I have returned from the land of whimsy and marshmallows and post-industrial dilapidation and snow!

In case you were wondering, my trip was full of winter and booze and all the things that make things more thingy.

Please enjoy my favorite pictures from my trip.

Here are some stray observations I made on my visit:

- Some towns in the Midwest are plagued by a post-industrial economic malaise that has created an environment full of unemployment, desperation and, for some inexplicable reason, the lingering scent of delicious, delicious bacon.

- Snow is very cold. And it can kill you.

- To survive an attack by evil, murderous snow, wear as many layers of clothes as humanly possible. Also, never leave the house without a flask full of uncle Jim's "mean juice."

- If you spend the entire winter in an abandoned house, you get to keep the house. But only if the snow doesn't kill you.

- There are not nearly as many tauntauns as I expected, but large dogs are almost as cute and are big enough to kill and sleep in if you need to avoid the evil snow.

- Uncle Jim's "mean juice" is delicious and makes it OK for me to feel again.

Islas, party of one. Your new year is ready.Hey guys!

It's a new year, which means... well, alright. Let's admit it. It basically means nothing, except that now we have to remember to write the new year on your checks.

Just kidding! I'm pretty sure the only places where they still use checks are also places where they still don't have women's rights. Or electricity.

Last year, I used the opportunity to admit to myself that I was basically going to give up on everything, which has really relieved a lot of pressure. And so far, I've been pretty successful at not being successful. I'm still living at home. I'm single by choice (though it's not really my choice). I will have been working at the comedy thing for what'll be a year in a few months, which is about fourteen years shy of what it usually takes to possibly make it. We'll see if I don't give up before then.

Or, if all goes according to plan, I won't have to since the world is going to end on December 21, 2012. If society starts falling apart, it may very well be my year! I can put my plans of comedy on hold and get work as a ruthless warlord. It may just be the fire under my ass I need to move on with my life.

Alright. It's time for me to get back to watching Greenberg for the third time and indulging my vanity by comparing myself to Ben Stiller's character, while still wearing my pajamas at 11:00 AM in my parents' living room.

But tomorrow, I'm going to start running again for sure.

PS Here are some pictures from my actual New Year celebration. No, I didn't actually spend it alone with a bottle of vodka... what do you think I am? Some sort of loser? Jeez.

This is the only version of A Christmas Carol that won an Oscar. It's pretty good, considering it's less than 30 minutes. Enjoy!

It is rare in this country that the thin veneer of civilization, that precious and frail illusion that keeps us from acting on our more brutal and baser impulses, falls away.

During times of war, necessity dictates that we draw on the violent nature that society requires we repress during times of peace. Our survival depends our ability to summon up the dark, vicious feelings that lay dormant in the heart of every person, but in this country, war has not broken down that precarious border between order and chaos since the Civil War.

On occasion though, our superegos need minimal provocation to burst like some poorly constructed damn, loosing the rapids of aggression and indiscriminate animal rage. When that happens, the mass of rioting humans must be treated like an out-of-control fire that only begins to die down once it has consumed all things that can fuel it.

But there are few places that you can so consistently see humanity's true, animalistic nature as a shopping mall on Christmas Eve.

Shopping on the day before Christmas is as close as you can get to training for the chaos that will come with the apocalypse: men, women and children clamoring over each other, avoiding eye-contact as they scramble for scarce resources, trying to beat one another to the last Nook or portable wine bag set in the store, their eyes glazed over like feeding sharks (and with the same moral compunctions as feeding sharks).

Though, honestly, I'd probably stab someone for this.

You know, if I had to.When society falls apart, there will be no lines, no order and the only authority will be brute force. And mark my words, the seasoned last minute Christmas shoppers will have an edge on the rest of us who have grown soft with years of planning ahead and not having to scratch out someone's eyes in order to get what they need to make sure their children have the perfect Christmas.

Yes, they will have the advantage -- them and the hardened inmates of maximum security prisons.

I like to yell at things.

I yell at the walls.

I yell at the animals.

I yell at the sky.

I even yell at myself. Though most of the yelling happens silently behind my sad, frightened eyes, I sometimes write out my yelling.

As you might have heard, I was annoyed with Santa Monica's new atheist displays that have usurped the traditional Nativity scenes. So, I decided to yell about it silently, with my keyboard:

“Just the other day, I was walking down the street and I saw a sign that said all religions were based on myths and I thought to myself, maybe everything I’ve ever believed is just a fabrication and I should really reconsider the world view I’ve held sacred for my entire life.” I’m going to go out on a limb here and say those words have been spoken zero times in the last month that these displays have been up. Actually, I would probably say that number of people that signs proclaiming God is a myth have converted is probably equivalent to the number of Nativity scenes that have converted atheists to the path of righteousness.Read it!

So, I'm something like four or five days behind my Advent blogging. I'm not going to bother catching up.

Disappointed?

Well, 'tis the season. Nothing says Christmas like constant disappointment and a lingering sense that nothing, including yourself, will ever live up to your expectations, even though you've consistently and steadily lowered your expectations each year of your short life. Apparently, they are still too high for whatever scanty set of tools I'm you're working with.

To add to that disappointment, I recently decided I would try to get back into shape. Until late last week, I hadn't run for exercise since May 2008 as part of my give up on life plan. Unfortunately, it turns out that there are consequences to eating like you ever do anything physical without every doing anything physical. There are about 30 pounds of consequences, all of which droop over the top of my pants like a corpse-filled burlap sack dangles over the edge of a bridge. Or at least, I think, since I've never actually seen a corpse-filled burlap sack dangle... that I know of.

Once I started getting disgusted every time I had to take a shower, I decided it might be a good idea to start exercising again. Not that my give-up-on-life plan has been derailed. I'm still trying very hard to give up, I'm just making sure I don't become an unlovable blob monster in the process.

Turns out that not running for almost four years makes it a bit difficult to get back on the ol' running wagon. I tried for 30 minutes today and I spent about 20 minutes of that time silently challenging God to prove his existence to me by mercifully ending my suffering. Or at least sending a hobo to mug me so the beating would take my mind off the excruciating pain shooting through my body every time my atrophied heart struggled to beat.

I survived, though, despite myself. There was no hobo nor any other sign of God's mercy, which confirms my belief that if there is a God, it is a spiteful, vengeful God who really enjoyed watching me struggle through an objectively easy workout.

Or it doesn't exist, since those are the only two options.

The upshot of the run, though, is I swear I passed by a man who I swear was reading a book of poetry aloud to the ducks and seagulls in the park. I like to think he was reading "The Second Coming" by W. B. Yeats and the birds were truly, deeply terrified.

I was on my way to out to buy wool socks when I saw this:

That is the face of an angry, vengeful God and beneath whom we are all pitiful sinners, deserving only of His swift and unceasing wrath. So, I thought I should maybe stay inside of doors, since we all know that God's infinite rage can't penetrate doors.

While the angry clouds pass by, I will spend some time with you good folks, since I'm behind on my advent blogging.

Let me tell you about a recent interaction I had

[BEGIN INTERACTION]

The other day, I was talking to someone. We don't need to give that someone a name, mostly because I'm not even sure if that someone was real or not and once you start giving people who aren't real names, then you know you're crazy.

Let's err on the side of caution, shall we?

This Someone said to me, "I like you, Jason."

Why, thank you, someone! I appreciate your frank expression of affection for me!

"You've got it together. You know what you're doing," Someone said.

Well, shucks! It sure is nice to hear someone say such things about me!

"I don't care what anybody says... you're going to be alright."

Wait, what? We were doing so well up until that last bit... What is this "anybody" saying about me, someone? Who doesn't think I'm alright? Or not going to be alright?

All that came out of my mouth as a simple "Oh?"

"Yeah," Someone said. "I mean, we've all got our problems. Nobody's perfect, right?"

Of course we all have our problems, Someone! But you can't just suggest that there is a very public discussion going on about my problems in the middle of complimenting me. That's not allowed. And anyway, I know I'm not perfect, but if I don't know in what way other people think I'm not perfect, I can't explain to them how they are wrong about my imperfections. I need more information!

Which came out as, "Right. Well, thanks."

"Of course!" Someone said.

[END INTERACTION]

That was fun, right? Look, I've got my fair share of issues, but I like to think that over the years, I've built up massive defenses of alternating layer of detached irony, arrogance and anger dealt with them. Like for instance, a conversation like this a few years ago would've stuck with me. It would've bounced around in my head, becoming louder and louder, like in an echo chamber. I would've overthought it, paced about it and talked about it a lot.

Nowadays, I'd never do anything like that because I'm mature, confident and self-assured... right?

RIGHT?!

I have an angry dance. It happens when my heart fills so full of bilious hate that it overflows into the rest of my body and I begin to convulse rhythmically like some gyrating rage puppet.

