Fonts

Arial
Courier
Georgia
Lucida Granda
Times
Trebuchet
Verdana
Webdings

Which of these fonts should I use?

Seriously, someone please tell me. I can't move forward without having first decided which of these dastardly fonts works best. Which font communicates the words I wish to express in the way I wish them to be expressed. What if I choose the wrong font and look like a complete boob in front of the whole internet? I can't start out the blogging game making that kind of rookie mistake. That would be like if a rock n roll band was made up of only bassists. Actually, that sounds kind of bad ass. They could be called Bassholes, Back to Bassists, Battle of the Bass, or Bass Fishing.

But I digress.

I really wish I had Helvetica up on this bitch. Man, that'd be rad. I can see it now: the superior spacing between letters and the perfect gaps within letters. How magnificent the complexion! How fantastic the simplicity! And oh - the legibility!

What's really weird about all this is how this thing really wants me to use Verdana. But really, fuck Verdana. I'm not even going to write in that font any more. Verdana is probably the font Al Queda uses on their websites anyway.

I still can't get over this Helvetica thing. Things would be perfect. I would already have a huge following. And I'd be getting all kinda of ass.

I also should figure out what I'm going to write on this blog. Before I did a lot of creative writing. And then there's that one political piece on immigration. Though I think I had an idea of a coherent narrative. Take all the literary and philosophical influences my liberal education has given me and put it to use to craft a story about a young 20-something navigating the perilous post-modern world of free information, immediate gratification, and amoralism.

But is it just me, or do the Lucida Grande and the Times paragraphs look exactly the same? Maybe the Times characters are slightly larger. Maybe.

On second thought, they do seem to stick out more.

Black Widow, Dark Mistress

Running to cover a trail-

Scattering across the room-

Zig-zaging through the crowd-

Black widow,

While I tangle

In your web.

Dancing with you,

Contact yielding

Wet salt - delight.

Your attention yet diverted,

And with silk-like motion,

You scatter.

But dimmed lights

Hide our fears,

So shamelessly I dance

Roped up

In your bountiful threads.

Black widow,

Dark mistress,

Glances towards your eyes

Yield ecstasies mutually taboo.

Thunder pounds us close,

Falsetto winds blow you to me.

I, Stoned mannequin -

Fluid motion turned to rock -

Can but move as a stoic.

You, dark harlequin -

Hardened heart recently shattered -

Flirtatiously sunder.

And now my fate

Will chew and spit me out

Before adorations can be shared.

So in solitude,

The dark mistress stalks -

unaware.

On the Consumption and Coalescence of Alcohol and Young Souls

On the Consumption and Coalescence of Alcohol and Young Souls
A Play in Once Act

[Act 1]

Scene: A lone man sits outside a hole-in-the-hall café in a West Coast city. He is seated on a metal chair next to a metal table. He drinks a cup of coffee out of a large, chipped mug. A bagel is on a chipped plate with garish designs. His appearance betrays a year or two of self-neglect. Unkempt head of hair, scruffy facial hair. He wears a trench coat that was once stylish and stills fits well, but is dirty and torn. Pants and shoes are in a similar condition. He is reading the newspaper.

Man reads paper. A voice recording plays in the background. A woman's voice is heard from the distance. It is clearly a memory from an event from this man's past. The voice starts of sad and confused, but rises with vigor and conviction.

Young woman's voice:

“I can't Sye, I just can't!”

“Goddammit Sye, no!”

“Sye, now think. Think.”

“Well, if that's...”

“No, no, it's..”

“Sye!”

“NO!”

“Well, fuck you too! I'm...”

“You say that one more time and I'll, I'll leave!”

“Are you serious?”

“I'm going.”

“I'm, I'm serious. I'm going!” [said with false conviction]

“...bye...” [whimpered]

Man stops reading paper. Puts it down neatly and addresses the audience. He talks in an even tempo, but his voice is weak and tired.

