Island Dreams

Dear Blog Diary,

At the one month mark, its time to reevaluate your (my blog's) utility in my life. Time to decide whether I am a Rock or I am an Island; so to help me decide, I will start by determining the pros and cons of maintaining the blog.

Pros and cons:
Pro: It's always funny when I get to say, "I should put that in my blog" (and then never put it in my blog.)
Con: It's never funny when someone else says, "you should put that in your blog" (and I never put it in my blog.)
Pro: It kills some time while I'm watching TV.
Con: It takes my attention away from my TV (right now, American Beauty; last time, Dave Attell stand-up.)
Pro: Sometimes, the blog can even tell what was on my mind, like when that thing happened and I hinted about it by mentioning something vaguely related. That was a special moment.
Con: I've had the blog for a month, and I still don't know anything about my blog.
Pro: I can have a Q & A session with my blog.

So, without further ado, a quick-hitting Q&A Session with my blog to find out more about my blog:
ME: Let's skip the pleasantries and hit this up, Meet the Press style. Are you my therapist or my pusher?
Blog: Therapist, but I'm a bad one.
ME: Are you my priest or my pimp?
Blog: Neither, I can't get you laid and I ain't got no absolution.
ME: My confidante or my town crier?
Blog: Both, but don't tell anyone.
ME: My muse or my outlet?
Blog: I'm not here to give you any ideas. Just, suck it up and tell me what's on your mind.
ME: Are you a product of my endless vanity or my boundless egoism?
Blog: Aren't those the same thing? So, yes, to both.
ME: Am I writing in the bounty of your womb to help me achieve some temporal gain or to find an ethereal place or moment within myself?
Blog: Shut up. Seriously man, shut up.
ME: Am I writing now to benefit myself or to benefit others?
Blog: Now, that's a good question.
ME: Do I care if anyone reads this, and if so do I care if they enjoy it or am I writing for my own edification?
Blog: That's more of a ME question.
ME: So, what is this page all about? Oh, right... who cares? But, thank you for being a friend.
Blog: Are you quoting the Golden Girls theme song?
ME: You know me too well, my blog friend.

Last night, I had a dream that I thought would be perfect fodder for the blog with its humorous, yet touching, witty, yet universal theme that was such an understated tour de force that it woke me up. Unfortunately for both of us, I cannot even come close to remembering what that dream was about or why it struck my fancy. But, I thought it was important for you to know that I had a dream.

So, instead you are stuck with my pathetic actual life. If I have to deal with it, so do you. My past weekend revolved around a Saturday hanging with my cousin, tossing around the old pigskin and giving some Papa Bearly advice like ... don't get your hand caught in the honey pot... or don't try to squeeze through a hole you can't fit into (ala Winnie the Pooh Bear)... and put your dang gloves on to avoid freezer burning your hand meat (which is like frost bite, but with more of an edge.)

I also saw "I am Legend", which was a solid mostly enjoyable flick and follows in a long line of Will Smith movies that help prove the old adage/axiom that charisma is a powerful acting tool. To give you a brief summary of the movie: envision Castaway (guy on an island with dim hopes of ever seeing anyone again interacting with volleyballs and/or dogs) with a touch of Career Opportunities (the fantasy of a person stuck in a department store with access to everything the store has to offer, except this store was all of NYC and Jennifer Connelly was a mannequin [insert your acting joke here],) and a healthy dose of Night of the Living Dead (no explanation given). Overall, the movie worked because of Will Smith's scrumptrulescent (see Dictionary.com in the links section to your left) performance and New York City's excellent portrayal of a flawed, but heroic refuge hiding dark secrets behind its sexy veneer.

After the movie, some friends and I toured random people's (friends of friends) Christmas house parties. I really like this time of year because of the music, the generosity of spirit, and the ridiculously bright sweaters. I hope to see more of these sweaters over the course of the next week. Keep up the good work, knitting aunts of America. Perhaps because the holiday is not designed for me or my people and I was able to remain unbiased, I have become an excellent judge of Christmas trees. Some trees really highlight a room, bringing a sense of whimsy to an otherwise less whimsical area. Other trees are just plants in a space. So, I would be an awesome judge in a Christmas tree pageant.

Sure, I had an interesting night hanging with "the billion dollar girl" (its all part of a five year plan) and a cool farmer's daughter, but I would rather discuss the half a conversation I had with a friend about whether Lost had a weak third season. I argued that despite random great episodes and a ridiculously strong finish (no spoilers), the lag episodes in the third season made it the weakest season to date. And I say that despite having converted people after the third season and having bought the Third Season on DVD yesterday. But, Nicky and Paolo are much worse than Michelle Rodriguez's lame redundant character (Ana Lucia). And the random answers to the questions were often pointless questions like, what did Jack's tattoo say? The answer was pretty good, but it did not require a full episode to tell us. Maybe, the deleted scenes will tell me more, but I'd rather bank on the 4th season being even better and more revealing.

For those of you who don't know Lost: envision Castaway (being stranded on an Island), The Breakfast Club (a jock, a nerd, a freak, a princess, and a punk... or whatever), and a healthy dose of Night of the Living Dead (explanation required).
But as for the Lost discussion/debate... of course, I won. Well, it is my blog, so my rules.

Then, Sunday happened. And that was cool too.
And in a flash it was Monday; and my weekend was stolen from me again by the bowels of time. Crap.

Your Papa Bear,
ME