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Brent

Brent Johnson


Last Updated: 5/21/2009

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Gender: Male
Status: Single
Age: 37
Sign: Taurus

City: BERKELEY
State: CALIFORNIA
Country: US
Signup Date: 3/24/2006

Blog Archive
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Friday, November 30, 2007 

Category: Blogging
Now that I've thrown a little parade for myself, here's the scoop:

I don't blog on MySpace. I never really liked its blog system. So, I started my own blog at Brentzilla.com. It's not something I update daily, or weekly, but there it is.

You can follow me almost daily on my Twitter account. Twitter good. Twitter very, very good. Except when it's broken, which it often is...

And then there's my Facebook account. But I'm not so into it that I feel like leading you there. You'll find my account if you really want to.

Right, that's that. Mr. Completely Awesome, signing off!
2:10 AM 
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Tuesday, February 06, 2007 

Current mood:Tarred
Category: Pets and Animals

It all started with Jason. Damn you, Jason. Stage whisper: Damn you to hell...

Actually, it ain't his fault. I accepted his MySpace friendship, the responsibility is mine, as are the consequences. Unless they belong to Jason. Wait. No. Ugh... my head hurts.

So, suddenly, I'm reconnected with a bunch of people that I'd not hung out with in a few years, a decade or since high school (hola Becca!). How tragic to troll through each page and read at a glance all our collective failures (hope that bankruptcy doesn't make you lose the house, Ken -- though it's probably too late to save your marriage) and failings (Steve, I believe you're innocent of the serial-rape charges until they prove your worthless ass guilty, you sick sonofabitch).

I mean, weren't we the future? The promise of this great American civilization? The future so bright, we gotta -- heh, yeah. All that lip service disappeared once our asses got out of college and there were younger kids to wring for money in the name of a "you just gotta have it or your life is forever and irrevocably fucked" education.

Whatta rip. I mean, it's not like any of us are president, though any of us are more qualified than the present one. None of us became famous authors (unless someone did in which case fuck you!). I heard one of us went from "super dork" to "super model." Or at least a model. But you can't find her on Classmates.com, much less MySpace, much less the Internet.

Not that I've sought her out every day I've been on the Internet or anything...

Huh. I had a conclusion but I seem to have forgotten it. Maybe I'll modify this thing later if I think of it. Until then:

Damn you, Jason. Damn you to hell...

11:09 PM 
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Tuesday, December 19, 2006 

Current mood:I want my ninja stars

Today I found myself wondering whether I should write the following to my fourth-grade elementary teacher in Boise, Idaho:

Dear Mrs. McCarthy,

Twenty-five years ago, you took from my possession two ninja throwing stars.

NOT the cheap crap that got slopped all over the kids by toy manufacturers who were taking advantage of that perverse Asian-assassin craze fueled by the "Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles" cartoon a decade later. These were the real things: Lethal weapons, vital and reliable tools of ninjacraft. 

No doubt you thought them only metallic nuisances that constantly found themselves wedged in your desk, quivering with deadly anticipation. Or cracking your big blackboard that was actually green. I wonder who gave me up?

Anyway, the past's the past; let's live in the present: I find myself in urgent need of my ninja throwing stars. You promised to return them at the end of the year, but never did. Please send to the address above ASAP.

But I won't. Because I'm pretty sure she doesn't have them anymore. That, or she's dead. Either way, a waste of effort.

12:11 AM 
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Saturday, October 21, 2006 

Category: Music
Ah, Beirut -- just came back from the show. Nearly amazing. By which I mean really, really good. But it's weird how uncomfortable I felt when they first came on stage, and I wasn't sure why until Doug pointed out how young they were, and how hard it was to take them seriously because of their baby-fat faces.

I didn't expect the band to be fully bearded Eastern Europeans, shaking tin cups and clapping at a monkey clad in a red vest, smashing cymbals and topped with a fez... but they're kids. Except for the big fat tubby one. It was his birthday, he was 30. Sigh...

Anyway. Beirut was awesome, and will get better. Lead singer might not want to get as drunk next time around, but otherwise, that was a fine show. I especially liked the drummer, he grinned like a special person most of the evening.

No, actually, I really liked the lead violinist. I wanted her to pick me out of the crowd and give me the backstage pass so she could take advantage of me. Not really (yes, really [no, not really {well...}]). But she didn't. Weird.

In short, they performed brilliantly, beautifully. Someone said horns and strings make everyone swoon -- probably true. But right now, I kinda want to fall asleep to those horns and strings.

