Wednesday, January 31, 2007

The Best Grifts Come From the Heart

I was just watching The Sting today (good movie, by the way; I highly recommend it [also, it seems to me like Robert Redford was the Brad Pitt of the 70s, at least as far as his face goes]). I swear, every time I see a movie about grifting, it makes me want to become a grifter.

If I've learned anything from movies like The Sting, Oceans Eleven, and the like, it's that the most important part of a grift is acting. In fact, the whole business is just one giant act. How perfect is that for me?

Many of the people reading this blog are probably new to the person that is Andrew Schnorr, so I'll give you a little tidbit. an actor. (Please pretend I said the preceding sentence theatrically.) I'd also go so far as to say I'm a pretty damn good actor. In addition to doing Shakespeare and the like, I've been involved in a multitude of plays (I was in every production my high school put on), a couple dramatic readings, and have lent my voice to a bunch of different projects. I can perform, off the top of my head, the following dialects: English (5 varieties), Irish (3 varieties), German (2 varieties), Scottish, Italian (2 varieties), Russian (that is, all the Slavic nations) , Swedish, French (2 varieties), Spanish (I sound a lot like Antonio Banderas), and the American South (4 varieties), some Great White North, and most likely some others I haven't thought of.

So I got that working for me. I can be anyone I want. Here's the problem: I don't have a plan. Yeah, you can't be a great grifter without a plan, I hear. And you probably need some support. And a fall guy. And a lot of money to start out know, maybe the full-on heist idea isn't for me. I do have one plan that I think would work great, and I'm using it in a screenplay I'm writing called The Bomber Boys. Here's how it goes:

I walk into a small store, beaming all the while. Maybe a small coin/jewelry place; nothing fancy. I go up to the cashier.
Cashier: "What'll it be, friend?"
Me: "I don't know. What can I get for a...$50 bill?"
I pull out a brand-spanking new $50 bill.
Cashier: "*Gasp* Is that really $50? I've never seen a bill that big before?"
Me: "Oh, yes, it's real, and it's hot off the presses. Here, you can still smell the fresh ink."
I hand the bill to the cashier, who takes in a deep whiff of the bill. He suddenly falls down, unconscious. He didn't realize that the bill was covered in chloroform. While he's out, I take some, but not all, of his products and cash.

Clever, huh? The only catch is that this ploy can only be used betwixt 1929 and 1937, back when seeing a $50 bill was a big deal. I guess you could also try it on a kid - $50 is a big deal to them - but what are you robbing? A lemonade stand? Personally, I'd rather make my own lemonade than drink the Country Time they serve in prison.

In the end, I don't need to be a con artist. There are other ways to get rich. In fact, I just received an email from a nice banker who's letting me keep half of a $86 million inheritance if I give him my bank account information to transfer the money into the US with. What an age of kindhearted souls we live in!

Tuesday, January 30, 2007

The Rotten Apple, Part II

Okay, back on track to yesterday's cliffhanger. Why does Steve Jobs have my money?

...Drumroll please...

My iPod broke.

"But Andrew, didn't you say you hated Apple with a passion? Why then, would you own an iPod?"

Be quiet, Victor! While it's true that I've never liked Apple, this story goes back to a simpler time. A little under two years ago, to be exact. Y'see, back then I was a bit more ignorant than I am nowadays about MP3 players and the like. Up until the time I graduated from high school, I had seen one iPod. One!

(There's a good reason for that, too, and it's why I don't think high school students should have iPods. In college, when you get finished with a class, you most likely have to walk a distance - alone. And unless you're the type to have a good conversation with yourself, this silence can be disturbing. However, when you're done with a high school class, you're in break. In the quad. You have friends to talk to. No music player needed.)

