My first series of Magic videos!

So, one of the things I want to do this year is try my hand at making Magic videos.  These will most likely be daily events from different formats (standard and block for dailies, pauper for 8 mans), and I'd like to do one a week.  This being my first video, I just wanted to see if I could do it.  These are four matches I played in the tournament practice room on MODO.  Hopefully I'll be doing exclusively dailies or 8 mans in the future.

Please don't forget that I am not a professional Magic player; hell, I'm barely even a competent one.  I'm doing this for fun.  That being said, if you have constructive criticism, please don't hesitate to say something.  One of my goals doing these is to get better at Magic.

Sleep Timer: A Short Story

They lay in bed together. The room is dark except for the light from the television. The movie had just finished; the credits were rolling.

He knows he should get up, either to put a different movie in, or at least get the remote so they could watch TV. But he doesn’t want to let her go. She isn’t sleeping- he can tell by her breathing- so getting up wouldn't disturb her.

He had memorized how she breathed when she was sleeping. They spent the night together often, but they had never slept together. He was okay with that. He knew she wasn’t ready for that sort of step, even if she wanted to. That’s what he didn’t know; if she wanted to. That’s what he would think about at night while she slept in his arms and he watched her sleep and listened to her breathing.

That’s what he did most night when they were together. He’d watch her sleep and think and wonder how they got there and where he was going. He wasn’t sure what was going on between the two of them. He was, however, pretty sure that she didn’t know either. Sadly, he thought she preferred it that way.

She turns her head and twists her body a little to face him, the green comforter that’s covering them twists as it gets tangled in her clothes. He turns to face her, sitting up on his elbow. His clothes turn and twist under the blanket, becoming uncomfortable. He adjusts to make them comfortable again, and spreads the blanket smoothly over them.

She looks up at him and smiles. He loves it when she does that. It makes him feel good inside; warm. It makes him happy that she is happy. “That was a pretty good movie,” she says softly, stifling a small yawn, “I liked it.”

He smiles back, “I told you.” She reminds him of Penny Lane. There’s a dull ache that comes with the happiness, though. It comes from knowing that he wants more and makes it known. But it’s not reciprocated, not completely. He loves to see her happy and he does a lot of things in order to make her smile. He gets her little gifts sometimes, but never anything expensive; he knows it would make her uncomfortable. He calls her whenever he sees it snowing because he knows that she loves the snow, and he is always reminded of her when he watches the frozen flakes fall outside his window.

He even built her a snowman once. It wasn’t a very good one, nor was it very easy to build. The snow was light and fluffy. It took him forever to build each of the individual pieces. He had to do it without gloves, using body heat to melt the snow and make it stick. Each of the body balls was built in layers. The snowman wasn’t very big, a foot and a half tall at most, with Pepsi bottle caps for eyes and an old pen cap for a nose. He built it right outside her window. He felt like such a dork doing it since they weren’t together yet. He couldn’t help himself though, despite being worried about weirding her out rather than make her smile. He called it a Lloyd Dobbler moment.

She likes him too. She enjoys his company; she likes spending time with him. She knows he's a nice guy and would do almost anything for her. This makes her feel bad, because although she likes him too, she wouldn’t. She's told him this, too. She likes him enough to make sure he knows that while he 's rocketing at 100 miles an hour, she's idling at the starting line.

She wasn’t even sure why she was even at the race. It certainly wasn’t a friends-with-benefits thing. She wouldn’t do that. Neither would he; not with her. She wasn’t ready. She didn’t need to be with him, or any other guy for that matter, just to feel better about herself. It couldn’t possibly be her ex-boyfriend, could it? She refused to give him that much credit, though maybe he deserved it.

She’s a good person. She sees the good in other people. She sees the bad, too, but chooses to give them the benefit of the doubt. She’s fiercely loyal to those close to her, maybe to a fault. She’d been mostly lucky, that trust never seriously hurt her. Not until recently. She’d had to deal with things on her own, things she wasn’t used to dealing with. It was a hard and painful lesson. Now that she’d learned it, she was afraid of leaning on someone else the way others leaned on her. She didn’t want to learn those lessons again.

