The Myth of Manhood

The myth of manhood
is that we want to fuck your pussies
that we need it to survive
like some gooey liquid elixir
of life
well,
we don't need it
at least
i don't
i'll be alright without it
although sometimes it's nice to meet you
somewhere in between

I heard somewhere that you've got to keep learning all through your life in order to stay young. I think I've narrowed it down even more than that: As I long as I keep learning languages, I'll always remember what it was like to be a child learning how to relate to the world.

As I continue to learn the French language I keep having these flashbacks of learning to read and write for the first time. I remember how things gradually fit into place, little by little. I remember the frustrated elation of learning how to express things I'd already been thinking about for a long time.

When learning to read and write became too tiresome I retreated into a world of my own where every made sense, instantly. Now, when French becomes too much for my brain to handle, I retreat back to English. I'm not sure it's an improvement over my childhood fantasy world; then again I'm not sure there's any difference. I think the difference is that then, there was a lot less of me to lose. I was a child with no defining experiences to fall back on, so I got lost easier. Here I sit now, still trying to figure things out.

Next post

I'm still working at a cardboard factory.

It's really quite magical in a way. That's why I keep talking about it, but I don't think anybody realizes. Maybe I don't want them too.

The "quality control guy". He's a riot. Sometimes I get in trouble because I lose myself imagining what his life might be like, imagining what he thinks about on a daily basis, minute by minute. For some reason I imagine him having spent a long time in some cold, large mid-western town, most likely Chicago. His uniform is the same every day: jeans and jacket of some unidentifiable discount brand and a baseball cap that seems to be a naturally occuring outgrowth of his head, so integral it looks on him. He walks around all day with a clipboard in his hands, pausing every once in a while to observe what's going on, making sure cardboard is being cut to the right length, ink printed in the right spot, etc. He doesn't have friends at the plant, even the managers seem not to like him for some reason. One night during lunch break I drove to a fast-food restaurant. As I was leaving he pulled up, got out of his car, and smiled at me. I glared at him, got on my motorcycle, and left.

Rage Against The Machine was one of my favorite bands in the whole world. So much so that it hurts to say was. Are they really dead? Yes, yes they are.

Audioslave is the proof. It's not that Audioslave is bad. They're exactly what they purport themselves to be: the first supergroup of the new millenium. I imagine myself going to one of the their shows and rocking out just like I used to rock out to RATM. How do I really feel? Well...

I was really drunk the other other night and decided I would watch MTV. I walked out to the living room, turned the TV on, and lo and behold the video for "Cochise" began. As the video played I noticed a rather tart, foul aroma had begun to linger about the living room, and soon realized that my cat had dropped a particularly pungent turd into the nearby catbox. Although I can't be exactly sure of the significance of these events, despite my drunken state I'm sure they mean something.

I'm almost finished with an 18 unit semster. I have two finals left- Essentials of Music and Piano 110C. I'm pretty sure I've gotten A's in everything else.

I hear that C's get degrees but I also hear that C's don't get you into famous graduate schools. The way I see it, going to an awesome graduate school is my way of getting the best possible instruction in music composition. I figure that if the teachers at a state college are pretty cool, they must really be something else at a famous graduate school. Thusly, I need to have a really, really, really high Grade Point Average. Right now it's a 3.64, which unfortunately means that from here on out if I get B's, my GPA goes down. I've been trying to study real hard for finals in order to prevent this from happening.

I didn't really have the intention of staying inside and having sex with Kelly all day today, but that's what happened. I finally made it to school at about 6:00 p.m. I think it's a reaction to the stress of finals.

Me so horny.

Why does it say "Conversations mith Gatan?"

what would Jesus do...for a Klondike bar?

Poeme #3

hummingbird shit on my book

Consider the implications of this statement: I hate smokers.


Now consider the implications of this statement: I hate black people.


Now consider the implications of this statement: I dislike cigarette smoke.

