Twitterpated

There's been a negative shift in the way we interact, and a lot of it's due to MySpace (and all of its more popular friends).

Fear not, for I'll interrupt this anti-digital age gospel with an iconic Philly anecdote. I was on my college campus the other day, taking a photo of a beautiful sunset as it peered through two cacti. As I tried to get the perfect angle, a hooligan no less than 30 feet away hollered "Gonna post that on Instagram!?" It was like a question, but it wasn't. It wasn't funny because it was expected. It was expected because everyone hears type of remark all the time.

Jokes are funny when they surprise the audience (Which is why offensive humor is always on the rise). General humor, like the stuff you hear at supermarkets when the cash register malfunctions and the buyer says something snarky like "So, I guess I don't have to pay for it, right?"-- that's not funny. It's not unfunny because no one's in the mood. It's not funny because it's exactly what everyone there expects that person to say.

Anyway. So there I was, taking a picture of a captivating sunset because aside from being a philophile (lover of love) and a logophile (lover of words), I'm also a photophile (if there is such a word). I take pictures of random objects and shadows, I admire the way any monument looks as different light hits it throughout the day. So often (and I do mean very often), somebody will yell the exact same "Hey, putting that on Instagram!?" type of comment. I never acknowledge them. It doesn't offend me. But it saddens me in the grand scheme of things because before social media, we took photos for ourselves. And everyone understood that.

Do I post these photos online? Of course I do. We live in a day and age where if you try and disconnect yourself from the net, your social life might run a little slower (keyword: might). I recognize that I don't have to share my photos or even my blog. But it's a nice way to remind you and your little social circle that whatever you're working on is not going to perish in a house fire or a sinkhole (Speaking of which, don't live in Florida).

Let's just acknowledge the fact that you should be able to take a photo of anything you want without someone yelling "FaceBook!" or "Hashtag it on Twitter!" It's just redundant and provides no concept of individuality to the person saying it.

And yes, here's the photo I've been blathering about. Serene, it reminds me of the stereotypical American frontier.

Godspeed,

-Philip

Single-Player

This man found himself in the thick of a forest. It was lush, so much so that it perpetuated his disconnection from the rest of the world (more mentally than physically). He panicked. The man felt as though the forest has swallowed him whole, walking in any direction would be furthering himself down its esophagus. He feared never seeing another town again. He shouted at the top of his lungs and started pounding his fists into a tree.

Bloodied, he realized he would have to make use of his environment or perish at its mercy. He pulled a sturdy branch off an oak tree, picked up a nearby stone and crafted himself a simple bludgeon. A pig could be heard frolicking in the distance. He made sure not to spook it as he crept in its direction. Peering through the grass, he found that there were several of them. He jumped at them from behind a tree and successfully hunted one of the three. He started a fire and devoured the roasted pork. It was enough to keep him going, if even only for a day.

The man couldn't sleep that night. He could faintly see the moon above the trees. He kept walking. He could have sworn he saw something creeping in the bushes, accompanied by eerie sounds, reminiscent of bone chilling sounds you only hear in your darkest nightmares. He kept walking.

By morning, he found himself in a field. It seemed endless with the occasional pond and wild vegetables. Eventually, he found himself at the foot of a mountain, and a cave at its base. The mountain was as steep as a wall. The man decided to take refuge in the cave. He fashioned little torches with spare materials he kept from the forest and placed them along the way.

In the cave, the man found raw materials he realized could be used for better tools and started chipping at them with his bludgeon. He eventually had crafted a fine pickaxe and a decent shovel. He noticed a light emanating from below him. He felt heat and heard a constant hum. It was like a persistent, low roar. He walked slowly and found himself at a ledge. He looked down and discovered an endless sea of lava. He turned around and was greeted by an angry, tattered man. The angry man leapt and grabbed our hero's face, clawing at his neck. Pushed back, he stumbled, lost his footing, and they both fell off the ledge.

The ledge was steep, but angled to an extent, so they tumbled more than they fell. The angry man hit his head and died instantly, but the good man was getting bruised and beaten by the rocks. He stopped tumbling, eventually, a foot or so from the lava. He refused to move at first, in fear of finding out just how many bones he had broken. When he turned his head, he found more angry men approaching him. The light provided from the lava pit shone on their faces and revealed that they really weren't human. Disgusted, the man stood up--

The pain was excruciating. He found that his right arm was badly broken and he could only assume his left ankle was sprained. He limped, but there was no where to run. He lured the inhuman creatures toward the lava and waited for them to attack so he can fall back and drag them into the fire...

This is Minecraft in a nutshell,
-Philip

Personality Typos

I was at a market the other day and decided to walk down the frozen foods aisle. You know, the one that makes you feel like Darth Vader as you walk down since it tracks your movement and lights up accordingly.

As I'm walking I see a shopping cart attached to guy who looks like Santa Claus turn the corner and start walking down towards me. He's yelling one word-- "f**k! f**K! F**K!" I don't know why he was so flustered, but I certainly wasn't going to ask him.

