The Desk.

So when Bri came upstairs and told everybody under 21 to bolt, I took two of the girls out the back, down a few streets and out to the beach. We saw their car drive off and I told them I'd give them a ride back if they needed. Then Aaron called and told us to come on back to the house because the cops and the guys starting stuff were gone. The girls' car was there and they had to go back with whom they came, even though I said they could stay and I'd take them home when I left. Crash, burn, etc. Then Andy pulled me aside and asked me why exactly I don't drink. The thought had never really crossed my mind untill then, and it bothered me the whole time as I drove an enibriated John home. He was going to stay at the beach house that night (having driven himself there and knowing he would get drunk), but he felt more comfortable going back home after what had happened with the guys and the cops.

My point is this: I don't have a reason for not drinking. It's not a moral problem because I have no moral code, and it's not a taste problem because I've never tasted much. I just don't need to drink. The better question is why do I go to keggers if I don't drink. For one, it's funny to watch drunk people, and it's a good time, but mostly I have a strong sense of civic duty and obligation. One of my friends here said he preferred to stay away from that whole scene and not be involved with drinking at all. A noble endeavor indeed, but I know that there needs to be sober people at these parties - to be drivers, to deal with cops, and basically to keep the whole thing under control and keep everybody safe. In some places, being at a party and not drinking is considered "encouraging and enabling," and a criminal offense just shy of actually partaking. We might be facilitating drunkenness by not stopping them, but we're giving them a safe and controlled environment in which to do it. Instead of pretending the drinking situation does not exist, I'd rather be there, be sober, and help make sure nobody's fucking stupid.

I'm not sober for me; I'm sober for everybody else.

So it turns out I'm actually more right-handed than I am left. For years I proudly spoke of my affiliation with this most noble and oppressed minority, but alas, my life has been a lie. Although I write, draw, eat, and brush my teeth and hair with my left, I've always thrown projectiles, driven nails, operated scissors, and favored punching with my right. I am equally proficient at baseball and tennis from both sides, and can write reasonably legible manuscripts with my right (compared to my best lefthanded), as well as operate various utensils. So you see, I am fully right-handed when it comes to matters of strength, and only slightly left-handed in matters of dexterity. Now the quetion is why. The answer of course, is the continual oppression of my people since the dawn of man. I'm serious, our track record is worse than the Jews'. Everything is made for use by right-handed users, so it is awkward and sometimes dangerous for south-paws to operate many things. There is a significant number of injuries and deaths related to handedness (lefties using equipment made for righties), and I will get back to you as soon as I'm able to find some figures. In response to this, lefties have learned how to use our right for a lot of our daily activities. Computer mice are a perfect example. I've switched mine to left-handed, in protest, now that I'm the only one who uses it. But while I'm on the subject, I'll probably switch it back. Not because it's what I'm used to (I'm quite proficient with the lefty setting), but because I could then do the mouse with my right while I simltaneously write with the left. I don't know why you righties haven't always used lefty mice for this same reason.

Oh wait, I do know why. Ya'll can't use your left at all. It is a proven fact (I myself have researched this in the feild) that left-handed people are better at doing things right-handed than righties are with their left. This is because we are forced to use right-biased equipment regularly, and have devoloped our right hands equal to yours, but at the same time we have skilled left hands from genetics, while you have done nothing to improve your left-hand dexterity. Though we have been oppressed, we have come out better because of it. We can compete with you equally with our right hands because you have forced us to use them, but we have maintained our superiority on the left side. Clearly, lefties are better and more versatile than righties. Why then are only 10% of us left-handed? Because we were killed of by those superstitous Christians in the middle ages who thought we were evil or "sinister" (Latin for both left-handed and evil). That's right, yet another problem rooted in organized religion. I'm telling you, it all comes back to organized religion.

Damn right-handed Christian scum.

I found a sick Stevie Wonder collection on sale for $8 so that kicked ass.

