Synaptic Cynicism

My Brain Hurts.

Right now, I want to drive a spike through my brain. Like a big, rusty railroad pin. I feel like the last few weeks and months have done nothing to establish my sanity, but have made great inroads to erode my ability to suppress “the urges”. And by “the urges”, picture Jack Nicholson in The Shining. Yeah. So we’re on the same page now.

First off, I’m getting married. Which should be awesome. But you know what? There’s a reason I never host parties. It’s because I hate thinking about all the crap that happens when you’re in charge of arranging a party. And a wedding is HUGE MOTHERFUCKIN’ PARTY. Don’t get me wrong: I love my little girl so much it makes my head hurt, but this whole process is not for me. I can’t wait until we’re just married and I can be like “Yeah, that was cool”.

Then, there’s the house. Trying to buy one, everyone says I should, now’s the time, etc. Problem is, I don’t have all this money that you need to buy a house. And the few houses I can afford are not really doing it for me. And I don’t know if you heard, but our entire country is in the toilet financially. And by toilet, I mean “Hell toilet”. And by “Hell toilet”, I mean Satan is taking a hearty beer-and-taco dump on everything everyone touches. I even have good credit, and yet, this whole endeavor is terrifying. Again, should be exciting; in actuality, fear is gripping my yambag like a Gitmo interrogator, and squeezing a little harder each day.

It turns out that a fitting parallel for how this financial horseshit is all being resolved is that AIG is suing the government for trying to take away the money that it stole outright. I mean, I suppose they feel a little slighted by this whole thing, with everyone being so mean to them. Poor AIG. Hey, you know what? Maybe if you didn’t fist-fuck the country with a glove full of honey and broken glass like Tong Po in Kickboxer, we wouldn’t be so angry. People are out for blood now, and they’re not backing down. It was suggested that the offending execs commit suicide themselves, as in Japanese culture, but that would indicate that they feel a crushing amount of shame for what they did, and were not able to go on living. Clearly, they feel fine, and the hookers and blow and helicopters and rugs made of failed mortgages and homeless people speak to that end.

And I’m sorry, really I am, but when I see The Big O joking and jerking around on Jay Leno, it makes me think that he’s not taking this shit as seriously as he should. I know it’s a big problem. I know it’s going to take a long time to clean up. But from everything I’ve been hearing, it feels like we’re going fucking BACKWARDS. And that’s not a good message to be sending. He’s upholding Bush-era policies, promising change, and then insulting retards. (PS: we all know retards can’t bowl. It’s not a secret. Give the guy a break. If they could, the PBA would be a LOT more interesting.) But seriously, he needs to buckle the hell down and stop cracking wise. FDR wouldn’t have done this kind of shit, and neither should he.

Then(!), there’s the RIDICULOUS rash of plane-related accidents lately. I mean, COME ON. I’ve been flying my whole life, and as a student of logic, I know numbers are always in my favor, but FOR FUCK’S SAKE! Planes are falling out of the sky like fucking Duck Hunt birds! Only there’s no funny little dog snickering at you and grabbing them to reward your expert marksmanship. No, it’s a scary fireball of anxiety and karmic retribution. I’m seriously asking myself what the hell do I need to travel for? I can see everything I need to with Google Earth, right? If I drink enough, and play ethnic music while looking at street view in other countries, it’s almost the same, right?

Basically, it’s a bad time to be on Earth right now, and there’s not a goddamned thing we can do about it. I think the only thing left for this go-around would be full-scale alien invasion. And at this point, it would be an improvement. At the very least, we could stop thinking about all this crap for a while, and start thinking about living like Anne Frank.

Fight or flight, bitches.

This Post Will Anger Some People; I Don’t Care.

I told myself I wasn’t going to watch the Oscars last night. And then I realized that there was no new Family Guy or Simpsons on last night, but rather a dearth of cars going left at very high speeds, over and over and over again. So Oscars it was. And I didn’t even make it through the whole show, because I was absolutely assed out from snowboarding the day before. But I digress. This isn’t about the Oscars, or snowboarding, or falling asleep early, although it was pretty rad.