Now, where was I? Oh, yes! I was hopelessly clueless as to the whole world of digital music. To be blunt, I actually thought that the iPod was the only MP3 player available. After all, it was the one I was hearing about everywhere. Like I said, clueless. So, I bought one. Secretly, of course. I didn't want my parents finding out what I had spent a good chunk of my graduation money on. I then took every CD in my house that looked interesting and stuffed all their songs onto the included version of iTunes that installed on my dad's computer (secretly, of course). Off the top of my head, I'd say it was about 3,000 songs.

(By the way, when I finally did tell my parents. They couldn't be happier. It was a pretty practical purchase, after all. I'm not sure what I was afraid of.)

So, I had this iPod, which I brought to college with me, and it became my saving grace. Music is a very wonderful thing, as it turns out. And it seemed to work fine.

That is, until exactly one year, 3 weeks after I bought it.

I think the best term would be "cascading systems failure." In the 3 weeks preceding its death, my iPod skipped, skipped, and froze. After resetting the item, it would skip, skip, and freeze, doing it in half the time. Every day, it would mess up more and more. At one point, I would turn the damn thing on, choose a song, and within 10 seconds, it's frozen. The day after that, all it would display is a sad iPod with X's for eyes and a URL to their help website.

I logged onto that URL, looking for help. And I was given advice by a lot of other users. None of the advice worked. I thought I was finished. Then someone said, "Apple can replace it, you know."

It was a spark of light. So, I called Apple. I explained my situation. The only thing the woman cared to ask about, though, was "Do you have a warranty?"

"Um, I think so."

"When did you purchase the item in question?"

I frantically searched for a receipt. And I found one. I told her the date.

"I'm sorry, that warranty expired three weeks ago. We'll have to charge you for the repair. For what you described, that would be $249 plus tax!"

"Madam, what do you take me for?!" And I hung up.

My iPod was dead. It died three weeks after the warranty did. And it would cost the same to fix it as it would to buy a new one. I could feel my resentment toward that company grow.

As fate would have it, my father gave me his (he got it as a gift and never actually used it). It had half the memory size of mine (20GB instead of 40), but it gave me a second wind. I stockpiled all my songs onto it and was plum happy.

Until Sunday, that is.

Yes, once again, the exact same sequence of events; exact same cascading systems failure; exact same sad iPod and URL; exact same everything. This one was able to live for about one year, 7 weeks (I attribute the extra month to the fact that my dad hadn't opened the thing in half a year). I didn't even bother to go onto their help website. With the warranty over, the damn thing just became a paperweight.

And that's how I became Steve Jobs' "ideal customer": buying a new iPod every year. How frickin' convenient.

With all these grievances, why don't I just buy a different product, a different MP3 player? Well, my young padawan, remember what I said yesterday. About Apple having exclusive file formats. As it turns out, the iPod isn't an MP3 player at all. It's an M4A player. And all my music files are in the M4A format, a file type that essentially no other device will play.

That's how they get you. That's how they got me.

I currently have 5,289 songs in iTunes. In order to use a different player, I have to convert ALL of them to a different format (easier said than done, considering Apple's encryption policies).

I can't do it. I don't have the will.

And so, I went onto Apple's online store (I refuse to link to it) and got a new 30GB iPod. I didn't want a video version, but I don't really have a choice (I am not buying second-hand merchandise). And I bought the extended warranty. I truly believe that the iPod is the only product in existence where the extended warranty is a good deal, as the damn thing seems to be manufactured to fall apart after the one-year warranty dies.

The new iPod is scheduled to arrive tomorrow.

I hate Apple.

A (Quelled) Announcement...

I would just like to make a quick announcement (don't worry, you'll get Apple Rant Part Deux a little later today).

My sister just gave birth today to a baby boy! I'm an uncle!

...What an odd feeling.

EDIT: False alarm! False alarm! Thank you to everyone offering me congratulations, but as it turns out, we're all a bit early. My sister actually doesn't give birth until May. All that happened was that she got a sonogram and found out the baby was going to be a boy.

I still think my confusion was valid. If you woke up to a text message that said, "It's a boy!" what would you think?

