Philonoist.net

Previously, I wrote a short piece called Experiment. Here is Gizoogle’s version:

Late night. Jizzle n’ shit. Good jizzazz, tha kind wit tha sweet sounds of a muted trumpet play’n in front of a upright piano . Im a bad boy wit a lotta hos. The sounds of tha sett’n keep’n it real yo. Conditioned air falls across mah face, up mah nose, into mah insides, become one wit mah be’n. Motherfucka fliznick rizzy off tha windshield lazily, tha fleet’n marriage of drop n glass destroyed by tha steady rhythm of tha blade, cutt’n through tha darkness with my hoes on my side, and my strap on my back.

The road winds around tha bend cuz its a pimp thang. It’s cuz its a pimp thang. late . Real niggas recognize the realness.: too late fo` such a trip like this. Eyes droop, close, open to increase tha peace! Re-focus . Hollaz to the East Side. Jizzy cracka more air blast’n into mah face. Wizzle a difference a day makes .

The road straight from long beach nigga. A sea of oily bliznack. Wet wit condensizzle perspirizzle animation, but not enough ta remove tha slick mess of a hundred, a thousand, a million million ridez before me cuz its a pimp thang. My shiznip rolls wit tha hills, pitches in tizzy ta tha steady beat of Thelonious Mizzay of Jizzy Coltrane. Chill as I take you on a trip. We move ta tha measured score, mah shiznip n I, march’n forth while men in smoky rooms n jazz bars play they songs n bitchez wit husky voices sing sadly of bitch pizzy.

Destinizzle . Hollaz to the East Side. The 24-hour-supizzle a warehizouse of bright light n empty aisles. Anchor tha ship, chizneck fo` motherfucka realize that it’s too late fo` even mugga ta be out with the gangsta shit that keeps ya hangin. Step out. Lock n we out. Purposizzles wizzay cuz I’m fresh out the pen. Man wit K-I-Double-Tizzy litta leaves store, too embarrassed ta look at me. Who buys K-I-Double-Tizzy gangsta at 1 AM?

Aisle 1. Aisle 2 and my money on my mind. 3 fo’ real. 4 . Im a bad boy wit a lotta hos. A-ha in tha hood! Aisle 5. Remind S-to-tha-izzelf thizzay in future, oil is stored in Aisle 5. Wizzy kind? Unclear. Vegetable wit da big Bo$$ Dogg. Canola fo’ sheezy. Olive. Olive? No. Not olive . Keep the party crackin while I’m steady rappin’. And thiznen there were two. Vegetable. Canola but real niggaz don’t give a fuck. Canola fo gettin yo pimp on. Vegetable. Fizzle a coin in tha dogg pound. Pick a pusha. If a train leaves Vegetable at 45 miles per hour, n a train leaves Canola… What is tha difference between oil anyways? Bizzy label. Green label . You’se a flea and I’m the big dogg. Does oil go bad? Oil is oil cuz I’m fresh out the pen. Vegetable cheapa.
Think `bout purpose of said oil. Two bottles of vegetable like this and like that and like this and uh.

Checkout. Sciznan. Beep. Scizzay with the S-N-double-O-P. Beep. Five even with my forty-fo’ mag. Hizzalf a sawbuck fo all my homies in the pen. A Lincoln. The bill crizzisp. Immaculate. As I hand over tha money, I am too embarrased ta look at tha cahsia. Who buys vegetable oil at 1:05 AM?

Purposizzle walk. Life now gang bangin’ cuz this is how we do it. Be kiznind, pleaze rewind fo’ real. Every action has an equal n opposite . Keep the party crackin while I’m steady rappin’. Unlock so bow down to the bow wow. Step in. Raise tha anchor, Gangsta Coltrane yaba daba dizzle! We lurch forward, mackin’ up steam on our return voyage, bizzy from tha briny depths fizzle whiznich we came ridin’ in mah double R. We is alone on tha dark roads in tha vast nothingness of Suburbia in all flavas. As tha nizzay claims us, mah S-H-to-tha-izzip n I, we embrace Her, engirth Her, n we is Ha.

Relax, cus I’m bout to take my respect.

Filed by Adam College at 9:33 pm under Web
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There’s a great big world of pages related to Olin out there. Some of them are fun. Some of them are ugly. Some of them are just plain awful (*cough* BB *cough*). But I think the absolute saddest page is students.olin.edu. That’s right: the main student index.

Why is this so sad? Because free webspace is a pretty damn sweet luxury, and almost no one uses it. I’m “winning” the most recently updated game with a quick change to my site last weekend for Computer Architecture.

Were there only empty sites, just names waiting to mapped to index pages, that wouldn’t be so rough: that could be one of two things. 1) People don’t know how to make websites or 2) People don’t have time to make websites. But many of the sites have dates in the 2004 and even 2003 range.