My arms flail about and my feet kick in all directions. My eyes roll into the back of my head as it jerks back and forth, side to side like some sort of monstrous bobble-head doll during a violent earthquake.

To a man of science, it would likely appear that I was having some epileptic episode and that my tremors were caused by some misfire of neurons deep within my skull full of spongy gray matter.

To a benighted pagan savage, it would likely seem that my body had been invaded by a horrible, malevolent spirit and that it was using the hijacked fleshy vessel for some daemonic joyride through the land of corporeal beings.

Both are partially correct.

It isn't often that I am taken by my angry dance as there are few things that bring me to that level of rage. Even when my bike got stolen, I wasn't moved to my angry dance.

However, there are things out there that, without question drive my feet to stomp and my arms to fly in an uncontrollable expression of white-hot temper.

Like, Occupy Wall Street hippies banging on drums and shouting about the evils of private property or Fox News pundits pretending that the Occupy people matter in some way other than making the fringe left look ridiculous.

Or, when someone honks at me when I'm riding my bike just because I'm riding in the street. Or when someone who is nary a year older than I condescendingly tells me that I'll understand more about life once I'm their age.

Or when someone adheres to a political, religious or ideological doctrine without having taken the time to fully understand their own position and then they decide they are not going to bother with you because obviously, if you don't agree with them, there's something wrong with you.

That goes for you, too, atheists.

Or, when my coffee is too cold. Or, if it's too hot! Or if I spend too much time in the sun...

Alright, so maybe my getting angry isn't that rare of an occurrence and I should probably see someone about it, but man, psychologists make me so angry!

One thing that really does work my blood into a figurative boil is a bad commercial and man, 'tis the motherfucking season for bad commercials.

My biggest problem with commercials this time of year is that you have a spike in genre of "feel-good" commercials. Those are the ones that have the contrived scene of a family that looks way too perfect and everyone is just a little too happy to open up their gifts and get whatever product the commercial is selling to you.

Lexus is one of the worst perpetrators of this style of advertising. Every one of their commercials features someone being surprised in some absurd way by getting a present -- a music box, a cell phone, even a game of Guitar Hero -- that plays the annoying Lexus theme song. And each time, the person immediately recognizes it, probably because they've had it drilled into their heads by the incessant stream of Lexus commercials that have been running since mid-November.

Jewelry commercials should also be considered crimes against humanity by the United Nations. Not that that would change anything, but I'd like to be able to say, each time one came on, "This is literally a crime against humanity."

The problem is the commercials are just so goddamned sappy and serious about something so stupid as a rock that was probably dug out of the earth by some starving African child at gunpoint. Don't let it go to waste as a prop to some overgrown little girl's overwrought fairy-princess-knight-in-shinning-armor fantasy.

Use those diamonds for something useful, like industrial saw blades or something.

Anyhow, I'm not here to gripe about overly sentimental commercials, although I could probably do it until the cows come home, which in Los Angeles hasn't happened in over 60 years. I want to rant about T-Mobile's new holiday advert.

T-Mobile started getting on my nerves when they went after the iPhone using the Mac v. PC format. It's not that I love the iPhone so much that I felt some sort of loyalty to Mac or something. It's because the Mac v. PC commercials are some of the most blatantly obnoxious examples of lifestyle marketing I've ever seen.

"Hey guys. We're not going to tell you a single detail about our product. But if you buy it, you'll be cool like me and not a nerd like this guy over here."

Except T-Mobile's version of the cool guy is a snarky brunette in a polka-dot dress.

In their holiday campaign, T-Mobile managed to combine the worst of all possible worlds.

The T-Mobile girl takes us into her insidious lair.The commercial opens with a our gracious hostess leading us through an all-white door into what looks like a clean-room in some sort of high-tech factory. But what she reveals is much more horrifying than any of Steve Jobs' cheap Chinese labor sweatshops.

The high-tech clean room is actually a slave-labor camp for little people where they are forced to wear humiliating uniforms and dye their hair pink, no doubt as some sick homage to their overlord's obsessions with the garish color.

At first you think they are having fun, but when you look into their eyes, you can see a deep sadness. There is a silent plea in his eyes, "Please, kill us."

Or at least their eyes are saying, "Don't judge me. I needed the money."

One of the imprisoned little people. There is such torment in his eyes

as he's forced by his cruel overlord to talk into a phone for the

amusement of others.Actually, what bothers me about this commercial is that it's set to an incredibly annoying song (Winter Wonderland with lyrics changed to sing the praises of T-Mobile's 4G network) and that there is nothing funny about it, despite an attempt to at least set a tone of whimsical delight. In fact, there is something deeply upsetting the sterile setting and creepy uniformity of the elves.

There is also something pretty hacky in dressing up little people as elves. I'm not making a point about political correctness, I'm making saying that it's a tired premise. It's not funny or cute. It's just... meh.

The brunette in the pink dress just solidifies her persona as an overbearing jerk as she goes from elf to elf forcing them to do something that shows off the amazing-ness of the phones.

It also seems that all the little people are desperately trying to pretend they're happy as they jump around and sing a shitty song?

Anyway, I'll still probably switch to T-Mobile when my AT&T contract runs out, but it won't be because of their shitty commercials.

I'll balance out the ire with some examples of what I think has been one of the better holiday commercial campaigns this year, starring one of my favorite comedians, Maria Bamford:

Alright. I'm tired of pretending. What sort of world is it where you can't be honest about who you are?

I'm lazy. The cat's out of the fucking bag, people.

And I've been writing news for the past five hours, so instead of writing tonight, I'm going to throw you a nugget of Christmas music by my friend.

Catchy, eh? Well, if you want more of that, click here.

Happy? Well, you'd better be. It's all you're going to get out of me tonight.

So, I'm still behind on my entries for my advent blogging experiment, but I figured I'd get two in today and try to get two in tomorrow. I still have to finish my conqueror series, the conclusion of which I'm sure you are all excitedly awaiting.

In the meantime, I wanted to point out a song that I discovered thanks to the good people over at It Was Lost. They are re-spearheading a re-initiative of non-overplayed Christmas tunes. As part of that re-initiative, they have created an infinite non-overplayed Christmas playlist on Spotify.

On this infinite playlist, one song has captured my attention. It isn't even specifically a Christmas song. It's an old English ballad that goes back to a time when men could wear ruffled shirts and pantaloons without anyone impugning his fashion sense, or as I like to call them, the good ol' days.

The song is called The Bitter Withy and it is about the Christ child, which is probably why it got lumped in with all the other Christmas music. But this song differs from other Christmas music in a way that is truly awesome.

The song tells a story -- as ballads often do -- about the day that a young Jesus decides he wants to go out and play.

As it fell out on a holy day,The drops of rain did fall, did fall,Our Saviour asked leave of His mother, May,If He might go play at ball.

"To play at ball, my own dear Son,It’s time you was going or gone,But be sure let me hear no complaint of you,At night when you do come home."

It stands to reason that Jesus, son of God, immortal and all-powerful, would want to go play ball. What 5-year-old infant-god wouldn't want to play ball? Though, since he is all-powerful, couldn't he just produce a ball from the ether and summon a host of angles to play with him?

We'll just suspend disbelief for the time being.

Mary lets her five-year-old son leave the house, unsupervised, likely because she is terrified of awakening the wrath of the omnipotent child-god.

Once he's outside, he finds three lordlings. After they exchange cold, yet proper English greetings, Jesus asks if he can play with them. Unbeknownst to the lordlings, they are talking to the pint-sized personification of the Almighty's wrath, so they chortle and say that they can't play with someone so low-born as Jesus.

Big mistake.

Five-year-old Jesus then says, "Nuh, uh! I'll show you!"

Our Saviour built a bridge with the beams of the sun,And over He gone, He gone He;And after followed the three jolly jerdins,And drownded they were all three.

So, because the three lordlings won't play ball with him, Jesus straight-up ices the fools. The God of love and forgiveness leads three children to their death because they didn't want to play with someone beneath their station.

I guess it took him a couple years before he learned that whole "turn the other cheek" business.

I think the best part of the song is that the only thing that happens to him for the murder of three children is that his mother spanks him with some willow branches, probably because she was terrified at the awesome power that her child wielded.

I wonder why Bing Crosby never did a version of this song.

Here's a link to the version I first heard.

As you know, I cover news in Santa Monica. Recently, there was a bit of controversy stirred by a community of outspoken (read: annoying) atheists who won access to public display places that this time of year, usually host Nativity scenes.

You can read the nitty-gritty details here.

