inside the Embryo

Dangling

I am competitive by nature. So when I see the high score hovering right above me, it becomes the carrot before the donkey. It becomes an obsession to obtain that which I can not reach and I become the jackass chomping away at the thin air before me and while the sane world sleeps and dreams, my mind slaughters the sheep and replaces them with Tetris blocks.

Blocks that fall at random yet fall into place so perfectly. Blocks of fate that lay the pathway to victory, a golden albeit fleeting period of peace and when the time comes I’ll sing one song: Glory.

I count the ways to make the pieces fit. I count the days until I at last leap frog into first place and regain my rightful spot at the top. The cream of the crop. The Reigning King Triton Titan of Tetris Friends.

Friends?

I have no friends. I bite my thumb at you. I won’t be there when the rain starts to pour, I clasp my hands behind my neck and beat my elbows at you.

I’m catching that carrot and when I do, I’ll bake me a carrot cake, blow the candles and make a wish that none should ever suffer the same torturous woe I feel tonight.

5 Events That Changed My Life in 2011

NUMBER FIVE: THE COUNTDOWN

New Years Eve 2010 was the first I celebrated away from the family. They flew out to Vegas while I stayed behind to spend it with my now ex-girlfriend Caroline. This was to be our first New Years together. The room was roaring with excitement as we started counting down from ten, this being the first New Years for many other couples in attendance. As luck would have it, or one too many shots of Patron, her dad accidentally changed the channel just as we approached the three-second mark. By the time, we hit the recall button, we were in 2011. Caroline cried. We didn’t get to kiss at midnight.

We still had fun though. With karaoke and endless tequila, how can you not? Still, the missed kiss proved to be a harbinger for something nobody ever saw coming.

NUMBER FOUR: JESSIE

I met a girl at work named Jessie. I had never paid any attention to her until she won the contest. At my now ex-job there was a running contest to see who could guess the exact number of specimens shipped to our laboratory that morning. Within just two weeks of her employment, Jessie guessed right. Nobody had ever guessed right and she was four hundred dollars richer because of it. I hadn’t fallen for her at that moment. I just saw her as that bitch who took all the money.

One night, we all went to happy hour at the Elephant Bar to get good and liquored up after a long day’s work. This was the first time I started to take notice of Jessie. She wore her hair up in a beautiful mess of a hive, like Marla from Fight Club having Breakfast at Tiffany’s. Between sips of her vodka-pineapple and drags of her cigarette she would drop witty lines that floored me. We laughed at her because she thought a Golden Shower was just a really enjoyable bath. At one point, I don’t know how it happened or if they even played the music, but me and Jessie ended up doing the electric slide right there in the middle of the patio. I hadn’t fallen for her at that moment. I just thought, man this bitch is a riot.

We sat across from each other in the office and whenever bored, which was quite frequent, we started emailing each other. At first, it was because we both had a bad case of diarrhea. We’d snicker every time one of us got up to use the potty. She described it as shards of glass coming out her ass. Then it turned into quoting entire scenes from Aladdin. Somehow we got to talking about our worldviews: religion, relationships, stem cell research (which at the time I had no idea dealt with aborted fetuses because I was always too busy watching Aladdin to watch the news), universal healthcare, and who’s better *NSYNC or the Backstreet Boys. We were forced to sit separately due to our increasingly insuppressible laughter and henceforth forbidden from emailing each other.

I hadn’t fallen for her at that moment. How could I? She’s an agnostic, she smokes, she owns a cat, she doesn’t eat red meat, and likes the Backstreet Boys. She also is obsessed with John Hughes movies, could quote more lines from Aladdin than me, does the Charleston like nobody’s business, can tackle a whole two-item combo from Panda Express all on her own, can take a SLAP to the face after losing a game of rock-paper-scissors, cooks a mean breakfast burrito, cried during Tangled, can write a sick verse for a battle rap, can’t go to bed without Liar Liar or Mrs. Doubtfire playing in the DVD player, has a Southern twang that makes an occasional appearance when she eats at “DINNY’S” instead of Denny’s and counts to “TIN” instead of ten, wears funny socks……..

