Indecisiveness kills creativity.
…or maybe it’s procrastination. Or lack of concentration. Or constantly changing the goals. Or not knowing what you want, but knowing that when you see it that you might want it. It could be indecisiveness, after all. Or perhaps poor communication. Or even weak technical proficiency disguised as managerial prodding. Or some design-by-committee thing. Or not having a predefined idea of just where any of it is going in the first place. Or some time-management thing, maybe?
It’s a lot to think about, really. What if it’s just too damned many choices, or comfort in doing things the same fucking way they’ve always been done, and then knowing that no matter how much of a let-down it will be when the results are always the same, that the feel of that safety net always gives some reassurance in an odd way? Like being cuddled sweetly with a noose.
It brings us full-circle: Indecisiveness kills creativity. …or perhaps over-thinking the indecisiveness kills it. I’ll ask my team and get back with you.
It’s been a while since we’ve touched upon the actual theme of this blog, that being the drawing of hot rods and all…
That in mind, I thought that you may enjoy a peek at a current project, which is nearing completion after a few years on the board and in the shop. It’s a full-custom 1970 ‘Cuda, and I literally threw everything I had at this one, working with a very skilled builder who shared my vision, and really made it a fun and collaborative project to play a part on.
Giving this much more thought than it probably deserves:
The guy is a shit-show. He’s a fan-boy at best, and comes across as some spoiled douche who picked up a few Force tricks on YouTube, and has some ghetto-looking cosplay thing going on (“I’M NOT DARTH VADER!! I AM AN ORIGINAL CHARACTER!”). He’s like a third-rate swordsman…? Light saber… ist? Anyway, he’s the equivalent of a kid trying out the lightsaber toys at Target after just having the casts removed from his experimental arm-lengthening surgery and having spent several months on a Tilt-a-Whirl. He may have been better to go with a blaster (consider the genius of a sun lamp-powered Endocrine Blaster: BRILLIANT FLASH OF LIGHT. “Skin cancer, motherfucker!!”), or maybe just have a few henchmen… I mean aside from the Stormtroopers. Like a couple of guidos or some shit. SPACE GUIDOS. I’d buy the shit out of those action figures. But I digress. Han Solo was carbonized in Empire, and that got me thinking about how that event may partially explain just why Kylo there is such a mess. It comes down to two words:
I’d imagine that Han’s boys didn’t have time to creep fully into a safe zone when he was dipped into the freezer. I mean, physiologically-speaking, I’m sure they were a little closer to his taint at the crucial moment than, say when he was shooting Greedo in the dick (which broaches another of my long-standing theories regarding hands being lopped-off NUMEROUS times across films, and Greedo being shot in the – where I’d be led to ASSUME it to be, anyway – dick, and the incredible undertones of Han’s post-freezer blindness and the Ewoks having arms just a touch too short to well… touch, and how all of this ties into Jedi Masturbation)… After all, he’d be pretty stressed, I’d imagine, and in fight or flight, the balls tend to move inboard and all (ironically for protection and ease of movement when running), but still, the whole process went quickly, so I’d have to imagine that there was some damage. That considered, even after a couple of years between movies (I’m thinking he and Leia probably hooked up in the treehouse at the end of Jedi, as it puts the timeline fairly close, considering Kylo’s age and whatnot… I’d bet there’s a fucking treasure trove of fan fiction out there describing that night, especially the use of more parts from IG-88), those boys were probably swimming a bit, but still relatively fucked-up. Kind of like when you just stand up after laying around for a while, or when you’re super cold, and your extremities move all slow-like. Consider that nearly twenty percent of sperm frozen in a proper sperm-freezing setting don’t survive undamaged. Now multiply that by a factor of third-tier characters in a stockroom playing with a machine manned by some rodent-faced midget things.
