This is Halloween.

Yes.  Ok.  I know that it's really the end of September.  I get that, people.  I can read date stamps also as it turns out.  Not well, nor with any depth of true understanding for the metaphor they represent or anything, but I can get the very surface level message that today is September the 27th.  (If you can read further into the mysteries surrounding date stamps, don't hoard your knowledge.  Share, man.  Share.  There's a whole world out there waiting to unlock your forbidden secrets.  Maybe we can get to Shangri-La or something)

Or Something.

...and with that out of the way, I think we're all better off.  Don't you?  I mean, if you've actually read anything that I've posted (and if you're not interested in being all up in my life-biz why would you?  People are talking about important stuff out there.  Like national debts, and how best to prepare a sautee of endangered species) you know how this works by now - I write a paragraph or two and then put up some variety of picture.  Sometimes funny, mostly non sequitur.  If this is your first rodeo here in the land of Markatoa, strap in, son.  It only gets bumpier from here.

I have a legitimate love for this season.  I'm not sure entirely why.  Maybe it has something to do with the perfectly crisp weather before we get into the harshness of winter.  Maybe it has to do with the joy of watching people be excited about dressing up and playing games?  Maybe it's the fragile, fleeting hope - soon dashed - that this year, finally this year will be the time I see some poor girl just trying her hardest and dressed as sexy rhinoceros or, even better, a Sultry Social Conservative.  One would be hilarious because I have to imagine it's the result of someone who just doesn't quite understand what is and is not sexy.  Like a person who was raised by wolves or something (or me.  I have no idea on earth what makes dudes desirable.  I know that I have enough of it to make my wife stay around though.  Hint: it's not money.  I don't have a lot of that at all).  The other would just be a great mind-blowing costume when you get right down to it.  Crazy do-me shoes and just straight up advertising that she shags like a minx, but only within the confines of a sanctified, legal marriage which she believes should be between one man and one woman.  You'll never catch her, Halloween Party Guy.  No matter how hard you try.  That broad is like the unicorn of holiday party hookups.  Happy hunting.

None of that had anything to do with the point I was trying to make.  Nearly 0% of it moves anything along.  I told you it would get bumpy, kids, and I meant it.  My point is that I love me some Halloween.  I think it's one of those few things that Americans (and maybe Canadians.  Who can tell?  Those seal-lovers have maple syrup where their souls ought to be) never quite outgrow and that makes it pretty amazing.  When you're a kid you like to go all-out, get a costume go Trick or Treating until the sun comes up and your parents are almost frantic with worry that you're not home yet.  You get a little older?  Casual vandalism, candy.  Great Pumpkin.  Slightly older than that you hit that one rough patch everyone seems to where they're too jaded to enjoy anything, but like a year later?  Bam - looking forward to seeing kids and passing out candy.  Maybe go to a party and get all jiggy with it (in my head that means getting black out drunk while you hope none of the adults know what you're doing.  I have no clue what Will Smith might have meant but I like to think it's the same).  Then you just get to age gracefully with the holiday.  Watch some movies, give out candy to cute kids and surly teenagers.  Maybe go to a haunted graveyard for a seance/wait for the Great Pumpkin.  Whatevs.  It doesn't change the fact that almost everyone can find something to enjoy about Halloween and that is the best thing ever.  You can't bitch that it's too commercial now, man.  Because it's always been commercial since the dawn of time.  Druids were known to put little clingy spiders all over their Henges.  For real - look it up.

Ok, don't really look it up.  I might have just lied to you.

While I sit here avoiding talking to my boss I think I've finally understood the thing that I love most about Halloween, though.  I've had, as Bob Hoskins did before me, an apostrophe.  (RU...FI...OOOOOO!)  Halloween is the one time of year that you get an amount of joy that is exactly commiserate with the amount of effort you put into it.  Wanna sit at home and pass out candy?  Maybe catch a movie?  You're in the zone.  Want to decorate your house and scare the poop out of youngsters?  Well, get on it, sparky.  Those pants aren't going to shite themselves.