NUMBER THREE: THE BREAK UP

This is the part where you judge me. Before I go any further let me ax you this: Why did you root for Jim and Pam? Jim was with Karen and Pam was engaged to Roy, yet you didn‘t view either them as bad people and in fact encouraged them to do what was in their hearts. You’re right, a television show doesn’t justify anybody’s actions, but seriously, why did you root for Jim and Pam??

I broke up with my girlfriend of six (or seven) years (on and off). That’s the thing. We never really knew how long we were together because things were always rocky and uncertain from the get-go. Whilst eradicating my room of memories I noticed letter after letter a reoccurring theme: SORRY. Things weren’t as picture perfect as they seemed. It only took one girl to spin my whole world around for me to see things more clearly.

The result was bittersweet. Bitter because I’ve lost touch with some really, really, really good friends, and understandably so. It was worse than bitter. It crushed me. In the end, it was sweet because I followed my heart: a feat that most don’t have the courage to do.

Courage or stupidity? Whatever the case, I have no regrets. Even when it came down to quitting my job.

NUMBER TWO: CERTIFIED BUM

I was drunk watching a punk rock band at the Ruby Room. As I looked up at the shiny guitars and banged my head to the thump of the bass drum, I had an epiphany. That’s what I want to do in life: make music. The Monday morning after, I put in my two-week notice.

What ensued was a golden era of inspiration and spirituality. On average, I’d write one song about every three or four months. During the past three months alone, with the time I’ve devoted to learning more about the craft, not to mention the heavy emotions that have come with recent events, I’ve been able to write upwards of fifteen songs. Church and prayer have also become a big part of my life. Dating an agnostic you’d think otherwise, but the questioning of my faith only strengthened it.

Yes, the life of a certified bum can be quite glamorous. I sleep, eat, drink beer, and scratch my balls when I want. Work on my writing when the flame of creativity strikes hot or play Super Smash Brothers when the flame burns out. Fart.

All good things come to an end however. The funds I’ve saved up from my last job are dwindling by the minute. In 2012, I have no choice but to return to the machine of modern society as a working man. But I wasn’t going to leave 2011 without a bang.

NUMBER ONE: ENDING ON A HIGH NOTE

On December 12, 2011 10pm at the Ruby Room, I put on a concert unlike anything I have ever done before: just me, a microphone, and an acoustic guitar tucked away in the corner of the bar for one whole hour. I played an entire set of fourteen original songs: from songs about hope and the death of a friend to songs about cuddling and hot, sexy, ass. It tickled me to see all the people who came to see the show, good friends old and new and a handful of strangers who decided to stick around. Of course, front and center stood Jessie, singing along to all the lyrics some of which I hadn’t shared with anyone else but her. On the surface, it was just an ordinary display of silly songs and drunken debauchery, but to me it was something more: full exposure more vulnerable than frontal nudity, my heart in a fishbowl. I shared a piece of my soul with everyone there that night.

THE END

Thanks to the Mayans we all think the world is going to end in 2012. I don’t know much about the Mayans but I do know about Mya. To quote the great Myan prophesy:

“Take me there. I want to go there. Take me there. Let’s go there. Just take me to that great place with wonders and wishes.”

Happy New Year.

See you there.

How I Became a Potato.

PO-TAY-TO!!!!

Boil ‘em, mash ‘em, stick ‘em in a stew!

They say you are what you eat. No one illustrates that point more than me. I love potatos and considering my behavior as of late, I have been just that. A potato, plopped vis a vis the tele in pure tater form: motionless, legless, armless, baked and fried. I don’t do drugs but I might as well.