She knows he’s the same way. He’s very trusting. He also always assumes that everyone else is a nice as he is. Like her, he gives everyone the benefit of the doubt. Also like her, his openness has been taken advantage of. He’s unaffected by it, or at least he doesn’t show it. Maybe that’s why she’s with him. She thinks he hasn’t let the badness of the world wear him down.

The truth of the matter is he won’t let it. He used to be cynical and pessimistic, until he fell in love with a girl. Life became easier when he looked for the good. The girl broke is heart, and he was angry and bitter and cold for a while. But he realized staying that way took too much energy. He let it go. She hopes that someday, she can let it go too.

She can’t understand why he wants so badly to be with her. For him, if anything’s worth doing, it’s worth doing right. It’s all or nothing; play hard or go home. She can appreciate that. She’s the same way. That’s what confuses her the most. He’s in it all the way, and she’s not. She can’t figure out why she’s different; why she’s special. She doesn’t know that to him, she just is.

She smiles at him again, arching her back a little bit, stretching. “It’s getting kind of late, but I’m not that tired yet.”

He looks over at the digital clock. The red LED says that it’s pushing . “We can watch another movie. I’ve got lots that you haven’t seen.” He hopes she’ll stay.

“She cranes her head back, looking at the clock herself, “It’s almost 10. I’ll probably fall asleep.”

“So? You know I like it when you stay over.”

She doesn’t respond. He knows he probably made her uncomfortable. Still, she doesn’t move to get up. He throws the comforter off. He wants to give her a quick kiss as he steps over her and off the bed, but decides against it, not wanting to make things worse for her.

He adjusts his khakis again. They got bundled up and uncomfortable while he was moving and getting up. He has two different DVD stands in his room. He walks over to the one behind his bed. Most of it is filled with TV seasons, “I still can’t believe you never heard of Firefly. Someday we’re going to block off an entire weekend and we’re watching it straight through.”

“You are such a dork.”

“Yes. Yes I am.”

There weren’t any movies worth watching on that rack, so he turned back to the DVD’s underneath his TV, “What about Brick? Or Garden State? Gross Pointe Blank?

“You pick. You’ve seen them. You know what’s good.”

“I don’t buy crappy movies.”

“Yeah? Is that The Girl Next Door?”

“Fair enough.”

He puts in and crawls back into the bed. He pulls the blanket back over them. He wraps his arms around her and pulls her close, his chest against her back. He doesn’t know how much she likes it, but she doesn’t move away. She’d tell him if she didn’t, or more likely, just push him away.

He enjoys doing this, just holding her close. He kisses the back of her head, inhaling the sweet smell of her hair. She squeezes his arms tighter. He moves to her neck, taking in a full breath of her perfume. She pushes her head into his, moving him away from her neck, “It’s not happening.”

“I know. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean for it to come off like that.”

She smiles again, and his pulse quickens. She reaches up and strokes his cheek, then pulls his head to hers, kissing him. She enjoys it, but it’s a lot more passionate for him than it is for her. He runs his fingers through her hair and cups the side of her head in his hand, pulling her body close to him with the other. It won’t go past first base, but he doesn’t care. He thinks she’s beautiful, but it’s not a physical thing for him, not unless she wants it to be.

He feels something stirring inside. His heart starts beating even faster, and his legs get a little weak. He pulls away and looks into her blue eyes. He pushes her hair to the side. He caresses her angelic face. He shouldn’t do this. It isn’t fair to her. He knows what the situation is. She made it perfectly clear to him.

He doesn’t have much time left to bring her around. She’s graduating. He’s not. He doesn’t know where she’s going or what she’s going to do- she doesn’t either, really- but they both know it won’t be around here. She’s graduating only six months before he is, but he knows that they’ll never see each other again unless he can create something more permanent. He's not wild about something long distance, even over the short term, but he wants something. He knows he can’t create it by himself without help from her, but damn it if he isn’t going to try to convince her.