An atheist anti-Nativity display designed specifically to blow your mind,

featuring Poseidon, Jesus, Santa Claus and Michael Douglas in Wall Street.Santa Monica does raffles to see who gets use of the public spaces. Usually, it's just a bunch of local churches who enter the raffle so the only question is which church's Nativity scene will be on display.

This year, several groups of atheists decided to enter the raffle and ended up winning quite a few of the public spaces.

They say they are tired of having Christianity's sanctimonious message shoved down their throats every year, so they decided to turn the tables and shove their sanctimonious message down everyone else's throats for a change, to teach those darn Christians a lesson!

But also, they wanted to draw attention to the fact that there are many atheists out there who may have otherwise not felt free to share their faith with others around them, because, everyone knows how hard it is to grow up in the small, homogeneous, God-fearing town of Los Angeles when you yourself aren't a believer.

Alright, so here's my problem.

No one is going to walk past these signs and say "Oh, wow! 37 million? Maybe everything I've ever believed is false!" and then renounce however many years of faith and tradition. These signs aren't designed to change anyone's mind.

I'd understand feeling empowered to express your beliefs if you grew up in a community that was openly hostile to them, but in Santa Monica (or Los Angeles) atheists haven't ever been persecuted or constrained or otherwise oppressed. This city was founded on the principle of self-worship. We are a city on a hill, a shinning example of the cult of the ego. Even most believers are kind of nihilistic in this town, wearing God as a fashion accessory or tribal badge.

These signs are just a good reminder that atheists aren't above the petty squabbling that they often condemn religious sects of engaging in. The sect of atheism is certainly not a small one in this country and they want to cram their beliefs down your throats just like every other sect out there does.

The problem is that the belief that there is no God takes as much faith as the belief in God. Now, before you all get your atheist feathers ruffled, belief in an intelligent, powerful deity or the existence of a soul does not mean the belief in a literal understanding of the Bible. Most atheists I've met attack Christian fundamentalism as the archetypal folly of faith, which, is pretty uncontroversial except to fundamentalists.

If you want to shout loud and proud that there is no God, prove it. The bitch is, you can't and absence of proof is not proof of absence. You may be able to prove that certain things in the Bible are false, but that proves nothing (one way or another) about the existence of God.

Welcome to the club of annoying proselytizer. You've got what you want. Happy now?

Alright, I'm done being a sanctimonious agnostic. Go back to believing whatever the fuck it is you want to believe.

Love,

The Slasinator

You may have been wondering to yourself why I had only two conquerors about whose praises I wished to sing last night. Of course there are more ruthless commanders of armies and empires that have not only quashed their enemies but have done so with flair and style. The first two were simply to whet your appetite for more. Also, I was tired and I had to be up early today.

You win again, practical considerations!

Like the inexorable march of these great conquerors, our tribute to them continues. Let us not squander any more of our precious mortal moments with trite prattle and delve straight to the matter that... well, matters.

3. Who Needs Cups?

The problem with some of the earlier conquerors is that there's as much myth about them as there are concrete facts. On the plus side, though, we can choose to believe those myths, put our fingers in our ears and shout "LALALALALALALALA!" at anyone who might come at us with pesky contradicting evidence.

For example, the so-called Khan Krum (or as his friends knew him, Krum the Horrible), who was leader of the Bulgarian proto-state in the late 8th and early 9th centuries A.D., may have had a few details about his life exaggerated. He is credited with doubling the borders of the first Bulgarian empire, which is not really in dispute.

The territory he controlled was actually larger than the modern Bulgarian state.

Blahblahblah.

The reason Khan Krum deserves to be singled out here is not because he expanded territory or established rule of law or because of his awesome name. Most of what he did was run-of-the-mill conqueror stuff. Krum deserves homage for how he handled his enemies.

Specifically, the Byzantine Emperor Nikephoros I. Nikephoros began to worry about Krum's expansion through the Balkan peninsula and, as any good emperor would do, began to attack his rival's holdings. The Byzantine emperor roamed Krum's lands and pillaged and raped and burned things down, willy-nilly.

Nikephoros earned his reputation as a bit of a hardass when he started smashing Bulgarian children to death with grinding stones.

In fact, Nikephoros was so successful that he eventually sacked and plundered Krum's capital.

"But wait!" you are likely thinking. "I thought this one was about Krum? Not some Greek dude prancing around, tearing up turnips from the ground? I demand badassery!"

Worry not, my lovelies!

While Nikephoros was busy pillaging, Krum was mustering all the support he could. As Nikephoros returned to Constantinople, made confident by his recent victory, Krum and basically all the tribes of Bulgaria ambushed the procession, completely destroying the Greek army and killing the emperor.

Good show, Krum!

Now, the story goes that the victorious Krum then had his opponent's head severed, his skull cut open, the inside of the skull cap plated with silver and turned into a goblet for the drinking of wine and spirits!

That may or may not be true, but as far as I'm concerned, it is as true as I want it to be.

Next time you're drinking blood-red wine, raise your glass and belt out a single, guttural syllable in homage to the man for whom killing his enemy wasn't enough, so he made a goblet of his rival's skull cap: KRUM!

People throw the word "conquer" around far too loosely nowadays. Any old accomplishment can just be flippantly referred to as "conquering." People "conquer" obstacles, anxieties and massive plates of food. But what about those great conquerors of history who actually conquered people. Nay, civilizations!

I shudder when I imagine what they would think if they were to hear some dude openly discuss his feelings with something like,"I think I've finally conquered my fear of intimacy."

Genghis Khan must weep from conqueror heaven when he hears the word bandied about so carelessly by people who couldn't even hold his sword, let alone swing it.

Real conquest is an art form. It's not just about crushing your enemies' skulls beneath your feet; it's all in how you do it.

In that spirit, below is a list of my favorite moments from some of the greatest conquerors of history.

1. The Siege of Constantinople

Sultan Mehmed II -- or as he would later be called, Mehmed the Conqueror -- was only in his early 20s when he earned the attention of the known world. For almost two months, the young sultan laid siege to what had become the center of Western civilization after the fall of Rome. Constantinople was well-fortified, if not a bit undermanned, and Mehmed has his work cut out for him as a result.

The emperors before him had inched closer to the prize city, but none had dared attack. Perhaps it was audacious youth or the constant fire that drives all men to always desire more than they have. Or maybe he was just bored. Whatever the reason, Mehmed the Twentysomething marched West with his army and his ships and his... whatever else a conqueror brings with him to a conquering.

Concubines, maybe? I like to imagine that he had several tents just for smoking hookah, but I don't think tobacco had been invented yet. Well, in my Mehmed fantasy, he had a shitload of hookahs, so take that stupid historical timeline!

Mehmed's men spent almost two months laying siege to the ancient and beautiful city. Like all great sieges, this one ended with a dramatic collapse of the walls that defended the city, the flood of Turkish soldiers, the brutal (but thoroughly prudent) killings of enemy soldiers and, of course, three days of sanctioned raping and pillaging. Like ya do.

That's all fine and dandy. What makes Mehmed stand out as a conqueror is what allegedly happened when he entered the great city.

The story goes that he fell to his knees and quoted a line of Persian poetry:

"The spiders weave the curtains in the palace of the Caesars / The owls call the watches in the towers of Afrasiab."

Not only did Mehmed the Conqueror basically accomplish literally the most amazing thing someone could do at the time, when he did it, he fell to his knees and quoted poetry about the passing of all greatness.

Then, he probably went and made love to every single woman in his harem.

2. The March to the Sea

A good conqueror knows when to show mercy. A great conqueror knows when to show absolutely none at all.

General William T. Sherman falls into the latter category. Sherman was less of a misfit than Ulysses S. Grant but he was no less made for the kind of fighting that the Civil War would demand. Sherman, who was ever-loyal to the Union, chastised a Southern secessionist friend of his: "You people of the South don't know what you are doing.... It is all folly, madness, a crime against civilization!"

And Sherman would make sure that he himself would be the instrument of retribution for that crime. Several times, he condemned the notions of Southern gallantry and romantic ideas of war, which he thought fool-hearted.

By the end of the war, Sherman wanted to tear the heart from the South, so he started in Atlanta. Things got off to a great start when, after he conquered the city, he evacuated the civilians and burned every government building down.

For over a month, Sherman's men marched the 300 miles from Atlanta to the beautiful port town of Savannah, destroying everything in their path. No good conquering is complete without some signature flourishes. Though his men did the usual raping and burning of crops, they also took the time to melt down train tracks to wrap around trees, in case the people they were conquering might forget that they had just been completely conquered.

Sherman was out for blood, and to punish the hubris of the South, which he clearly blamed for starting the whole mess to begin with.

However, I think Sherman's greatest flourish was not in what he destroyed, but in what he didn't. When he reached Savannah, he wrote President Lincoln a letter offering the port city to Lincoln as a Christmas present, sparing it the fate that had befallen all 300 miles of Georgia behind him and his army.