There is no other Holiday (on the American calendar, at least) where you can say the same.  Thanksgiving - someone is doing all the work for the joy of a lot of other people.  Yeah, you can be happy that people are enjoying themselves but it's still way more work than one dinner should require.  Christmas?  Forget about it.  That is the most wonderfully stressful time of year.  Getting the right gifts, worrying about money and making sure you don't offend people with lack of cards or presents or visits.  It's downright exhausting.  In a good way, but it is.  Don't try to deny it.  Arbor day?  Blow me, Arbor Day.  Nobody likes you anyway.  Not even hippies since to them every day should be Arbor Day.  And also Whale Saving Day and Let's-all-be-Vegan Day.

But Halloween, man.  It's entirely voluntary and so you get exactly the level of participation and joy that you want.  And that, my friends, is sexier than a girl in a Rhino suit.

Or is it?  

 

What's up with that Jesus guy, anyway?

So here I am.  Being at work.  Doing work things (like listening to songs about superheroes and thinking about what my sweet Halloween movie marathon is going to include.  Current thoughts?  Originals/Remake double features.  Halloween, Nightmare, Friday the 13th.  Chainsaw Massacre?  If there's time.  I'd consider House of Wax, but have you actually watched the travesty that is the Paris Hilton version?  I wanted to vomit my eyes at the screen so that the filmmakers would have to taste the ocular jelly of my distaste.  Live with that sentence).  Naturally I start thinking about Yom Kippur, which is today for those of you who don't know.

Almost made the whole thing worth it.  Almost.

I am not (to some people's vast disappointment) Jewish.  It's ok, I've made peace with that long ago.  With the help of my therapist and the ability to eat meat and dairy at the same time without fear of damnation I have soldiered on.  Kippur thoughts led me to think about Lent, followed generally about the theory of institutional penitence.  During my vague wonderings I came across a comment on CNN and couldn't tell if it was brilliant satire or an honest belief.  Someone, in response to the question "what do you atone for?"  responded by saying "I don't need to atone for anything.  Jesus Christ has already atoned for every bad thing I have ever done or ever will."

Look, I'm all for folk believing that Jesus Christ did his thing to "take away the sins of the world" (those aren't sarcasm quotes.  those are quote quotes.  People say that at church.  Sometimes in the form of catchy songs in four-four time) but can you really, honestly say that you have never done anything wrong because 2,000 years ago a walking man/god hybrid did something to help symbolically cleanse sin from the planet?  I don't think it works like that. Maybe it would if we were talking about the Endless Calm and finally "Defeating Sin" or otherwise attempting to shoehorn a Final Fantasy X reference into the conversation. We're not doing that, though, so if you do believe that what are the limits?

I just shot this dude, but it's cool.  Jesus says I don't have anything to feel bad about.  Because he made it, like, preemptively cool for me to do some murders.  Sure, Your Honor, I engaged in a little bit of light genocide with a side order of racial cleansing (not always the same thing, people).  Do I feel bad?  What kinda hippy crap is that?  Why would I?  Work to change?  Heck no, Your Honor.  My boy J-dubs says we're all cool and the gang over here.

You know who says crap like that?  Psycopaths.  Sometimes people do bad things, and you know what?  You ought to feel ashamed of them and let that shame make you a better person.  I think that (please note: I am not myself religious and you may completely ignore my opinion as being ill-informed if you'd like) religions, any of them, are at their best when they attempt to ennoble the human spirit.  To cause people to strive to do good and to be better.  Whether it's because they want to emulate someone they really think was groovy back in the day or even if it's the more mercenary thought of being rewarded for being sweet as hell here on Earth.  Whatever the motivation, it can be a positive, uplifting factor.

Then there are people who just do it wrong and use it as an excuse for every ridiculous behavior they can think of.  Sadly, these people tend to be the loudest.