Monday, January 29, 2007

The Rotten Apple, Part I

Congratulations, Steve Jobs, you now have another $300+ of my money.

I like to think of myself as a fairly creative person. I write, I do some graphic design, I design a few t-shirts here and there, and when I get the free time, I even do some flash animation when I have the patience.

"Well, Andrew, based on your creative endeavors, I'd say you're a Macintosh lover."

Wrong, Victor von Killsport! I hate Apple! I loathe Apple with a seething passion. Its policies. Its promotions. Its president. I despise it all. I would post a certain YouTube video, but that would somewhat negate the purpose of a writing class. But what are the roots of my feelings? I'll just give the summarized version:

Policies: Apple has one reason it's alive - iPods, which is based heavily off their iTunes program. iTunes in and of itself is a fine program; easy to navigate and organize. However, God help you if you actually want to do anything with those music files. One activity I enjoy is sound editing via Adobe Audition. Sometimes I'll just do some voicework, but sometimes I want to work on music (that is, make remixes and altered versions). However, if I were to try to edit one of my 5,300 songs on iTunes, I couldn't. Why not? Because iTunes songs are m4a files, an audio format which works only on iTunes, and nowhere else.

Just as bad are Quicktime videos. I can play a video pretty easily, sure, but if I want to save a video, that's another ballgame entirely. In that case, I have to pony up $30 to buy Quicktime Pro. At least when Microsoft says something is free, there's actually a chance it is free. And can be used in a program other than their own media player.

Promotions: I consider myself a cultured person. That said, I dislike most kinds of culture. Pop-culture, counter-culture, underground-culture. It all seems so tacky to me. Funnily enough, Apple comprises many of these things. This is partially due to the fact that counter-culture is the new pop-culture, where trendy pseudo-intellectuals pull out a iBook to look up Robert Pinsky while sipping their Starbucks latte (for the record, though, I love Starbucks Green Tea Frappuccino...yum!). It's like these people are trying to say, "Look at me! I'm cool because everything I buy has rounded corners!"

And the Mac v. PC commercials. Egh. What a load of half-truths and whole lies. "Yes, I have a PC. That means I am incapable of doing anything related to enjoyment, except" Well, if I'm not mistaken (and I'm not), the PC can do everything a Mac can do and more, they can usually do them faster, and (in my experience) with less hassle. Of course, the TV ads make you think that PCs are used by a bunch of Neanderthal businessmen.

But I guess it's the impact that counts, isn't it? I was talking to my mom about the commercials, and she said, "Well, it doesn't matter to people how accurate they are, so long as they're entertaining."

(On a quick side note, I've made an observation, though I fear trying to make an assesment of it: females tend to see Apple more favorable than males. Whenever I tell a guy, "I'd never buy a Mac," he'll shake his head or something, but if I tell a woman the same thing, she'll jump all over me. "Why don't you like them? You should like them! They're cute and creative, just like you! Hey, where are you going? Don't walk away like that!")

President: Steve Jobs. He calls his own products "bitchin." He says that the ideal iPod customer is "one who buys a new iPod every year." Every time I read about him, he seems like a prick. I don't like him.

So why is he getting my money?

Well, I'll expand on that tomorrow.

Sunday, January 28, 2007

Revelations and Taglines

I just had a revelation! I can make the title of my blog make sense!


With a new tagline, of course! Presenting the new thing you'll read under "The Lobotomist's Dream":

My brain, free for the taking...

Get it? Get it? Because lobotomists take out peoples brains, and a blog is a virtual way for someone to take things (i.e. ideas) away from my brain.

Haha! Aren't I clever?

Friday, January 26, 2007

LaRouche! LaRouche! LaRouche is on Fire!