Take that, secessionists!

I didn't post last night on purpose. Today's entries are meant to go together and I couldn't have them posted on separate days. Instead, I'll have one in the morning and the next in the evening. You guys believe that, right? Good! (Suckers).

Today is actually an important day in the world of history. I'm sure most of you don't need me to tell you...

Oh, what's that? The last time you thought about history was in 10th grade when Mr. Rassmussen, the girl's volleyball coach was reading to you out of a retrograde textbook that still referred to Russia as "The Soviet Union." Oh...

You have no idea what I'm talking about, do you?

Today is the 70th anniversary of the bombing of Pearl Harbor. In Europe, they still hold Armistice Day (11/11/1918) to be a solemn occasion when all stop to consider the horrors of war, the fragility of peace and the sacrifices necessary to keep it and when I said Pearl Harbor, all of you thought of the movie first, didn't you?

Oh, truly this is Caligula's Rome! No, worse! Even then, as the Romans were wiping their chins after visiting the vomitoriums to go back to eating obscene amounts of food off the asses of their finest prostitutes, they were thinking of the defeat of Hannibal or the mighty triumvirate of Caesar who conquered Gaul.

Ok, maybe not. Still, unless you're binge-eating off the amble bosom of a lady of the night, you have no excuse for not being aware of the import of the day.

In all seriousness, though, take a minute to consider the circumstances: the Nazis had steamrolled most of Europe. The British were on the defensive, hunkered down and praying for something to relieve them of the nightly bombings. Stalin was too busy killing every one of his most qualified generals to bother with an ever-aggressive Germany.

Things were looking pretty grim.

Once the Japanese bombed us, however, the war had begun to end. The hatred and rage it awakened in a country with as much economic and industrial might as the U.S. at the time meant that it was only a matter of time before Germany and Japan were reduced to rubble. With the man-power of Russia and the general might of the U.S., the war was turned around.

Don't get me wrong.

War is a horrible, brutal, desperate practice that makes animals out of otherwise civilized men. But it is sometimes (more often than one might be willing to admit) necessary. I think there is no more sobering reminder of the necessity of war as the bombing of Pearl Harbor.

But Jason, invoking World War Two isn't fair! Most conflicts can be solved with diplomacy! WWII was an exception!

Slobodan Milosevic, Saddam Hussein, Osama bin Laden, The Joker. That's right. I did it! As Alfred said to Bruce Wayne, "Some men just want to watch the world burn."

On that note, stand by for tonight's entry which will be a compilation of my favorite conqueror moments from history.

As you might have noticed, I missed my scheduled blog entry yesterday. I have spent most of the day whipping myself with a cat o' nine tails as the faceless inquisitor in my head instructed me to do.

He says that I have almost won back God's favor, but that I must do one more thing: post once more today before the toll of midnight.So, here goes.

Over the summer, a friend of mine -- Noah Sife -- asked me to be in a sketch of his. It has finally been edited and here's the finished product!Enjoy!





How's that for some chewy chunks of Islas?

It is most obvious to me that my life has very little interesting in it to a broader audience when I sit down to write one of these entries.

I have a million bits of disorganized information about the political arguments going on in Santa Monica, which, of course, matter little to most people living outside of the city... unless you guys are secretly itching to hear about the pitched school fundraising battle, the contentious zoning laws and the constant threat of big-money developers (to hear some Santa Monicans talk about them, it's hard not to imagine them as mostly fat mustachioed men in top hats and monocles laughing to themselves about how much money they have while they sit on top of piles of poor people) taking over the quaint Commune by the Sea.

I somehow doubt that.

My tutoring job takes up a lot of time. Nothing deadens one's rich inner life like working a lot, so my brain has been sputtering a lot recently like some run-down jalopy trying to make it down the home stretch before giving up the ghost and being abandoned. Don't get me wrong; I'm very happy to be working. The only thing that makes me crazier than working a lot is not working at all.

Let's face it, though, people: that's thing about life. Living is kind of dull. It's repetitive, it's dissatisfying and mostly predictable. If it were a show, Life would likely be cancelled.

On second thought, that's not true. It'd probably do pretty well somewhere between Two and a Half Men and Mike & Molly.

I think the thing I'm looking forward to most is HBO's next installment of the Song of Ice And Fire series, which is probably the most depressing thing I've ever admitted to myself.

Sometimes, I like to look through L. L. Bean catalogues to find rugged yet fashionable ensembles to help me survive the coming ice age, or watch football and the steady stream of Viagra commercials that go along with it to remind myself what I have to look forward to.

So, in that spirit, I'm going to share with you once again my favorite Oasis song.

So far, my advent blogging experiment is off to a slow and disappointing start. Well, it isn't really disappointing, since I had such low expectations for myself to begin with.Really, it is off to a slow and predictable start.But the whole point of this is to make myself write -- to force myself to squeeze whatever brainjuice I have left into the interspherenets, even if it is a tedious process at first, in the hopes that my alcohol-addled mind will start producing more.So far, I've been staring at a blank screen for an hour. The only progress I've made is on the bottle of tequila that I earned by proof-reading grad school essays.Maybe this was just a stupid idea.

Well, this isn't going nearly as well as I had hoped.This is what I get for setting goals.Maybe I'll have something tomorrow.

Alright, you guys.I'm setting a goal for myself. Between now and December 25th, I'm going to try to write a blog post a day. It's sort of like an Advent calendar, but instead of a piece of chocolate-y goodness each day, you'll get a chunk of my bitter, spiteful, angsty and (hopefully) funny-y goodness.Ambitious?Perhaps.Getting in over my head?Possibly.Every time you set a goal for yourself, you fail. So why are you even trying, loser?Jesus, the voices inside my head are harsh.Anyhow, I'm at least going to try. I've been doing a lot of writing lately, but it has been all news-y and BORRRRING! I need to push myself to be thinking of more of the funny, so I figure this is sort of like marathon training.What can you expect from this?Oh, I don't know... maybe some lists, maybe some obscure historical stuff, likely some snarky pop culture commentary, definitely some ranting (and whining), maybe a photograph or two. You know, the usual.The point is, people, you should be excited! Because you will either enjoy chewy bits of Islas every day until Christmas or you can mock me mercilessly for failing to once again live up to the goals I set for myself.Either way, the winner is you, the People!BTW, I haven't yet decided if this counts for my December 1st entry or not. Standby for further updates.

I finally recorded a new bit I've been working on the past couple of times I've gone up at the Hollywood Hotel's open mic.

I'd write more but I'm watching coverage of the "Occupy" protests. Rest assured that I will have something snarky to say about it very soon.

In the meantime, enjoy my latest stand up bit.

Last week Thursday, the date was November 11, 2011. For those of you who weren't paying attention, that's 11/11/11 -- something that happens only once every one hundred years. This was something that got quite a few people excited, because people's lives are actually that boring.

Something that people like to do when all the numbers are the same is make a wish. So my Facebook and Twitter feeds were full of people exhorting their fellow social media-ers to do exactly that, since I guess God is more apt to listen to the pathetic cries of mortals when all the numbers in the date are the same.

But it occurred to me that 11/11/2011 isn't that special because when you write out the full year, there are two misfit numbers. It got me to thinking about some of the wishes people might have made last time the numbers were all really the same. These are some wishes made on 11/11/1111. Enjoy!

"Verily I wish that our Lorde giveth unto us water that is not contaminated with feces of the pygge."

"I wish that the landlorde would not eye my daughter so covetously!"

"Verily I wish the Barber-Surgeon will remove the Daemon within my Bowels that giveth me the Runs."

"May the Viking horde that burned my Village meet a terrible Ende in the belly of a gyant Monster of the Sea."

‎"I hope this Splynter of the Cross that Bore the Sonne of Man I bought from that priest with mine laste Sylver cures mine Wiffe and Childe of the foul Pestilence."

And finally, one of the most common wishes wished on 11/11/1111

"May the generous Lorde of All grant unto me and mine Familye swift and Merciful Reprieve from this hellish Existence."

Most of these could also be applied to most third-world shanty towns, if anyone from a a third-world shanty town checked their third-world shanty calendar to see that it was 11/11/2011.

I realized today that perhaps my priorities are a little skewed.

I was on my way to work this morning. I have about an hour walk from my house to where I need to be for the making of the money. This morning, I was in decent spirits. It was raining but with the end of Daylight Savings Time, I had enjoyed an extra hour of sleep and I was enjoying some sullen, wintry melodies on my massive headphones.

It was kind of perfect.

I stopped to cross the street. I noticed an old Volkswagen van and its equally ancient driver sitting at the intersection, waiting for the same light as I was to turn green so the antique man could pilot his vessel across the same crosswalk I was waiting to use.