It never ceases to amaze me how incredibly stupid some people are. As I type this, I am sitting in the library at Palomar College. For a while now I have been looking for articles to be used in an accounting paper due next week. The library was very empty when I came in. About 10 minutes ago, some girl came in and sat down across from me at the table I am working at. After five minutes, she got out her cell phone and starting talking to a friend about some party she's going to tonight. One of the librarian ladies keeps staring at her, but cell phone girl is obviously not getting the point. I keep replaying a scene in my head where the librarian lady comes over and asks the girl to leave. The girl tells the person she's talking to (now her boyfriend) to hold on a second. The librarian lady politley asks her again to take her call outside. The girl becomes upset because, not only is she being asked to leave, but her call has been interrupted. I suppose what bothers me the most about cell phone girl is not only the fact that she is talking to her friend about a party while I'm trying to do homework, but she is also talking very loudly. Of course, as I typed that last sentence she got up and left. She was in the library for about 15 minutes, and 10 minutes of that time had been spent on the phone. The moment she ended the second call with her boyfriend she got up and left. It seems as though it was imperative for her to take the call in the library. What a fucking moron.

Who is...

i have things to say
no one will listen

i have nothing to say
everyone notices

i could make 6 billion people happy
nobody cares

i could define reality
no one would understand

i hold things dear
others trample them

i could wish death upon many
i love you

hear my thoughts
tune in

Time to get crackin'

I've got a meeting with one of my professors today. I need to figure out how the hell I'm going to get into the Music Composition department at San Diego State University. But I'm tired. So very fuckin' tired. Whoa...Some people behind me just started speaking French. I'm fluent enough to catch about every second or third word they're saying. Sounds like they're just talking about normal stuff..."Ca va? Ca va bien, merci. Vous avez etudie pour l'examen? Je peux baiser ta mere?"

Why am I so enchanted? I'm not entirely sure. Is it the unknown? The infinite variable I will no doubt encounter? I don't know.

The fourth branch of the United States government, that the founding "fathers" were intelligent enough to leave out of the Constitution, is...me...and you...and her...etc. What is our power? Voting? Well, yeah, sure. But even that can be fixed. What is our real power? Jury nullification.

If we think of the main function of government as law-making, then it's very easy to send a big fuck you to the people "at the top," who "make all the decisions."

This is how it works: A stupid idea is generated in either the House or the Senate. Somehow a lot of bungling buffoons agree to the stipulations of the aforementioned idea. The House-and-Senate-approved idea is sent to the President. The President decides that he/she likes the stupid idea (especially the part about unconstitutional pay raises to close friends in the House and Senate) and so it is entered into "the books" as law. Eventually some poor fool is brought to trial in a court of law, which is supposed to enforce the stupid law(s). The prosecution tries to convince 12 people in a box that the defendant is a horrible person for commiting a (stupid) "crime." The defense usually tries to convince the 12 people that the poor sap did not, in fact, commit the (stupid) crime. After much deliberation, the 12 free-thinking human beings that make up the people in the box, decide that they have encountered a stupid law. From there, they unanimously decide that they will not convict a member of a free society of a stupid crime, and so they all vote "not guilty."

And so I give thinks to the Magna Carta for giving US the power to decide what laws WE will allow ourselves to be governed by.

I can't help but think that sex must feel a little bit better for some people than others. An infinite number of factors determine what we take away from each sexual experience; the physical make-up of our bodies, our upbringing, our previous experiences, etc. I know it feels "good" for everyone but there has to be a small percentage running around out there who consistently get something more out of it, both physically and mentally. What if two of these people happened to find each other?

Can you tell who these people are by looking at them? Perhaps yes, perhaps no. I'm sure some of them have worked very hard to get to where they are, but most of them probably appear normal to the untrained eye. Most of them probably go about their day like the rest of us: getting up in the morning, going to work, coming home, rolling a joint with their beloved as they discuss the day's events, turning on the stereo, sitting back, smoking the joint, and eventually ending the evening by making sweet, sweet love that happens to be just a bit more glorious than you or I will ever know.

One for Kevin and La Muriel

Who, I am told, occasionally read this blog. I haven't written anything in over a month. A few minutes ago I was listening to "Enchantment" by Horace Silver and it made me feel okay about everything.

Three years ago I accidently set fire to my bedroom. The last thing I remember was dozing off to "Enchantment" by Horace Silver. I lost that CD and two hundred others, in addition to most of my clothes, recording equipment, and peace of mind.