One way you can tell that a new semester has begun at Cal is that Upper Sproul Plaza is completely stuffed with solicitors...more so, that is. For the most part, they're just a group of innocent people: fellow students at the bottom rung of their respective groups, forced by their higher-ups to pass out flyers, even though they know 95% of people will take them with a smile, but throw them away with a sigh. I have no problem with these people, mainly because they know not to bother me. I have all the appropriate body language to keep them away from me: Ear buds firmly in place, hands in my pockets, no eye contact, and my shoulders turned ever so slightly away from them. All rational people see me, know I don't want a flyer, and respect that.

And then there's the LaRouche cult.

"Oh, you mean that Political Action Committee, don't you, Andrew."

No, Victor von Killsport, I mean the cult. The people involved with LaRouche could best be described as brainwashed. The majority of cult members in this area are former Cal students. Former. That's not to say they're alumni, of course. They dropped out to devote most of their time to Lyndon LaRouche and his...ahem...ideas.

(Just so you know, Lyndon LaRouche feels that the way to economic prosperity is to build a bridge system [over land] connecting all of Europe, Asia, and Africa, as well as the Americas via the 75-mile-long Bering Strait. So, you could take a train from Hamburg to Santiago. By my calculations, on a nonstop 200mph train [which is actually quite dangerous], it would take 112.5 hours, or about 4.7 days. Or, of course, you could take a plane and get there in a fraction of the time. Oh, yes, and we must devote the majority of our resources to the space program. Because that will revitalize our economy, says LaRouche. But I digress...)

The thing about the LaRouche lovers is, they're a lot more...persistent than other solicitors. For example, as I walking past their table, one of them grabbed my ear buds and literally pulled them out of my ears. I was flabbergasted.

Him: "Are you like George Bush? Trying to escape reality with an iPod?"
Me: "Don't touch me, LaRouche boy."
Him: "You know, he's trying to lead a Nazi Revolution to take over this country."
Me: "You don't say."
Him: "What, you're not worried about that?"
Me: "I'm more worried about folks who go around yanking on people's ear buds."
Him: "You must be a Republican."
Me: "No, but if I said I was, would you leave me alone?"
Him: "And let me guess, you're taking Economics this semester."
Me: "Hey, you're right about that. Have a cookie."
Him: "You know, we're trying to start a movement to overthrow the Economics department here."
Me: "Is that right?"
Him: "Yes. Because they're teaching you the lies of the Old Economics."
Me: "And what lies would those be."
Him: "Well, you see, they teach you that there is scarcity in the world."
Him: "Don't you understand? There's not."
Me: "None?"
Him: "No."
Me: "None whatsoever?"
Him: "No."
Me: "In any respect?"
Him: "No. What's your problem?"
Me: "So you are claiming that all resources are unlimited."
Him: "Yes."
Me: "Including, say, time."
Him: "Yes."
Me: "So, time is not a limited resource."
Him: "Of course. Time is eternal."
Me: "That's not what I'm asking. I'm asking if time can be harnessed as a resource in an unlimited amount."
Him: "...Of course it can."
Me: "In the next two minutes, I can either jog a quarter-mile east, or I can jog a quarter-mile west. However, I can't jog both a quarter mile east and west, because I only have two minutes. That is time as a limited resource, LaRouche boy. That is economics."
Him: "That's not true."
Me: "So, you're telling me that with LaRouche's economics, you could do both?"
Him: "Yes."
Me: "Then, please, do so. I never realized that Lyndon LaRouche was a quantum physicist able to bend the laws of nature, but if you can run a quarter-mile east and west in the next two minutes, I'll believe."
Him: "You can't possibly understand unless you attend one of our meetings. Would you like to sign up for our newsletter?"
Me: "! Did you not hear a word I said?"

And I walked off, laughing all the while.

Thursday, January 25, 2007

The Horribleness Must End!!!

You know, I just realized the part of the English language (a language I love) that I really, truly hate:

Words with 3+ syllables that end in "-ness."

Basically, that's the liposuction of English; that is, where all the lazy people turn to. If you have an adjective with no appropriate noun, you have a choice. You can either be creative and formulate a beautiful, clever noun, or you can tack on a "-ness" to the end of it.