Man: She said those last words with a whimper, and walked out on me.

It's been ten years now, but that conversation is still ingrained inside my head. Well, that's not true. I only remember what she said. Even in my dreams, when we are back together, it ends in that night. That night years ago. And even then, even in my most lucid dreams of that evening, I can't remember. I can't even recall the context of what I said. All I can remember is that she left me, that she's gone. Gone and never to come back to me.

Until today. Until she walked right back into my life with that devil-be-damned smirk and the look of a prophet in her eyes like nothing ever changed.

Her eyes. That was the one thing I missed about her the most. Blue, clear, horrible. Like she knew exactly what was coming next. Except that night. No one could have seen it coming.

Man sits down, picks up paper, and continues reading.

ENTER Young Woman. She is dressed well, albeit unconventionally, but it is obvious she is hiding something from her countenance. Her hair is fashionably short. She wears little make-up. She walks pass the Man, recognizes him, stops, and starts staring at him until he notices her. When she finally gets his attention, he drops his paper on his lap and stares.

Young Woman: “Hello Sye.” [said evenly as she walks up to the table]

Man [addressing the audience]:

I was sitting at my favorite café in the city Le Folie. It was where I always had breakfast – a dark cup of coffee, a bagel with cream cheese, and the morning paper. I've been going to that place ever since we moved into the neighborhood. It's where I first met my friends, the journalist, and the baker, the sculptor, and the playwright. They were not with me at that time. They are never with me any more. I don't think they were ever really my friends.

[Man turns to the woman and addresses her while eating his bagel]

Man: Joanie. I...

Young Woman [interjecting with a wave of her outstretched hang]: Yes, it's been a while. [She pauses, as if to think for a split second] I've missed you.

Man [turning back to the audience]: That was a lie. I think. She looked down as she said it, at the very least. Then again, it could just be from embarrassment at my aesthetics – my seven year-old beard and even older dress shirt and jacket. My pants, however, were new. I had just picked them up the other day from the dumpster.

Man [puzzled, turning back to the Young Woman]: I've...I've got nothing to say"

Young Woman [indignant] Shut up Sye, you never had anything to say anyway [Pauses, and then gives a shrill giggle and continues slowly] I'm here to talk. You're to listen. Understand?

Man [speaking as if he had just been woken up from a dream and is still adjusting to reality]: Joanie, why are you so mean? I'm just...

Young Woman [interrupting with mock sympathy]: No Sye, you've said enough already. Now it's my turn. [Man nods in consent, finishes bage]Now I know this may surprise you, Sye. [looks at Man with a mix of gloom and sorrow. Man comically returns look] But I still love and care for you. [Man beams awe. Young Woman frowns] Now don't give me that look [Man stops, gives look of blank despair] It's not like that. We spent three great years of our life together and you'll always have a place in my heart. But - now this is a big but Sye – I never want to see you again after this. You did something horrible to me and I will never forgive you for it. However, I feel I do owe you one thing: an explanation.

Man [Addressing audience]: At the sound of those words, my eyes must have lit up something fierce, because Joanie smiled. I couldn't help it. Finally, I was going to learn the truth. After all these years, I was about to find out what it was that made Joanie leave me.