Here’s the thing. While I didn’t see all the nominated movies, I happened to see a bunch of them earlier this year, namely, Slumdog Millionaire, Doubt, and The Wrestler. In that order. And each movie was successively better than the previous. Seriously. We went to see Slumdog first, when the hype was still manageable, because some of our friends saw it and recommended it. It was ok. Doubt was pretty solid. Philip Seymour Hoffman is a freaking amazing actor, and I would watch that guy eat a cheese steak if I thought it was going to be cool. He pretty much has carte blanche with me. And then we saw The Wrestler. Wow. Mickey Rourke blew my fucking mind out the back of my skull. He not only should have won the Oscar, but they should have eliminated the Best Actor category from here on out, because no one was touching that. I seriously almost cried during that movie, because he just pushed the failed heartbreak down my throat until I couldn’t take it anymore. So yeah, I liked it.

Now here’s the thing: I don’t know if it’s because of the cast, or the story, or the “underdog” mentality of the whole production, but Slumdog pretty much ran the show last night. Which is fine, except that it’s NOT REALLY THAT GREAT OF A MOVIE. There – I said it. Don’t get me wrong – I liked it. LIKED it. It didn’t change my fucking life and make me believe in love and cosmic threads and say “oh wow, wasn’t that just heart-explodingly beautiful?” the way the media, and everyone who saw it would lead you to believe. Is it worth your time? Sure. I laughed a bit through it, and it was charming, and the kids were fantastic actors. BUT COME ON, PEOPLE. It really was not the movie that last night’s extravaganza made it out to be.

I love Danny Boyle; Shallow Grave, Trainspotting, 28 Days Later? Shit! The guy makes some awesome movies! I’m a zombie fan who was so jaded by the state of horror movies, and when that came out and I saw those fast, crazy, snarling undead people, I very nearly shit pure fear. It was fantastic. Slumdog had Boyle’s prints all over it – his dreamy, ethereal visual style, for instance – and the cinematography was outstanding, to be sure. Like I said, the movie wasn’t total shite. But then there was a Bollywood-style dance sequence at the end, which pretty much made me get super pissed really fast. And I like love stories, but everything about this movie was predictable. There really were no surprises. Not that I’m a child and need to be in suspense the whole time, but if you want to engage me, make me work for it (Doubt did). And make the characters compelling. Maybe it’s because I’m mentally damaged, but I related far more to Mickey Rourke’s character, all broken and pathetic, than I did to this street rat in India. Sorry, just did.

To reiterate, the movie wasn’t bad. Really. I could have, however, waited for a DVD release, and I’m kind of tired of hearing people talk about it like the second coming. I knew it was going to get Best Picture, and that’s fine. Usually the movie I want for BP doesn’t win anyway, so I’m used to disappointment. I guess what I’m saying is, I can’t fucking wait to stop hearing about this movie. I apologize to anyone who had their life forever changed by Slumdog Millionaire, but seriously. It’s like Titanic-style hype. And we all know Titanic really sucks.

The Super Bowl: America, Get The Hell Over It

I know, I know, EVERYONE loves the Super Bowl. I must be some kind of Communist Pinko Hippie bastard for saying otherwise. But seriously, it’s so boring. Football in and of itself, at its purest form, is kind of cool. No seriously, if you look at it, it’s a game of strategy more than strength, and deception and misdirection. It could be so awesome. But then you tart it all up with the eye-melting motion graphics, and unending analysis by former players who would otherwise be running used-car dealerships if not for the need to have them weigh in on everything from what type of underwear is better for what kind of weather to why the coin toss should be re-run a half dozen times, and the game becomes an abomination of its former self.