Alright - I'm done now.  For now, anyway.  Because I'm at work and should be doing work things. I'm sorry, I didn't even really try to make with the funny this morning.  I told you that would happen sometimes.  This is one of my rants.  Now you too have experienced it.  tell your friends. Or don't.  Since, you know, it's a secret and whatnot.  Either way.  Maybe tomorrow will be more chuckletastic.  You might even have a chucklegasm.  If you're lucky, and somewhat patient. 

Chuckling is a tender though demanding lover.

There and back again and there again.

I know a lot of nerds.  Let's just get that out of the way right now.  If there were some variety of "social graph" of my life (one not owned by Facebook for its attempt to sell me gaudy jewelry or play crappy games) it would, I think, be a pie chart.  Why?  Because, pie, you goddamned heathens.  Pie is delicious, sometimes not filled with arsenic or unexpected dead animals, and charts things nicely.  In this Pie Chart that is my life, like 95% of my friends would be solidly nerd-green.  (Green?  Yes.  Like Arrows, Lanterns, decently readable Hulks, Godzillas, and soylents.  No, I do not know what a pluralized form of soylent would be.  It's a made up word.  Get off my case about it, The Man!)  The remaining five percent would be my mother.  And then my wife's parents.  That's about it, really.  I don't get out much.  You can probably tell that because I'm claiming to be famous to an empty room that may be accidentally glanced at by strangers on their way to see new and exotic boobs.

Why bring this all up?  Because there are times when I find myself turned off by things that should make my nerdy little heart sing.  Things like three. goddamned. Hobbit movies.  Seriously, Hollywood?  Three movies?  There are not enough pages in that book to justify that much movie.  Let alone making it darker and more gritty or whatever the hell they're attempting to do with it.  Yes.  I know that technically they could be taking information out of the various appendices and whatnot and filling out  the world (and that this is the alleged tactic that they're using).

The information isn't a part of the narrative, though.  It's somewhat interesting "this was going on in the rest of the world" fluff that the author essentially invented to explain the change in tone between the Hobbit and the Lord of the Rings.  It's cool.  It's interesting if you're a somewhat obsessed lore-junkie (I am.) but that doesn't make it captivating film.  Sorry, Mr. Jackson.  I think you're pretty awesome.  The Frighteners was the bee's knees and all, but I just can't get excited about it.  I want to watch the first one and then I want to go home and talk about how badass it was that Sherlock Holmes turned into a dragon and solved crimes with a Hobbit and a Wizard.  That's amazing.  I don't want to wait 9 hours of my goddamned life to see Bard the Bowman do his sweet Brad Pitt in Troy jumpshot.  I could read the book in nine hours and not need to look at Orlando Bloom's clearly confused face while he contemplates which Dwarf would best suit his depraved needs. The depraved needs that got him banished from his father's kingdom only to redeem himself by helping the Ringbearer and meeting his new love, Gimli.  (Triva alert!: Legolas loves him some hairy little men.  If you look hard enough, you'll find Mr. Bloom in the special edition of Return of the Jedi creeping on Wicket.  True fact.)

Exotic Boobs are only for the patient.

I know that I'll eventually get over this because my wife will make me go see the movie.  I know that when I watch it I will be transported by the majesty of New Zealand and the artistry of Mr. Jackson's work and that I'll probably be in line for the follow-ups with bells on.  Because I'm a sucker and need to finish everything I start. (Damn you for taking advantage, Terry Goodkind.  I hate your face).

Has there ever been anything you've felt you should be excited about but couldn't quite muster up the energy for, Intertron? I don't know...like the birth of your child(ren) or something?  It's ok, you can admit it here.  Your spouse won't see and your therapist probably thinks it better that you stop bottling it all up anyway.

Fitness can, at times, suck it.

I'm fairly certain that no one will be surprised to find out that I am not what one might call a Paragon of Physicality.  (Well, I suppose it might shock someone, somewhere.  Maybe in one of those sweet villages where the modern world never interfered and people like HRH Prince Phillip or me could be considered gods.  That's right, me and P-love.  We're boys like that.  Please never tell him that I called him P-love.  Also, never tell the Queen.  She will straight mess my shit up.)  What may surprise you is that my wife (who is nowhere near as imaginary as the Elves in my office.  I promise.  I've even seen her nekkid) is hot as all hell.  That doesn't really have much, if anything, to do with the narrative I'm speaking of here, but it is true.  Like mega-hot.