He feels awful about what he’s about to do. It’s not fair to her, knowing that she likes him, and knowing that she feels bad about not being able to give herself up to it like he has. It’s a selfish move on his part. He tells himself it has to be done, and it does. He wouldn’t be able to face himself in the mirror if he didn’t do this when he had the chance. He has to know that he tried everything.

“Are you okay?” she asks, a little concerned at the look of sorrowful determination on his face.

“Yeah, I’m fine.” He pauses for a moment. “I’m going to say something to you right now, and you’re probably not going to like it.” Her brow furrows, she’s wondering what he’s going to say.

“I love you.”

Her face goes smooth, her eyes widening a little in shock. Even though the room is dark, the television gives off enough light for him to see that the color has drained from her face.

“I love you,” he repeats.

“What- I- you- hold on. You can’t possibly love me. You hardly know me.”

“I don’t need to know anymore. What I do know is that right here, right now, I love you. I’d step in front of a car for you.

“I… you must be confused.”

“I don’t think I am.”

“I don’t think you know what love is.” He blanches at the sting of the words; she regrets them as soon as she says them.

“I think I’m happier when you’re around. I think I’m a better person. You know how some people say that when you love somebody, all you want to do is nothing but be around them? Not me. You deserve someone who’s smart and knowledgeable and articulate and kind and giving and funny and-and-and just a good person. You deserve that person because you are that person. And I want to do everything I can to try and become him too. I’m a better person because of you. My life is better because you’re in it. It may not be the life long love you think it should be, because that kind of love requires two people, and try as I might, I can't love enough for the both of us. But don’t try to tell me I don't love you.”

“I-“ she stops and sighs, rubbing her eyes wearily. “I’m sorry.”

She rolls away from him so she can face the TV, but still lets him hold her, “Make sure you set the sleep timer.”

Sui-stairs and Mythical Gophers: Tales from Switzerland

As Alex, Kevin, Kathrin and I pay our 5 Franks at the booth to climb the mountain and view the glacier, I can't help but notice the numerous beer signs hanging on the walls. Underneath the signs are prices.

“Wait a minute,” I say. “We're about to climb a mountain- you know, drop offs, heights, and avalaches- a mountain, and they're selling alcohol at the bottom?”

“Well, better here than at the top, don't you think?” replies Alex.

Oh Europe, I love you, but there are somethings I just can't figure out.

Fortunately, we're not climbing this mountain rock wall style. There are stairs. Sort of. I slow down as I approach. “No way. I'm not climbing these. Look at them! They're not even steps! They're split logs haphazardly nailed to other pieces of wood. There's no way that railing can support weight. It looks so flimsy. These stairs are suicide.”

“Waaaah!” Kevin mocks me.

“Fine,” I say. “But if I'm going to be pissed if I get a splinter. Or die,” I mumble under my breath.

We start climbing up the mountain. Even with stairs, it's hard. I'm breathing heavy after 5 minutes, and I'm the one who's actually in shape. I had started off taking them two at a time because I figured the faster I do it, the faster I get off these damn things. Not anymore. Now I'm taking them one plodding step at a time.

After about 15 minutes we come to a landing halfway up the mountain. There's a bench long enough for all four of us to sit on. We happily oblige and plop down. As we catch our breath and rest our legs, we notice a small pyramid of rocks standing about six inches tall.

“What's that?” Kevin asks.

“Oh, there are these little animals that live on this mountain. They build little rock piles like that. Nobody knows why they do it,” answer Kathrin. I raise an eyebrow. This can't be real.

“Really? That's so cool!” exclaims Kevin, as he pulls out his digital camera. “What are they called?”

“I don't know what you call them in English,” she says the German word, “They look a little bit like gophers or prairie dogs.

I look over to Alex, a confused look on my face. This is totally absurd, there's no way it can be true. But Kathrin isn't known for her jokes.