The light turned and both he and I headed for the middle of the crosswalk at the same time. I was watching him since I figured he hadn't noticed me -- judging by the fact that he was steadily accelerating to exactly where I was standing. I kept walking though, since the little white man told me I could. As I saw the dilapidated hippie bus approach me faster and faster, I thought, with a remarkable amount of patience, "He's probably going to hit me."

I felt no panic or fear. I only felt a sense of casual resignation -- the kind you get when you realize that you have to wash the dishes because you don't have anything out of which you can drink. I imagined lying in a puddle of filthy rain water congealing at the side of the road, psychedelic patterns swirling about my body as the oils and other runoff from the road commingled with my blood.

"Poor guy," I thought as I imagined dying. It would really be rough for him, but we all make mistakes. That's how I would reassure him, I decided, while I was dying.

"Look, it was just an accident. We all make mistakes," I'd whisper to him just before expiring in that disgusting puddle. I wouldn't want it to be harder for him that it already was.

Fortunately, he saw me well before he got close enough for there to be trouble and he swerved slightly, missing me by at least 15 feet.

"Disaster averted," I shrugged.

But then I looked up and the white bearded man in his weathered fishing hat SHAKING HIS HEAD AT ME!

All the sympathy I had for the plight I knew he would've endured if he had killed me while I was crossing the street melted away and was replaced by a violent, white-hot rage. All thought of me expending my last breath to reassure the poor guy washed down the gutter where my body was not lying.

I stopped in the middle of the intersection, dropped my umbrella to my side and -- flailing my limbs like a marionette who's puppet master was in the middle of a massive heart attack -- shouted, "It was my fucking light, asshole!"

Next time, I'm not even going to think about comforting him during my imaginary death with my theoretical last words! Serves him right.

Hey guys!

I'm in a rare good mood this morning. The past 36 hours or so have been pretty decent, by my normal standards. You may have noticed that I haven't put up a stand up clip in a while. I stopped recording myself even though I have been going on stage semi-regularly. I kinda think those videos are excruciating and I wasn't really seeing any improvement, to be honest.

However, I've been working on some material that I'm proud of and I performed for the first time last night at the Hollywood Hotel's open mic. I think it went pretty well so I'll try it again next week and record it for all you folks eagerly awaiting news of my stand up adventures.

There was a surprise guest at last night's open mic, too. I have to admit I was a bit star-struck when the host announced Maria Bamford would be coming on stage. She did about five minutes of material -- some of it old; some of it new. It was pretty damn hilarious.

So that was a treat.

I'm off to enjoy the rest of this good mood before some depressing fact of daily existence brings it crashing down around me. Stay tuned next week for a new stand up clip and, if you haven't yet, read my latest Adult Swim article: An Intro to Cthulhu!

In the meantime, enjoy these clips of Maria Bamford being Bamfordian. Is it weird that I find her very attractive because she seems so crazy?

It's Halloween, folks. And whether you plan to dress up as a slutty witch, a slutty nurse or a slutty, dead prostitute, remember that Halloween is a time for you to be whatever you want to be, so long as it gets you the attention you so desperately need to feel good about yourself.

For my part, I will continue to act like an attention whore online, instead of at awkward Halloween parties -- and to that end, here are some of my favorite, creepy, old-timey cartoons starring Cab Calloway.

Minnie the Moocher

This one is a weird morality play, in which Betty Boop, pissed off that her parents (an old Jewish couple from Eastern Europe, I guess) treat her unfairly, runs off with her boyfriend, a cartoon dog.However, they soon learn the error of their ways when they find a haunted cave and a dancing walrus ghost voiced by the one and only Cab Calloway. It's tons o' surreal fun!

St. James Infirmary

I like this song because it's depressing and that's pretty much the only thing a song needs to be to get my attention. But the cartoon that goes along with it is a bizarre version of Snow White. Betty Boop plays Snow White and Cab Calloway plays Koko, the dancing ghost-clown. What more could you want out of a cartoon?

The Ghost of Stephen Foster

The absurdity of these surreal cartoons was not lost on the retro Dixieland swing band The Squirrel Nut Zippers. They did their own take on the creepy, ghost cartoons with a song about meeting the famous (and dead) songsmith Stephen Foster in a haunted hotel.

I think Minnie the Moocher is my favorite because of the scene were the dead, eyeless cat gives birth to a litter of dead, eyeless cats who then suck their mother complete dry. Also, the way the walrus moves in that video is unnerving for some reason that I can't quite place.

Enjoy!

Also, please love me.

I'll keep this short, guys. I just wanted to point out a couple things I'm a bit proud of. Why pretend I'm modest? All of you know I'm quite fond talking about things I've accomplished. Just thank God (or whomever) that I don't accomplish things very often.

Firstly, my second article for the [adult swim] website is up! It's about H.P. Lovecraft's stories and the "Dead and Dreaming" art show in Philadelphia. I read about 200 pages of H.P. Lovecraft's stories in less than two weeks for this article because, though I had dabbled in Lovecraft in college (no, that's not innuendo), I needed to refresh my memory and get acquainted with parts of his work that weren't just about the octopus-headed monster Cthulhu. That pace of reading was like college again, except the work I was doing this time would eventually lead to money, as opposed to the four years I spent in college. Also, I think reading that much Lovecraft in that short a period of time would've driven a lesser man mad.

Here's something to whet your appetite for Lovecraft (again, not innuendo):

"Many conversations about Lovecraft begin with Cthulhu. Deep beneath the inky depths of the ocean lies the ruined city R'lyeh where IT sleeps in a death-like state, haunting the dreams of all mankind. IT, of course, is Cthulhu, a behemoth alien from beyond the stars."Another thing that was kind of exciting was I got to cover the contract-signing ceremony that made Bonus Car Wash in Santa Monica the first unionized car wash in the country. That's kind of a big deal. Also, I thought I took some pretty decent pictures at the ceremony.

Enjoy!

"Bonus Car Wash in Santa Monica became the only unionized car wash in the country Tuesday morning."

Recently, I have been watching episodes of Star Trek Voyager (yes, I hate myself that much). The thing about Voyager is that it always felt like they were trying to recreate themes, characters and ideas from the previous three shows without ever getting the tone or the chemistry quite right. As a result, the series felt like a disjointed patchwork of imitations of better story lines, more robust people and less cartoonish aliens (which is an accomplishment considering how cartoonish some of the aliens were in TOS *cough*Tribbles*cough*).

Sometimes Voyager actually seems more like a parody of Star Trek than an actual continuation of the franchise. One of the most egregious examples of this happened when Voyager introduced the most terrifying Star Trek villain to date.

The horror! A close up of Species 8472, the most hateful,

xenophobic and malevolent alien race ever encountered

in the Star Trek universe. Also, they are ugly. Species 8472 was originally engaged by the Borg as the expanded into fluidic space (whatever that means) to conquer more species. But they are so full of hate and violence toward other species that they respond to the Borg incursion into their space by deciding to WIPE OUT ALL LIFE in our universe.

For those of you who don't remember, Voyager is equipped with a telepath named Kes. Throughout the episode in which Species 8472 is introduced (Scorpion part I), Kes keeps getting telepathic messages from the aliens.

When Captain Janeway asks Kes what Species 8472 are telling her, Kes, with terror in her eyes, says "I feel malevolence. A cold hatred." It seems that Species 8472's motto is "The weak shall perish."

Charming.

The Borg, the most evil species encountered by the Federation until Species 8472 came along, are powerless to stop them. They cannot be assimilated, they cannot be reasoned with and they are impervious to all conventional weapons.

Well, shit.

So, to make an already long story a bit shorter, a bunch of stuff happens and the crew of Voyager working in a very tense (and tentative) alliance with the Borg develop a way to attack Species 8472 on a cellular level. For helping the Borg defeat the malevolent monsters, Voyager gets safe passage through Borg space.

The weapon works and because 8472 has enjoyed virtual invincibility up to this point, the brutal effectiveness of the new weapon sends them scurrying back to safety of fluidic space. True to form, the Borg try to turn on Voyager once 8472 is no longer a threat, but of course Voyager gets away.

All in all, a good two episodes. A new, scary bad guy is introduced and the Voyager crew engaged with the Borg in a way that hadn't been done before in Star Trek without undermining the previously-established idea that they are one of the most incomprehensibly evil forces in the universe.

Only now, there are two very frightening villains. If we're lucky, they will kill each other off and their mutual malevolence will by both species undoing, right?

No. That's too pessimistic for ol' Star Trek because a year later, I guess some writers took a look at the profile of Species 8472: a xenocidal race bent on the elimination of all life in our universe at all costs because they think any life that has not reached their state of evolution is not worthy of living. Then those writers said to themselves, "Let's have Janeway and crew make peace with these creatures! Because that makes perfect sense."