P. Love.  Tell no one.  

I don't take any sort of perverse joy in being a fatty or anything like that.  It's just always been a bit of a fact of life.  Gravity.  Sunrise.  Fire-breathing mice that live in my nightmares and also my walls.  Being a little on the chubbly side.  (note: "chubbly" is not a typo.  It's a word now.  At least in my head, and therefore soon on the Internet as well.)  These are the core truths of my existence for the purpose of this paragraph.  Lately, however, I've been thinking about the "future" and finding that it's not as nebulous as it was when I was a child, or even in my 20's.  The future is going to be happening on the quick and if I don't beat my body into submission now and show it who the boss is (it's Mona, by the way.  Angela might have paid all the bills but Mona had that whole town locked the eff down.  If you don't know what I'm talking about, well then, shame on you. Also, congratulations on not being raised on 80's sitcoms.) then when the rest of my life realizes that it's in the future I'll have way more work to do.  

I want to be able to run around and play outside with my kids.  My non-existent kids.  They might or might not exist in the future, but if they do I'm going to be ready for those little bastards.  I want to avoid creating a situation where I've got the diabetes or the heart problems.

I've lost about 30 pounds so far this summer.  I'm aiming to lose another 60 by next summer, if I can.  To draw a comparison, my wife was very concerned about her weight.  She needed to lose maybe 10 pounds to be considered healthy.  She's succeeded marvelously and now accompanies my to the gym so that I don't become lonesome and cry.  Or eat ice cream while on the treadmill.  My gym is pretty liberal with stuff like that.

It's been surprisingly easy to do so far.  There are times that I'm waiting for the other shoe to drop.  I know that eventually, probably sooner rather than later, my body will get to a point where I've lost all of the "easy" weight and I'll need to start really working hard to lose the rest.  Those are the days I dread.  I mean, I'm going right now on a not-incredibly difficult path.  Watching what I eat with the amazing help of MyFitnessPal (it's a great app.  They're not even paying me to say it.  Who would?  No one has read this blog on anything other than a "Next Blog" moment, I'm sure.  But seriously - if you're looking for something to help your weight loss and you've got a smartphone, get there.  Like now.  On the hop, people.) and hitting the gym somewhere between 1 and 4 times a week.  With that, I've been consistently losing between two and five pounds each week.  Because fat people burn a lot of calories when they run.

Eventually, though, I'm going to have to go that three or four or five times a week and be losing 1 pound a week.  That will feel a lot less motivating, even though it will mean I'm doing better because it's harder for me to lose weight.  Stupid bodies.  Still, I'd rather do it now and make it to my hypothetical children's college graduation than be lazy and die at 50.  Because I would be a horrible ghost.  I'd want to haunt literally everywhere at once and lose direction.  I'd end up just sitting home and playing ghost-games with myself because I couldn't achieve my otherwise noble goals of scaring literally seven billion people at once.

What about you, internet?  How are you feeling about working out?  I was happy that I recently was able to increase my bench press weight and my former max speed on the elliptical trainer is now what I use during my cooldown.  Like a boss.  A sweet, sweet, personable but not sexually-harassing boss.  Ooooooh yeah.

Breaking News: Adults need to grow up, too.

There's this proclivity that people have these days to decide they're going to "chase their dreams" that always seems to translate into "quit my job and hope the universe supports me while I do nothing."  This literally bothers the crap out of me.  I mean the actual, literal crap. For reals.  My plumber is less than amused when this topic gets brought up (my wife has suggested he's dis-amused largely because every time he comes to the house I force him to wear blue overalls and a red shirt while working.  It's my money at issue here.  Don't judge me) because it's his job to make sure that the resulting overflow and stoppages and whatnot are dealt with constructively.

