoustics. Caumont was an amazing man to talk to. I always loved his travel books, and the life with which he described his travels, but to talk to him in real life was a mind blowing experience. Even with my broken French, and his broken, and British flavored, English the images he "painted" with words, as I said before, where amazing. He was preparing for a lecture but he did manage to tell me some interesting stories that hadn't made it to the final edit of his book. He says he'll add some of his stories to a future book, so I think I'll just leave you readers with some suspense. I then spent my remaining days in Germany. I visited the Alps, and it was sad to see how once covered snowy mountains, now resembled the Appalachians of my hometown. After two days in Germany, I gave a similar lecture in Berlin. Many Germans are proficient in English, I guess because of our occupation of them, so this lecture was relatively easy, and the crowd reaction resembled that of Portland, that is the many questions and surprises of this portable film lab.

My Personal Weblog #11

Sat, 05 May 2007 00:40:44 -0800

Thursday night, May 10, Mississippi Ballroom, Portland, Oregon. Mark that date on your calendars because you’ll want to see this. I’ll be giving a lecture on the lost notebooks of Dr. Frieda Lionswater, which detail her design for a device that produces a clean form of energy. She disappeared in 1986, and all her notes and research with her. Before her untimely disappearance, Doctor Lionswater kept a laboratory out in Wonder Valley, a remote part of the Mojave Desert in California. I drove out to her former laboratory, the last place anyone had seen her. It was hot and dusty, and the air had an odd odor of chemical smoke when I drove up to the converted ranch where she had done her research. A very sinister man came out and I think he may have had a gun in his pocket. “Who the hell are you?” he said. I mumbled something about the wrong address and wasted no time getting out of there. Back in town I went to the library and to use the computer and mentioned the research I was doing to the librarian. Luck was with me as it turned out she had known Dr. Lionswater. She advised me not to go out to where the lab had been; it had been taken over by squatters who were making meth. She had heard that Dr. Lionswater had a son, John, who had moved to Malaysia. So I looked him up and caught a plane to Kuala Lumpur. Sadly, he had a mental illness that caused him to think he was Somerset Maugham. I had to play along with him. He had used his mother’s money to buy a rubber plantation and a white suit, and he didn’t have much of anything else, except a really good-looking boyfriend. The boyfriend, Musa, told me that John had been fine until he was attacked with a mysterious chemical, causing him to become mentally unstable. He had taken what was left of his mother’s money and moved to Malaysia. But he did have some moments of lucidity, and would talk about how his mother used to collect scorpion venom, which he thought was perhaps used for the mysterious device. “Be careful” he said to me as I got into a taxi bound for the airport. My next stop was to talk to Dr. Lionswater’s laboratory assistant. He was currently assisting another scientist doing research on Belgian chocolate, so I flew to Brussels and arranged a meeting. “So if you’re all concerned with the environment and stuff,” he said, “why are you flying all over the place?” He confronted me. However, I felt that he was hiding something by trying to be antagonistic. After talking to him for a long time and using my calming hypnosis techniques on him, he told me that Dr. Lionswater had an abandoned gold mine on her property, where she may have had another, secret lab. But he got very frightened when we talked about what may have happened to her, and started talking about conspiracies by oil company executives and the royal family of Brunei, and then all of the sudden refused to say another word. I flew to Lima, Peru next. What a city! I was lucky I got there when the Molusk Festival was going on. After some sightseeing, I went to interview Dr. Lionswater’s former husband Ben. He told me that Dr. Lionswater had buried a drum containing some papers in a remote cave on the coast of Maui. I chartered a plane, then chartered a fishing boat and went to the map coordinates he gave me. But in the cave was a man waiting for me with a big bag and a gun. I had been set up! He had been waiting in the damp cave for so long that it aggravated his arthritis and he couldn’t pull the trigger. I ran out of the cave, but more people were waiting for me, and they put me in a big burlap sack and dropped me from a helicopter into a shark-filled lagoon. But the burlap was fragile from being stored in that damp cave too long, so I was able to get out and escaped except I wasn’t fast enough and one of the sharks managed to bite me on the pinky finger. In fact I’m typing this with one hand! I stealthily made my way back to the cave, and the people were gone. I dug on a spot where the earth seemed to have been disturbed many years ago. I found a steel lunch box containing many papers with scientific notations on them. But if you want to know exactly what they said, and hear more about my research, you’ll have to come to my upcoming lecture in Portland. I have recently given this lecture in Melbourne, Australia, Caracas, Venezuela, Agana, Guam, Nairobi, Kenya, and of course, Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia. I’ve been continually pleased and surprised that people seem genuinely interested and I’ve continued to draw large crowds in each place I visit. In fact in Caracas all the people could not fit into the auditorium, and had to watch it on closed-circuit television out in the street. The one in Melbourne was a bit sparse though. I think there was a big cricket match on that day. But the people who showed up showed great enthusiasm. The day after my lecture in Portland, I leave to give the lecture in Paris, Aachen, Germany, and Berlin. Make sure to attend my lecture in Portland, Oregon, on Thursday May 10, at the Mississippi Ballroom.

