There are certain types of folks out there who are seemingly more attractive to aliens than others. We have no idea why, but this is the way it is. For example, young children are usually more likely to be abducted than the elderly. Why is that? Here are some obvious reasons:
-Children are innately willing to cooperate with aliens. Aliens are “crazy” and “cool.” Decrepit grandparents often resemble extraterrestrials. I don’t know a single little kid who wouldn’t jump at the chance to “take old Uncle Earl’s spaceship for a spin.”-Parents tell kids not to talk to strangers, but never aliens. They are captivating to kiddies. Toy Story factors into this. -The developmental stages of the human race are obviously fascinating to outside life (minus the bed-wetting, vomiting, and nose-picking). -Kids have plenty of time in their expected life span for tracking and monitoring post-abduction.
-Small children tend to carry Skittles, rocks, and crayons around in their pockets. Clearly fascinating stuff to aliens.
Go to Google Translate. Copy and paste Peppermint Winter’s lyrics. Translate into Japanese. Take the result, translate it back to English. Enjoy your day.
Sorry I am late here, but it’s entitled: All Things Bright and Beautiful.
A few nights ago I was thumbing through the pages of a book someone once gave me. Tucked behind the front cover was a small slip of red paper. On it was written the following:
“If ever there is a tomorrow when we’re not together, there is something you must always remember. You are braver than you believe, stronger than you seem, and smarter than you think. But the most important thing is, even if we’re apart, I’ll always be with you.”
-Winnie the Pooh
Perhaps the most compelling quote ever credited to a portly cartoon bear. The book in my hands was tied to a long story that involved myself and the person who gave it to me. It took years to unfold, yet as I sat there thinking about it, a montage of memories flashed before my eyes and something inside began to hurt.
Hey guys, Adam Young is getting closer and closer to finishing.
You better be ready!
Haha, no I am not Adam Young. I apologize if it seems that way. I am not aware of him having a tumblr, but that would be fantastic.
His fan mail address is:
c/o Foundations Artist Management
Attn: Steve Bursky
601 W. 26th St #1080
New York, NY 10001
But an address to him specifically, I’m not sure anyone could find online. I apologize. Good luck though!
My friend Pete has a theory he refers to as “Deep Regret.”
By definition, Deep Regret is the acute anxiety or inevitable apprehension trigged in the average male by the sudden or unexpected appearance of an immensely beautiful girl he innately knows is way out of his league. This girl is so gorgeous, so exquisite, so stunning, he becomes instantly enamored beyond mental functionality and can barely keep his eyes from popping out of his head, let alone bring himself to speak to her. Her beauty and elegance, her feminine mystique are so intoxicating, so staggering, his knees involuntarily go weak, he becomes unreasonably inarticulate, and as a result, just stands there like a n00b with his jaw on the sidewalk. Naturally, she takes zero notice of him and doesn’t even acknowledge his existence as she gracefully strolls away out of sight, and ultimately out of this life forever. It’s not a conscious thing on her part; she’s not being discourteous or mean by any stretch of the imagination, she’s just that sweet, innocent and utterly charming. She simply has no idea.
Okay. Never for a second have I pretended to have the ever-elusive female charm all figured out, but I can certainly speak for the impending inhibitions that we shy males must deal with. I’d tried to give this crazy phenomena a suitable title for a long time until Pete finally hit the nail on the head. Deep Regret refers to the irresistible longing a boy has to approach and speak to his dream girl even though he cannot physically or emotionally make himself do it. He is trapped in inner turmoil. Stricken by quiet chaos. Utterly helpless. Paralyzed. Despite the inner machine gun spray of stinging desperation, he watches her walk away and spends that night staring at the ceiling wondering WHAT WOULD HAVE HAPPENED had he found the strength to fight back the nerves long enough to say hello. His chance is lost, she is gone, yet he still replays the scene in his head, wishing he wasn’t such a jellyfish around pretty girls. Who knows what might’ve happened? He kicks himself. The wondering alone could choke a moose.
That, dear friends, is Deep Regret.
We opened for John Mayer in Houston a few months ago. Myself and good pal/monitor engineer Micah were hoofing down the quarter mile stretch from the venue to the bus after soundcheck. The sidewalk led us around the perimeter of the grounds before intersecting with a long line of fans waiting to get into the show. We were minding our own business, talking about nothing in particular when suddenly, it happened. I glanced off to my right and my heart literally stopped dead.
It was electric. It all happened in slow motion. There in front of us was a group of girls in their early/mid-twenties, walking and chatting amongst themselves on their way to the show. One of them turned to say something to her friend and I almost had a heart attack. I literally, physically couldn’t breathe. Everything about her was gorgeous. Her eyes, her smile, the way her hair fell across her face, the way she laughed, the way she walked. I was immediately struck by the Stupid Hammer as my frozen charisma melted all over the sidewalk and I stood there gaping like a ridiculous imbecile.
