The Brain Dump

Hey, friends. Just a quick one today. I'm feeling a little out of it and I still have grades to finalize. I haven't taken any interesting pictures as of late, so I'll just give you another from the Beijing trip. Laters.

The King of Pop is dead. That is a strange thing to say. And yet, it's stranger still for me to think of him as fifty years old. As Christina put it, “He is forever in his mid-twenties to me.” I first heard about it yeasterday, catching an NPR headline on my iGoogle homepage. Then came the subsequent media storm.

I am continually confounded by the news and fan frenzy following the death of a superstar. And Michael Jackson certainly makes for a sensational frenzy.

Wow,” Michael Harris of New York City says, “It’s like when Kennedy was assassinated. I will always remember being in Times Square when Michael Jackson died.” And Harris, who's 36 (so clearly remembers what it was like when Kennedy was assassinated), isn't even close to being the most hyperbolic in his comments.

I think that's what bewilders me most—this absurd sense of loss people feel when something like this happens. As reported by TMZ.com, people inside the hospital were screaming “You've got to save him! You've got to save him!” And I'm left asking, “Why?” Why are you sobbing? I don't understand. And that's not to say that I'm laughing maniacally at the news or that I don't feel a little sad myself. Before now, there had never been a moment in my life when Michael Jackson wasn't a huge star. I feel like we did lose something. I just don't know what it was.

He was certainly a charitable person, getting in the Guinness Book of World Records for “Most Charities Supported by a Single Pop Star.” And there is a healthy dose of tragedy mixed in—what with his fifty sold-out shows in England (and possible pop-sensation-comeback) coming up. But I can't seem to tap into this sense of overwhelming despair that some people feel. But perhaps I'm not expressing my grief in the proper way. Maybe I would feel a little more if I joined celebrities on Twitter:

“NO OMG,” tweets Lindsay Lohan, her bereavement clearly expressed by the capital letters, “... sending my love and prayers out to Michael and his family ... i feel sick..”

Miley Cyrus, too: “michael jackson was my inspiration. love and blessings” - so distraught she couldn't even manage capital letters.

Even Arnold Schwarzenegger got on the Tweet-wagon: “We lost a great entertainer and a pop icon. My thoughts and prayers go out to Michael Jackson's family, friends and fans.”

Really? This is the forum on which you choose to express your condolences? Twitter—the funereal equivalent to a high school yearbook signature? “MJ – This school year rocked! Have a great summer. Sux that ur dead! Hugs and Kisses!”

Sigh . . . I'm death-spiralling into bitterness. . . . It's just so bizarre to read all this, and it's coming from every news site on the web. Did these people give a shit about Michael two days ago? How many of these news sites fed his isolation and neuroses by hounding him all his life? And how many now will continue feeding on his corpse.

Like the Belmont Club, who wasted no time in seizing a chance to decry the horrors of plastic surgery.

What happened? What does the death of Michael Jackson mean? That's what I wanna know. What did we lose? We're keeping Thriller. All his moves—we got those too. His body will decay, but can Michael Jackson die? Well, he'll have a few more weeks, at least. People will continue ogling the last desperate pictures and videos. And we still have the autopsy reports to look forward to.

Of all the times to go, ay, Farrah?

It's that time again . . .

No, not my semi-annual workout or my annual recommittal to start working out. No, it's time to watch the entire Buffy the Vampire Slayer television series!

Yaaaaaaaaay!

And Christina's watching it with me! Which makes it easier because we only have the one bedroom . . . and I need her computer to watch it. This comes on the heels of my unsuccessful attempt at hooking her on Battlestar Galactica. "Not emotionally engaged," she says. . . . Well, she watched Buffy when it was new, so I knew she wouldn't fight too hard against it. She might have even suggested it. I can't remember--and that's not important. What's important is that we are already halfway through the second season (*claps hands like a giddy fool*). Buffy and Angel just did it . . . so tragic.

What's super-fun, too, is that Christina hasn't seen the sixth or the seventh seasons yet (my two favoritest seasons), so I'll get to witness that magic as it happens.

Just have to convince her to stay the course through season five. . . .

Seriously, Joss, Dawn? So annoying. . . .

Soooo, it's that time again. I have a bunch of pictures I could share, what with my flaking out on this for . . . almost two months. I thought I'd share something from our trip to Beijing we recently took. I had to go there in order to renew my passport, which expired next year (They wouldn't get me a new residence permit for the coming year if I didn't, so it was either that or . . . deported). And since I had to go to Beijing to do that anyway, Christina and I thought we'd make a trip of it.

So here we are:

These delectable morsels were at a night market near our hostel. One of the few places where it's socially acceptable for a grown man to yell at me, "Penis! Penis! You want penis!" That and Boystown. . . .

I'll go through the rest of the photos and get them up on my Snapfish eventually.

. . . no one would ever get diarrhea . . . ever.

Intelligently designed, my chafed tokus!

OK, so . . . almost two months without a post. That's my bad. . . . Well now I'm back. Because I found something that I absolutely couldn't--couldn't--keep to myself. What is this mysterious secret? Is it the formula for cold fusion? The cure for cancer? The missing link?

Nay!

It is allghoi khorkhoy, colloquially called the Mongolian Death Worm (Mongo, for short). In addition to being the title of my debut album, this bad-mamba-jamba has the ability to spew sulfuric acid and kill at a distance(!) with electric shocks.

Yes!

Alas, so-called "scientists" have been unable to find any evidence of Mongo's existence.  But if you just ask the Mongolian locals, you'll find out the truth.

Fun Fact: Mongo's name translates to "blood filled intestine worm" because of its resemblance to the intestine of a cow!

So, clearly, I have to feature Mongo in a Sci-Fi Original Movie. I mean, it would just be immoral not to. "Attack of the Mongolian Death Worm" is the working title. With a tentative sequel planned: "Mongo Takes Manhattan." I'm thinking a team of scientists (including a fat, crude, but lovable misogynist (Putnam), a young man from Iowa with a square jaw (Rex?), and a glasses-wearing, ninety-pound city-girl, who just can't get taken seriously in the science community because of her perfect figure, blonde highlights, and natural tan (maybe . . . Ellassandra)) go to the Gobi, researching a way to stop rampant desertification of the neighboring area. But while researching the desert they make a terrible discovery. Acid and electric shocks everywhere! Rex, Ellassandra, and Putnam manage to escape back to the US, but not before Putnam is bitten by one of the little Mongos. All seems well (and Putnam's eating more than ever) when all of a sudden, Putnam experiences a horrible seizure. Moments later, dozens of Mongos erupt from his quivering fat! Then it's up to only Rex and Ellassandra to stop the worms from taking over the world!

C'mon!

I would at least Tivo that bitch!