Yesterday I thought of two interesting things:

1) Humans may be the dumbest beings on the planet. I reiterated this hypothesis to Ray and he reminded me of a quote from "The Matrix" wherein one of the computer programmed "agents" compares the human race to a virus. I was definitely thinking along those lines but I feel it is pertinent to note that I do not hesitate to include myself as a member of the human race. I contribute to the squalor. I accelerate the decay...and I look back on certain things I used to say and believe and they make me feel dumb. Very dumb. And I suspect that I'm going to feel that way for the rest of my life, being embarassed of everything I did 5 years ago. This is precisely why I've attempted to train myself to talk less and less as I get older- that way I'll have less to regret as I age. I will simply exist in quiet, constant, splendid fear.


2) Information does not double. Information does not increase. It does not decrease. Information exists.

Other interesting developments summed up for posterity:

a) Kelly and I are still together. I am still happy to be with her. We have been together for over four months now- my 3rd longest relationship (I know I'm eventually going to feel dumb for having such pathetically brief relationships, I just can't tell you why- not yet at least). She took a brief vacation to visit her relatives in New Jersey and I picked her up from the airport. The fear of rejection still occupies a large portion of my thought processes.

b) I ran into my last girlfriend, Annavelle, while Kelly was away. The last time we had contact was some months ago via email and it didn't go well. On Halloween she walked into the backyard where I was sitting. I said in surprise, "Whoa, it's Ann." She continued walking and left the party soon afterwards.

c) I now have two part-time jobs in addition to 18 units of school. During the week I do odd jobs around a cardboard box making factory. Most of the guys that work there are Mexicans who don't speak very much English. Most of the guys who run the place are Americans who don't speak very much Spanish. I am a disgruntled American who speaks enough Spanish to get by, thus far. The other job is housecleaning at a shelter for homeless cats. It's owned and operated by a woman named Johanna, who speaks French. My French is getting better all the time.

d)I'm starting to get sick because I have no time to relax.

The Secret Formula of DJ...

Happiness plus chaos equals stupidity.
Stupidity plus chaos equals sadness.
Sadness plus chaos equals tragedy.
Tragedy plus chaos equals vengeance.
Vengeance plus chaos equals...

The other day I went to put my laundry in the washing machine and someone else's stuff was already in there, washed and still wet. I'm always a little hesitant to move someone else's laundry, even though I wouldn't mind if somebody moved mine. I think about what happened to my dad. A few years ago he moved someone else's laundry.

After my parents got divorced he and my sister moved into a medium-sized apartment complex. He went out to do laundry one morning and found another tenant's already washed clothes in the machine, so he placed them on the dryer next to it and put his clothes in the washer. He came back to check on his clothes and found that the other person's laundry was gone and that somebody had tossed a few handfuls of dirt into his.

He beat on every door in the complex demanding to know who had thrown dirt on his clothes. When he got to one apartment a short, late-twentysomething surfer dude opened the door. My dad, standing over six feet tall, weighing at least 250lbs, covered in tatoos and visibly upset, inquired as to whether or not he had thrown the dirt. With a touch of both arrogance and stupidity, the short, late-twentysomething surfer dude said, "Yeah, I did." My father replied with a swift kick to the center of his chest, knocking him to the floor in the doorway of his apartment. Another man standing in the apartment put up his hands and asked my father to calm down. My dad pointed at both of them and screamed, "Don't do it again!"

He told me later that he felt truly embarassed by the whole thing and eventually apologized to the man. I'm 6 foot 3 inches and I weigh almost 200lbs, but I still hesitate every time I move someone else's laundry.

"[...]writing is not merely metaphor." Tom Amans, 10/12/01

How incredibly interesting. I would venture to say that writing isn't "merely metaphor" because writing is metaphors of metaphors. But then again, I'm smrt.

Tom: I noticed you haven't posted anything yet.

Satan: I'm warming up.

Tom: Don't you have anything to say?

Satan: Sure.

Tom: Tell me something.

Satan: Well, I was thinking about what it will be like on the day they legalize marijuana in the United States.

Tom: Fuckin' A!