I want to like it. Not really, but kind of. I mean, it would make my life so much easier; my family would accept me more fully, my co-workers wouldn’t look at me like I just ate an infant in front of them when I tell them I don’t really care about it, and while at bars with people I don’t feel like talking to, it would mean I don’t have to “pretend” I’m watching whatever game is on, I could actually be engrossed in it.

But it’s just not going to happen. I have to accept it. I don’t enjoy the flow of the game, which is essentially about as smooth as a constipated bowel movement. Shit takes so long to happen, and there’s so many pauses and breaks in the action, I’ve seen church services that were more engaging. I could fake it, but that facade wouldn’t last for very long, and soon my bile would surface and I’d start yelling at people around me, instead of at the opposing team on the comically large big-screen TV. And then I’d end up alienating the few people who have chosen to look past my patriotic indiscretion.

So I’m not going to watch the game today. I didn’t even know who was playing until Friday, when I happened to see it on the news, which I wasn’t paying attention to anyway. Instead, I will drink heavily, and possibly snack, along with the rest of America, while I watch funny movies, and of course, the Puppy Bowl, at the behest of the F. Because she’s a straight-up puppy junkie. It’s really kind of sad. For her, mostly, because I told her we’re never getting a dog. Primarily just to fuck with her, but also because I’m allergic, and the idea of sharing my nice, clean, technological space with an animal who licks its own ass and then wants kisses does not appeal to me. And I can always bust it out later if I need it:

“Honey, why did you run over my mom with the car?”

“Um… hey! Here’s a puppy!”

“Yay! A puppy!”

Problem solved.

He’s All Growed Up

(reposted from Blogger for the sake of continuity)

The move to the new server is complete. I give you the new, and soon-to-be-improved Synaptic Cynicism.

http://www.syncyn.com/ (Don’t click this. You’re already here.)

I’m not wild about the themes I found, but I’ll work on it. In the meantime, update your RSS readers if that’s how you get the “news”, and I say that word with the loosest possible meaning implied. I’ll be dropping a delayed re-direct in here at some point, but in the meantime, please visit the new site and let me know what you think. I tried to mimic the layout as closely as possible, although I have better Twitter options, so you don’t have to read all my replies to people and wonder what in the hell we’re talking about. It’s like one side of a phone conversation. Completely confusing.

Anyway, I’m thrilled to be changing shit up for now. Give it a little time, and I think it’ll all work out. And if not, I’ll chloroform you out behind the garage and leave you in the woods. Either way’s cool with me.

Got Any Cardboard Boxes You Can Lend Me?

I’m preparing to move. Not in real life, mind you. HA! You silly – the economy is so assy right now, I’d be moving into a litter box that I share with two other cats. No, I’m prepping a SynCyn move – to a dedicated server! I purchased a domain name over the summer and haven’t done anything with it since, but I think I’m ready to go for it, and I want to let everyone know that it’s coming, so you can mentally ready yourself for the big day.

I will be working behind the scenes to make sure everything is going smoothly before I flip the switch, but hopefully it will be easy. I’ve been using that BlogBackupOnline tool since the inception of the blog, so I’m hoping I can just move all the posts in one large group, and since I used Photobucket for all the pics, I think everything will be in the code, which should make the transition easier (I think).

Anyway, I’ll let you know when you need to update your RSS readers, if that’s how you do this, but I’ll be inserting a re-direct in the page code anyway (I think). Lots of (I think)s today. But yeah, hopefully, it’ll be a seamless transition, and I can do more with the new tool set than here. Not that spending any more time on an endeavor this asinine is a good thing, but well, I like having control of things. So stay tuned for that one.

Howdy.

Just a quick thought: lately people have been starting to follow me on Twitter (yay) which is nice, because I feel like my inane ramblings won’t flutter out into the void of the Internet and just die and turn to silicon dust without at least a few people having seen them. However, some of these people that are adding me are not exactly the kind of people I assumed would do so. And if I’m wrong about them, then man, that is O-to-the-motherfuckin’-K, and I apologize.