Jessie and I have recently acquired a new addiction in the form of How I Met Your Mother. You can thank Netflix for that… and Ted Mosby’s ever-so endearing quest to find his one true love… the tension created by Robin Scherbatsky who’s essentially Mosby’s Great White Buffalo….. the adorable dynamic of Marsh-mallow and Lily-pad as the it-couple….. and the legen- wait for it and watch out if you’re lactose-intolerant because the next half of the word is-dary Barneyisms, the by-product of Neil Patrick Harris’s genius performance as the ultimate Gaslamp P.U.A.

I identify with Marshall the most. How terrified I can be of opening a champagne bottle or of the unidentified creature lurking under the couch. The mushy center that oftentimes longs to order the fruity drinks at the bar.

I won’t go on. I’m only on Season Two but I’m instantly enamored of this show.

POTATO SUIT UP! and let the transformation begin. My skin becomes rough and dry, and spotted with eyes that only face one direction. My insides harden. I am round. I am immobile. I am potato. Pretty soon my fingers will become french fries: floppppy, sloppyyy and unnaaable to ty-dlkfd=pe anyyyything distinguaishalbeeeakdjldj dl djkljfdl ss ssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssss

Pick Your Nose.

I sneezed on my hands. I forget sometimes how utterly disgusting that is, splashing the muck from your mouth and nose across your palms, a Jackson Pollock masterpiece of mucus and boogers. Speaking of boogers, I desperately need to vacuum my truck. Under the driver seat lies an elephant graveyard of dead nose dust piled high, irrefutable evidence of my irresistible urge to excavate the dark, dirty goldmines whenever I drive. You do that, too, don’t you? Pick your nose when you drive?

Pick your nose. That’s a funny expression. If I were a rhinoplasty surgeon that would be my slogan: “Pick your nose.”

Unfortunately I am not a rhinoplasty surgeon. Just a guy with boogers on his hands. Edward Boogerhands. I don’t have a tissue but I do have jeans. No one’s looking.

Thumbs.

In my truck at a CVS parking lot blasting blink182, all the while sending you a message composed entirely with my thumbs. To have thumbs. It’s a gamechanger really. You can hitchhike. Congratulate someone for a job well done, or commence an execution. You can also give high fives. Without the thumbs they’d only be high fours. Strange huh? Speaking of strange, a cop just parked in front of me. I think he thinks I’m about to detonate a bomb or something. That’s another thing thumbs can do. Detonate bombs. Boom.

Free Write

This write is free. It costs nothing. Zero. Zero as in the number of calories in a Coke Zero. Zero as in my annual income at the moment. That’s write I’m making nothing and yet miraculously, simultaneously, instantaneously I’m making something. Something special. I laid down the tracks, three to be exact, three glorious songs from the heart. Now all’s I gotsta do is ride the train. Come on ride the train, bump and ride it. I don’t know if those are the real words but does it matter really? I think I can, I think I can, I think I can. Those are the real words. Words of Wisdom indeed. Do you think you can? Do you think you can dance? Show me…. the meaning. Of being lonely because I will never know. I have you, don’t I? Your name’s Dorothy Harris, and I’m Forrest Gump. Forrest spells his name with two R’s. I can very well spell my name with 2 R’s but they would both be silent. Neirrl. Hard to imagine huh? Trying to say Neirrl while both the R’s are silent. They’re just so loud in your head aren’t they? Am I loud in your head? CAN YOU HEAR ME NOW?

Yes.

Neil-Denny LIVE @ Lestat’s

I did it! I survived the Rapture. It supposedly occurred on May 21^st 6 pm Eastern time, the Second Coming of Christ, Judgment Day. I’m sure when Jesus wants to make his great return he will want it to be a surprise, and not so much an event advertised over various billboards that popped up over the Interstate-805. At any rate, I’m still alive, just cause for celebration. As a token of my gratitude for my prolonged stay on this gorgeous green earth, I played a show: Open Mic at the Lestat’s Coffee House on Adams Avenue.