Anyway, It's time for a product review. Today's product for review: internal frame packs. I've been using my '76 Kelty for as long as I've been backpacking, and I don't intend to get a new pack anytime soon. This is partly because I'm so used to it and I don't need a new one in any way, but also because there is nothing good to choose from in the store. The guy at GOP told me that some 80% of people buying new packs get an internal. What he failed to mention was that they sell about ten varieties of internals to their two models of external. Whether the chicken came before the egg is not clear, but either way there is neither the supply nor the demand for external frames. Yet again, the public has been misled.

Firstly, I'll point out that internals are generally more expensive. When it comes to getting good equipment, it's pretty much all expensive, but I'm just throwing it out there. Beleive me, the price is the least of my grievances with internal frames. Their average base weight, meaning the weight of just the empty pack is heavier than that of the average external frame. This is primarily due to the excessive padding and lots of little straplet things. I've never needed or wished I had any padding on my '73 Kelty. It's extra weight that serves only a cosmetic purpose. They are impractical. You have to put everything in the one big sack, so you have to take everything out to get anything. Some might say "Just pack the things you'll need more often towards the top." Well, you can't. Everything gets jumbled around in there and you can never find anything. Externals have multiple pockets and places for you to lash things to the outside, giving you easy access to everything, all the time, not just the thing at the top of the sack. Being able to lash to the outside gives you unlimited storage space, whereas with the internal, you can only pack what you can fit in the sack. So even though my '74 Kelty is smaller than newer packs (that's just the way it was made), I can still pack more gear than those new internals. The main issue here is tents, sleeping bags, pads, and other large, bulky gear. I never saw a efficient, consistent way to pack these things on an internal. And let's talk about water. Everyone who knows anything about packing knows you take at least two water bottles, and those will be Nalgenes. They should also know that these Nalgenes will be placed on either side of the pack for balance. My '72 Kelty has perfectly Nalgene-shaped pockets on the sides, but internals just have the big sack, or the occasional single side mesh bag on some models. Even newer externals only have the one Nalgene pocket and a badly shaped pocket opposite it. Mine has a great design that seems to have been lost.

They say internals are better designed ergonomically, but I disagree. Any good pack will fit well if you know how to adjust it. Speaking of which, externals can be adjusted because you can actually shift the frame and shoulder and hip straps around on the pack. This cannot be done with an internal; you have to find the one that most closely fits you and stick with it. Internals are supposed to be better for balance, but that's just a lie. Externals give you a lower, wider center of gravity, as opposed to the tall, skinny internals. The lower base also helps to keep the weight on your hips, but the weight of internals is shifted up because of the shape of it. They have a chest strap, too, and I have no idea why. If your weight is where it should be, you don't eve need shoulder straps, much less a chest belt. Most internals, and all newer packs for that matter, have these plastic clippy-buckles that hold the thing together. Maybe it's just me, but I prefer my '75 Kelty's airplane seat belt buckle and ropes on the front early in the cold mornings. Those clippy-buckles can be quite painful in the cold. And wouldn't waterproofing make sense? And if you say it's already is water resistant, why do you need a raincover?

My final and biggest problem with internals is this: they look like a giant poo, like there's a big ole poo on your back, going down the mountain. With an external, you simply look more respectable, and more like a real backpacker. So when it's all said and done, I dare you to give me one good argument in favor of internal frame packs.