But I feel like some of it’s Twitter spam (does such a thing exist? I assume so), and I don’t want to block them, because I might be alienating someone who actually wanted to hear what I have to say (read: someone actually more mentally ill than I am myself, and someone to whom I am grateful) but I also could give two shits about what someone else thinks if the only reason they added me was so that they could have 12,137 followers instead of 12,136. You get me?

SO. If y’all would be so kind, do me a favor: if you find me on Twitter via this here blog, drop me a tiny note that says so, so I can welcome you properly and say thanks for the support! Much obliged. Now if you don’t mind, I’m going to get back to a little show I like to call “excessive drinking on weeknights as a means of coping with the universe shitting on one’s soul”.

Smell ya later!

Wait – My iPhone Can Do WHAAAT?

Since getting an iPhone this summer, and becoming obsessed with it, as I do with any and all gadget-related things in my life (if only other pursuits were able to harness the fury with which I lust after gadgets, I’d probably be living a much more well-rounded life, but I digress), I have found a few websites to keep track of new apps and cool stuff you can add to your phone to make it more useful, fun, or what-have-you. One I check regularly is called AppShopper, and it does a really great job of charting price drops and increases, updates, new apps, and everything else that might fluctuate within the Apple App Store ecosystem.

But since the advent of the App Store, there have been so many shitty, SHITTY, worthless, dog barf apps that have come out, you often have to wade through a sea of runny ‘rhea to get to that diamond in the rough, especially if it’s something new that no one’s downloaded, crapped their pants over, and reviewed on iTunes already. I finished my work for today, and headed over to check out some new stuff, and thought I’d just drop in to share some of today’s highlights with you.

First up is this piece of shit, which caught my eye not because of the busted-ass whore in the slutty schoolgirl garb, or for the idea that I could prank(!) my friends, but because of the “attractive brown background” update. Make a note of that one.

Then there’s Baby Sign ASL, which is a way for you to teach your young child some of the basics of American Sign Language. I’m sure this is a great way to communicate early on with your youngster, hearing-impaired or not, except that this little girl is throwing the metal horns, and looking like she’s about to eat your face while rocking out to some Sabbath.

Because if you’re a total moron idiot with no social tact or grace, simply ponying up for an iPhone and this app will suddenly yield you the keys to the Fuck Kingdom on DoinIt Mountain.

For the girls that need to ferret out (verb choice deliberate) the users of the application listed above.

Did YOU know cups were amazing? I mean, sure, they hold our drinks, and possibly small snacks like candy and delicious Bugles, and I saw a hobo make one into a totally effective megaphone on the streets of San Francisco last week, but AMAZING? Well, fuck me sideways and call me Sally, because there it is, plain as day. And look! Now “free mode” won’t be so buggy when I play it! Awesome!

Ah, the simple joys of a guessing game. Great for children to learn numbers. Psst – you know what else is great for children to learn numbers? PARENTING AND SCHOOL.

And since Apple started allowing slightly NSFW apps in the store, we have an absolute DELUGE of crap like this:

If, quite simply, you LUV to fart.

If you don’t LUV it, but you want people to think you did it. Which makes no sense at all.

For getting to the bottom of those fart mysteries that surround us all.

And this, for people who like to fart while painting the sky on mescaline.

Sadly, I could do this all night.

To Tweet Or Not To Tweet…

I’ve resisted the urge to use Twitter for a long time. A REALLY long time, especially in the tech world. I just didn’t see the point. My life is not that interesting, and no one really cares when I’ve just eaten a delicious sandwich or what I’m watching on TV. Then someone I know and like sent me a request to follow her. So I picked up an account over there, and decided to actually check it out.

For about 15 seconds. I finally decided at least I could cyber-squat my name, so no one else could snatch it if I did, at some point, decide I wanted to use the service. I went as far to install an app on my iPhone, and it was cool, but I couldn’t see myself using it at all, despite how amazingly awesome the rest of the world (read: podcasts I listen to about geek shit) said it was.