“Where are they?” asks Kevin as he stands up to walk around the pile and take more pictures.

“Oh, they're nocturnal and very afraid of humans.” I can see the smile tugging at the corners of Kathrin's mouth. The ruse is up for Alex and me. I look back to Alex. We both have to cover our mouths to keep from laughing.

“They're very rare. Only on this mountain, I think. I'm surprised you haven't heard about them.”

“Me too. I'll have to look into it when I get home. I think people will get a kick out of this.”

Kathrin can't stop herself. She's starts laughing hysterically. Alex and I bust out laughing too. “What?” Kevin looks at us dumbly for a minute. “Oh. I hate you guys.” Kevin is quite possibly the most gullible person I've ever met.

Another 15 minutes of stair climbing later, we reach the glacier. Well, we can see the glacier. It's receded so much that it's about 100 feet back from the observation deck. On stone walls, we can see how far the glacier has receded in the past fifty years. It used to come out well past the edge of the deck. There is water pouring out from under the glacier, forming a waterfall. Leaning over the railing, I can hear the thunder of the water hitting the pool below.

The view from where we are is quite amazing. We can see mountains in all directions, and farmlands, forests, and towns in the lowlands between them. It really is breathtaking.

We head back down the mountain uneventfully. As we pass the entrance booth, I'm almost tempted to buy a beer.

My Favorite Day of the Year

Some people love their birthday (okay, almost everyone loves their birthday). Others love Halloween, or Christmas, or Thanksgiving. I don't have a have a favorite date. I have a favorite day, it just happens to change from year to year.

My favorite day usually happens around the beginning of March, though it can occur as early as late February. On this day, it's cold when I wake up in the morning. I dress warm, because it's still winter. I put on my leather jacket (because I'm much too stylish to wear an actual winter coat) before heading out to my car. I can see my breath as I walk outside. I walk into school or work, thankful to be out of the cold, and then think nothing more of it.

But then, when it's late afternoon and I walk back out, that's when I discover that this day is my favorite day. It's not frigid anymore, and while it's not exactly warm, if I have a sweater on, it just might be warm enough to take off my jacket. The sidewalks are wet from the melting snow, and as the snow banks recede, I can see the mud along the edges where grass was torn up from shovels, snow plows and snowblowers. The sun is high in the sky and bright. I squint from the glare of sunlight off the remaining, still deep snow.

Often, there is a soft breeze, and on that breeze I can smell spring coming- the faint, sweet stench of rotting leaves that were never raked and the freshness of the trees and flowers those leaves nurture.

Carried on that breeze, too, are whispers of the sounds of spring. I can almost hear the honks of geese returning, the delicate chirps of the songbirds coming out to play again. I know in just a few short weeks I will hear the slaps of children's feet running across pavement, their voices as they scream and laugh. I'll hear the thuds of basketballs and the clatter of skateboards. Not quite yet, though. It's not the first day of spring, but it is the first day of the transition.

That's what I love about that day. It signifies moving forward. It signifies change. It signifies hope; after a long, cold winter, things are going to get better. It signifies life.

Why I Love Fighting

It's not much, but it's the first thing even close to creative that I've written in months, so I figured I'd post it. I'm sure I'll expand it eventually.

I love being able to say, “I’ve done this,” especially when so many look at it and go, “Wow, I wish I could do that.” I’ve yet to experience a rush like stepping into a cage in front of 1200 people. When you’re fighting, you block a lot out, but you can still hear the crowd scream when you nail a takedown or throw. You can still hear them go, “Oooh!” and wince when you land a solid leg kick or a punch. And when you finish a fight, and the tunnel vision goes away, you can definitely hear the crowd going nuts then. But you can still pick out the voices of your coaches and teammates; the ones who trained with you, sweated with you, and most importantly, suffered with you in practice. And win or lose, you shake the other guy’s hand, because he’s done the same thing you have, and you respect him for it. And as you exit the cage and head back to the locker room, there are fans lined up along the corridor, with their hands out, and you high five them knowing that for three, or six, or nine minutes, you entertained them, and they appreciate it.