It is a quaint (and arguably dangerous) point of view that Western democratic thought has pervaded over time that, deep down, everyone is reasonable and can be persuaded -- through diplomatic means -- to avoid violence if you just help them to see the light, even alien species who want to kill all humans.

Species 8472 is developing technology to make bigger and better piles

of their dismembered victims, you know, for peaceful reasons.Here's a close up of Species 8472's handiwork, in case you didn't get how unreasonably malevolent they are:

No, but seriously, deep down the monsters that did this are

just misunderstood.Janeway and her infinite reservoir of compassion for all things, decides that she should try to hear the point of view of the monsters, because if a lion were attacking you, the best bet is to try to talk to it first before you shot it. Anything else would be cruel.

But you know what? Janeway was right! Species 8472's genocidal mania was a result of a simple misunderstanding. See, they took our attempt to stop them from wiping out all life in our universe as an example of human barbarity. An honest mistake, of course.

What about that whole "the weak shall perish" business? Well, that's what Species 8472 say when they're scared. I guess making piles of dismembered bodies is something they do when they're afraid, too?

When Seven of Nine, the recently de-Borgified member of Janeway's crew question the wisdom of trying to make peace with a species who has as developed a sense of compassion as Jeffery Dahmer did, Janeway responds by telling Seven that she just needs to have faith.

Why did I keep watching at this point? I don't know. Like the moment when two trains collide, I couldn't turn my head away from the impending disaster.

In the end, Janeway discusses the peace with a member Species 8472 who is disguised as a human -- since they were training for an invasion of Earth. "Peace with humans," he chortles good-naturedly. He tells Janeway that he would bring the new information to his superiors but he expects to meet resistance because not all the members of Species 8472 are as "forward-thinking" as he is and peace with humans would likely strike them as absurd.

No shit.

In the end, Voyager constructed the most violent and aggressive threat to humanity -- and all life in the galaxy and this is how they chose to end it:

A member of Species 8472 gives Janeway a rose, maybe because I guess

he ran out of the severed heads of his victims.All you need is love, man.

I've been watching The Walking Dead recently. I caught up with all of season one in time to watch the premier of season two last Sunday. I feel about the show the way I do about a misguided relationship. The dialogue is often stilted, the interactions between characters are flat and barely believable and the plot is often hopelessly contrived, but the show looks really good.

With as a show, as in a relationship, looks can go a long way to make you forget about the general crappiness of everything else about it.

Well, it's not that bad. I mean, it'll get better. I just need to give it more time. I can't leave the show now, before it has a chance to come into its own and be the show I know it can be!

Ahem.

I do enjoy the novelty of a show with zombies and up to now, the zombies have been used most effectively to scare the living shit out of me. Though, for some reason, whenever I see a horde of lumbering undead on the show, I can't help but think, "Look at these fucking hipsters."

One thing watching the show has helped me with is relating to all the young whippersnappers I am once again tutoring, which is fitting because the terror I feel when, walking past a high school, I hear the dismissal bell ring, is something like the terror one would feel when facing an oncoming herd of zombies.

The other day, I had a group of highschoolers and we were waiting around for the tutoring session to start, so I asked them what they would do in the event of a zombie apocalypse.

Most of them didn't have an answer. We have a name for those who don't know what they will do when the proverbial shit hits the proverbial fan and people start turning into not-so-proverbial walking legions of flesh-munching corpses.

Chum!

One girl jumped at my question, though. It was clear that she derived a morbid joy from my asking. She had clearly given the question a lot of thought.

"I would go to Costco!" she practically squeaked with excitement.

"Why Costco? Why not Target or another big store like that?" I asked, genuinely curious.

"Because, besides all the supplies you would need, Costco also has guns," she smiled.

Hats off to you, high school girl. You seem to have found the best place to hide from the coming doom. You will survive the impending zombie apocalypse.

There is nothing for me to teach her.

On certain days, I feel like my best bet in life is to live for maybe another ten years, sleeping on a couch in an illegal addition to my dad's house. I'd drink cheap beer or tequila or turpentine.

Actually, anything really.

And, in the end, when whatever toxins I've imbibed in a desperate attempt to dull the steady sound of me disappointing myself have finally done me in, they will bury me under the floorboards, under the couch in the illegal addition to my dad's house were I live, collecting bed sores and beer fat. Then, I will remain there for all eternity, or at least until the sun explodes and consumes the inner planets of our solar system and my bones -- and the couch they're under -- with them.

But those are the bad days. On the good days, I can't help but feel that success is just around the corner. On Friday, I submitted my second article for Adult Swim. On a day like that, I can't help but feel as though I'm going to burst forth from the pupa of crystallized hate and sadness to reveal a new Jason, complete with Jon Hamm-like physique (and the confidence it begets) and conquer the world through gorgeousness and charm.

You might have heard me mention this article. It's about the works of H.P. Lovecraft. Since I only dabbled in Lovecraft in college, I've spent the last two weeks reading Lovecraft -- two weeks immersed in about 200 pages of transdimensional, intergalactic, amoral madness. I think that's what some people in Hollywood call "winning!"

Anyhow, I think the final product was alright and it should go live at the beginning of next week. As you can imagine, I will share it here... and on Facebook and on Twitter and on Google Plus and on Tumblr and I'll probably just sit on a street corner shouting about it for a couple days, too.

I live in a town where most people are at least hippie-curious, if not full-blown hippies. Even the yuppiest of the yuppies in Los Angeles will often, in a tone of detachment that suggests they've been taking Xanax since they were twelve, talk about how everyone should "Chill out, man" or "Relax, dude" and say something incoherent about how the corporations are doing something evil. They respond to bicyclists with a condescending "Good for you!" and will talk sincerely about how great it is that they buy overpriced organic produce from Whole Foods and that they drive Priuses.

Needless to say, like the nightmarish combination of sage incense and beaded doorways, I find this ethos to be profoundly irritating.

One thing that really gets me though is the hippie method of blowing someone off. Since the hippie prizes above all things "spontaneity" and "living in the moment," he cannot make plans -- it is anathema to his very being. If he did, he'd start becoming more like the man, man! So, the hippie spends a lot of time "going with the flow" and "just seeing where the moment takes" him.

I live in a giant, sprawling city that was basically built in the fifties when they were practically giving away free cars and houses to everyone who fought in the war and their children. I have a bike and bus pass to navigate this post-suburban behemoth with its concrete tentacles that snake for miles in every direction. Getting from point A to point B can be an Odysseian feat... Bet you didn't know Los Angeles has cyclops. He lives in Watts. He's a cool guy, once you get to know him.

Spontaneity is not really a big part of my life, since it will sometimes take me two hours to get from one side of the city to the other. When you tell someone like me "We'll just play it by ear," it basically means "I am blowing you off."

The ingenious hippies however have found a way to make it your fault when they blow you off. Say, for instance, you can't "go with the flow" because it would take you two hours to travel to the designated meet up point. But they just called to tell you that they would be there in 15 minutes. And say, for instance, you find that kind of aggravating and you decide to tell the hippies that you thought it was kind of rude and inconsiderate to give you such short notice when they were fully aware that you couldn't possibly do anything on such short notice. A hippie can respond with, "Hey man, just chill out."

Now, the onus is on you for getting upset at someone who's just being a free spirit, albeit a free spirit with a car and money for gas.

And after you get mad at said hippie and go about the plans you had already made since your efforts to try to make more solid arrangements had gone unanswered for three days (all in the cause of spontaneity, I'm sure), you leave your bike tied to a post in a less-than-reputable neighborhood, where it comes into the possession of someone who spontaneously decided to steal it.

And by "you" I mean "I." So I offer this note that I once wrote to my students when they stole my phone, tweaked to fit the current situation.

Dear Person Who Stole My Bike,

You are pretty much the reason I have given up on humanity. Enjoy your new bike.

Love,

Jason

PS I hope you crash it into a pole.

On the bright side, I may have lost a bike, but at least my worldview was confirmed.

Buh-bye, Sole Means of Transportation! You will be missed.

How to win at a job interview, by Jason Islas

Hey guys! Because I'm curious to know what you think of the new masthead, I thought I would employee democracy. You will be given a chance to vote! But because too much democracy is a bad thing, your choices have been limited to two by the benign overlord, yours truly. Tell me what you think, within a degree of reasonably circumscribed freedom!

Love,

Jason the Beneficent

Grandparents' generation: "Pull yourself up by your bootstraps!"

Parents' generation: "I guess it's time to trade in these groovy, psychedelic bootstraps for something a bit more tight-laced."