My Personal Weblog #10

Sat, 28 Apr 2007 01:21:01 -0800

At night you got a dream in which you where a great writer. So in the next morning you decide to work on it. Your story begins in this way. You where struggling for work you have the talent but they want's one how can please them and this was out of your rules, so you gave it up. While you where passing by a river side in late night you show a dead body of you loving girlfriend and you decide to investigate it. While you where investigating it you came to know that a politician was behind it. You fight for your girlfriend and gave punishment to that guilty politician. Your story was selected for making film, and the film was posted on www.youtube.com . You where happy with your work. Your friend's and relative where also happy .

My Personal Weblog #9

Sat, 21 Apr 2007 14:14:06 -0800

The time between April 6 and April 26 was like an elevator ride. Down down into the dark basement of my lonely thoughts, and then up up into the sunlight of shared creative fellowship. And nobody at the party noticed my newly gross body either, I had almost to drag their attention to it. Peter Abrahams, the famous South African writer, was happy to attend a little gathering at my shack at Arch Cape. I put him up in the mulberry room; it has a great view of the sea stacks, a steam shower and low-flow toilet en suite. My friend Solshenitsyn stayed in the simpler mauve room next to him, with not quite as great a view, or bathroom. I would have had Nabokov or Brodsky down, but, dammit, they're dead. Harold Pinter was across the hall in the puce. A good Nobelist is hard to find. I greeted them with fresh croissants, brioche, raspberry jam of my own manufacture, fresh roasted coffee and a plan for our time together. We would write an epic of world peace. A piece of work so wonderful it would not only bring the harmony of the spheres to our little patch of the universe, it would also raise its authors above the status of merely regional writers, like Steinbeck. Solly helped the other two guys up to their rooms. He's still pretty spry. At dinner, we feasted on truffled wild boar, after a light first course of vichysoisse and local oysters. Really unctouous pommes frites. Potatoes Anna. And Hush Puppies for balance. Then a small salad and Bombe. For wine, a few bottles of one of the great old Burgundies. Not from California. Pinter nodded a little, he doesn'thave much of a head for wine I think, but he did seem to enjoy my Gilda impression. They all like a flash of curvy thigh, don't they? "I like'em big ," Pinter confided to me as we relaxed on the specially braced divan before the fire. "And you're enormous." I smiled at him shyly, squeezing my arms together at my sides to improve the frontal view. "And you write. I love a woman who writes." I guess he does. A thing is not necessarily either true or false, as he'd say. Now Solly was nodding in the shadows. Had I overfed my guests? From the inglenook, Abrahams watched us sharply. I offered them brandy. But they were tired from their journeys, and soon enough the party broke up. I was sleeping when Peter scratched on my door. But I was happy to wrap myself in my magenta plaid pashmina(the one with the spangles) and join him down on the beach. We drank a bottle of ouzo together companionably, side by side on the cool powdery sands. We exchanged confidences I will never share with another living soul, and we wrote a little ditty. As I remember:"Lights out , lights out , now we are all alone..." No wait, sorry,that was the other Peter Abrahams. This one went:" I wakes to sleep and takes my waking slow/ These waves tells me just where I needs to go/It's like that gander flying oer the snow." Not very good, I know. It was 3AM. We were drunk. He said he loved to see my body splayed out in the darkness like a great white dune. I liked that. Our little symposium is kind of a blur for the next few days. There was a huge storm, waves crashing etc etc. Sometime I danced for my guests on the reinforced table. I remember dimly, Peter shouting at me "I do not write crime novels." Old Pinter quoting and quoting:"Uncovers the precipice under everyday prattle..." Prattle indeed. Late one night during the height of the storm, I think,bedraggled Dan Savage, the famous gay sex-columnist, wandered in from Palm Springs, really upset about a love-affair or some lost luggage. I guess maybe I cured him, not even really meaning to, with that well-known honey-bath cure of Kevin Canty's. If I did I'm sorry. We're both sorry---it could ruin his career. And God it was sticky. As for the Epic Of World Peace? It didn't quite get finished. We did work on it some, in the evenings by the fire. And the experence was wonderful. Such fellowship. We are left with some good ideas, some directions to try. We're gonna try again in fall, at Jackson Hole. We got a grant!