Go read the saga of Doug's life. He left out an important detail, but I corrected it...
8:15 PM 
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Tuesday, September 19, 2006 

Current mood:  tired
Category: Music
I'm cranky. I get that way when I'm fighting off a bit of a cold. So, when inflicted by the following song twelve times in the same day, I kinda had to go off.

Oh god. The Killers are back, with a not-so-bright, dulled-point vengeance. "When You Were Young" is the first single to be released from their latest album, "Sam's Town."

(At least they came up with a better album name this time, what with "Hot Fuss" being The Worst Album Name of All Time, in my most humble opinion. About all that's improved, it appears.)

"When You Were Young" hurts. A lot. And yes, for all the obvious reasons: The deliberate Springsteen "inspired" sound; the feeling you've heard every phoneme of the single in better songs.

But if you can get past the most immediately annoying aspects... well, let's just say the annoyances continue, appearing at every level. The arrangements are not new or beautiful or interesting -- they're the same arrangments you heard throughout the Eighties on MTV. The soft moments between ham-fisted "let's rock!" synth blasts are (sorry, but it's the only word) contrived. "When You Were Young" sounds a bit like auditory "paint by numbers" -- but unlike most of us who've applied pigments to numeraled shapes on paper, The Killers apparently feel they've produced something worthwhile.

And then the lyrics -- ye gods! -- read as if the songwriter cut-and-pasted lines from a dozen hit songs from yesteryear. On "When You Were Young," you get EVERYTHING: Angst, missed opportunities, love long lost, a nod to religion, memories of a better yesterday, racing down a highway like some sort of disturbance in the weather, et cetera. The song is meant to be an Americana rock anthem, but it's more like instant oatmeal, not as good as the real thing. That didn't stop these guys from mixing all these ideas in a tiny bowl, the end result being The Killer's quick-oats version of a Springsteen song: Gloppy, textureless, without flavor, empty.

What follows is a representative verse. And when I say "representative," I mean, "This doesn't mean anything by itself, or in context to the rest of the song, much like all the other verses." Ready? It's about mountain climbing!
Can we climb this mountain
I don't know
Higher now than ever before
I know we can make it if we take it slow
Let's take it easy
Easy now
Watch it go
What does that even MEAN? Watch WHAT go? And please decide: Do you know you can climb that mountain, or do you not know?

I don't have strict and all-encompassing criteria of what art is (or perhaps I do and don't know it) but whatever it is that makes me tremble with awful joy and near rapture, it isn't being created by The Killers. Nothing's being created by The Killers.

The Killers have always disturbed me, and have since before they blew up. Before "Mr. Brightside" became a hit a few years back, I'd been tracking the group because, I don't know, there was something compelling about them. Not ingenious or beautiful or different by any means. They just sounded young, inspired by better bands, ignorant of their creative dearth -- and despite all of the above, I'd find myself nodding along. Sorta, anyway.

I'm not trying to burn The Killers for the sake of raving music mobs bearing torches and farming implements: Pitchfork Media does that well enough (as Pitchfork does with most music, to the point that you have to wonder why those kids even write reviews -- they seem to hate so much, and for so little pay off).

But The Killers are naive, inarguably so. They recycle the past without realizing it. Listening to their tracks makes me feel they're insolated, driven upon some ignorant force, one that propels the group through regular helpings of criticism and recrimination (most of it deserved, I have to say).

At least they're just unaware of their lack of art, of original music. Were they repackaging the past 30 years of American and British music deliberately, they'd be unbearable. And probably more popular.
6:06 AM 
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Monday, August 28, 2006 

Category: Music
Friends, peeps and voyeurs -- Beirut is coming to town on Friday, Oct. 30 at the Great American Music Hall (SF). $15. Get your tickets, it will sell out!
9:05 AM 
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Tuesday, April 25, 2006 

Category: MySpace

(As one "blogs," one must always keep in mind that, first and foremost, one is meant to impress others with one's assets -- whatever those assets may be.

That said, one must not boast in a frank and forthright manner. In fact, it's best to couch displays of personal assets in language that illustrates how hard it is to be oneself. 

For instance:

BAD:
"I have a huge penis. It's great."
Comment: Change last sentence to "It chafes when I walk."

OKAY:
"I hate girls because when we start getting together, they totally check out my dick and figure it's much too big to blow. They say things like 'I might choke to death on that thing' or 'What? You want me to vomit all over your dinger?' or 'Does it look like my mouth can fit an entire watermelon in it?'

"It sucks to be me."
Comment: Great effort, but such enthusiasm may actually prevent one from experiencing oral intercoursing.

GREAT:
"Man, what a day. This woman totally cut me off on my way to work. Bitch just drives right in front of me like she's not a total skank whore and has right of way. Newsflash, whore: You didn't have right of way!