Our generation: "Mom! Did you get me new bootstraps yet?! Jeez! Do I have to do everything myself?!"

I've got a long day of writing ahead so I started my morning off with this awesome bit of music. I find it hard not to want to create something after listening to this.

Or at least not to want to conquer the known world in the name of Christendom.

Happy Labor Day, y'all! Let's take a moment to remember that we celebrate this holiday today -- and not May 1st -- because we aren't a bunch of fucking godless Communists... or French. GOD BLESS AMUHRIKA!

America's second most mustachioed president, Grover Cleavland actually made the September date the official American Labor Day because the May 1st date had already been co-opted by savages, anarchists and the like. Mr. Cleavland's mustache would not stand for such unseemly things, so he opted for the more Victorian-friendly end-of-summer picnic holiday so that every proper family would be able to spend some time sewing textiles outside of doors to make ends meet.

What a wholesome image! Father, with his stately whiskers properly waxed and Mother, with her whale-bone corset properly tightened, hurriedly sewing buttons on sturdy linens to be worn gentlemen with even statelier mustaches and women with even more constricted breathing! The children, dressed in sturdy dungarees, carrying loads of unhemmed shirts by the satchel for mummy and daddy to sew, while the late summer sun shines down upon this blessed image of family!

Tomorrow, it is back to the factory floor for this industrious, Christian family. Back to school for the children? Nonsense! What schooling do seven-year-olds need? With their sturdy, youthful backs, those delightful scamps will go far! Perhaps, one day, they will be strong enough to haul coal from the bounty'ous Earth or even the wond'rous new mineral Polonium discovered by the Pollack scientistress, Mrs. Pierre Curie.

Ah, the good ol' days.

Enough of this nonsense! This was my warm up writing for the day. I'm actually working on something for the McSweeney's column contest. It's due Friday and I have an idea that I'm trying to flesh out. I love to flesh things... out. Man, that phrase always creeps me out.

I'm also going to work on Canto II of my perversion of Dante's classic epic poem, so stand by to be disappointed!

Wish me luck, or something.

Midway upon the journey of our lifeI found myself within a forest dark

Oh, Dante! So dramatic. Not that I'm a master of understatement, you see, but "a forest dark," Dante? Seriously.

Whatever, Dante. We are all guilty of something, whether it be something small like not taking out the garbage today or something big like not taking out the garbage all week.

Me? Well, personally I'm guilty of a whole long list of things. I like to think of it as a healthy collection of "experiences of a questionable nature." There was the time I tried to make out with a girl in front of her ex boyfriend. Or the time I didn't go to work because I was hung over... Alright, alright so I've done that more than once while in the Peace Corps. I mean, that's pretty shitty. But can you blame me? In the winter there, the sun only shines for five hours and you can only heat one room of your house at a time. Did you expect me to sit around sober all the time?

I'm getting ahead of myself. We're still in the forest dark. It's not time for forgiveness yet. That comes later... right?

I've been negligent, selfish, drunk, lazy, lecherous, greedy and downright cruel at times. And then, there was that man I killed for looking at me funny when I walked into the saloon.

OK, so that didn't really happen. But it sounds pretty bad ass, doesn't it?

But I've burned my fair share of bridges and now, slightly less than midway through my life (I hope), I stand in some melodramatic forest, my way forever lost! What a woeful creature I am! LOST IN A NIGHTMARESCAPE OF GNARLED, MENACING, BLACK TREES.

Ahem. Let's not get carried away.

Wait. Is there seriously a she-wolf gnashing her teeth at me from behind the wall of monster trees? Don't you think this is a bit much? I get it the point already. I've done some shitty things and now my soul is in danger. I don't think I need some demon wolf and a bunch of mangled, hell-burnt trees to drive the point home. Isn't it bad enough that I've alienated almost everyone I know? Do I need to have my entrails devoured by a ravenous metaphor as well?

Oh, look! A shade! I certainly hope it's one of my favorite authors come to show me the way through this horrid (and really overwrought) scene!

"O! be you a man or be you a shade, sir?" I shouted at form gliding toward me.

"Why are you talking like that?" he responded. His accent was peculiar, mostly British but occasionally, he choked back his Rs like a Frenchman.

"Well, you being a ghost and all, I thought you might use more archaic language."

"I may be a ghost, but I'm not that old." He had trouble with his THs, too. They came out like deflated Ds.

"Sorry."

"Don't worry about it. It's a common mistake. Most people think that just because someone's dead, they're going to talk like some community theater over actor," he sighed. "Let's get on with this business. You know why I'm here, right?"

"Yeah, I think. You're here to save me from my ways. I've been a shithead for most of my youth and now, as I'm getting older, I'm starting to realize if I keep being a shithead, that giant fir monster over there is going to snack on guts."

"And?"

I paused to think for a second. And what?

"You know, I can hear what you're thinking, right?" the ghost chided.

"Um..."

"And you feel bad for being such a shithead... right?"

"Oh, right."

"You know, the only way you punks ever repent is if we threaten you with some nightmarishly brutal punishment. Don't you ever want to be better people for its own sake?"

"Yeah, sure I do. If I were a better person, I could probably sleep with a lot more girls. Chicks dig good people, right?"

"You're not giving me a whole lot to work with here, Jason."

"That was a joke, ghostie. I thought you could read my mind."

"I can, which is why I know you aren't really joking. We're just going to have to do this the old fashioned way. Follow me."

With that, the ghostly shadow with which I had just had a perfectly coherent conversation disappeared into the muddy ground just beneath my feet.

There was a brief moment where I thought I had lost him, but soon a skeleton shot up from the mud, which started to harden into muscle and sinew. Finally, the outer layer of mud turned into flesh and no longer was I looking at an amorphous (though still sarcastic) mist. I was looking at a man.

And he was naked.

"That was disgusting," I said.

"You don't look so hot yourself," the naked man quipped.

I stared intently at his face, mostly to avoid looking at his junk. His eyes were deep set into his skull. They were gray with age and experience. His cheeks, stretched taught over his bones, were sprinkled with gray hairs, as if he hadn't shaved in a day or two. A salt-and-pepper wisp sat above his thin lips and the patch beneath them turned his chin into a sharp point.

"You kind of look like the devil." It slipped out before I had a chance to realize that I really ought not tell that to the apparition-turned-person that had come to save my immortal soul. "Well, not the scary, ugly devil. But the charming one. Like Mephistopheles. I think it's the mustache."

"You almost done?"

"Um, yeah. Sorry."

"I'm your favorite author, Jason. That's how this works. Don't you remember from reading Dante? Virgil saved him because he thought Virgil was totally awesome. So, now Joseph Conrad, yours truly, is here to save you."

"Oh... my... God...!"

"Don't embarrass yourself, Jason."

"I... I just..." I stammered.

"I know. You love my books. You think I have profound insight into the human soul. You think my stories touch on deep truths about our struggles and our weaknesses. You think that all my works are both masterful works of art and pity philosophical treatises on the nature of man."

"I... I... I..."

"Also, take it from me, next time you want to give a book to a girl you have a thing for, maybe you shouldn't go straight for Heart of Darkness. It's a little... much. Now, let's get a move on."

I would like to offer my sincerest apologizes for the previous entry. It was brought to my attention that I had overstated the amount of Star Trek I have watched. This is true. In the past week, I have watched 30 episodes of Star Trek: The Next Generation, which is approximately 23 hours, not the 48 I hastily claimed yesterday.

I also offered the figure of 178 hours, which is the total number of hours of the TNG series, but I can understand how this might have been confused as an even more extravagant boast on my part.

I apologize for violating your trust and I hope that you can find it in your hearts to forgive me.

Jason M. Islas, author

I've been filling all of my free time recently with watching Star Trek. I've burned through all of the watchable Enterprise and now, I'm working on The Next Generation. For most normal people 178 hours of Star Trek would probably take them a few months to get through, but I have the viewing habits of a smack junkie, so I've watched a chunk of the first and second seasons already, though I've only been at it for about five days.

It actually all started Monday when I got up and, against my better judgement (who am I kidding... I have no better judgement) turned on the TV. For some reason, the magic box was tuned to the SyFy channel. And by some coincidence of fate, they happened to be playing all TNG, all day.

I practically squealed with joy. My only obligation for the day was to write a short article about affordable housing for The Lookout, so as you can imagine, Picard and his merry explorers skyrocketed to first priority in my brain.

The thing is, I was never into Star Trek growing up. My step-dad liked it but I busied my childbrain with the History channel (before it became the "All World War II, All The Time!" channel). Star Trek just didn't do it for me. I think I was too self-conscious about being considered a stereotypical nerd. It was bad enough that my friends and I did well in school, didn't party, couldn't talk to girls, etc. I didn't feel the need to add "Trekkie" to the list of things that were going to prevent me from getting laid until I was in my mid-30s.