Then I remember Colleen saying something about having thoughts about starting it, being on the fence or something, and it was floating around my head for a few days…

Then I had an idea today on the way home from work. I was quietly lamenting the fact that I post here so infrequently these days, due to a litany of personal responsibilities, and audibly (at least to anyone sitting in my car, which happened to be no one, but could have been someone if we’re all believing in ghosts and crap like that, or my multiple personalities) bemoaning the fact that I have so many short, angry, funny thoughts throughout the day that never manifest themselves into much more than a sly chuckle, let alone a full-on blog post. And it hit me all at once, like a fat kid hits a Ben and Jerry’s stand on a hot summer day.

I could use Twitter to post all the little stupid crap that’s not really worth writing a whole post here about, and feel like I put it somewhere, so that MAYBE, if some of my readers, and I know there are few, wanted to follow my insane rantings on a more regular basis, they could. I feel absolutely honored when you guys say things like “we wish you’d post more often” or something like that, and this way, I could exorcise those tiny demons and give you something in the process. So I’m going to give it a whirl and I’m going to try some different things, possibly maybe hooking it up to this blog right here if I can with some techie voodoo trickery or whatever. (EDIT: one quick Google search, and 5 minutes, and BAM! New widget up on the right so you can read the silly short stuff too, if you don’t feel like Twittering with me. YEAH!)

And if you were just saying that stuff about me posting more to be nice, well fuck y’all, because now it just blew up in your faces! Yeah!

But no, seriously, if you really feel that way, that’s awesome and you rule. And like I said, if not, see above.

And if you want to give this whole thing a go with me, check me out here. Be sure and let me know if you’re digging it, hate it, hate me, hate Earth, love cheese or pancakes, or basically anything else. I need a new quick diversion. Be my diversion.

Snuggie! aka Fashion FAIL

So I wasn’t sure whether or not to put this video above or below the post, but I figured everyone should have the opportunity I had just now; that is to see it first, with virgin eyes, and then begin thinking about it.

I give you, The Snuggie.

*EDIT: I removed the video because I was tired of it autoplaying, and didn’t feel like hearing it every time I checked on something. It was tormenting me. If you want to see it, click the link above.*

Now let’s talk about this for a second.

Were you aware that blankets had become so woefully ineffective at guarding our frail human bodies against the evils of the dark winter demons? Last time I checked, my blankets were still fully functional, nor did they slip off of me, as they do in the beginning of the commercial, because I have the luxury of opposable thumbs, which apparently, this woman does not. Poor dear. In addition to that, if I want to reach for something, my hands are “trapped inside”! Damn it! I hate when my couch throws become sentient and refuse to release my appendages to do such common things as answer telephones and use a remote control, while they secretly plan my demise.

Thank heaven for the Snuggie. It’s just in time to save humanity from the enslavement of nefarious blanket forces.

It’s ostensibly a way to cover yourself up like a fruity little monk, because that’s what the old dude totally looks like. The family’s appearance, however, says something closer to “cult”, where the board games and marshmallow roastings are pleasant diversions from the group’s ultimate goals of spreading the good word of Jesus/alien overlords/Rachael Ray/etc by any means necessary. But it’s good to know that you can cuddle your baby or pet without getting totally gross baby or pet juices and secretions all over your nice clothes. Fuck that.

No longer will the tyranny of having people mock you for fashion choices prevent you from living a normal life, because all your friends and acquaintances will have Snuggies too. The scene with the football game reminds me of Logan’s Run, with everyone in their little future color suits and waiting for Carousel to “renew” them. Watch that movie at least once or twice, by the way. Sci-fi classic. But I digress. All the high-fiving in the world and general ebullience of a public sporting event can’t change the fact that you look like a fucking alien trying to look normal in human society. I mean, if you are bat-shit crazy enough to wear this thing out of the house, you might as well just jerk your car into a ravine because you don’t belong here. Also, everyone hates you. Even your friends.