This was the first time I was to grace the stage all by me onesy. No I didn’t wear a onesy, but I may as well have. I felt like a baby up there on the stage without my boys. The lights dimmed over the crowd, face to face with a dark army of silhouettes, ready to judge, ready to give me the yay or nay. This was my Judgment Day.

The cotton sensation started to take shape from the corners of my mouth before eventually taking hold of the whole territory. I squeaked out a few quiet words to introduce my songs and started strumming. I sang “Yarbles” a song about asking a girl out for a date, I said. I forgot a lyric at one point, a millisecond that stretched on like an endless hallway, but played through it after a nervous giggle. At the song’s finish, they clapped and whooped. Rather than appreciate the applause, the sappy insecure introvert inside wondered how many claps were sincere, or just a means to be heard on my recording.

Next was “Arapaima” a song about there being plenty of fish in the sea. The shadows shifted, and I was unable to recognize if their reactions were favorable, repulsed or worse, apathetic. I felt like I was singing to those eye witnesses they show on TV who sit incognito and keep their voices warped so as to conceal their identity. I was singing to unidentified entities.

There was of course, one shadow I could very well identify. Somewhere in that sea of dark was light, my girlfriend came to watch me play, and without her I probably, nay, most definitely would not have made it that far.

We sat in the car upon my set’s conclusion and listened to the CD. The bald man who did the recording said with a voice that was deep and gruff that I did good and that I should keep at it. We laughed at the part where I forgot my lyric and at the part where I impulsively mocked an innocent man‘s “Yup!“ after I asked if my guitar sounded okay. We laughed at how much of a total dick I was for that. This dick, however, stood erect, played its little heart out, and did what it intended to do.

I came.

Work, Huh?

Not many people know what I do.

By day I work with pee, at a urine drug testing lab. Most of the pee I work with comes from the elderly, old men and women, many of them dying, who need to be tested in an effort to ensure they are taking the right dosage of medication. Many times, the patients we get, even the really old ones, are taking drugs beyond the prescription: heroin, cocaine, opiates, methamphetamines, all of the above. Certain drugs can turn pee crazy colors so I’ve seen some pretty blues, reds, and greens during my time there. Then again, some of the pretty ones are just farce, desperate druggies trying to pass off dishwasher soap as their own urine. We also get some real nasty ones, doo doo browns and period reds, or gooey ones with the viscosity of bacon grease. 

We get up to 4000 specimens in the morning, all of which needs to be processed that same night. I help prepare the samples to be tested, whilst avoiding cross-contamination, then I go to a computer lab to make sure that every letter and digit in the patient’s demographic information is entered accurately. One fuckup can ruin a poor old lady’s life. If a doctor thinks she’s smoking crack based on our results, even if she’s never touched the drug in her life, the doctor can choose to end all treatment, leaving someone’s grandma left for dead.

Sure it sounds dull, but the work serves a noble purpose. Plus, it’s not without the random outburst of Usher’s OMG when it gets dead in the lab, or the occasional recitation of a Bloodsport scene: “What the hell’s a dimac?” Fridays we get to wear jeans and things get really ridiculous.

By night, I work with Coronita, my guitar, short for “Coronita, mi corazon, la guitara de la luna y las luces en la noche.” When I’m done helping my people physically, I help them spiritually, through the power of my music.

My ten year reunion’s coming up. It’s been ten years, Neil. What have you done?

I’m saving lives, bitch.

To sleep or Not to sleep.

I woke up coughing again at four o’ clock in the fucking morning, leaving me in that all too familiar conundrum, to sleep or not to sleep. The former gives my body rest, helps to replenish energy and the functionality of all my major organs (don’t be gross). Then again, I run the risk of overindulgence, causing me to completely ignore the constant badgering of my worry wart of an alarm clock, or even the routine morning wake up call from the Mrs. No, to sleep is out of the question. I might lose my job, which is scary these days. Not to sleep extends my day a few hours, allowing me to enjoy that much longer the beauty of life, the colors, the smells, the laughter, the *cough* fun of it all. Then again, according to Columbus from Zombieland, sleep deprivation is the number one cause of health problems. Sage advice from an expert in preventing you from becoming one of the walking dead. No, not to sleep would be out of the question. Especially when you’ve had a fever that’s been as hot as one hundred and four degrees.