Now that I've given up on life, though, I am free to be as much of a loser as I want to be (as evidenced by my life trajectory since coming back from Bulgaria). As a result, I've broken the nerd barrier. The deluge follows.

It certainly isn't good for my brain, though. In the past week, I have watched 48 hours of Star Trek which has caused me to enter into some sort of time warp. It feels like I've lived a year, on an adventure into the recesses of my mind.

On the one hand, I really enjoy the show. The plots are well-structured and engaging. The characters are well-acted and multi-dimensional. I find myself wishing I were on the bridge of the USS Enterprise taking order from Picard. It's comforting.

On the other hand, I am finding it harder and harder to motivate myself to leave the house, or to write, or to communicate with other human beings. I am slowly becoming more and more immersed in the Star Trek universe. The other day, I found myself imitating Data's speech patterns...

Resistance is futile.

A bus pass that has been augmented to better

represent my new reality.

The inside of my brain after 12 hours of Star Trek...

What do you want, HOO-man?! I'll make this brief. I have two things I'm here to bug you about. I've started a new Flickr page, for a collection of more polished looking pictures.

Secondly, Super iam8bit: Old Games, New Art is up on the Adult Swim site. In case you didn't hear it on my million other social networking sites, that's the article I wrote about the vintage video game art show.

Now, I need to get out of bed. My family's coming over to celebrate my brother and his wife's coming baby. Grumble.

If you're a dog, your world ends every time the givers of food leave.

Remember, being alone for a dog is an incomprehensible nightmare!

The title to this post was a thought I had as I lied in bed (which is a couch) between waking and sleeping around 6:00 this morning. When this thought came to me, I was actually relieved. You see, for the past two weeks, I had been feeling good about things. I was writing, I was working, I had prospects for the future. Unfortunately, a side effect of the peculiar series of events that suggested the possibility of future success for yours truly was the onset of chronic boringness.

Over the last two weeks, I have been unable to have an interesting original thought, so much of my energy was devoted to writing the Adult Swim article (which I'm told will go up today) or working for The Lookout or watching massive amounts of Star Trek: Enterprise. The problem was that I was feeling good. That is to say, I was feeling confident and sure of myself.

When, at the end of the day, I feel satisfied with what I've done, who I am and where I am going, I don't have demented, twisted thoughts that I can weave into creative ideas. Nor do I have a desire to write funny things for your approval. And, at the end of the day, I feel bland and boring.

So, when I awoke this morning with a dark thought in mind, you can imagine my joy. Turns out that I hadn't been lobotomized by two weeks of work that I enjoyed doing. My bombastic apocalyptic Weltanschauung seems to have returned, even though objectively nothing has changed from last week. I may get to write more for Adult Swim; my work for The Lookout is constantly being praised by my editor and the owner; I am starting to get momentum on prospects for my future as an adult male in a city that has always intimidated me since I was a wee lad. Take that, L.A., you damned sepulcher, full of false hope and sunken dreams!

Things are looking up!

But, I'm still looking down, because my inspiration comes from that dark, yawning chasm beneath us that is silently and patiently waiting to swallow us up while we go about our merry lives. Thank God! Because how annoying would it be if I just told you all about how great everything was all the time? I'm getting nauseous just thinking about that other universe in which I'm happily married and updating Facebook all the time to let you guys know just how much my wife and I love each other.

Every year, I'd send you a Christmas card with a perfect picture of my gorgeous wife, two unrealistically cute kids, smiling vacantly like happiness zombies and our movie-star pedigree golden retriever we rescued from the pound last year, all to remind you that I'm happier than the rest of you sad sacks!

I like this version of me much better, when my subconscious instinct in the morning before I'm fully awake is to beg for a distant, inscrutable and merciless God to show some kindness by ending this tortured and bitter world.

On that note, I'm going to drink coffee until I'm dizzy and sweating feverishly while I refresh the Adult Swim website every 10 minutes.

Melike sent me this picture this morning. I prefer to annoy people by

predicting horrible outcomes and being right.

Have a great weekend!

I submitted my article on the SUPER iam8bit art show last night around midnight. It will be up soon. Maybe tomorrow or maybe the day after. These things take time, you see. It's not like you can just be put stuff up in a public forum instantly. We don't have that kind of technology!

Actually, it makes sense. Things need to be copy-edited and laid out properly. It is a professional site, after all. I had a great time covering the show, to be honest. I took a million pictures and interviewed about a million people more than I needed to for the final article. But there was some real craftsmanship put into a lot of the work. Once the article goes up, I'll put up what pictures they don't use.

As for the article, I was only half-satisfied with what I submitted. I ended up having so much information, I forgot to try to make it funny... which is kind of the point! But the editor helped me punch it up a bit and the final draft was better.

In the meantime, you can just listen to this girl tell you all about it in excruciating detail.

You don't even need to read my article or my interviews with the artists. Everything you need to know is contained in this video. Why did I even bother writing the article? I give up.

I actually remember this girl from the show. I was really conflicted about her. She's shorter than I am and she was wearing a Ninja Turtles backpack. But she was hot so I still checked her out, even though she looked like a middle-schooler.

What?! Don't judge me! At least I felt bad about it while I was doing it! Oh, God... At least I'm pretty sure she was over 18.

In other news, I'm busy wracking my brain for more of charming little cartoons I started this week. Though I was inspired to do those when I should've been working on my article. New inspiration may have to wait until I have more real work to do again.... which may be never.

Hey guys!

Sorry I haven't filled these digital pages with my half-coherent, fatalistic ramblings in a while. It's no excuse, but perhaps if I offer an explanation, it will be a balm for the sting of betrayal you must feel. The main reason I haven't updated is that it has been a busy week. I haven't had a "busy week" in months, so I welcome the activity. It keeps my brain from contemplating the futility of our mortal existence.

The biggest thing I'm doing this week is covering the I am 8 bit art show for none other than the premier adult cartoon website, adultswim.com. I don't usually say positive things, but I'm enjoying this. Last night was the first night and, regardless of what you think about the theme of the art show, there was a lot of well-crafted works of art on display. And I got to talk to a number of rather talented and creative people.

One of the artists happened to be a Reedie, as well. At the beginning of the night, we huddled together in a socially awkward enclave at the back of the gallery as he explained to me the technical process he went through in hacking the Xbox Kinect for his project. It was actually a pretty neat idea. You'll have to wait for the article to read more about it, though.

Whew! That's enough positivity for a month. I'll be submitting my piece to the Adult Swim people some time next week, so I'll be sure to let you know once it's up on the site.

I'm also juggling my Lookout responsibilities this week, which, considering how slow the summer has been, are relatively a lot (that means I have like two stories to write).

I'm heading back to the gallery tonight to see the crowds, take pictures and interview the thronging masses. I have a pocket full of business cards from last night, so now I'm going to play Match the Card with the Hazy and Vague Memory of a Shadowy Face game!

Time to send some "thank you" e-mails.

Islas out.

I would like to offer my sincerest apology for my previous blog entry. I know some of you take Shark Week very seriously and I should have never made light of it. It was, at best, insensitive. At worst, it was an act of malice.

I would also like to clarify that though I may have made light of Shark Week, I am and will always be a strong supporter of sharks. Because they are huge. And awesome.

I hope you will all find it in your hearts to forgive me for violating your trust.

Also, for existing.

I'm pretty sure I go through an entire human life cycle every day. I start off confused and disoriented, slowly gathering my faculties, discerning my situation and predicament. Then, usually just after my shower, I have about two hours of unreasonable optimism about the world and everyone in it, as well as about what I can accomplish in my short life.

The human spirit burns so brightly because it burns so quickly, am I right?

But then, I run up against limitations. My initial hope and dreams are ground down against the hard rocks of reality by the rhythmic beating of the waves of time. I am forced to realize that hope is not enough. Even that hope isn't anything at all. That's when middle-aged despair sets in and I begin to curse the God that created me with such a high hopes, so little power and such a fleeting life.

That's usually right after lunch.

The rest of the day is spent wallowing in frustration and anger at the betrayal by a world that promised so much but delivered so little. That is, until, I learn to make my peace with my place. So I didn't accomplish much in this 24 hour life. Is that so bad? At least my life wasn't cut short in the middle of the day by a post-lunch nap or some other cruel and inexplicable tragedy.

I made it to the evening and, as a result, I can spend my twilight enjoying Extreme Air Jaws on Shark Week. Maybe I didn't get everything done that I wanted, but I made it to the end. And now, I can place my head against my pillow in my rat's nest of a room, close my eyes and succumb to the inevitable.

The good news is, I get to do it all over again tomorrow.