That being said, I can totally see my mom getting behind a product like this, because she is always cold, and the kind of person that balls herself up on a couch to watch a movie and is sound asleep before the 8-minute mark. Being totally ensconced in a fleecey wonderland is probably her idea of paradise. But even she knows enough not to walk outside in it, even to say hello to a neighbor, because then her “secret” would be out.

So I am going to start drinking now, and hopefully will be able to do it enough to forget that I saw this commercial to begin with. I suggest you do the same, lest you be seduced by its warm warming warmingness. ORDER NOW!

(because you can, of course, get 2 for the price of 1, plus 2 little book light thingies.)

Oh – and sorry I didn’t comment back at all on my last post – I had to fix something in my settings and wasn’t getting notifications. Thanks to all who were nice enough to wish me well on this totally rad crap that happened.

The Betrothal of A Bastard

Well, I’ve had a busy few weeks, as is always evidenced by my complete lack of posting. This time, though, it wasn’t just abject sloth that prevented me from blogging, but rather a series of events set into motion that moved forth with juggernaut-like speed.

I am officially engaged to be married. To a person. A human person. For reals.

To a girl who, I can only imagine, has always harbored thoughts of romance for bitter, venom-tongued, stone-hearted cyborgs. Otherwise, this whole process seems awfully odd and off-putting, and in fact calls into question her judgment in a variety of ways.

That being said, however, I am actually quite excited at the prospect of spending my life with another person who accepts me for being the staggeringly brilliant, if not somewhat emotionally stunted, and *occasionally* criminally flatulent genius I am.

I’ve tried to be a better person around her, than I would ordinarily allow myself to be, and in making this effort, it’s actually happened. I find myself saying and doing things that leave my family slack-jawed, in a good way. And you know what? Personal growth is underrated. Well, not if you’re Oprah, or that fat, bald, lying sack of monkey shit “Dr.” Phil, but for everyday people with drinking problems and emotional baggage? It feels pretty good to make headway in your life and see actual progress as you, dare I say, mature?

Yes, I dare. I said to someone the other day, after being congratulated, “Yeah, you know, I guess I’m a real, live grown-up now, doing grown-up things.” And I thought about that. I realized that almost overnight, I went from being a singular, floating entity with various ties to people and things, to a integral part of something else, and inextricably linked to someone. Sure, I paid bills and showed up to work on time (mostly) and did other grown-up things, but this felt different. I was responsible for something bigger than me now. And as much as I thought it might feel awkward and weird, it made me feel really good to know I was ok with it, and that I’d come that far.

I used to picture a world for myself that was like Blade Runner. I mean, sure, we all do, what with the future-y goodness of flying cars and androids working for us, but I mean specifically Deckard’s life, lived alone, interacting with others, but fundamentally isolated, soaked with scotch, and unable to discern actual memory from hallucination on occasion. And I was ok with that. I had come to terms with that, and my peace with that thought allowed me to go onward. But that’s not how it worked out, and I can’t say I’m disappointed. While I was prepared to live out my days this way, I’m glad I don’t have to.

Which leads me to my point. On some core level, I feel I don’t deserve to be happy. It’s a sentiment we all feel at some point or another, but it’s been a defining characteristic of my personality, and both explained and buffered my college years and later adolescence. Thing is, somewhere I turned a corner and realized I deserved to be happy. And coming to the conclusion that things weren’t written for me the way I thought them to be made me feel an odd sense of hope that I never expected to feel. Ever.

Perhaps I’ll one day lament the fact that I didn’t end up with that dystopian, self-destructive future, all Hemingway’d and Bukowski’d. But for the time being, I’m content just being a grown up. And planning the most kick-ass, excellent wedding a human could ever have. Involving, of course, furious gun battles, brain-computer interfaces, homemade liquor, pants-wetting martial arts displays, and the fate of the human race. And even if I can’t have the Matrix as our wedding theme, I’ll be satisfied with the liquor. Which is probably where I’d split the difference anyway.