So I told you earlier that I possess the most ecclectic taste in music ever, and I thought I'd take a minute and tell you why. It is because all the styles of music that I like are not as different as they would have you think. I appreciate music because I know the cultural history of it, and I hate modern pop because it has none. Way back a long time ago, we combined classical European knowledge and composition with traditional West African styles that had been preserved in slave spirituals. This mixture created something distinctly American, and it has mirrored our culture like no politics can show you. In the South, the spirituals became Gospel in the Black community, and later were developed into the Blues. In the Southern Appalachians, they took the took the banjo from Africa and combined it with the strong Celtic influence in the region to form traditional Appalachian Folk music, and with it, the roots of Kentucky Bluegrass, Country, and Honky-Tonk. In the urban north, Jazz was the primary Black music, while Whites made the scores for the American musicals and Swing during the War years. Then, as we all know, Blues and Jazz became Soul, Motown, and Doo-wop in the 60's, which later became Funk, which begat Rhythm and Blues, Rap, and Hip-Hop. Elvis brought together Blues sounds, elements from Swing, and his own Country background to create an entirely new style called Rock and Roll. In this category, we have of course the pioneers such as Elvis, the Four Seasons, and Buddy Holly, then came the British Invasion, which was really just them copying us. Gradual shifts occured in the music, and evetually we came to Disco, Punk, and Classic Rock all in the 70's. The 80's brought New Wave, techno, and Glam Rock. Then we heard the sounds of Seattle Grunge and Alternative. Now that I've given the history lesson of the day, I'll explain what this has to do with anything.

Culture flows from the bottom up. Great changes in music occur when there is a backlash against the mainstream from the outside. The advent of Rock and Roll is the most significant of these, but Punk, Grunge, and Old School Rap are some of the bigger ones as well. When Rock and Roll became the mainstream, it didn't scare anybody anymore, so people took more liberties with it, trning it into Disco. Punk brought rock back to its original edginess, but that got turned into Hair Metal and Glam, so Nirvana brought Grunge to contest the commercialism of the 80's. Now we've returned to the old way of teenie-bopper business and the same commercialism, and Alternative has done nothing to stop it, having turned into whatever it is that the counterculture is calling themselves these days. Rap brought Black music back to the harsh reality because it was music from the urban streets.

Now, I don't know about y'all, but when a song comes on the radio these days, I can't tell anymore if it's supposed to be pop, hip-hop, country, metal, or what because they all sound the same. Black culture now dominates all the genres, and they are quickly becoming the same thing. Since Garth Brooks came along, Country has tried to croos over into the mainstream, and now it sounds just like any other rock. There's very little distinction between Rap and Hip-Hop now because nobody can rap or sing anymore. Pop music just means whatever music is popular, and right now what's popular is crap. Music used to be about something, music used to have cultural significance, and music used to be good. Music is dead, and I don't know what the hell is going on anymore. We need another major backlash, and soon.

That being said, I'm gonna go buy some Sam Cooke or Stevie Wonder or something good like that.

Don't you get it? The squirrell is me.

So I've been making these comics lately and everyone seems to think I'm either insane or a comedic mastermind. I guess that's good; even if I am insane, at least that's something to work with. Anyway, I've created this minibear character with whom I often speak. In the first one, I didn't even think about it; the squirrell just seemed like the obvious thing to put in there. I didn't realize it when I created the beast that it has a lot of dark undertones and subconscious significance for me. As the comics have progressed, the character has developed into more than just a talking squirrell. Don't you get it? The squirrell is me. Well, it's what I want me to be, and the me that's me in there is the me that most of you know. Some of you know only the me that appeared in the last frame of "Fun at the bowling alley," but that's a different issue. He is the stoic, solitary woodsman that I've wanted to be but can't. The squirrell talks to other characters for me, in a way that I cannot, so he is a sort of plot device to let me say things without me actually having to say them. The squirrell also represents something I have never had in my life - my best friend. He is the character to whom I turn for guidance, or just to chill. He gets me, and I don't have to censor or explain myself.

The squirrell represents how I have lost the ability to communicate with real people, lost touch with reality even. He is the manifestation of my solitude. I've gone pretty stir crazy lately, and you can probably see that in my comics. I think I just need to get to college and I'll be alright, and the squirrell represents everything I'm going to college to find.

Now you're probably thinking "But Watson, why a squirrell? Why not something a little more dignified and respectable-like?" Well, two reasons: 1) They didn't have a wolf, and 2) Comedy is still the goal, even if I am trying to express my inner self. Talking squirrells are automatic funny.