Some examples:
"Vivacious" becomes the tongue-twisting vivaciousness.
"Garrulous" (something I've been accused of being) becomes the horrible garrulousness.
"Horrible" becomes the completely juvenile horribleness.
Similarly, "terrible" becomes the equally ear-aching terribleness.
If you need another synonym for the last two words, try "awful." It becomes awfulness.
In my last example, "hopeless" becomes hopelessness. In doing so, I feel it loses most of its impact.

There, that's just a sampling of the verbal vomit that the suffix "-ness" comprises. Look them up, they're all real! I wish I could say that I made them up.

"But Andrew," you say, "despite your keen intelligence and handsome face, you're just complaining. Do you have any better ideas for these words?"

As a matter of fact, Victor von Killsport, I do!

The best way to start is with "vivacious." As it turns out, vivaciousness has a much more elegant, pleasing synonym. Vivacity. It means the exact same thing, but does a hell of a better job doing so. What's the key? It's the "-ity," of course. That suffix is much more pleasant to the ear, and it changes the whole pronunciation of the word, making you sound more like a scholar of Oxford than of NASCAR.

What if we performed this same grammatical surgery for the rest of the words. Think of how much better things would sound. And before you simply say "pish-posh" to these, consider the fact that you're used to you beloved "-ness" words, hearing them for all you life. That said, take a gander:

"Garrulous" --- garrulity. (Upon further research [i.e. the fact that my spell-checker didn't underline this] I happily discovered that "garrulity" is indeed a word.)
"Horrible" --- horriblity.
"Terrible" --- terriblity.
"Awful" --- awfulity.
And "hopeless"? Well, "hopeless" becomes despair.

You see? Isn't that better? Sometimes I feel its my mission in life to...well, not to reinvent the English language, but to make a few slight nudges here and there. You'll probably hear more of my ideas later.

Oh, and just to sate your curiosity, why did I specify that the words I hated were over 3 syllables long? Simple. There's a two-syllable "-ness" word that I love.


Wednesday, January 24, 2007

An Evening of Wii Boxing

They say you can be inspired by the most curious things. About a week or two ago, I read a story about a fellow who had played Nintendo’s Wii Sports to their fullest extent and, without making a single other lifestyle change, lost about 9 lbs in 6 weeks. “Hell,” I thought, “what a good idea.” My biggest problem with workouts in general is that they never feel…competitive enough. If I could add some more physical activity through a video game, what was there to lose? Since then, I’ve been almost religious in devoting 30 to 60 minutes a day actively playing Wii Sports (that is to say, jumping around and acting like it was the real deal, effectively making it aerobic exercise).

It’s about 6:30pm. Time for dinner. None for me, thank for. I don’t want it. I don’t need it. I have other plans for the next 45 minutes.

I take off my shirt, allowing my body, for better or worse, to be exposed to the world (at least, the world enclosed by my walls). I then replace my jeans with the lightest, airiest pair of basketball shorts I can find. Good, I’m dressed for the part.

From my mini-fridge, I produce two Lexan bottles brimming with icy water – one is never enough. I unscrew their lids and set them on my desk. My fan is turned on and placed so that its rejuvenating winds will reach me when the game has begun. Finally turn on some music: a pump-up song, set to repeat.

I take out a Remote and Nunchuck, and turn on my Nintendo Wii. I quickly navigate through the various menus until I reach the sports game; more specifically, until I reach Wii Boxing.

I make it to the character selection page, where I can choose any of the avatars I’ve created. I decide to use a newcomer with no experience, so I choose my homemade Jean-Luc Picard avatar. I forget, of course, that with each new character to enter the ring, a tutorial must be endured. Fine, I think to myself, use the time. While the game is telling me for the umpteenth time how to play, I am busy making minced man meat of my opponent. Jab. Hook. Jabjabjab. And uppercut for the kill.

Of course, this being the tutorial, the opponent doesn’t sustain a lick of damage. Damn.