My hypothesis then, is that Kylo Ren, aside from having a mother with some serious daddy issues, and probably also suffering a bit from the interrogation with Darth Vader (not to mention all of her drinking in the years since… I mean holy shit, her head is easily three hat sizes larger in the new film), is probably a bit off due to Han’s genetic material, messed-up when improperly frozen and thawed. Not to mention the stresses on DNA from all of that light speed nonsense, and always fiddling with leaky reactor cores and other shit. Kylo isn’t some malleable plaything for Voldemort’s third cousin Snooky; he’s a marginally-functioning bag of skin, filled with some jambalaya of horrifically-mistreated, loosely-coiled-at-best genetics. This certainly doesn’t absolve his parents from their poor work raising the dickhead, but it could potentially go a ways in getting him some disability pay and much-needed therapy. I’d assume that the Empire has some coverage, not to mention a few advocacy groups. I offer a solution because I’m a giver.
I had gotten too busy, and neglected to post this theory in a fan forum on the fourth as a sort of digital wedgie for that crowd. Lucky for you, I decided to type it all here. And while I should have really posted it on the fifth (“Revenge of the Fifth” and all), I figured it may be even creepier to post it today, as it’s the birthday of Renz Kyle, a YouTube personality, which may be the channel that our pal Kylo got his sweet moves from, bringing this whole shit-show full-circle.
Let’s see Fallon try something this advanced.
Words are your friends. Especially when you take the time to spell the fucking things correctly.
I’d imagine that Hell, for many people anyway, is just a never-ending Scrabble tournament. Or in many cases, a round of “Wheel of Fortune” featuring only palindromes with silent consonants, or phrases with an apostrophe.
“You haven’t done enough Math-type stuff lately,” you say?
How about this:
Being Tuesday, let’s look at dividing by zero, and what it does to a Facit ESA-01 mechanical calculator. Neat (and a fine impression of a car I had in College that ate lifters as a steady diet), but what does this have to do with Tuesday? I mean aside from the fact that the resale value of that car I mentioned was precisely zero dollars.
Consider that Tuesday in many languages has connection to Mars, which, having exactly zero oceans, it has zero elevation with regard to sea level.
More? Consider that it was Merton Davies who selected a line along the crater Airy-0 a the Prime Meridian 0.0° longitude as the reference point for determining geospatial coordinates on the red planet. Davies was born on September 13, 1917, which was the 286th day of the year. Two minus eight gives us negative six, and adding six to that gives us… Zero.
All things are delicately interconnected, kids.
Transcendental Tuesday: Sleep Deprivation-Inspired Spiritual Hallucination Edition:
Anyone else find it statistically improbable that not one vegan who goes on some psychoactive-fueled journey EVER returns with news of their spirit animal being a Tiger Shark? I mean, as a carnivore, I once had a vision (following a pretty violent blow to the melon by an open cabinet door) that my spirit animal was broccoli, and it awakened a feeling of solidarity with the majestic green beast, and I began to wonder if tiny little birds built tiny little (well, slightly-bigger-but-tiny-in-proportion) nests within the broccoli branches, and that kinda freaked me the fuck out because accidentally chewing an itty-bitty beak would be like when you eat a clam and get some sand, and the grit is all like “CRUNCHACHRUNCHA-GRIND-GRIND-GRIND” and you have to spit it out. Only beaks would be worse, so I decided to never again eat broccoli. Also, I started a foundation (read as “tax exempt venture” or “Al Gore”) to keep zoos from displaying broccoli. To this day, not ONE municipal zoo has captive broccoli in their collection, thanks to the billions of supporters who read our propaganda, and failed biology in grammar school. But I digress.
I mean, consider that over the millennia, there had to be at least ONE vegan who craved a burger, or perhaps one Tiger Shark who, while munching on a hapless swimmer thought “you know, I need to stop this, because humans have feelings and lawn chairs that somehow wind up in the reef have a lot of fiber.” And, according to new age mumbo-jumbo, their souls must have crossed in the ether…
Food for thought the next time a bunch of you pile into Braiden’s Prius to head out to the festival: Your underarm scent may trigger an awakening in them, and then they’ll eat you. And probably your shoulder bag. And the floor mats. I mean those fuckers will eat anything, regardless of what color its aura may be. And if you have a friend named Aura, she’ll probably incite this shark-hippie hybrid much faster, because that’s how names work, so you’re best to just bike there anyway.