My plumber's family the one time I managed to convince them all to visit me.

There are, I'm sure, lots of reasons why this happens.  As usual, though, I blame Kai-Lan.  You see, a few months ago I was watching an episode of Ni Hao, Kai-Lan (editor's note: Markatoa has zero children.  Follow-up: The editor is also Markatoa.) in which the scarily cute pan-Asian menagerie was playing Musical Chairs with our heroine.  During the first round, when the music stopped the Panda lost.  I don't remember his or her name, but I do remember the bitter salt tears that it cried for lack of musical chairs dominance.  Now what happened next?  I know you're wondering.  Because you're still reading this (and shame on you for that.  There's at least one million more entertaining things you could be doing on this very Internet).  Did the other characters say "that's ok, Panda-thing, there will shortly be another round?"  No.  Did they say "maybe you can chose the next game we play and I suggest you choose something you don't suck so hard at?"  Not even close.

They brought in an additional chair and changed the rules of the game so that nobody lost.  Ever.  Turned it from a competition into a "game" of let's wander around in a circle mindlessly for a little bit until the world decides it's done with us and we can finally die in peace.  While that bit of existential terror was displayed pretty nicely I think most of the "intended audience" would fail to see the horror and instead get the message that "everyone wins all the time and if you don't, then the rules need to change.  You're perfect the way you are."  That's a whole lot of BS.  Mind you, I think all of the children are fairly awesome and the sheer unbridled potential they represent is astonishing.  I just fear that potential is wasted when you never encourage someone to excel.

Which brings me back to my original point.  Not well nor in a way that has a logical chain of consequence, but I own every single electron that is on this info-browser-page that you're using to access this so I do what I want.  Perhaps because of overly accommodative parenting, perhaps because society is terrified of offending its own members, a lot of people are expecting to "win" life just by showing up.  People who don't like their jobs so they just quit and assume they'll immediately be given a better job because, why not?  Or because they hate everything about  their work so much more than anyone has ever disliked a job before them and they're going to go and do something that makes a difference in the world.

And that's great for them.  As long as they're prepared for the challenges inherent in that.  Want to join the Peace Corps?  Hope you have a master's degree and are multilingual.  Starting a business you have literally no experience in?  Good luck.  I mean that part.  But be ready for the business plan meetings, the loan denials, location scouting, etc...etc.  Have some savings put aside before you do it.  Because you still have bills to pay, and your creditors couldn't care less about your life-transforming and sudden understanding.  You still have a family that relies on you (and if you don't, a landlord and/or mortgage company that will be less than happy to provide you free housing).  You have a ton of work ahead, and it can be amazing when you succeed.

Just don't expect to be the Panda.  Don't wait for it to happen because you want it to.  Work.  Strive.  Take it like a grown up and take it for all it's worth.

Prepping for the Apocalypse

There you are again, Internet.  There you are all thinking that you're safe from my brain because it's been a few days since last I allowed my fingers unfettered access to a keyboard (pro-tip: I can't keep this whole supersecret thing up if my wife and/or hilarious cast of housemates sees my typing.  Can I?  Nope.  No I cannot.  Other things my fingers should not have unfettered access to: Cookies.  Frying pans.  Women. Remote control cars.  Literally anything. Ever.) but here I am.  Back, as they say, and better than ever.

So...it may not surprise you to find out that I have sometimes given thought to the whole end of the world thing.  I mean, eventually it is going to happen.  That's a scientific fact.  Things break.  Entropy increases.  Centers cannot hold and whatnot.  Somewhat less scientific is the thought as to whether or not it will happen during our lifetimes, but that's a debate for well-qualified, intelligent people in lab coats and crackpot internet conspiracy theorists screaming about Mayans to have (Full disclosure - I am neither of these things).