DING! There, now the match has started. While still hopping from side to side, I unleash blow after blow after blow. The opponent falls and sleeps for the count of ten. I beat him 15 seconds into the match. I have a ways to go before my mettle is actually tested.

The next opponent faces me. Slam; he’s done. Another rises from the ashes. She, too, cannot withstand my wrath. Again and again, they fall and I gain experience points. Eventually my score is up to 947. Only 53 more points before I am given “Pro” status, something I have not yet accomplished with any of my avatars. About 40 minutes have already passed. My body feels the burn. This will likely be my last fight for the evening.

My opponents have gotten progressively more challenging, and in my experiences, I learned a trick or two. Throwing out my arms wasn’t good enough for the big shots. I had to dodge from side to side, hoping to catch them off guard and then strike. It’s worked so far. Will it work once more?

My opponent is a husky character named Alex. With 1072 experience points, he is a professional and my most powerful opponent yet.

As the first bell rings, I unleash a quick one-two punch, hoping to exploit the fact that Alex’s gloves are at his side. The move is successful, but not without its price. After depleting one of his ten initial health bars, he retaliates and attacks me for three of my own. I quickly adapt and go into my defensive strategy, dodging and strafing to avoid his ham hock of a fist.

Before long, it happens: I dodge just as he punches. The slow-motion animation calls to me, pleading that I strike. I happily comply. OOMF! Alex is dazed, but not for long. He slugs me back until I get into the dodging routine again. This cyclical dance continues for some time.


I recognize the announcer’s voice, letting me know that my bobbing and weaving was not in vain. Alex is lying on the mat.

“It won’t last,” I mumble to myself. And it doesn’t. Alex gets up before the announcer reaches four. The professional fighters never go down on the first count. Thankfully, he only regenerates eight health bars. After a brief reprieve, the announcer calls, “Fight!” and it’s back on. I sneak in a few punches, but my health is low enough that I may be knocked out with a single blow.


That’s the end of the first round. I wasn’t knocked out, but that was due in larger part to a few lucky hits rather than pure skill. I take a swig of water before the Round 2 bell tolls. The fighting begins again in earnest. That is, for the approximately 3 seconds before Alex sends a right hook to my side, sweeping me off my feet.

There is little I can do to help the situation, so I do some jumping jacks. This is a workout, after all. Still, my jumps are in time with the count, and each one brings me closer to defeat. After jumping my sixth jack, Jean-Luc arises.

I continue the routine. I have learned Alex’s movements. I am more cautious, though I honestly can’t afford to be. If I don’t score a knockout, it will go to a judges’ decision, and even if I am favored, I will lose experience points. No, a knockout is the only way to become pro. Committed to attaining my goal, I become a tiger, sleek and ferocious. Left fist downwards, to the body; right fist upward, to the head. One is bound to go unblocked, and that weak spot will be assaulted, as any wise tactician would do. Soon enough, Alex falls again.

But still, he is not beaten. By the count of six, he is up, and we continue. He whittles my health down to two bars, but victory is so close that it condenses upon my tongue. I continue my onslaught. I give him no quarter. My muscles burning, I floor him once more. Yet as there is no rest for the wicked, there is no rest for this damned character.


The third round. My own sweat becomes adversarial, rushing toward my eyes in a salty blitzkrieg, burning them, forcing me to blink at critical moments. Whist cringing in pain, I hear the announcer call “Down!” But the call didn’t follow my own punch. Through the blurred vision, I see that it was I who was knocked off his feet. My temporary blindness became my weakness, and now I may lose because of it.

“Get up, Jean-Luc!” I scream, “Get up!”


Finally, my avatar crawls back to his feet. With a renewed vigor, I resume my furious attack. There isn’t much time left. Dodge, dodge, dodge, punch. Dodge, dodge, one, two, three! With a final uppercut, Alex falls. I raise my Wiimote in triumph as I take a gulp from my bottle of water. I nod my head with each number called.