Satan: Pot smokers the world over will gather to celebrate in every setting imaginable. Downtown cafes will spread their tables out into the streets in anticipation, a cross between a European festival and New Year's Eve 1999. Patrons will begin packing their bowls at around 11:30 p.m. while completely unnecessary patrolling police officers will make half-hearted attempts to hassle them. Despite their actions the police officers will not ruin the feeling of calm celebration in the air and some of them may even participate in the festivities.

At the inevitable stroke of midnight there will be the sound of millions of people inhaling as one. Los Angeles news stations will begin telecasting nonsensical live interviews with smokers in New York who have already been high for three hours. Pizza deliveries and Mexican fast food restaurants will experience an unprecented upward spike in revenues for the evening, as will Trojan, Durex, and other condom manufacturers as couples unite and for the first time legally experience the bliss of love-making while stoned out of their minds.

Life will eventually go on much as it had before, only with a little less crime, a little less anguish, and a little more sense.

Tom: I, um...gotta go.

Satan: Rest easy my son.

"And God said unto Moses: I AM THAT I AM; and He said: 'Thus shalt thou say unto the children of Israel: I AM hath sent me unto you.' And God said moreover unto Moses: 'Thus shalt thou say unto the children of Israel: The Lord, God of your fathers, the God of Abraham, the God of Isaac, and the God of Jacob, hath sent me unto you; this is My name for ever, and this is My memorial unto all generations.'" Exodus 3:14-15

Who is God?

I AM...

Tom: I've been really fuckin' tired and stressed out.

Satan: I don't give a shit.

Tom: What...?

Satan: I said I don't give a shit. If you stop freaking out, you'll be okay; you should know that by know. What is it? Money? School? Work? It doesn't matter. Figure out a way to handle that shit.

Tom: Whoa!!! Someone's a little bitchy, eh?

Satan: I'm sick of you. I'm sick of speaking only when spoken to. I'm tired of everything that goes on here. Do you realize that millions upon millions of people the world over tremble at the thought of me, for I am Satan, Lord of the Underworld, a being supposedly dedicated to all that is evil and unwholesome? No, of course not, because to you I'm a joke, a whipping boy, a Pollyanna relegated to the role of "Dear Abby" on your pathetic fucking blog, which I might add, nobody reads.

Tom: Satan, what are you saying?

Satan: I want my own logon. And password.

Tom: Done.

Satan: When?

Tom: Tomorrow.

Satan: Okay.

Tom: Ya fuckin' bitch.

Tom: I went and saw the Red Elvises today.

Satan: Good?

Tom: Yeah.

Satan: Didn't Ray get you into them?

Tom: Yeah but he couldn't go because of prior commitments.

Satan: Did you buy him a souvenir?

Tom: Yep.

Satan: What is it?

Tom: I ain't tellin'.

Satan: I'll bet it's some sort of birth control device, isn't it?

Tom: NO!

Tom: I think love is the last battlefield I have left to conquer.

Satan: What do you mean?

Tom: I desire a fulfilling, healthy relationship more than anything else, yet relationships are where I seem to cause myself the most pain.

Satan: Well, maybe it's not really a battlefield.

Tom: I didn't think it was, but apparently that's how I act when I'm in one.

Satan: No wonder you have such a hard time trusting people. What brought this on?

Tom: Kelly and I had our first fight.

Satan: Over...?

Tom: Ah, little shit. I was in a bad mood, she was messin' with me. Nothing big. We both apologized and now I love her all the more.

Satan: You love her more because she apologized?

Tom: Well, um...yes.

Satan: Let me get this straight: you're happy because she conceded defeat?

Tom: Looks like I win again, doesn't it? In your face, bee-yatch!

Satan: Oh christ...

Um...

Ray: Hey Satan...

Satan: What?

Ray: How does it feel to be a figment of somebody's imagination?

Satan: I don't know. You tell me.

Ray: Hey Satan...

Satan: What?

Ray: How does it feel to be a figment of somebody's imagination?

Satan: I don't know. You tell me.

Ray: Why do my friends hate me?

Satan: Probably because you're lazy, hypocritical, and a whiny little bitch.

Ray: Oh.

Tom: I emailed Simon.

Satan: Yeah?

Tom: He emailed me back.

