I need some R&R. And a skateboard. Could somebody give me a skateboard please? And a big hill to skate down on. Anybody know how to be 7 years old again? Let's hang out, I've been looking for someone like you.

The older I get, the simpler my pleasures become. These days, a game of catch is all I need. You know that moment right before you catch the ball, when it's going so fast you can hear it whistle through the air, and you're 99% sure you're gonna catch it but there's still that thrilling 1% where you can't possibly know what'll happen? I live for moments like those. For the thrill. For possibility. For that 1%.

Ever wish someone would break your heart, just so you could write about the heartbreak and the melancholy, and write lines like "I'd rather be happy than right" and "Don't be gone when I get home" on the inside of your baseball glove?

Truth be told, I've written and pulled the plug on like 4 different entries already that you won't ever see. Dunno what it is, I just don't feel inspired. Though untrue, I feel like I have better things to do with my free time than writing here in my blog. Like sitting back and listening to songs about rejection and vindication and wishing I were somewhere else.

I'm often tempted to just post up song lyrics or bitch and moan about stupid shit. But I don't want this blog to turn into that kind of thing. Until I find some real inspiration, this is dan signing out.
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elliot smith's new cd comes out Oct. 19th. i encourage you all to checkout.buy.download his music-- you might recognize his sounds from the good will hunting soundtrack. too tired from school.work.research.etc to write anything, so here's a rehashed entry from about a year ago. i know i been lagging on the updates. no worries, my blog is going to undergo a change of sorts. by that, i mean it's going to stop sucking and it's gonna start kicking ass once again.

rip elliott smith

have you ever noticed how some of the most tremendous works of art are created by the most tormented souls? sylvia plath, van gogh, kurt cobain, to name a few... what is it about misery and depression that provides so much fodder for creative inspiration? i s'pose it stems from the fact that misery loves company and we, as social beings, love when we're brought together by a medium in which we can identify. not everyone knows what it feels like to be truly happy, but everyone has felt sadness and depression at some point in their lives. besides, i'd much rather kick the guy who sings about the happiness in his life in the head than hear him belt a ballad about it.

we live in a masochistic society where we enjoy hearing songs about heartbreak. it is in these moments that describe our worst that we can feel our best. these moments where we can say, "yeah, i'm glad i'm not that guy. my life ain't so bad at all."

depression is a strange phenomenon. known by many, but only understood by a troubled few. it's an unsubstantiated emotion. people who don't understand it often quip, "what's there to be depressed about?" they fail to understand that the very fact that there isn't any reason for this depression intensifies the state of depression and confusion - why do i feel this way? if we knew why we felt this way or why we were depressed, we'd be able to remedy the situation. instead, it's like getting stuck at the bottom of a bottomless pit, without any view of the opening at the top or of a way to get out. as a result, the only way to travel is down - down to a place where desolation and despair ultimately consume you because all of your efforts to climb out are inefficacious.

in any case, it makes for great inspiration - transforming our lack of motivation for life into a creative drive to create something that captures and epitomizes the emotions we feel. it is a desperate attempt at finding solace in some kind of reason for our state of mind - a reason that results in a great work of art. it's about finding beauty in the midst of so much pain.

we all say that suicide is a very bad thing. sometimes i feel like we say it out of utilitarian need - if everyone started to choose the way they made an exit in this life, the human race would be in serious peril. but, there is something intriguing about suicide. something sexy about choosing the way you make your exit in this life. we accuse those who chose to take their own lives as cowards. we accuse the act as an act of selfishness. but maybe those who do it simply don't want to overstay their welcome. there are an awful lot of people in this world that have long overstayed their welcome that i'd like to see gone. if depression is an illness, maybe suicide is its form of euthanasia. but let me make a disclaimer and state that i am in no way encouraging suicide or trivializing the severity of its implications. i'm just trying to look at it from another point of view.

of course, there's that whole idea that we are not our own keeper and that our bodies are a testament and temple of God. thus, desecrating our bodies through suicide would be a blatant act of sacrilege.

in any case, for those of you who don't know of elliott smith, the genius behind the Good Will Hunting soundtrack, he was truly an inspiration for artists and songwriters alike. he was the epitome of the american folk singer. on october 21st, he unsuccessfully tried to rid his heart of the internal demons that plagued it by stabbing himself with a knife. while he wasn't able to overcome his own torment, let's hope that his work and music will survive to provide solace to the many who feel the same way.

Unhappiness and frustration dogs the heels of many of us in this world. I remember when I used to be that unhappy. angry, even. It's impossible to console or even commiserate. People love to think that their situation is unique. That their problems are unique. Why else do things just seem so insurmountable if that's not it? I don't like seeing people around me in a funk. Honestly, it just seems like everyone is. Shit, buck up. Worse things have happened. to other people. grow up and suck it up.

Typical Weekday Evening in the Life of Dan

i come home from the lab, hungry, tired, and weary, too tired to cook myself something to eat, too weary even to take a shower.

with what remaining strength i have in me, i procure an ice cold can of coors light (i'm watching my waist here) from the fridge, a frosted glass from the freezer, and i plop myself down on my sofa, in front of a TV that's playing something i'm too tired to watch.

i look at my can of beer and notice that the top of it is slightly misshapen, most likely due to blunt traumatic injury, contorted in such a way that when i pull the tab and try to open the can, only a slit of an opening forms. a tiny, tiny slit, tinier than the tiniest of mongolian palpebral fissures from which my precious golden shower would spill. a challenge, yes, but one that I would rise to the occasion for. did you like how I just ended my paragraph with a transition. snap.

so i'm trying to pour the beer into my frosted glass but it's taking forever for the beer to come out. only a few dribbles are trickling out and i'm sitting there thinking C'MON YOU FUCKER, GET IN MY CUP when out of the blue i come up with the best, most well thought-out idea I've had all week... the type of plan only the tiredest of the tireds (or geniusest of the geniuses) could concoct. i spy my swiss army knife, pull out the blade, and skewer the bottom of the can, creating a shotgun effect. The thing is, it was right about then that everything started happening waaaaaaay too fast for my brain to digest and the beer was about the spill over the edge of my stein and i'm thinking No way am I letting this shit hit the ground rage rage against the dying of the light so i put the can to my mouth and shotgun the motherfucker down. one, two, three, four seconds... and then there were none.

not since the earliest days of my adolesence have i had so much goodness fill me with such rapidity. yeeeah poindexter. you know how i do.

ps: remember how I said "frosted glass from my freezer"? i meant to say "disposable paper daisy cup."

pps: did you like my agatha christie reference. booya.

come to think of it, this is my typical weekend evening too.