"Anyway, I had to break suddenly and the screech of tires really upset this kid who was selling Cherry Maximum Blast Koolaid for a whole dollar per. And I see this awesome chick a half block away and she's looking fucking HORRIFIED by this kid being upset. So I park real quick, run up to the kid and bought like five fucking Koolaids.

"But as I'm running up to the kid's stand, I notice the chick totally staring at my package -- WHICH IS REALLY FUCKING HUGE. So I offered her one of the Koolaids and she drank it and now we're going out on a date next week and I'm totally gonna get some action because MY WANG IS SO BIG IT MAKES ME WALK LOPSIDED and every girl think that's hot. But I'm out five bucking bucks.

"Sucks to be me."
Comment: Perfection.

If one is of the XX chromosomal set, one need not display personal attributes in such a manner [though one may and still experience success]. Rather, one may simply post missives about:

  1. how "stupid" or "lame" or "slow" one feels on a day-to-day basis
  2. how unattractive oneself is
  3. how ones's Object of Attention is not making oneself feel as if oneself is the other's Object of Attention
Combine such dispatches with The Very Best Picture One Has Ever Taken. Expected result: The XY chromosomal set will inflict themselves upon one. [Results will vary according to quality of picture supplied.])
10:36 PM 
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Tuesday, April 18, 2006 

Current mood:(Insert masturbatory reflex here)
Category: MySpace
(When pursuing goals -- stated or otherwise -- via a "blog," one may want to illustrate how wonderful/great/above the cut/grade A/radical/etc. one is by illustrating how extremely and irreversibly idiotic/lame/stupid/foolish/dumbassy/etc. another is, thereby providing oneself and oneself's audience with false illusion of normalcy and being above it all.

EXAMPLE:
"OMFG look at this stupid fuck! Such a LOSER! I can't believe how uncool and ungreat he is.

"But you gotta really hand it to him, eh? This is his 15 minutes. WAY TO HAVE YOUR 15 MINUTES, DOOOD!

"Suck it, bizzle!"
Implication: Oneself and (presumably) oneself's audience has not experienced having testicles trapped in, and potentially crushed by, the wooden slats of a chair. Ergo, oneself and oneself's audience are "cool."
5:00 AM 
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Monday, April 17, 2006 

Current mood:(Insert current chemical imbalance here)
Category: MySpace
(When one undertakes to continue self-exposure to world, one may do so in the form of a "web log," [AKA "webblog," AKA "blog"].

A "blog" permits society to partake in the study of the continuing evolution of oneself -- who is extremely interesting and worthy of study -- without putting oneself into a position of reciprocation with society or with any other individual. Should reciprocity be demanded, one may always claim one will do so.

EXAMPLE:
"Nah dude, totally was going to check out your blog, dog, but I was, like, busy and shit, yaknowhatImsayin bro?"
In effect, a "blogger" is able to perform feats of extroversion upon the entirety of the "blog"-reading public [AKA, the "blogosphere"], which currenty consists of exactly 17 people and is projected to increase to 20 by year 2057.

However, one should note that "blogging" also allows one to express oneself's chemical imbalance in the most indirect of ways. For instance, one can:

  • provide Object of Affection with clues that impart how much one wants to "hook up" with him/her/it.


  • provide Object of Friendship with hints that OoF better not push oneself too far with continued insistence that oneself should read his/her/its "blog," or one will become an Object of Wrath.


  • provide Object of Wrath with subtle, but effective, warnings of the fiery anger raging through one's afflicted soul and it's all due to the OoW's actions, lack of actions or some other sort of thoughtlessness.

QUESTION: Can you name other Objects?


QUIZ: CAN YOU IDENTIFY WHICH OBJECT IS BEING ADDRESSED?
"I don't know why [NAME] won't fucking call me back. Probably because she's such a fucking whore.

"Fucking whore. She's cockgobbling Tad, Biff and a couple other football players, I'm sure.

"Totally sucking them off right now. I can feel it.

"FUCK HER! She's eating dicks, and if there's any space left in her fucking cunt mouth, well, she's probably having it stuffed with Oscar Meyers to fill any spaces. Because she's a whore who wants her whole fucking mouth filled with meat. I can't even BELIEVE I let that cunt speak to me with that cunt mouth of hers. BITCH!"

ANSWER: One is being tricked, because one does not realize that one should have replied "All of the above." One is so faced.)
Currently reading:
Act on Life Not on Anger: The New Acceptance & Commitment Therapy Guide to Problem Anger
By Steven C. Hayes
Release date: 03 March, 2006
4:27 AM 
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