Satan: And so it begins.

Tom: Apparently.

Satan: Out with the old, in with the new...

out with the old...
in with the new

Tom: A few months ago I had a job at this big credit company. I got to be friendly with a guy named Simon John. He was one of the first people who said hi to me when I started working there and we eventually had lunch together. He told me his whole story, starting in his home country of Sudan, going to school in Egypt, moving to Kenya, leaving his family and eventually winding up here in San Diego. I listened to him talk for almost an hour and I never got bored. When he finished he said, "Well that's my story, what's yours?" I was absolutely dumbfounded; I've had an interesting life but nothing that I feel compares to being a refugee on two continents who can speak four languages and went from being computer illiterate to a well-paid employee in a huge insurance firm.

Satan: What did you say?

Tom: I mostly just talked about music: everything it's meant to me over the years, learning to play, initial discouragement, playing in bands, etc.

Satan: What did he say?

Tom: He was envious. He said he had always wanted to sing and that he admired me for doing what I wanted to do. Coming from someone like Simon, I was very flattered. We went to lunch everyday for the rest of the two weeks I worked there, and neither of us ever got bored of the other. The thing is though, Simon lives a pretty solitary existence. He has a younger brother whom he takes care of but apparently he's pretty much cut himself off from the rest of his family.

Satan: No friends?

Tom: He told me he used to have a circle of friends but they came and went as many friends do; he didn't stop them.

Satan: What makes you mention him?

Tom: Because on the last day I was there we had lunch together and I asked him for his phone number so we could keep in touch and continue "our conversation". He said no, that he doesn't talk to people out side of work anymore. He said he was sorry and that he did indeed live a very solemn, lonely existence.

Satan: How did you react?

Tom: Once again I was dumbfounded, and hurt as well. I couldn't help but take it personal. I mean here was this cool guy I met at a shitty job, about ten years older than me who had already lived a lifetime of adventures, and we had become friends in a very short amount of time, which I reckoned was pretty amazing for both of us. I took it for granted that we would keep in touch after my temporary assignment was up, but I guess he still wasn't ready to have friends.

Satan: What happened?

Tom: I thought about it and realized that even though I felt cheated, I didn't begrudge the two weeks we had gotten to know each other. As I was on my way out I passed by his desk to say goodbye. He stopped me and said, "I can tell you were hurt, and I am sorry. That's why I'm going to give you my email address and phone number." And with shaking hands, he did just that. As he handed them to me info he told me, "Even if you call me, I'm not gonna call you back." I was too surprised, and happy, to say anything.

Satan: So it was a happy ending after all?

Tom: No. Over one of our lunch conversations I had told him that I just recently started painting, and that I had done almost all of my paintings with someone else, kind of a group effort. He said there was no way in hell that he'd ever do a painting with me, he had never done anything artistic before in his life. So about a week after I left, I sent him a email saying that I had a blank canvas that needed paint on it.

Satan: And?

Tom: No response. That hurt too, although I guess I could have been more direct if I wanted him to get back to me. I figure he's been hurt in the past, like all of us, and just isn't ready to get close to people again.

Satan: But you still miss talking to him, for the friendship that might have been?

Tom: Yeah...what should I do?

Satan: Reach out.

Anxious,
Irrational.
Can't get me if I'm not at home.

This beautiful world...
Ha!
Ugh.

"There they go now
There go all my friends
There they go now
Marching off to war again..."

"War Again" _ Danny Elfman

Tom: What is Tom?

Satan: Tom is a 23-year white heterosexual male. He plays the guitar and the piano. He sings too.

Tom: So he's a musician?

Satan: Up until about two years ago he refused to call himself a musician because he believed that one had to make their living playing music in order to legitimately call oneself a "musician". He has since revised his definition.

Tom: Yeah but is he any good?

Satan: He can play accurate excerpts of Beethoven and Mozart piano sonatas, Chopin nocturnes, Bach inventions, as well as his own compositions, and he has played guitar and/or sang with miscellaneous "rock" bands in just about every bar in town.

Tom: What else?

Satan: Well, other than music, he's usually thinking about sex or ontology.

Tom: Does he fuck a lotta bitches?