Allow me to pause for a moment simply to clarify that this was NOT a beastly, primal, overly-rugged masculine emotion that took hold of me. I did NOT slobber all over myself via lewd desire like some impudent, lustful, arrogant bro. I did NOT jump up and down and inwardly scream “Woah, that girl is hot!” because it is my personal opinion that the word “hot” has been weighed down by so many repulsive, disrespectful connotations (all thanks to modern media), that it has ultimately become a rather derogatory adjective with which to describe such pure and blameless beauty. It has a devious way of cheapening it and that tends to bug me. Deep Regret and the stunning quality of such unpolluted beauty is far too exquisite and innocent to be associated with such brash crudeness.
Whew. Glad that’s all cleared up.
She was beautiful. Actually, beautiful doesn’t even touch how graceful this woman was. I was utterly smitten. My mouth went dry and my heart beat around inside my chest like a dull jackhammer as the butterflies in my stomach strapped on rusty ice skates and raged in thunderous fury. My malfunctioning mental faculties shuddered and turned over a few times like a cold engine in a winter morning before promptly shutting down. It was the first time in my life I’d truly felt stunned by beauty.
I was speechless. She was Cinderella.
As I stood there incapacitated, she glided by and continued on down the sidewalk, just being totally sweet and innocent. We never made eye contact, she didn’t happen to look up or notice me. She had no idea I was even there. I instantly knew what had happened because it hit me like an iron bell in an empty church.
DEEP REGRET STRIKES AGAIN.
This is where I tell everyone how I’ve never fancied myself a terribly romantic person, and just like anyone, I have my fair share of rough edges. However, during this particular scenario in Houston, had I kept my wits about me and somehow found the nerve to approach Cinderella, I suspect I would’ve merely blabbered a load of silly rubbish via a doomed attempt of acting “cool” or “outgoing” or “fun,” only to fail miserably. Of course, I still wonder what would’ve happened. Alas, the world continues to turn, life continues to endure, and Deep Regret continues to strike like a viper.
Despite all of this, there is hope, endless amounts of the stuff, and that’s my favorite part.
This is where I swallow an overdose of optimism, leap out of my chair with my fist in the air, and shout from the rooftops at the top of my lungs, “Life must go on!” for this I truly know:
She is out there. My Cinderella. She is real. She exists. I pray for her constantly. May God satisfy the desires of her heart, draw her close, consume her. May He claim her passions, her identity, her refuge, her hopes, her strengths and weaknesses, every fiber of her being. May she treasure and cherish her Savior more than anything of this world and cling to His will with every ounce of her stamina. By all that she is, does, and strives to be, may He draw near to her and she to Him.
A mental scene is suddenly vivid. The midday sun beats down on a dirty saloon town. A showdown is taking place in the middle of a sweltering dusty street. Back to back, Deep Regret and I pace off as the clinks of our spurs split the deafening silence. At any moment, we’ll whirl around and face each other, gun metal blazing like fire. Our shots will ring through the empty buildings, shatter glass storefront windows, and only one will walk away alive.
At present, the sunset deepens in the dusk and we are still pacing, Deep Regret and I. Muscles tensed, senses alert, counting, waiting, ready to lunge for each other’s throats like wild animals. Though it hasn’t happened yet, the moment will surely arrive when faith and fear collide like a double train wreck and that’s when I’ll spin around and pull the trigger with such deft aim and vehement resolve, a silver bullet will rip through the air and I won’t even have to stand there and watch it spiral in slow motion… because I’ll already know… I won’t miss.
That’s the cool Wyatt Erp version.
Perhaps the Cary Grant version is a bit more refined. Perhaps I’ll be wearing a crisp tuxedo when I meet her (highly unlikely). I shall approach Her Highness, bow, and graciously introduce myself. She’ll offer me her royal hand, reveal her name to me, and we shall chat pleasantly whilst swirling around a ballroom of dreamy splendor. Our friendship will grow and blossom, and neither of us will ever have to write silly (and rather verbose) blogs explaining what Deep Regret is because it’ll just feel right and perhaps even meant to be.
It’s a cozy thought. Yet one I prefer to casually think about over long flights to Japan rather than wish upon a star right this second.
Time. There is much time left and lots of life seasons. There is much to see, to do, and to be.
I am a happy clam. I must take it all in, give thanks for it, and treasure reality with a heart crammed full of content as life continues to play out day-by-day. Should I do simply that, I shall finally rest assured knowing the next time Deep Regret rears its ugly head, I’ll be waiting with semi-smug confidence, ready to act swiftly.
I personally have never been to any of his concerts. But I’m sure it’s magical.
There you go!
I’m not, sure. Because he loaded his cover onto his site, where it was first found. But if you search around I’m sure you can find a free download. A few sites will let you download for free if you just sign up for the site and such. Sorry I don’t have a direct link.