Young Woman [smiling while Man looks at her fixated]: I know from your messages you've sent me you don't remember what happened that night. I know that's a lie. Or at least a half-lie. You know exactly what I said, but what you've said escapes you. [Man raises eyebrows in surprise. Young Woman's speech begins to take a sharp edge] Now don't look so surprised. [Young Woman scoffs] I've pieced together as much from your letters. Now[Young Woman pauses and then beings talking as though she is declaring a murderer's amnesty from a crime he is obviously guilty of] Now, I cannot forget that night either. Or, at least, what I remember of it. I can recall every single word you said. Oh yes Sye, I know exactly what you said. [Man stares intently at Young Woman, still silent. Woman talks as if she were delivering a sermon] But stop looking at me like you're some kid about to open up your Christmas present early. You're not nearly so innocent, and I am no Santa Clause. It's like I'm God and you some miserable Job. You've lost everything when you lost me, and now as soon as I show up again you're as faithful as ever. [Young Woman takes out cigarette and begins to smoke] But God be damned because you sicken me. It wasn't God who caused Job to lose all that he loved, that was all fucking Job – he was just too damn passive. [Man looks down] You Sye are too damn passive. Do something besides staring at me! You shake your head, but at least that's something. I would call you pitiful, but even that's too nice. [Young Woman begins talking sympathetically] So do you know why I left you? [Man stares angrily at Young Woman] Do you know what it was that you said? Why my words betray only my spite and distaste for your presence? [Man begins to get up] Well, it's because...wait! Did I say you could leave? [Man ignore Young Woman, who begins to get frantic]

“Sye, where the fuck do you think you're going?”

“No, Sye!”

“You can't just go!” [Man Starts walking away]

“Please don't leave me!” [Young Woman is on the verge of tears]

“I need you still! I still love you!” [Man stops]

“Please. Please look at me!” [Man makes as if to turn back, but stops short and continues to walk off stage]

“I need to know Sye!”

“I need to know...what did I say?” [Young Woman collapses on table, crying]

Curtain

On The Future

On the morning after my first kiss, the girl's father woke me up and handed me a cup of coffee. He literally had to shout my name twice before I came to. The brew was dark and bitter, a portent if there every was one; though, I must admit I am still unsure of what. I imagine no other milestone shall be greeted in such a fashion.

Ode To A Modern World

Preamble: At 7:00 on August 22, I was sitting in Malelani Cafe in Ventor, NJ (right outside of Atlantic City). Sipping my tea, I listened to a friend of mine recount her gullibility. I considered it rather charming, what with her belief in the good and truthful intentions of others; however, the other person present scoffed at what she considered to be naivete. Suddenly, like a barrel of coffee beans, I was hit with inspiration. I immediately grabbed a pen and wrote a few lines on a napkin. I showed it to my cousin, who reckoned I ought to rewrite it so it was legible and read it later that evening during the open-mike night being held at the cafe. I obliged and tweaked it a bit. Here is an even more "revamped" version. Please excuse the crappy rhyming scheme; I didn't have much time to work out anything more complex - my muse is awfully flighty.

Ode To A Modern World

Cynicism is the new chic
While idealism languishes among meek
Beauty and purity had their day
Now, Grim Reality begs to have its say
This is a Modern World painted in shades of brown and grey

The new verses
Watch them ride in hearses
Decked out with blasphemous curses
But who am I to judge?
Through this uncanny valley I will still trudge
Knowing full well that it was not for this our ancestors had lunge

What is real?
It isn't this meal
Of unspoken dreams
Invisible, like laser breams
Spelling out, "Nothing Is What It Seems."

Could it be?
Are you talking to me?
Or it is your imaginary friend?
At least you know He'll stick with you until the end
And He won't remind you of the wounds which do not mend

The sirens speak of a future bleak
Where mercy is practiced only by the weak
A banner reads, "Welcome To A World Where Meaning
Is Not What People Seek."
We live, we die, we do what we may
In a Modern World colored in shades of brown and grey

Immigrant Influx

Greetings Newcomer, you seem to be getting along quite well these last few days. However, you still seem to be in need. Your lips are cracked and dry, parched with a moral thirst. Fear not, for Ronan the Ranter has arrived! Today will be your first taste of what The Walls of Jericho has to offer. So sit back and relax, allow to me assuage all fears and concerns. Just be sure to keep your mind open while I spin my yarn, and you will discover the deeper order. This is The Walls of Jericho!