I don’t know why, but when I see a website a student made here in 2003, I get a little misty. I flashback to what was important to me, who I hung out with, what I thought was cool. I want to reach out to that kid, because that’s all I was then. I want to reach out, and tell him the things I was once nervous about don’t matter. I want to tell him that life is a state of mind. I also want to tell him to study Maxwell’s Equations more.

I get nostalgic. I want to relive my past, my mistakes. I have few regrets, a few things said I want to take back. I wonder if things would have been different if I had turned left instead of right, said yes instead of no. But I like my mistakes, like how they’ve become part of me, how I’ve learned, how I’ve grown.

I have things left to do in life, questions left unanswered. I still can’t figure out how to ask a girl out on a date. I worry. I worry that I worry.

But I know I’m OK. And that’s all that matters.

Filed by Adam College at 3:10 am under Life
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This is a post in a series on movies that perform below expectations at the box office, causing them to quietly disappear to the bargain DVD section in a few years time.

It’s not that I have a problem with the lead protaganist, Aeon Flux, in the movie of the same name, being believable. It’s that I have a problem with the remainder of the word she lives in being believable. Even in a fractured society set amist the “perfect” last city of a virus-ravaged Earth, Aeon Flux is a flimsy film that tries too little to do too much.

It wasn’t surprising to me to see the writers of Aeon Flux also had a hand in writing The Tuxedo, a modest success for Jackie Chan. Both films share a decided emptiness when it comes to their most-publicized feature: the fight scenes. Charlize Theron trained for months, working with trampoline experts from Cirque du Soleil, but the film dices and slices its way through these scenes. The directors for Aeon Flux and The Tuxedo were new-comers to the chair, so I wonder how much they thought it was appropriate to deviate from the flimsy edit-filled script that was presented to them. It may not surprise you either that MTV, the long-standing champion of the quick-cut and edit-fest, helped release this film through the MTV Films name, a subsidary of Paramount.

Where mediocre fight scenes the only problem facing Aeon Flux, the movie wouldn’t be so bad. But Flux doesn’t -or can’t - translate its world from the cartoon or comic books well. Plot holes muck up the action, and there’s just a general state of confusion washing over viewers while the credits roll. The futuristic world inhabited in Aeon Flux may look pretty, but it’s not enough to make up for the ugliness - or just plain dreariness - of the people who live in it.

Filed by Adam College at 11:22 am under Movies
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Late night. Jazz. Good jazz, the kind with the sweet sounds of a muted trumpet playing in front of a upright piano. The sounds of the setting. Conditioned air falls across my face, up my nose, into my insides, become one with my being. Wipers flick rain off the windshield lazily, the fleeting marriage of drop and glass destroyed by the steady rhythm of the blade, cutting through the darkness. The road winds around the bend. It’s late: too late for such a trip like this. Eyes droop, close, open! Re-focus. Jazz louder, more air blasting into my face. What a difference a day makes.

The road. A sea of oily black. Wet with condensation, perspiration, animation, but not enough to remove the slick mess of a hundred, a thousand, a million million cars before me. My ship rolls with the hills, pitches in time to the steady beat of Thelonious Monk, of John Coltrane. We move to the measured score, my ship and I, marching forth while men in smoky rooms and jazz bars play their songs and women with husky voices sing sadly of lovers past.

Destination. The 24-hour-supermarket, a warehouse of bright light and empty aisles. Anchor the ship, check for muggers, realize that it’s too late for even muggers to be out. Step out. Lock. Purposeful walk. Man with kitty litter leaves store, too embarrassed to look at me. Who buys kitty litter at 1 AM?

Aisle 1. Aisle 2. 3. 4. A-ha! Aisle 5. Remind self that in future, oil is stored in Aisle 5. What kind? Unclear. Vegetable. Canola. Olive. Olive? No. Not olive. And then there were two. Vegetable. Canola. Canola. Vegetable. Flip a coin. Pick a number. If a train leaves Vegetable at 45 miles per hour, and a train leaves Canola….. What is the difference between oil anyways? Blue label. Green label. Does oil go bad? Oil is oil. Vegetable cheaper. Think about purpose of said oil. Two bottles of vegetable.

Checkout. Scan. Beep. Scan. Beep. Five even. Half a sawbuck. A Lincoln. The bill crisp. Immaculate. As I hand over the money, I am too embarrased to look at the cahsier. Who buys vegetable oil at 1:05 AM?

Purposeful walk. Life now rewinding. Be kind, please rewind. Every action has an equal and opposite. Unlock. Step in. Raise the anchor, Mister Coltrane! We lurch forward, picking up steam on our return voyage, back from the briny depths from which we came. We are alone on the dark roads in the vast nothingness of Suburbia. As the night claims us, my ship and I, we embrace Her, engirth Her, and we are Hers.

Filed by Adam College at 12:52 pm under Life
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