Syracuse Ink: Part Three

I finally got around to actually getting the tattoo and writing it up. The ending is weak, but the rest of it is acceptable, I think. I just wanted to get it up finally.





“I’ll be with you in a minute,” Kyle says. “I just need to set up.”

I paced the lobby nervously, checking out the flash art on the wall as well. I shuffle back over to the counter and flip through Kyle’s book, then Ray’s.

There’s a young teenage boy in the lobby with his father. I wasn’t sure why he was there, but he started talking to me.

“What are you here for?” he asked.

“I’m getting a tattoo.”

“Cool. Where?”

“My left ribcage,” I answered, rubbing the area with my right hand.

“Ouch! That’s going to hurt.”

“So I hear. I’m a little nervous, but I think I’ll be okay.”

“Is it your first tattoo? Probably not the easiest to get done first.”

“No, it’s my third, though it has been a while.”

Kyle came back over to the front counter to show me the sketch one more time. “Where is this going? On your right side?”

“Left,” I corrected. “Up in here.”

The drawing had a circular shape with lines radiating from the center. The outline was like a cloud. The first time Kyle had shown me the drawing, he told me that the lines were mostly guide lines, and that many of them wouldn’t actually be in the tattoo. I was incredibly curious as to how it would turn out.

“Okay, let me make a template and then I’ll be ready.”

Placement wasn’t as hard as I’d thought it’d be. “Raise your hand over your head,” he said. He sprayed some cold liquid onto my skin for the transfer and carefully pressed the decal onto my skin. Slowly he pulled it off so as not to rip the paper and look at it and looked at it for a second. “Bring your arm down. No, that’s not gonna work,” he said as he reached for the liquid and a paper towel to rub the transfer lines off.

“This time, hold your arm out at about thirty degrees, right about here.” He moved my arm for me. Putting the decal on was a little more awkward this time because he had to work around my arm.
“Is that birthmark going to be in the way?” I asked. “I was worried about it.”

“Nah, it’s no big deal. I’ll just work around it. Check it out in the mirror. Let me know if it’s where you want it.

I walked over to the mirror and looked it over. I rotated my body and lifted my arm, making sure to get different angles. I was satisfied.

“Aight, good. What I’m going to have you do is lay down with your head this way. Lay on your side, sort of leaning away from me.” I did as I was instructed. The table was uncomfortable in that it was covered in pleather so my skin stuck to it, making it difficult to move.

Kyle made more small talk as he poured out his inks- orange, yellow, blue, black and white. “You nervous? It’s a pretty sensitive spot.”

“A little. This isn’t my first dance, though. I think I’ll be okay.”

“Oh, you’ve got one on your chest, too. Didn’t see it. That prolly wasn’t pleasant.”

“It actually wasn’t too bad. I think the ones on my arm were worse, especially the parts closer to the underside.”

“You’re kind of lucky, you don’t have much line work. That’s usually the part people say hurts the worst. You ready?”

I closed my eyes and took a deep breath, waiting for some sort of sharp pain. I could hear the buzzing of the machine far away as Kyle dipped it in ink and grow louder as it came closer. Kyle did the first couple lines, “How was that?”

“It was fine. I’m more uncomfortable from being cold than I am from the tattoo.”

As Kyle worked, he made more small talk- asking where I was from, what I did and what my chest said.

“You excited about this tattoo?”

“God yes. I’ve wanted it for about a year now. I came to the conclusion over the summer that I was much too specific when I went to Taylor about what I wanted. I’m not an artist, so I shouldn’t pretend to be one and know what I’m talking about. I decided that this time I was going to give you the passage and only a general idea of what I wanted (fireworks, the blue in the center, and “the only people for me are the mad ones”) and let you do your job.”

“That’s cool. I can see how it might be hard for someone to interpret the quote. Okay, line work is done. How you feeling?”