Then, at the call of nine, he gets back up, two bars of health left. My mouth is agape in shock. This is the first instance I would have to knock down my opponent five times. And I have only 14 seconds to do so, lest it goes to the judges.

Fight.” There’s no time to dodge. No time to think. I unleash the strongest haymakers I can muster. I close my eyes. I don’t stop. I don’t stop.


I open my eyes. Alex lies on the mat for the final time.

“Yes!” I scream, “You’re down! You’re down, and you’re going to stay down! You will not steal this victory from me!”

“TEN, you bastard! And I win!”

The Wiimote nearly slips out of my slick hand as I raise it in victory. This most hard-fought victory is sure to win me my Pro status. After throwing a few last jabs while being told I won, I see the experience points page and how much I’ve earned. My eyes widen and my jaw drops.

“8 points?! All that for 8 points? What a gyp!”

I huffily turn off the Wii and take a shower.

Ah, I love videogames!

Tuesday, January 23, 2007

Looking at the Stars...

I'm a Resident Assistant at Clark Kerr Campus, so every now and again I have to go on rounds in my area to make sure everything's in order. Although this can sometimes be a hassle, it can also be kind of...peaceful. Why is that?

Well, the thing is, because of the peculiar layout of CKC, two out of the three buildings I am in charge of have room doors on the exterior (like a motel). So most of my rounds are spent outdoors. On rainy days, this fact weighs down on me like a comatose bull. However, on nights when the sky is clear, I am in heaven (somewhat literally), because I am able to see the stars.

I am of the firm belief that the stars are one of the most beautiful things in existence, and as such, I'm wont to look at them whenever I can. I did so tonight. While standing with my head craned up at the heavens, I started laughing for some reason. It was a small, joyous laugh, as if those points of light could make things right in the world. That they could sprinkle down like fairy dust and make people happy.

Of course, one of the problems of living in the city is that your visibility of the stars is fairly limited (thank you, light pollution). Still, I can always recognize Orion, standing tall and proud, and that familiarity makes me happy.

In the movie The Last Samurai (my second favorite movie of all time, despite a certain crazy actor in it), Katsumoto says, "
The perfect blossom is a rare thing. You could spend your life looking for one, and it would not be a wasted life." Personally, I feel the same way about finding the most beautiful star in the sky. I always thought that such a task could be the basis of a small story. Perhaps a father would tell all potential suitors that in order for them to prove their love for his daughter, they must find the most beautiful star in the heavens. If I was told to do that, I'd like to think that I'd willingly do it, even if it took me forever. The time, after all, would not be wasted...

Monday, January 22, 2007

It had to begin somewhere...

Welcome to the brand-new blog of the one and only Andrew Schnorr. With the useless opinions I always seem to have, it's a wonder I didn't start this thing earlier. Such a potent tool of both the prophet and the kook, the blog. Capable of so much discussion and dissent. But what about me? What will I be talking about in this thing?



My deepest, darkest feelings about how the world is a bitter mistress who seeks to play my heart like a solemn tambourine?

(The fact that I can be bitterly sarcastic, as in that last post?)

(The fact that I love parenthetical statements, like in that last post?)

(And that one?)

Well, as I'm sure many blogs have started out: I don't know yet. Not completely. But rest assured, everything written here will be tinted so as to see through my eyes (which probably means it'll have UV protection, as I almost always have sunglasses with me).

What's that, you ask? Why do I have such a creepy title? "The Lobotomist's Dream," you say, "...this guy must be crazy." Well, sir - or madam - truly your forgiveness I implore. But the fact is, I think I am. A little bit, at least. Of course, I think we are all a little crazy; most people simply don't care to admit to their insanity, however diminutive it may be. I, though, find the darker side of the psyche to be a hell of a toboggan ride.

Ah, I'm just joshing you. I'm perfectly sane, just a little quirky.

But enough about that! Once more, I welcome you to this blog, and the many adventures it's sure to have in the upcoming months. Until later...