Who do I look like, anyway? Jesus Christ?

I turn the other way and look for the stuff on my shopping list. I spend some extra time looking at things I don't need, subconsciously because I'm hoping this madman will be long gone by the time I get to the checkout aisle.

I finally finish my list, pick one of the aisles behind a small line, dump my produce on the conveyor belt, and guess who shows up behind me?

"F**k", he mutters to himself, quietly enough to not offend everyone, but loud enough for others to hear.

In situations like these, I generally like to pretend I forgot something I never get and mosey out of line.

Silly as it sounds, I knew he would be difficult. I don't know how I knew. It could be because he was shamelessly yelling out expletives at a Ralphs and looked like a feral bear ready to claw at anyone willing to help. Or maybe I'm psychic (if you believe in any of that voodoo magic). Whatever the case, I just wanted to see what he was going to do.

My adrenaline induced thought process at the time could be psychologically linked to the one time I was a kid and my mum and I were attacked-- out of the blue-- by a psychopath with his cart, also at a checkout line. It could be linked to that, who's to say? What do I look like, Criss Angel?

All I know is that I'm tired of picking "flight" over "fight" when it comes to moments like this. I stood my ground, keeping one eye on the cashier, one on the grizzly fellow, ready to retaliate if he were to make a move. I decide to make eye contact and assert dominance.

"How are ya?" The Santa Claus man asked.

"I'm good, thanks" was my response. I couldn't have sounded more peaceful.

"What did you just say?" he snapped. He was ready to get offended, as I expected.

"I said 'I'm good'" I tell him and dismiss the conversation.

"Oh." He starts putting his produce on the conveyor belt.

I make eye contact with the cashier. She doesn't make it back.

"Hey" I say to her.

"Hi Ralphs club card?" she asks the countertop.

I swipe it.

"19 dollars 73 cents."

I hand her a 20 dollar bill. Her eyes shift from the cash register to the 20. The machine to my right disperses the 27 cents.

"Thanks" I say, proud of my quick-ass transaction.

"You're welcome have a good day" is her response to the space between me and Santa.

I make my way to my car, glad that I didn't have to fight frantic old Saint Nick. In retrospect, this was the most I've thought over a Nutri-Grain bar run.

Towing Mr. Phil

I was driving as fast as my modest little SUV would take me. The 405 South was finally clearing up. I excitedly floored the gas pedal.

Something was wrong. The whole thing started kicking. As my foot pressed down on the pedal, the car went from 60 mph to 50. The gauge needles flimsily fluctuated like noodles. The engine lights started flashing. I noticed the steering wheel locked up, but with enough force, I could change my trajectory, slightly.

I pulled up to what was right between the freeway and an on-ramp (Luckily, I was close to it and there were no cars in my way). The car turned off by itself upon stopping. I popped open the hood and checked for any irregularities. It didn't look, sound, or smell good. Still, I promised I'd get to this studio and by God, I was going to get there.

I got there. We had a great time, one of the best film shoots I had ever been on.

On the way back, I decided to avoid the freeway as best I can. Heed my advice: the next time you're in L.A., don't take Sunset Boulevard. It is its own Bermuda Triangle.

Traffic was bumper-to-bumper. My car stopped on the road again, but I was able to start it up again after waiting a few seconds.

I eventually found myself on Wilshire Boulevard. I didn't mind the detour as I love Santa Monica, but by then, my car died for the third time as I was taking a right. It was time for me to call AAA. I managed to get my jalopy to the nearest legal curb and waited patiently.

Now, if there's one thing I can't stand, it's the stubbornness of others. I requested a tow since I knew I lived close, but I also knew this car in its current state would be a death trap. And not just for me.

The guy showed up and I told him exactly what was wrong with my car. I made it clear that I needed to get towed. I should tell you that his attempts at human emotions were blatantly fake. I looked into his eyes to see if there was anything there. His smile, his handshake, they were learned, but not true.

"Can I see the keys?" He asked.

I handed him the keys, expecting him to tie the seat belt to the steering wheel. This wasn't my first tow.

But he didn't do that. He got in and turned the car on.

"You don't have to check it. It'll seem fine, but it stops randomly" I remind him.

Still, he floored the gas pedal while in park.

Now I'm roaring over the roar of the engine.

"I'm telling you! It seems fine now! It'll stop on the road!"

He gives me my key and says this:

"It seems alright to me. Why don't you drive and I'll follow?"

It's times like these I'm convinced my life is a multi-camera sitcom. As if I was calling AAA for kicks? That I'm some perverted young man who likes to take time away from towing companies simply because there's nothing to watch on Primetime?

In any case, the soulless AAA bot towed me and my car home. That's all that mattered.

A friend of mine once wrote: "People suck and then you die." I've since taken that to heart because it's as sad as it is true. And that's what makes it so funny.

Namaste.