My Personal Weblog #8

Fri, 06 Apr 2007 13:12:21 -0800

The time between March 24 to April 6 was a like a roller coaster ride. During this time I noticed how grossly obese I had become. I was having problems doing even the most mundane routine chores. My dresses were too small and expressed their inability to cover my big frame. The toilet seat was too tiny and I feared sitting on it lest it would refuse to take my heavy load and crash in protest. Walking was a problem too, I would get out of breath and feel like plunking on the couch with just a tiny bit of exertion. Driving was another predicament; my capacious body would refuse to fit in the small space offered by the car. Getting in and out of the vehicle was a laborious undertaking in itself. People had also started reacting to my big frame. Some would give mocking glances; others would look at me like I was an irresponsible jerk who had screwed up his life. A number of acquaintances were embarrassed when they talked with me. Association with me had become a disgrace for them. Some friends would show concern; others would give blunt sarcastic statements. All this with the same effect; I was becoming miserable by the day and my life was a living hell. It was during this nightmarish time that I was visited by a writer friend of mine, the famous overweight British writer William Leith. I decided to confide in this trusted mate of whom I had know for a very long time. Having himself dealt with weight problems, he quickly understood my plight and decided to take matters in his hands. The very first thing to do was to find apt piece of clothing. My friend gave the following guidelines: Never wear tight clothing, go for loose attire, which easily fits. This will not only hide the plump but also make you feel comfortable. Wear black as it hides fat better than other colors. Wear easy fitting shoes, again this will put you at ease and the more relaxed you are the more confident you will feel. For formal occasions, wear customized coats (he gave me the address of a tailor who made such coats) and dark shirts. Second, don't be conscious of your body. Be as relaxed as possible and don't judge yourself. Attitude is the key, if you feel and exude poise, people will look at you as a confident person and never dare to look down upon you. Third, be extremely cordial and polite in all conversations. Pleasant speakers are always welcome and easily form part of a gathering. Hide your physical grossness by showering love and affection. Remember, the first impression you create would be unpleasant because of your physical robustness; hence you must make up for it with the nice conversations you indulge in. Smile a lot and don't be grumpy. Fourth, don't binge eat in public. Have small portions and be the first to finish. You can always come back home and satiate yourself. Armed with this knowledge and some days of training with shopping, my friend and I decided to put things to test. I had to present my very latest fiction to a group of people in Tokyo. Dressed in a smartly fitting dress, given by my friend, we arrived at the venue. I started the presentation by exchanging pleasantries. I made my conversation extremely polite and refined, using the tips my friend had given me. I was surprised at the positive vibes I was sub-consciously receiving from all around, this put me more at ease and gave me even more confidence. The presentation went extremely well and ended with me receiving a thumping applause .I had never been applauded at such an appearance before. My friend had saved the day and indeed my life. Later, we were invited to a secret underground nightclub. Dressed in another one of my friend's dresses, I was looking adorable. Beautiful people at the club glanced appreciatively at me. I could feel their love and admiration. I danced all night and had the most beautiful time. I could not believe how much life had changed for me. On my return to Portland, I was amazed to see that people were unable to recognize me. My new look had them dumbfounded and they could not fathom that I was the same person. I was walking down the street and I ran into Mayor Vera Katz. I waved hello but she did not recognize me. "Do I know you?" She inquired. "I am Matthew Stadler. You know, the famous writer." "Matthew, you look so different. I can't exactly place what it is." "Oh, Vera. It's still the same old me," I said "Time, which changes people, does not alter the image we have retained of them." Oh! How beautiful life is now.