Now - a lot of people will tell you that it's going to be zombies or nuclear fallout or some mysterious satellite coming out of the sky to save its chosen people and leave the rest of us with an EMP-blanketed hellscape where nothing more complex than a wristwatch functions properly.  These people like to think that these are the most horrible ways the world could collapse and they have amazingly detailed plans on how to survive when they come.  The fact is, though, that these examples are pretty simple to survive.  Zombies? Walk briskly away.  Wait for troops.  Win.  Nuclear war?  Be near something awesome when it hits.  Gain superpowers.  Rule over irradiated wasteland like a god.  EMP?  Well, that one's a little harder.  Mostly find someone bigger to protect you and hope they don't bugger you all that often.  A little buggery is to be expected in that instance, just try to grin and bear it.

The thing of the matter, though, is this.  What about things that don't actually "end the world"  but just sort of mess with it enough to destroy society?  Or at least society as we know it?  These are the thoughts that keep me up at night, curled up with my sweet stuffed manatee (a stuffed animal, not an actual manatee that I had a taxidermist handle.  That would just be weird.  Also, my wife made me sell it at a tag sale [tag sales is what we call garage/rubbish/yard sales where I come from]) as my mind falls in on itself knowing that some day, the horror is going to come to pass.  It's coming and I may be the only one in a position to stop it.

I'm of course speaking of the invasion of British RobotSoldiers (tm).

I know what some of you are thinking and that's "Obviously, Markatoa is off his meds today."  Well, the jokes on you, suckers.  I've been off my meds for years and years.  The remainder of you, no doubt, are wondering how on earth this came to be a fear that I really have.  Two words, buckos and buckettes.  Redependence Day.  

You see, one day I had this thought.  A premonition, if you will, and it terrified me almost as much as Thomas the Tank Engine (that bastard!).  You see, other than that whole Declaration of Independence thing, what was the real kickoff of the "Let's be our own country now" movement?  Well, the Boston Tea Party, of course.  Symbolically smashing the oppressive beverages of our oppressive oppressors.  (I know.  That sentence was almost the worst thing ever, but once I started I just couldn't stop myself.).  Well, I guess literally smashing the beverages and more symbolically smashing the oppressors.  You get the idea.

So, obviously, since that was the start of America it would only make sense for it to be the End of America as well.  I have reason to believe that the British have been secretly collecting bits of those broken barrels and crates ever since 1773.  When they have them all, the Royal Navy is going to sail right up into Boston Harbor on July 5th.  The QueenBot will walk onto our shores, unload the tea and say warmly "Good Show, America.  I hope you enjoyed your run of it.  Welcome to your Redependence Day!" and then cackle maniacally.  Because you see, she undid the Independence by de-smashing the crates.

Why robots, though?  You find yourself asking these types of questions sometimes.  I know that you do.  Well, that's easy.  Have you looked at the population of our two nations lately?  We practically have more people in our Army than the United Kingdom has in its entire country.  To subjugate us, the would need superior soldiers who never tire.  Soldiers all but impossible to kill.  Robrits (tm).

How do you fight something like that?  You can't, really.  So after our grand experiment in Americanism we just go back to being one of the colonies.  Then even Canada gets to make fun of us.  They'll be all like "shoulda stayed on the winning team, chaps.  Maybe we'll just help ourselves to the West Coast Now."  

I mean, mind you, eventually the whole zombies or space lasers thing might happen afterward and make it a moot point, but I would really rather not have to eat crumpets until then.  Or learn the rules of cricket.  It's a silly game.  

To that end, I've gathered a crack team of computer scientists and people who once signed up for CodeAcademy but never quite finished the lessons to work on a virus that will only effect British computer systems.  Hopefully we'll have what it takes.  When the Queen comes calling, ironically we will be the ones to rock her.

Enjoy your New Nightmares, people of the internet.  Enjoy them nice and hard.

Demographic sweet spot, here I come.

