May 30, 2003
For another week or so I’ll continue to be absent from BuriedintheNoise-dot-com. Instead of driving halfway across the country to explore a city I’ll be living in for the next two years anyway, I’m only driving a short distance to attend a week-long writing workshop and play-reading festival. I need to improve my writing. I’m sure you’ll find that hard to believe, but I insist it’s true.

I should learn a lot and get to participate in some enlightening and interesting activities. And I’m not just paying a ridiculous admission fee or sneaking in, but was actually invited to participate based on a one-act play I wrote. Still, in general, I’m nervous to the point of seizure about this. Really. Or at least sweating until I reach the cusp of serious medical dehydration. Between the intimate public writing, pressure to create, ceaseless scrutiny, and continual socialization, I’m feeling very stressed about it.

The course of the week should naturally fall somewhere between the two extremes of wonderful life-altering experience and painfully humiliating creative death. For a few reasons. First, things always fall somewhere in the middle. Second, I have richly imagined both extreme cases, thereby removing them from the world of possibility.

I’ll start with the Humiliating Death Scenario, in which everything I do degenerates into massive Josh-style failure, featuring my signature absence of self-confidence and inability to competently communicate. From the opening get-together I’m socially inept, either standing painfully silent or cracking unfunny and offensive jokes. I’m either turned off by the overt pretentiousness of my writing counterparts, or they’re turned off by me, and as a result I make no friends and generally end up being the weird withdrawn moody nutjob of the bunch. Throughout the week, everything I write is horrible. I’m humbled and humiliated by the sheer talent of the others, as I churn out People magazine-like copy to be vaporized in the shadow of their brilliant literature. By the end of the week, I can’t wait to escape and slip out before things wrap up, unnoticed and forgotten. Following the final performance, the event organizers convene to change the invitation rules starting next year to include a grueling interview process to weed out hacks like me forever. I come back thoroughly depressed and abandon my web site and all other creative writing for the rest of my natural life. I trundle mindlessly through the remainder of my bland existence, sapped of creativity and any ability or desire to utilize the right-brain, eventually dying in a collapsed heap of tax forms and neutral-colored clothing.

The other extreme is the Best Week Ever Scenario, in which I come to look back on this trip as the pivotal week of my existence. After making fast friends with the wonderfully thoughtful, intelligent people at the opening social event, I proceed into the week full of creative energy and verve. I write some of the funniest, most thought-provoking literature I’ve ever created, prompting all the professional actors and writers involved to alternately laugh riotously or weep, burdened with the sorrow of the overwhelming tragedy of life that my work has so poignantly illustrated. Every day I create new short plays bursting with new ideas which challenge traditional beliefs and rewrite all known conventions. Socially, I earn several writing confidants which I remain collaborators or life-long friends with. By the end of the week, I feel creatively awakened and ready to proceed with my life, knowing my new professional future is secure. Needless to say, somewhere in there I have the opportunity to sleep with dozens of intelligent, gorgeous women. Or at least one intelligent and/or gorgeous woman dozens of times.

Regardless of the overall outcome of the week, the fact that professional or aspiring professional actors are going to read my one-act, in public, with the jeering and the heckling and everything, is at once very humbling and totally unreal. I mean, they’ll study it and work on it and understand the nuances (if any). They’ll flail around trying to make my jokes work. They’ll come after me when the performance is met with its inevitable awkward, eerie silence. Far out!

And if the whole week is rough, I can’t write squat, and I’m miserable, other than facing a lifetime of depressing creative failure, there’s no real harm done. I mean, who doesn’t face a lifetime of depressing creative failure?

May 16, 2003
For the next week I’ll be away from the computer, as I don my radiation suit and undertake an excursion into real life. Of course, I tend to avoid this whenever possible, as real life is often far too disorienting for constant input. However, in a fit of either insanity or restlessness or both, I’ll be taking a two-day drive out to the Biflagellate State, also familiar as the Mitten-Shaped State With the Other Part That’s Shaped More Like an Upright Vacuum. As the future location of BuriedintheNoise-dot-com world headquarters, I need to scout out suitable facilities.

For this, dear internet surfing public, I must ask your help.

One difficulty is simply the task of moving an entity of the size and complexity of BuriedintheNoise-dot-com. The entire staff will be displaced, though I’m pleased to report there have been no layoffs. All company vehicles will need to be transported, plus all company letterhead, computers, footwear, mousepads, erotic tapestries, birdwatching manuals, and Tupperware. Moving these objects is really a logistical challenge, but then again I’m sure my league of bionically enhanced raccoons can handle the bulk of it. The rest can simply be shipped.

The real problem I face is the acquisition of suitable property. If I was just looking for an apartment or a small house, well, that would be quite simple provided I could sell off enough plasma to cover the security deposit. But finding an agreeable corporate stomping ground will require some serious reconnaissance. For various needs, I require the following:

Adequate living space. My personal space must be vast, largely pet-dander free, abundant in clean water, and lacking in clowns. I require silky soft carpet for walking about in besocked feet. Gently playing cellos should be heard softly, as if in the distance.