Let’s make a deal. I shall take my temperature, and if it’s anything past 100, it’s apparent I need my beauty sleep. I’ll get back to you in three minutes with the results………………………………………………………………………………….

Doo-dee-doo Doo-doo Doo-dee-doo Do-dee-do-dee-Doop dee-doo-doo-doo-doo Doo-dee-doo Doo-doo Doo-dee Doo… Doop dee-doo-doo-doo Doo Doo Doo….. Boom Boom.

99.4!!!! Praise God I’m cured!!!! The lowest it’s been in ages. I’d like to thank Tylenol and Ibuprofen, Vicks VapoRub, Caroline for the Coldbuster, Coco, and Emmy Rossum for showing her tits in the pilot episode of Shameless.

Fuck it, I’m gonna hit the sack (don’t be gross). Good night everybody.

Belle who? There’s a New Beauty in Town.

Tangled ****

Rather than your ordinary Once Upon a Time, the story of Tangled starts with a voiceover from Flynn Ryder, our egotistical antihero, warning you that this is a story about how he died. This American Beauty style prologue is a clear indication that although it’s a Disney movie, this story is not without the darkness of Grimm. As Disney’s 50^th animated feature film, Disney freaks and general moviegoers alike will be pleased to find that Tangled is worthy of the golden hallmark. It’s beautifully animated, full of surprises, and really funny. I’ll even go so far as to say it has the power to jerk a few tears.

Disney decided to go with an alternate title instead of sticking to the original Rapunzel. It works because this imaginative retelling seems to be a little more than a story about a girl with long hair. It’s also a story about an old woman consumed with a fear of dying. Her name is Gothel, and she’s the figure that sets all the action in motion by kidnapping the baby princess at birth. She did this because she’s aware of the magical properties that lay hidden in our heroine’s golden locks: sing a special song to it, and you can live forever.

Gothel hides Rapunzel away in a tower, raises her as her own, and forbids her from seeing the light of day, urging the world is an evil place. This is creepy within itself, and among all the Disney villains, Gothel is by far one of the creepiest, reminiscent of the mom in Stephen King’s Carrie, from the scary way she keeps her daughter sheltered down to the scary way she is ultimately defeated.

Gothel at least had the decency to provide Rapunzel with a library of books. This has kept Rapunzel occupied for all the 18 years she spent in isolation, and has made her apt at a range of activities some of us may never learn: painting, paper mache, charting stars. Still, she longs to see the world, if only to find the source of the floating lanterns: mysterious lights that fill the sky every year on the night of her birthday.

Flynn Ryder’s not your average knight-in-shining armor. He’s more like Gaston in a Han Solo costume. Poor Flynn is in enough trouble as it is, constantly hounded down for stealing a prized possession from the royal family. Aside from the palace guards, Flynn has to deal with twin goons that resemble Jason Stathem and a tenacious police horse. Next thing you know, Flynn is stuck with a teenage girl in desperate need of rebellion.

Mandy Moore and Zachary Levi provide the speaking and singing voices for our two protagonists, and do a phenomenal job. The voice acting is pitch perfect, just like the music composed by the legendary Academy Award-winning Alan Menken.

I can’t wait to see Rapunzel at Disneyland, not just because she’s smoking hot, but also because it’ll be entertaining to see eight guards following close behind to accommodate her long head of hair. The 260 million dollar budget makes this the most expensive animated feature to date. Considering the magic it will bring to households 50 more years down the road, Tangled is worth every penny.