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therewasacatch
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Name: Benjamin
Gender: Male
Interests: There are days I want nothing more than to be a beatnik. One problem with this is I can't grow a full enough beard. I really do want to be slaughtered by a bear. I really do want it to be a fair fight, with at least 5 bystanders. I want to run with the bulls but I have a feeling I will jump the gun, and be the first guy through those narrow streets, an out of place Paul Revere, warning everyone that those bulls are on their way, and they wont stop for anyone. NOT A SOUL! so get out of their way, Italians. Then I may or may not trip
Expertise: What about those poor souls working in the glitter industry...you know they come home covered in glitter everyday. Every article of clothing, their car seat, the floor mat, the kitchen, bathroom, bedroom. Everywhere they turn is glitter. It's in their eyes, nose, etc. God Bless the glitter industry, and the daily glitter-coated hell they call their life!
Occupation: Student
Message: message me
AIM:  the2paper2trail
Member Since:
2/5/2004
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| new sigur ros...holy guacamole (and i'm not using that term lightly)
i thought very seriously about crying just listening.
donate money to people who need it. give your tithe to people without houses, not a church.
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| - The Tracks of My Tearsit is time to get over my bad attitude and write again, although i thought that last post was one of my finest, and it only garnished 19 comments. i went into a self-inspired withdrawal, in protest.
to begin, i must note that last night i ate dinner at abuelita's dos with 20 very lovely freshmen girls. i know, you say, Ben, what a predator. well, its true. its true. actually i was invited for free food, used poor table manners and most of the girls will never speak to me again.
so some quick numbers:
8=number of flat tires clay and i have had in the past month on our bikes
12=cups of coffee i had this morning. my knees are bouncing and heart is out of control. it feels great.
4=number of days i was expected to read moby dick in
9=number of days i actually read moby dick in
17=days until i see sigur ros in minneapolis
23=days until serenity movie comes out
4=number of kelly clarkson songs i downloaded illegally two nights ago, i am kind of embarassed but she has been rocking out lately it seems.
this weekend i confessed to my mom that i went to colorado springs in the back of a truck and she took it better than i expected. good for her. a thought: who discovers food? i know we have all had shallow conversations about who started putting together peanut butter and jelly, etc. But what interests me, for example, is milk. who decided suddenly to pull on a cow nipple (which is essentially what it is, but we call it an udder so people will drink the stuff) and said, oh that white stuff is probably really tasty. in fact, i am going to get on my hands and knees, underneath a dirty cow who rolls in its own crap, and drink the white stuff. oh, but it's really not good, so we will pasteurize it and then drink it. i like milk, but this seems to be a ridiculous process, considering the other options.
my christmas sweater, when i was five, was red with these white figures stitched into it. the figures were skiing but i didn't see that, and i might not have even known what skiing was. i thought they were naked women. i dont know why, but i did. my mom made me wear the sweater to christmas church, and i was beyond embarassed. i wanted to either throw up or burn the sweater, and i cannot even describe how awful i felt. it wasn't until i was like 14 that i realized the sweater was skiers.
in closing, i wish to present my rebuttal to all those people who think time machines would be cool. all the time you here your friends complain on road trips, "man i wish there were time machines, then we wouldn't have to drive." okay, seriously think about it. if there were time machines then what would be so special about paris? in the blink of an eye you could be there, and then it would have no appeal to travel. every weekend would be a different country. every afternoon even. you could have class in australia. okay, so it is starting to sound appealing, but i think eventually we would realize, life loses so much when we can just zip around. what would we look forward too? its not such a good idea. so if you like time machines, then screw off because i think they are stupid and would create a void of excitement/ambition. then everything would be boring, in this vacuum of excitement/suspense. thats my two cents.
oh yeah, and do you think there are board games on that space station? or a t.v.? what do they do exactly? any answers?
-edit- i dont usually involve myself in political/social issues unless to make fun of them, but this time i will and dont care...give some money to the relief. sell 10 cds or something, it just seems to make sense. | | |
| You know, J.R. Tolkien might have said that the words CELLAR DOOR were the most pleasing, appealing linguistic pairing of words in the english vocabulary, but I tend to differ. I think FLAMENCO-STYLE DANCE is. I have even included it in two things I have written recently. Who likes Tolkien anyways, what, did he write some books about little dwarfs and fighting ghosts and rings and stuff. I went to see the first movie and I fell asleep 20 minutes into it and snoozed until the end and I was glad to see the credits roll moments after I opened my eyes because man, that was unbearable. I was even on a date. Probably not couth to fall asleep on dates but when have I ever been couth on dates. Or better yet, when have I had dates. These are good questions with no definite answer.
I should have just told that girl in fifth grade, on invention day, she was stupid. It's not the handle that burns you on a tea cup, it's the cup itself. Why did she put a little pillow around the handle then? I should have laid it on the line right then and there.
I shouldn't have lied all these years about swallowing the grasshopper in 2nd grade. Okay, so it did jump into my mouth when I was tackled playing football on the playground, and it did bank off of both walls of my mouth, in a gross way, but i spit it out. I didn't swallow it. I told people I swallowed it for the last 13 years because I will never forget the way the 3rd graders spoke to me that day...a gradeschool god. the almighty grasshopper eater.
My intentions were good the time I attempted to sing the star spangled banner at breakfast for my mother and sister before I went to school in fifth grade. Maybe if I hadn't swooped my hand in such an exaggerated motion towards my heart, there wouldn't have been cheerio's on the ceiling for a week.
I considered the old adage, you are what you eat, the other day and in no circumstance has that really ever been true. i've always looked to other options better than cannibalism.