One warehouse (large). Most experimentation is done in the warehouse, so it should be adequately stocked with spare robot parts and safely housed nuclear chemicals. The warehouse should have easy street and waterway access for deployment of specialized vehicles. Entryways need to accommodate regulation tanks.

Secret mountainside entrance. I had to install the secret entrance and elaborate tunnel system in my last place, and it was such a pain I swore I would never move into a house without these things pre-contracted again.

Gloating enclave. It’s important to my self-confidence to have a view overlooking my town in which I can look down upon the citizenry and cackle to myself. That’s “Me” time.

Kung fu dojo. Not that I know any martial arts, but in case a fight breaks out in the house there’s an obvious room to take the scrap to. If things remain peaceful, it’s still a cool room to have.

Map room. I need one domed conference room big enough to house an ovular oak table and which is properly wired for an illuminated world map. Should double as a planetarium.

Those are the starting pieces, at least. Obviously, if I can find a place with a helicopter pad or horseshoe courts that would help out as well.

If you know of any available places with the above features in the southern Michigan area, I’d appreciate a lead.

May 14, 2003
Updating to recommence in the near future (in days not weeks). Don't worry, I still love you all. Feel free to get a fix in the archives or links. Or go outside. It's nice out, you know.

Still here? What, is Ebay down? Okay, well I've freed some older entries from the dungeon of my journal archive and granted them their freedom, posting them as independently recognized features. Does that mean they're particularly good and you should read them? Yes. Yes it does. Because I know I'm already asking a lot of you, here are links to some of the older posts:

01-15-03 Making an Omelette, Potatoes, and Toast
Doing the best I can with my limited abilities

02-04-03 Editorial Errors Made Elsewhere on This Site
Safely corrected to make me look better

02-11-03 Slogans for the Bush Administration
Perhaps a catchy slogan will prevent the public from realizing we're proving Orwell right at every turn

May 7, 2003

Three Miscellaneous Nonsensicalities

The Travails of the Garden Slug
Why, of all the disgusting, loathsome creatures in the animal kingdom do we pick on the garden slug? Why not scorpions or vultures or Dick Cheney? When someone wants to create an analogy demonstrating ineptness or utter stupidity, they often choose the garden slug as the target of their fury. For example, one might say “I just accidentally stepped on a puppy, and I feel lower than a garden slug.” Poor garden slugs. No matter how crappy you feel, you’re never quite as bad off as a sack of mucus passing for a sentient life form. Most troubling is that the above example isn’t even accurate. Rarely, if ever, have garden slugs been guilty of stepping on puppies, accidentally or otherwise. It would indeed be much more accurate to say “I just accidentally stepped on a puppy, and I feel lower than Dick Cheney.” Or “I just accidentally stepped on a puppy, like Dick Cheney would have if only he’d had the chance.” Or “I just accidentally stepped on a puppy. If only it had been Dick Cheney instead.”

Rooting for Conjunctions
The Oakland baseball team is called the Athletics, or just the “A’s” for short. But wait a minute. The “A’s”? This would only be correct should the Oakland professional baseball team somehow be responsible for the initial letter of the English alphabet possessing something, as in the following exchange:

“Say, can I borrow your ostrich?”

“I’m sorry, that’s A’s ostrich. I can’t lend it out.”

So you can see, the Oakland professional baseball team name doesn’t really work. The letter A is not, to my knowledge, a sovereign entity legally able to possess any tangible items. At the very least, we can be certain the letter A doesn’t own the Oakland professional baseball team. If it did, we could say that A had demonstrated its possession of the team by labeling all uniforms and emblem-emblazoned merchandise, and seeing “A’s” on caps and uniforms and such would then make logical sense. Ruling out the other possibility, that the Oakland professional baseball team is actually owned by actor A Martinez, we reach the conclusion that this is nothing more than a grammatical problem.

More properly, the Oakland professional baseball team should be referred to without the apostrophe, as the “As”. However, this is obviously confusing. Why would we be any more comfortable rooting for the arbitrarily capitalized word “as”? Frankly, a conjunction isn’t a good team moniker. We’d hear things like: “Today the Oakland As take on the Toronto Like! The As need to win today, or they risk falling further behind the division-leading Seattle If.” Clearly, it’s easier to understand names like “Reds” or “Royals” or “White Sox”. No, I don’t know what a Red or a Royal or a White Sox is. Or a Red Sox, for that matter. Or a Dodger or a Met or a Phillie. Well, okay, so they’re not perfectly clear. At least they’re nouns! I think.

Bonus Wednesday Immaturity

April 30, 2003
Day Three at the Republican Fundraiser

April 23, 2003
Today I answered cliched questions.

April 17, 2003

Possible excuses why site updates have been, and will continue to be, done less frequently than they have in the past

April 11, 2003
I'm back. But is it official? Um...sure, fine, that sounds good. Will I still have infrequent updating? We can only hope. I'd like to get back on track, but between my new duties as an International Officer of Electronic Pinball and my tendency to be easily distracted by shiny, whistling objects, I can't say for sure. I guess updating will commence at approximately the rate it has been commencing: whenever I produce something relatively short that doesn't suck (a lot).