Ok, time for a real post. Lately I've been getting grief from several sources about talking with a Southern accent. I'm proud to say that I was raised in the South, and because of that, I may at times proudly display the regional dialect and the Confederate flag. I stand when Dixie plays, and when a lady enters the room. That does not make me a redneck, hilbilly, or hick, and it most certainly does not make me a racist. In fact, my Southerness prevents me from becoming those things. It is my pride in my Southern heritage that gives me respect for myself and the people I deal with. I was brought up to believe in this notion of human dignity, and that everyone here deserves to be treated with respect. I was taught that as a Southern man, it was my duty to show hospitality not only to my guests, but to everyone I meet.

As you may know, I attended Kimberly Park for elementary school, which, as you should also know, is primarily peopled with Blacks. (Notice I do not use the term African-American here because it is incorrect unless referring to an American citizen who himself immigrated from Africa.) I never drew any connection between the Blacks at my school and those that had been enslaved. I did not think myself or my race better than any of those individuals or their race. After all, I grew up knee-deep in the myth of the Old South, and I've always believed that it is true. Gentlemanly conduct is my obligation as a Southerner, but more than that, I see no reason for acting otherwise.

I can't speak for all of us, but respect, dignity, and honor are what the South is about. I love and cherish my Southern upbringing; I love it, and I live it. But if you don't love it, feel free to leave it.

There was a breif part of a song that I started singing at school one day because I was under the influence of a Krispy Kreme-induced stupor. There has been some demand for me to complete this song, but I haven't had the opportunity until now. It's the only commissioned song you'll see me put up here so enjoy it. Here it is, the original Stuporpoem, the long-awaited "Ode to Krispy Kreme"

When I see that Hot-Now sign,
There's no need to make up my mind.
Can't get enough of that doughnut dream,
I'm headin' straight for the Krispy Kreme.

Chorus: I don't want no bagel,
'Less it's covered in Krispy Kreme.
I don't want no sandwich,
'Less it's made with a Krispy Kreme.
I don't want no nothing,
'Cept the sweet taste of Krispy Kreme.

When class is finally over,
I just hop into my Range Rover.
I'm free to go where ever I please;
I'm headin' straight for the Krispy Kreme.

Chorus

If I want a little thrill some days,
I'll go before class to get me Glazed,
Can't even remember where I've been;
I'm straight back to the Krispy Kreme.

Feel free to write some more verses and send 'em in; this can be written by several people, much like we did on Battle Hymn of the Philpublic.

Here's yet another poem I just wrote because I was in the groove and I had to keep going before I lost it.

"Passion with a Rhythm"

Passion with a rhythm
Is what I'm here to write.
Have I lived for something
Or just because of spite?
Passion with a rhythm
Says I don't have to know.
And know I may not ever
'Cause I just let it flow.
Passion with a rhythm
Means I speak from the heart,
But still I keep it real
And stay true to the art.
Passion with a rhythm
Is borne in all of us.
Poets come a dime a dozen;
Watson is but one.
Passion with a rhythm
Is more than I can be,
But knowing how to rhyme
Can still be part of me.

Here's another poem I wrote just now. I wasn't in a stupor at the time, so it might not be as good as the stuporpoetry. As a side note, I write all my poems to be sung. Stuporpoem1, for example, is old-school rap. This one here is a slow country song that I call "Salty Rain."

I can listen to the same old Jimmy Buffet songs,
Or walk those same old Grayson heights.
I don't remember much now because it's been so long,
But I do know that I'll never be alright.
So pour the salty rain
And I grow my little garden of pain
A little taller every day and a little more in bloom.
I know I can't go home again, though I sit within my room.

I've told you many times before
That I'm utterly emotionless.
No matter what's to happen next, nothing hurts me anymore
Because I've already felt all the pain there is.
So pour the salty rain
And I'll grow my little garden of pain
A little taller every day and a little more in bloom.
I can't go home again, though I sit within my room.

There was a time when I was young,
And no one knew my name.
But soon I sold my innonence for this witty tongue,
And I wonder why I still have to face each day without a name.
So pour the salty rain,
And I'll grow my little garden of shame
A little taller every day and a little more in bloom.
I'll have to find a home some day, and weave a different loom.