“Good,” I replied.

Kyle moved on to the shading. At first it was okay, but then it got worse. Much worse.

When people describe getting a tattoo, many say it’s like a vibration or a buzzing, or like someone is pinching you. They’re full of shit. A tattoo is made by a group of needles puncturing the skin thousands of times a minute, and that’s exactly what it feels like. How much it hurts depends entirely on the sensitivity of the area being tattooed. The lettering didn’t hurt that much except the upper part close to my arm pit.

Unfortunately, even though shading is supposed to hurt less, there was a lot of it in more sensitive areas. I concentrated on my breathing. Deep breath in right before he started, slow exhale out as he worked, deep breath in as he redid the ink. Sometimes that didn’t even help. My abs tightened and my toes curled as I focused on that whit ehot point of light behind my eyelids that was this intense pain. There were points that felt like it would be worth it to give up, to leave parts of the tattoo unfinished. Thankfully, Kyle always stopped for a second before I reached that threshold and gave me a moment to recover.

Kyle offered words of encouragement as we came closer to the end. “Almost there, guy, just a little more.” When he finished, he sprayed some sort of liquid on the tattoo to clean up the excess ink. Despite being cold on burning skin, this was not a soothing sensation. It only served to make it a cold burning sensation. I cringed as he wiped away the liquid and ink, the paper towel feeling like sandpaper.

“You’re all set. Check it out in the mirror.”

I got up slowly, keeping my arm above my head. As I approached the mirror, a large grin broke out across my face. I loved it. I had been wondering what it was going to look like and I wasn’t disappointed. “It’s awesome,” I said as I turned back to Kyle. “I really like it.” Kyle called the counter girl over and she thought it looked good too.

We both wanted pictures, me for posting, and him for his book. Once that was taken care of, he ran through aftercare and I paid him, leaving a generous tip for his work. I walked slowly out to my car, being careful not to do anything that would cause more pain. The endorphins had worn off a long time ago.

Despite the pain, and the incredibly long wait, getting this tattoo was definitely worth it.

Dear America

Congratulations. You did it.

In 2004, the rest of the world was telling us, “Don’t fuck this up.” We did anyway. The rest of the world told us again, “Don’t’ fuck this up.” We finally listened, and I’m proud to say we haven’t. Yet.

For the past eight years, the country was led on the basis of divisiveness and fear. Dissenters were locked out of the process, branded unpatriotic and un-American. The specter of terrorism was trumpeted continuously and used to begin and continue a costly and completely unnecessary war. For eight years, in the words of Matt Taibbi, we “voted against people we hated, rather than for people we liked.” And if the last eight years are any indication, that’s no way to run a country.

I am hopeful for the country for the first time in eight years. I’m hopeful that the country has turned a corner; in terms of race, but more importantly, in terms of leadership.

Some say that Barack Obama’s policy ideas are not the best and that he isn’t the best candidate. I suppose the former is open for debate, but I sincerely believe that the latter isn’t. The presidency is about leadership, and Obama has shown himself to be a great leader. He ran the most efficient campaign and demonstrated a remarkable understanding of new media and how it affects elections. Obama has inspired more people- an entire generation- than any president since JFK. One man can’t change everything, or anything. But that one man can lead us to change things. Inspiration, idealism, and hope count for something, no more so than now as we exit from a dark age of fear and ignorance.

Mr. Obama, unlike George Bush in 2004, you have won a mandate. Use it to make our country better. Push for affordable healthcare, work to regain America’s lost stature in the world, make our economy strong again, and give us reason to once again trust our government. Don’t, however, abuse this mandate. You ran on a platform of inclusion. Please follow through. Do everything in your power to ensure that your party does too. Allow Republicans to have a voice, and allow Democrats to have a choice.

Finally, Mr. Obama, don’t forget your supporters. Don’t forget the reasons we voted for you. Don’t forget the hope and idealism that inspired us. Don’t’ underestimate us; we’ll do more for you and our country than you think.