JRussell's BlogNO!!!!

Killing Time With a Time Machine

Just quickly. I've found myself caught up in this whole John Titor back & forth that has been floating around the internet. Quite simply, this fellow John Titor who claims to be time traveler writes entries online leaving clues about the future. He apparently wanted to travel back to 1975 to obtain a computer (an IBM computer called a 5100) in order to stop some virus and save his father or something, that wasn't really the interesting part. He says that a Waco-esque event ignites a "civil" war in the United States in late 2004/2005 that lasts for ten years leading up to a world war where 3 Billion people are killed in 2015. He won't go in to detail because, as we've all seen in various movies and cartoons about time travel, the smallest change could alter history and he may turn into a goldfish or something absurd like that.

Hoax or not, I find myself wondering about this impending war and so on; it takes me back to my days as a loser 13 year-old attending Home Run Baseball Camp during the summer time. I remember I was in the classic young adolescent debate with Danny Guilfoyle, the old Pearl Jam vs. Nirvana debate. But I realized that that in the summer of 1999 was the day! If I had learned anything when my dad took me to see Terminator 2: Judgement Day in theaters at Union Station when I was five or six years old, it was that Cyberdyne Networks was going to fuck up and the world as we know it will be one big fireball on that day in July, maybe August in 1999. I still remember Sarah Connor screaming "If your not wearing 5 million SPF sunblock, you're going to have really bad fucking day!" at the shrink dude who resembles Sam Leslie's dad. Of course, there was no apocalypse in 1999, the terrible Terminator 3: the rise of the machines tried to cover that up, but the movie was terrible so I'll ignore their explanations. But I was seriously afraid the world was going to blow up back then, I remember wearing dirt stained nylon pants and too small batting gloves thinking about where the nearest swimming pool was so that I could jump in to the pool at the exact moment of the nuclear explosion because water beats fire and therefore I wouldn't be affected by the fireball that burns through little girls on swings. So I find myself pondering another impending apocalypse becauseI read it on the internet like ten minutes ago because Joey Dubeck giddily summarized to me during a false alarm fire drill six and a half hours ago.
We're all Back to the Future fans here, so I figured there should some response about all this time travel, impending doom, intricate internet hoax.

Go on read about John Titor.

Belated Valentines Day Shit

yeah you should

"I'd like to see The Hand that Rocks the cradle"
"oooh, yeah, that's a good one"
"Ah, you've seen it?"
"several times, my dad made me watch when I was young, I've watched it a couple times since"
"how can you watch a thriller more than once?"
"I dunno, the sex scenes I guess, look I dunno, are you gonna buy this fucking DVD or not?"

(he didn't buy it)

So I'm realizing I ya'know shoot my mouth too much to the wrong people and not enough to the right people, because I am a large insecure motherfucker. No matter how many gallons of water I force down my throat and piss out an hour or two later, I'm still "hey, big man, lemme get this case open, yeah, I wanna see that Ice-T jont". Because I don't get any, I delude myself into thinking that its socially acceptable for me to make jokes about the action that my peers get (I cite the tom vladek example), making jokes that piss people off because I don't like myself, which is not a good thing at all, albeit occasionally bordering on entertaining, making harsh jokes that compromise buddies or whatever is not a positive thing, and a chuckle isn't worth whatever one values friendship at. Like I really shouldn't make jokes about the star pitcher tapping the young young poon, because, well I couldn't tap the freshmen, sophmore poon when I try, and I mean, if they were cool (which they aren't) I figure I'd work with 'em on a case to case basis. Who the fuck am I kidding? It's ridiculous that I could even think of successes in battles and riots that never happen. I don't even try to light the fuse and run like I say I do. I'm no gamer and I'm no assassin. I'm growing tired of this hair and this beard.

I was hoping I could find something trite to write about, drown it in trivial detail so I can stop worrying. I was gonna right a blog about the gym, about the myriad of bullshit that goes on there, about how I had a nosebleed in the locker room, how fucking great I felt standing there wearing only a towel, with my fist shoved towards my face, blood leaking down my arm like a lame ass tribal tattoo, and spattered on my chest, all these fucking middle aged men, sure their muscles are bigger than mine, but I'm fucking awesome, I'm bleeding all over myself and my hair looks like shit all the time and pants never look good on me, but at least I'm pleased with the blood all over my out of shape teenage body, all of those fuckers when they were my age, they had 30 inch waists and fucked a happy beautiful girl every other day, they drank and they dropped and painted and rarely had to masturbate, and look at once changed, santa claus motherfuckers, where'd that ball and chain come from. So, that gym blog it was going to mention all this shit that goes on in the gym, so I get a giggle of "yes, I relate to this observation, care for some fucking coffee cake?". And I was going to drop small details about outfits of girls at the gym to vaguely hint at a crush or two, see if it goes any way. And this blog was going to be fucking great. But it was never written, I'm no poet. I'm no collegiate alcoholic, and I can't compose, all I can do is criticize. I'm not creative, I just observe my own bullshit. I'm fucked trying to be a filmmaker. I should just bullshit my way in to a political science major that I'll drop to be with some girl in her scientific socialism in a post-freudian protest paradigm class, then i'll fuck myself worse than being a filmmaker. At least with bullshit film intentions I can be in a union and be a successful boom mic holder, be one of those long haired, fat, hernia belt, mustache & mutton chops kind of douche bags. I'll wear my rock'n'roll shirts and wonder why no chicks want to tap this.

ha. I'll.

I've got to learn my tenses. Something is obviously more imminent.