I used to play basketball games by myself, when I was the only boy in a neighborhood full of girls. My neighbors had a goal that they drew a 3 point line, free throw line, etc., so it was a lot of fun, and the goal lowered so I could dunk. So I was always playing games like taking game winning shots and shooting till I made it so I was the hero, counting down the clock myself. I would shoot shots then run and block them, praising Ben McVay's defensive prowess. One day I was playing a game, and for some reason or another I got mad at the official (this was a big game mind you), so I start yelling at the referee ( I must have looked schizophrenic) and I got so mad I threw my basketball onto the court. It bounced hard and close, because the next thing I know it jacks me in the jaw laying me out onto the court, rendering me unconscious. I guess my parents looked out and saw me knocked out on the court, I have little memory of the incident from the time I threw the ball down in disgust until I am in my house a little later. But now I grow old and I shall wear my trousers rolled. Go read poetry. Ben. | | |
| Colorado Springs and back, in the back of a truck last weekend...purely exhilerating. The back of the truck meaning the bed. One thing we never factored in is the sun. I got remarkably roasted by that glowing ball of gas, it said jump and i said how high.
I usually have a short paragraph or two before i launch into stories, and sometimes i wonder if people only read the short paragraphs and not the long stories. i probably would only read through about three or four periods before i stopped, to be honest with you. and then no doubt i would consider the author crazy or demented or stupid or an awkwardly brilliant force to be reckoned with.
the year...probably 1988. my parents called me into my room and when i got there they were both sitting on my bed. i knew i was in trouble for something. understand my parents are great disciplinarians, never yelling or getting irate, usually just really calm and they would continually tell me they loved me (most likely a tactic learned from Dobson or someone) but they would be firm with the punishment. i distinctly remember sitting on the floor under a table i had in my room with green metal legs. my mom said "honey, there is something we need to talk to you about," then she proceeded to tell me that they wanted me to stop pooping in the yard. now we have a few acres with woods on them, and i would play in the woods all day and i guess in order to stay in the woods and not come in i would squat by a tree sometimes. i started crying really hot tears. the kind you feel boil out and then slide all the way down. "why, why can't i poop in the woods" i screamed hysterically (i dont know why my reaction was so severe so dont ask. it just was. it was probably a mixture of embarassment and genuinely being upset i couldn't drop one anywhere i wanted. "ben, honey, we're not doing this to upset you or be mean to you, but we are afraid the neighbors will think we are doing a terrible job raising you and that we just let our kids run around wild. we can't have the whole neighborhood thinking that mcvay kid is wild," my mom explained very calmly very cooly. i was furious though and distinctly, neigh, vividly remember just balling my eyes out after that, sitting under the table with green metal legs. "NOOOO ah huh huh huh huh NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO." i wasn't really a brat but this news really hit home to me for some reason. now anytime i look back on what terribly upset me, or the most mad i ever was, it was the moment my parents told me to no longer poop in the woods or yard.
that is the day the primal instinct inside me was crushed and i was forced into this commercial, comatosed society.
i was true man before, pooping where i pleased.
today i am numb to the fact that i am just a mask of what man really should be. i use toilets, watch movies, and shop in big buildings. i hope someday that primitive, primal nature will return and i can commune with the squirrels under the trees and truly be man again. | | |
| Movies that make me cry:
1.Big Fish-my favorite movie, and the guaranteed best cry I will have
2. Love Actually-when the little boy runs through the airport, whew, its rough, but I beam nonetheless.
3. Braveheart-something about the last 30 minutes, not just the "FREEDOM" part but earlier.
Movies I am embarassed I cry or ALMOST cry at:
1. Rudy-okay, yeah, so I cry during Rudy. It is reminiscent of a very upsetting and poor 10th grade basketball season and I can relate to the Rude-ster.
2. Muppet Christmas Carol-I don't rightly know what happened, but I've seen it a million times, and last March I watched it, and tears swelled.
3. Selena-hey, that girl had pipes, and its just a shame to see her die in the end...and then they play that tearjerker song, "Here in my room thinking about..la la la"
I had forgotten this big plastic barn toy I had as a child, and one day these neighbors house, or a family that went to our church, or someones house burned down and they had kids around the same age as me and so my mom told me to go pick out some toys to give to them, and I was feeling uncharacteristically charitable that day so i ran and got some of my favorite toys, one being the big barn that toy horses and other animals fit into(it was that big). The next day I began missing that thing, and by the end of the week I resented that kid, for letting his house burn down to steal my toys.
When I was around the same age, my parents had a brush pile of branches in the woods and were planning on inviting neighbor friends over and we were going to have a huge bonfire and cook hot dogs. My mother told me we were having a 'weenie roast' tonight, and I got scared and told her i didn't want to go (b/c weenie wasn't the word a 4 or 5 year old associates with hot dogs). i turned white as a sheet and i still remember the horror of the thought that we were roasting weenies. My mom explained the mistake and all was right with the world and I went to the 'hot dog cookout' and coincidentally that is also the night that a stray ember used my favorite pilot/leather jacket (probably fake leather, but it had cool pilot patches on it) as a landing pad and i caught on fire. I had gone skipping away from the fire up closer to my house in the backyard where my tree fort is. My dad was coming up to the house and saw my arm was on fire(I guess I was a rather oblivious kid) and when i turned and said 'hey dad' he knocked me onto the ground. I seem to remember frost, or light snow on the ground, and me wondering why my father just knocked me onto the ground. It was all cleared up when he pulled my jacket off and stomped on it. To no avail though, b/c my jacket was ruined. Gone, much like the big plastic barns of my childhood. Sometimes I think it would be better if he had not been there, and I would have died in a blaze of glory in that jacket, skipping up towards my tree fort, knowing I died in my favorite jacket ever. | | |
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