For now, I will relate news that BuriedintheNoise-dot-com World Headquarters will be undergoing another major relocation in a few months to our nation's only biflagellate state, also familiar as the Mitten-Shaped State With the Other Part That's Shaped More Like an Upright Vacuum. No, not Wyoming, but Michigan. That move, as opposed to my most recent relocation, will not be done simply as a sleazy way to avoid holding down meaningful employment. In fact, I'll be undergoing specialized governmental training of a nature I'm not at liberty to discuss...Okay, I'm going to grad school to study library science. So there.

Anyway, being in Michigan will put me in close proximity to a major league baseball team, giving me the chance to finally adopt a favorite team for my favorite sport. However, as fate would have it, the local club happens to be the Detroit Tigers, an organization only loosely defined as a major league baseball team. They're the only winless club in the majors as I write this, and the hapless kitties are more like a farm team for the Yankees than a real live grown-up team. Nevertheless, I will do my best to support them unless they continue to be really bad or if they ever lose a game I personally attend or if I'm in a bad mood and need to develop an unfocused hatred of something new. For now, I will hope they can turn things around (defined as occasionally winning rather than perpetually losing). I will also use them as a frame for today's bit of fantasy. (Special extra-challenging super bonus! Can you spot the name of an actual Detroit Tiger in today's piece?)

Hard Work, Dedication, Deception: How to Make a Baseball Team When You’re Freakishly Untalented

April 6, 2003
Certain names have an evil tone. I can't really explain why they possess such tones, or why the construction of the word justifies this, but for whatever reason they just work perfectly as names which induce sneering and anger. The classic example comes from Seinfeld with "Newman." Imagine the way "Newman" was said, with the speaker's fist and teeth clenched, and the name is uttered viciously, smothered with thick layers of repulsion.

Some other last names which you should be cognizant of as potential sources of evil (try saying them as described above, fist and teeth clenched, spoken quickly and angrily):

Farnsworth
Buckman
Mientkiewicz
Rat Bastard (This one won't come up much, but when it does, watch out)
Rosenblatt
Cusack
Dinkle
Taggart
Wadsworth
Rumsfeld

April 4, 2003
Many e-mails have piled up during my absence from loyal readers who have had a serious wrench thrown into their routine by the lack of timely updates. For example, bigted0103947 intones, "Amazing new weigt-loss plan!!!!!" And joe93827494 writes, "JOSH gett viagra NOW." But these are the kinds of things you deal with when you put up samples of work for public mockery and humiliating criticism. Still, the basic questions linger. Where have I been? What have I been doing? And what is that stain?

I can't talk about it much right now, and I have to say it may affect the frequency of updates to this site, but the big news is that I've recently attained the rank of Lieutenant in Windows XP Pinball. And what they say is true: with greater privilege comes greater responsibility. (They also tell you not to feed the bears, which is good advice but simply not relevant in this context.) Perhaps my new rank will lead me to foreign missions of intrigue and diplomacy, which I assume would be somehow related to electronic pinball. Naturally I may not be permitted to talk about any missions in specific terms. If our bumper technologies or flipper acceleration gradients fall into the wrong hands, our pinball supremacy could be compromised and detente would fail. I'm just hoping I can still hold true to my roots, stepping on and over people through a concerted effort to attain wealth and material possessions. That's the way I have always lived and I want it to continue.

Anyway, as a result of my promotion, I have left my position in public service to make myself available for any and all assignments Microsoft and/or the FBI may require me for. Further, this allows me the tax advantage of having no income. I have had to move into my parents' basement, but unlike my old apartment they have two phone lines so I can be assured of receiving any important calls even when online setting the lineup for my rotisserie baseball team.

As for BuriedintheNoise-dot-com, the future remains uncertain. My new personal circumstances might allow me to produce longer, better thought out pieces of writing instead of the brief and pointless crap I usually toss into the internet wasteland of information. But I know there is still a desire for the brief and pointless crap, and I feel certain that I will be producing it whether I want to or not. But while the physical relocation process has concluded, the mental part lags behind, as usual. Stupid mental lag.

Past archives:

March 2003 - Take the President...Please!, Dupes vs. Schmoes, philosophy of the dumpster, Spooneybarger, Spring Training, starting a religion.

February 2003 - Seasonal Whining Disorder, angry at stuff, not the Pope’s Archnemesis, reader thank-you, cursing and spitting, catchy slogans for the end of civilization.

January 2003 - TV hurt brain, development as a writer, cooking with Josh, official launch propaganda, reflections on a crummy year

November/December 2002 - Mission Statement Q (no A), Republican pirahna, Preliminary grad school jitters, Josh Dollars and cursed sandwiches, being naked and screaming

2002-03 BuriedintheNoise.com
Permission for reproduction will be granted if you ask nicely.