I remember when I got my first computer.
I’ll gladly admit, beginning a blog entry with the words, “I remember when I got my first computer” is ten to one, the nerdiest way to begin any entry of any kind, but when the things in life you are most passionate about involve computers from stem to stern, I suppose it’s somewhat permissible. Computers aren’t like bikes or cars or wisdom teeth, and it’s terribly awkward to talk about your first computer as if it were something as sacred as your first kiss, but regardless, the REAL issue of this entry has little to do with my first computer itself, for it goes much “deeper,” shall we say.
I was a sophomore in high school. I mowed more lawns that you could shake a fist at. I saved up months and months of allowance for a mighty, magnificent, glorious computing machine. After finally placing my online order, a handful of boxes showed up on my doorstep and I hugged the UPS guy with such a powerful mixture of gratitude and gratefulness, he begged to be released before hurtling back to the safety of his truck. I waved goodbye before ripping into the boxes like a ravenous wolf.
It was a Dell Dimension 2350 series desktop, complete with Windows XP, 1.80 GHz Intel Pentium 4 and 256MB of ram. It sounded like Dad’s diesel when I turned it on. I was in love.
The discovery of the novel ability to burn CD’s was instantaneous. Smokey Bear would not have been a happy camper, for my bedroom swiftly became a blazing wildfire of flaming infernal madness (in a really fun way). I burned CD’s to play in the stereo in the kitchen, for the Pioneer in my car, for the sweet Discman via long family vacations, for the little boombox on the bathroom counter — you name it, I burned it. I became a walking pyromaniac, a firebug, a reasonably talented arsonist, and nothing could singe the big silly smile off my face.
The whole point of unloading all this rubbish is because something came into my life around this time that completely changed everything.
Ahhh, I can practically see your eyebrows raise in bewildered confusion.
A chair? Really? Come on. Look at that thing. It’s… it’s… a dumb chair.
Well, dear friends, this is the part of the blog where I describe how ordinary this chair was… to everyone but me. (Dramatic music)
It should strike you as no surprise to learn that I was not an incredibly verbose person as a sophomore. I was a rather shy lad and I wasn’t born with a silver tongue, nor the ability to speak with ridiculous amounts of eloquence. Sneakiness, maybe. Eloquence, none. That being said, my list of friends was not particularly long as a 10th grader with a sweet new computer. I began using a sequencing program called FL Studio and it literally changed my life. That however, is a lengthy story for another day. The main point is that the wide, windy world of computing became fascinating to a kid who suddenly saw an old Dell as a way of creating dreams and becoming lost in them. The artistry and imagination of creating music “in the box” immediately hit home with me (permission given to the “analog crowd” to shudder with an acceptable icy disgust) and I was in seventh heaven.
I had it set up in the basement on an old wooden desk I found rotting away in the depths of my parent’s 1899 Victorian farmhouse. But I had nowhere to sit! I was not blessed with thighs of steel to crouch for hours, nor an upside down five-gallon bucket to seat myself upon. If ever there was a pickle, I’d gotten myself into one.
Enter the chair. (Hero music)
My buddy Mike is a really nice guy, the sort of guy who thinks of others long before himself. I remember the day Mike came over hauling a well-loved blue vinyl office chair he’d snatched up at a garage sale for twenty-five cents. A steal.
I took one look at it and went into orbit.
I had everything a boy could possibly ask for and much, much more. The days flowed comfortably by like rivers of honey. I sat in the chair. I spun in the chair. I rolled around in the chair. I spilled Mountain Dew all over myself and the chair. I made lifelong memories that would soon be forgotten in the chair. That piece of furniture and I were inseparable. We shared that sweet and ever-magical bond between boy and chair.
Before I conclude this blog entry with “…and they lived happily ever after”, I am pleased to take a deep, suspenseful breath and announce that THE CHAIR LIVES ON! (80’s glam metal)
I sit in the chair. I spin in the chair. I spill Mountain Dew all over myself and the chair. The chair and I have become best of friends and we look forward to making memories we won’t remember in two weeks. In fact, the more I type these words and the longer I sit here and think about it, the purpose of this blog entry isactually designed to serve as a device for formally introducing you, the greedy reader, to one of man’s best (and frequently overlooked) friends. The chair.
However, this particular chair is not just “any chair,” mind you; it’s not just any old piece of used furniture. It is the lord of all chairs and has been my friend through many dangers. I grew so fond of this chair so quickly, it suddenly became apparent to me that a formal name/alias was necessary for it. It needed to be important, distinguished, regal, impressive, noble, original, stately, imperial, majestic, dignified, kingly, and totally awesome.
Thus, after long bouts of heavy contemplating, it was known henceforth as, The Chair. (Imperial March)
Internet Friends, I’d like you to meet, The Chair:
The Chair, meet my wonderful Internet Friends.
Whew, I feel better about things already!