So...if this is your first time here (and unless you're me or super-stalking me it should be.  And I mean, like crazy super stalking.  Invisible Elves who live in my office at work level of stalking.  If you are an invisible Elf currently standing over my shoulder while I write this, I commend you for your dedication to the arts of stealth...and also for the sweet, somewhat mysterious until now hint of mint and juniper that you bring to my office each day.  Carry on.) I feel like we should get down to the brassiest of brass tacks.  That is to say to let you know something about me other than my burgeoning magic-information-box celebrity and bottomless love of asides.  Also, steak fries.  That's another thing I love.  They can also be bottomless, if you play your cards right.  Full circle.

If you made it through that and are still with us, thank you.  As the title of this piece probably will let you know, we're about to get all demographic in this bitch.  (The kids still say that, right?)  Things to know about Markatoa, in no particular order.  He:

• Is a 33 year old white male
• Lives somewhere in the Northeastern United States of America
• Is married to a lovely young lady (sorry, internet womens.  All this is already off the market)
• Rents a house with a unique and hilarious cast of housemates.
• Subscribes to no particular religion.
• Disbelieves in the American Two-Party system.
• Needs no more pancakes.

Why did I feel the need to mention these things?  I'm not really sure.  Because I was feeling prolific?  Because there was nothing else to do except write more things on the internet while convincing the invisible elf that I never knew he was here before now?

Mostly I think it's because the absolute amount of pandering that the world (ie America) does to the 18-45 year old White Male crowd is out of control.  But at the same time, the whole marketing world is out for dollars.  And white dudes in that age range generally have the most purchasing power.  I don't really think that's terribly fair, but it's a truth and I can understand it.  I suppose the thing that makes me sad to think about is that there exists this idea of a "Normal/Majority America" and a whole bunch of tiny "Latino America"s and "Black America"s and South Korean and so on and so on.

The beautiful thing about being an American in my mind has always been that it's aspirational when you get right down to it.  Anyone can become American by loving the sort of things that have made our country what it is (and, you know with a sponsor and spending a few grand).  Taking the idea of that and then fracturing it into tiny pieces that are designed to fit only specific segments makes me feel like we did something wrong somewhere along the way.  I don't know what, and I don't know how to fix it on any sort of level other than trying to make sure that my future kids see Americans and not some nebulous "other" folk who happen to live here.  If I had a) law degree, b) a fuller understanding of the ins and outs of the legislative process  and c) infinite money, I would totally lose a race to become our next President in four years.  Not because I don't believe in things, but because I would be a terrible President and no one would vote for me.  Rightly so.

Alright...I was trying to make some sort of joke about how my life rules, especially compared to megabit plebians who don't have their own blogs (or as I like to call them...no one,ever, in the entire world) and instead I got dangerously close to a serious topic.  But you see, that's the magic of the internet - you never know what you're going to get.

Here I go...

Posting stuff on the Internet.  Like I was some sort of internet...guy.  Or something.  Once upon a time (as it says in the Blog Description.  And shame on you if you didn't read that first.  SHAME!), I had a LiveJournal where I would randomly type out thoughts that I had.  There would be rants.  There would be my take on Zombies (which are sometimes cool) or THAC0 (which is awful).  Basically, it was a bunch of random crap that I felt like I needed to get out of my head but were not so important as to have actual face to face conversations with my friends and family about them.

Now, you too can share in these exciting adventures.  I can't claim that it will always make sense.  I certainly don't claim that I'm providing any sort of insight into the universe or the greater consciousness of the human race.  Even less than the above do I claim that I'm ever going to engage in rational discussion about anything, since I plan on not actually telling anyone that I've begun writing this.  I do promise two things.  That I will sometimes curse even though I'll do my best not to, and that if by chance you find this blog-o-ma-thing and write a comment that I will personally respond to you.  That's right, kids - you too can hear a personal message from the titanic mind that thought up this corner of Internet Paradise.

The most probably outcome, of course, is that these missives will drift off unremarked into some electronic boneyard only to be sifted through a thousand thousand years hence by the cyberpriests who pore over the hoary internet tomes of their distant ancestors.

Who knows, maybe then someone will recognize the unfettered genius that is...Markatoa.

There.  I'm done now.  For this first one.  Go about your business.