Everything is Going to be All Right

There is nothing so paradoxical as the future. Both certain and uncertain, frightening and comforting. It looms somewhat ominously right out of reach. Once you reach you're mid teens it kind of reaches out, grabs you by the arm, and gives you a slow interminiable indian burn. This isn't so painful that you can't block it out, but sometimes something will distract you, or draw you're attention to it and BAM, instant future anxiety.

Fortunately everything is going to be all right.

That one song.

Sometimes you can be totally out of it, just wasting your way through life, feeling like a rotting corpse, atrophying in the box you call a home, and you just can't do anything about it. You try everything: exercise, eating, kicking the cat, but nothing seems to work. You just can't wake from you're  waking dream. Then that song comes on. The one song, the one that means so much  to you, the one that has so many memories attatched.

It's like a kick to the face. But it feels good. Suddenly you see everything around you. You wonder why you're sitting around. You go to do something profound. You're ready to change your life, give the world a kick in the ass. You want to screw the police, master western philosophy, study eastern religions and start the next Elephant 6.

Then 5 minutes later the feeling is gone.

Musical tastes

My musical tastes are one of the many subjects debated on by the great minds of the 20th century. (Others include, which spice girl is hotter, where to go for lunch, and which hole to put it in.) I've decided to stop the arguments once and for all and write the definitive treatise on my musical opinions.
Summed up into one sentence: I like good music.
Definition of terms
I: Me, myself, Zachary Salmon, 9th coolest person on earth, bearer of the awesomeness, zak, El presidente de junior classe.
Like: enjoy listening to, appreciate, would not punch in the testicles, would take out to a light dinner, followed by a small glass of club soda, and a rousing night on the town.
Good Music: Music that is not half-assed, music that gets a point across, that touches me (appropriately)on some level, (not confined to any genre)

"But wait!" you say.
Q:If you like good music of any genre why do you not like [top 40, hollister bands, coldplay, the postal service, whatever I was last yelling about]?
A: I can't like everything! It's not allowed. I don't have time to listen to everything. Some stuff , like jazz and classical, like a modest female, take time to get into. I don't have that time. Other stuff I just have to hate on principle. I know that if I really took the time to sit down and listen to coldplay I would come to appreciate them, though they are large talking pussai. Basically, although I have the potential to like everything I pick and choose my musical likes and dislikes to stay interesting and different. Why do you think I dislike top 40 and hollister bands? Because betwwen those two musical groupings lie 80% of American teens. But still you beg to know "why do you dislike Coldplay? My soul is made out of Coldplay" Basically I refuse to like Coldplay because 99.999999999999999999999999999999% ( a very exact computation) of teens and critics touch themselves every time they hear viva la vida. This is not hyperbole! Even my friends who never leave the house due to excessive love of macs and legos listen to coldplay, even the humanist burning fundamentalists I know listen to coldplay, even Monica Lewinsky listens to coldplay, dreaming fondly of those dark nights in the oval office. I just am not willing to do that to myself.

The point of this blog.

I would like to take this oppurtunity to dispel any illusions you may have about this blog. I am not writing for you. I don't think I'm likely to change your opinions on anything, nor do I even want to. I'm not trying to entertain you, although if you are entertained by my rambling, raving writing, then more power to you. I don't plan to give you the secret of life, or lay out a foolproof plan for picking up chicks, getting rich, becoming a movie star, becoming a dynamic figure, or playing bridge well. Any advice I give is followed at your own risk. I'm no pop culture expert, the movies you watch, the books you read, and the music you listen to might be just as valid as the book, movies and music I've experienced. I have no life shattering ideas, I barely even have ideas. Reading this probably won't make you any smarter, or even make you better looking.

I'm writing this blog for myself. These are my thoughts straight from the echoing overpopulated cavern of my brain put unaltered and unadulterated onto a stage for concievably anyone in the world to look at, ponder over, to agree or disagree with. This is a chance for me to look at myself, to pore over written my thoughts, to examine myself, to get to know me. This is also a chance for me to tell the world anything I want, a chance to get up onto a mountain top and yell hey look at me! This is what I think! This blog is a mirror, but a mirror open to the world.

Slime Mold

When human beings look at nature (or at anything for that matter) they see what they want to see. Evolutionists see chance, Creationists see order, and PETA sees masses of the oppressed. I being who I am look at nature and see myself peering right back at me. In my mind there is no organism that relates to me, and, by extrapolation, to the human condition, than slime molds. Now hang with me for a sec. 

A slime mold is a slimy type of mold. But not only is it slimy and moldy, it appears to be sentient. Slimemolds, unlike every other mold, is capable of motion. "A mold capable of motion," you say? "How astonishing. This is a mold that has unlimited freedom, a mold that can go anywhere, do anything, a mold, which when compared to its immobile bretheren is truly gifted." 

Now what do you think this mold does with its freedom- Does it go to parties- Does it have adventures- try to see the world- try to better itself- try to be the best it can be? No, not even close. A slime molds spends entire life, spends its great gift of freedom finding the path of least resistance to the nearest food source. 

Think about it.

Famous People Suicides.

Blogs should always be christened with an "I Hate" post, named so because it is a post about something the author absolutely can not stand. Now the title may have mislead you into thinking that I hate famous people commiting suicide. Actually I have no real feelings about that either way. What I really hate is depressive one-uppers. 

You know the people I'm talking about. These are the people who devote all of their time to telling you abot how much worse theirs lives are than yours. If you got a C- on your quiz, they failed theirs, If your girlfriend broke up with you theirs got hit by a truck, If you haven't gotten any action for the past few months, someone cut off their junk and threw it out the window of a moving car. You come to them looking for sympathy and leave wanting to punch them in their babymakers.

Fortunately I have figured out a way to deal with these one uppers, a way to send them away with their emotional hardcore tails hanging between their emotional hardcore legs. Every time a depressive one-upper one ups me with a depressing tale I will calmly respond with a macabre tale of a famous person's suicide. Here are a few examples:

Me: That test was freakin hard. I got a C-, Whats up with that

Depressive one-upper: Yeah, I hate that class, I actually have a G.

Me: Kurt Cobain was unable to deal with the rising pressures of fame and shot himself at the pinnacle of his career.

D1Up:*Sheds a single tear*

Me: Yesterday I was walking down the street and a dog bit me.

D1Up: Yesterday I had testicular cancer.

Me: Nick Drake overdosed on anti-depressants just weeks after recording the most sparse and chilling folk album ever.

D1Up: Maybe my life isn't so bad after all

` Me: My nose is running really badly.

D1Up: I'm scheduled to be executed for a crime I didn't commit.

Me: Ernest Hemingway, author of the only book ever to make my cry, was in one of the only world wars, but the only person he ever shot was himself.

D1Up:....

Me: I only got like 6 hours of sleep last night

D1Up: The memory of the slaughter of my family is so haunting that I haven't slept at all for the last year.

Me: Ian Curtis hung himself from the coat rack in his closet, which was so close to the ground that to actually allow himself to die he had to bend his knees, and even then the tips of his toes touched the floor.

D1Up: You're such an arsehole, I don't know why I even talk to you.