From the turbulent cities of New York and Philadelphia, to the provincial towns of the West, cries permeate the air. The fear of immigrants strains the hearts and minds of all. Newspapers, such as the New York Times, herald the misgivings: "It would be monstrous for us to permit the country, or any part of it, to be overrun by paupers or criminals" (1). Deemed to be "unworthy and un-American" (1), immigrants are said to "have no intention of becoming good citizens" (1). Some may even be so bold as to claim these people possess "an incapacity and an aversion for becoming American citizens" (1). Indeed, there is a fear that American may become a "'colony'" for these immigrants (1). The question remains: what shall be done to curb their blatantly malicious influence?

In truth, the question as already been answered by time. Indeed, there may have been a misunderstanding about the quotes used above. Oh, they are from a New York Times article; however, it was not recently penned. On the contrary, it was published on June 16, 1888!

Not Mexicans, South Americans, or even Arabs, this article concerns itself with Italians, Germans, Irish, and Scandinavians. Contemporarily, individuals of those ethnicities have become the harbingers of the anti-immigration movement. Men such as Patrick Buchanan, of German and Irish descent, (2) and Tom Tancredo, of Italian descent (3), are hypocrites. They perpetrate the same hatred and prejudices the Nativists held over 100 years ago. Gone are the days where signs read "No Irish Need Apply" (4), they have been replaced with signs ordering restruant goers to speak only in English (5).

Illegal immigration is a problem (6), no one is debating that. However, there is a fine line between protecting America's borders and outright xenophobia. People must remember, and take to heart, the Statue of Liberty's inscription:
Not like the brazen giant of Greek fame,
With conquering limbs astride from land to land;
Here at our sea-washed, sunset gates shall stand
A mighty woman with a torch, whose flame
Is the imprisoned lightning, and her name
Mother of Exiles. From her beacon-hand
Glows world-wide welcome; her mild eyes command
The air-bridged harbor that twin cities frame.
"Keep, ancient lands, your storied pomp!" cries she
With silent lips. "Give me your tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.
Send these, the homeless, tempest-tossed to me,
I lift my lamp beside the golden door!" (7).

Sources:
1) "UNREGULATED IMMIGRATION." New York Times. New York, N.Y.: Jun 16, 1888 pg. 1. Reproduced in Historical Newspapers. Proquest, 2008. http://hn.bigchalk.com/hnweb/hn/do/search
2) "Patrick Joseph Buchanan." Encyclopedia of World Biography, 2nd ed. 17 Vols. Gale Research, 1998. Reproduced in Biography Resource Center. Farmington Hills, Mich.: Gale, 2008. http://galenet.galegroup.com/servlet/BioRC
3) "2008 Presidential Candidate Tom Tancredo ‎(Republican)" GEDview. http://www.gedview.com/tancredo/index.php?ctype=gedcom
4) "Classified Ad 2 -- No Title" New York Daily Times. New York, N.Y.: Nov 10, 1854 pg. 1. Reproduced in Historical Newspapers. Proquest, 2008. http://hn.bigchalk.com/hnweb/hn/do/search
5) Associated Press. "Bistec con queso? Not at Geno's Steaks." FOXnews.com. June 08, 2006. http://www.foxnews.com/story/0,2933,198757,00.html
6) Davidson, Adam. "Q&A: Illegal Immigrants and the U.S. Econom." NPR.org. March 30, 2006. http://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=5312900
7) Lazarus, Emma. "The New Colossus." Poets.org. http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/16111

The Gates Open

After journeying through the scorching heat and peril of the desert, you have finally arrived. Standing before you are The Walls of Jericho - my walls. This is my home, my land, my domain. You must be thirsty, so come on in.

The world is a treacherous place, a desert of depravity and sickness. Not here, though, not within my walls. Fear not for I will protect you, I will feed and clothe you, and I will redeem you. I am Ronan, the resident ranter. I welcome you to humanity's last solace of sanity. I welcome you to The Walls of Jericho. Please, come in! Drink, and be merry! Tell me your tale, and I'll tell you mine. But first, please come in!