Satan: No. When he thinks about sex it's not usually just a matter of in/out penetration. He prefers to single out one woman at a time and transform her into his intellectual and neurotic equal. After that he attempts to seduce his hapless victim by giving her the best head she's ever had, thus binding her to him through a combination of codependant devotion and raw carnal lust. Frustration often results when he steps out of his reality-tunnel long enough to realize that his intended target isn't playing along. This process can take anywhere from five minutes to seven months.

Tom: What was the other thing you mentioned?

Satan: Ontology?

Tom: Is he some sorta fuckin' existentialist?

Satan: Not especially.

Satan: Wanna hear a story?

Tom: Have I heard it before?

Satan: I don't know. It's about a guy and a girl who went out together for a while. Not too long, not years or anything, but long enough to get pretty attached to one another. They fought all the time and the girl always wondered how much the guy loved her. She'd only been in love one other time and it ended badly, so she couldn't help but question his every move.

They fought back and forth, each fight worse than the last, until finally, the guy broke it off once and for all. He said that if two people truly loved each other they should let each other go instead of being miserable together.

Tom: What did the girl say?

Satan: She took it as proof that he never really loved her.

Tom: To love and not be loved in return...it happens to all of us.

Satan: But what if the guy really did love her? What if the sorrow continued to hit him in waves, long after the initial break-up? What if he was the kind of person who, for better or worse, gives everything when they love someone...mind, body, and soul?

Tom: And the magnitude of the loss changes him, forever?

Satan: Precisely.

Tom: Yeah I don't think I need to hear that sob story.

Satan: Okay.

Tom: Why do I like fucking so much?

Satan: Fucking?

Tom: Not just fucking, I enjoy the sexual act from start to finish: dinner, movie, music, oral, penetration, rise, fall, cigarette. It's neat.

Satan: Well, have you ever considered the possibility that maybe other people are like that too?

Tom: Like who?

Satan: Oh come on now, I'm sure you know men and women who feel the same way you do, they just express it differently. Face it Tom: humans are sexual beings. The urge to reproduce is hardwired into you. The way sexuality is expressed depends upon an infinite number of factors that come into play the moment you're born. Take what you've got and make the most of it.

Tom: You got a sister?

Satan: Oh piss off.

Tom: Hey Satan...

Satan: Yeah?

Tom: I made a graph.

Satan: A what?

Tom: You know, a graph, you fucker. It illustrates my current hypothesis that happiness is impossible.

Satan: Oh Christ, lemme see it.

Tom: Sure...



Tom: See, for there to be such a thing as "happiness" there would have to be a point in the space-time continuum at which one stops being "sad" and becomes consciously "happy". But how can this happen? Can one ever be completely happy? Can one ever be completely sad? Of course not. We are lead to believe that if we only ate less, exercised more, played more X-treme sports, and just tried hard enough, everything would be SWEET SHIT.

Satan: Hmmm...

Tom: Which leads me to ask the question "Who is the asshole that spreads this nonsense?" At best it's just bad semantics! At worst it's a fallacy, a lie, a sick joke sold to us by conniving faith healers, intent on controlling our emotions and making us feel responsible for the SHITTY things that happen to us. I for one will not stand for it! What do you think of that, bitch?

Satan: I don't know...it sounds to me like you've stumbled onto one of Zeno's paradoxes.

Tom: Come again?

Satan: Zeno's paradoxes are a set of paradoxes conceived by Zeno of Elea to support Parmenides's doctrine that all evidence of the senses is misleading, and particularly that there is no motion.

Tom: Yeahhh...?

Satan: Well, in the paradox of Achilles and the tortoise, we imagine the Greek hero Achilles in a footrace with a stupid reptile. Since Achilles habitually indulged in an ancient form of methamphetamine known to the Greeks as crankus, which allowed him to perform superhuman feats over an extended period of time, Achilles graciously gives the tortoise a head start of a hundred feet.

Tom: I don't give a shit...

Satan: If we suppose that each racer start running at some constant speed (one very fast and one very slow), then after some finite time, Achilles will have run a hundred feet, bringing him to the tortoise's starting point; during this time, the tortoise has "run" a (much shorter) distance, say one foot. It will then take Achilles some further period of time to run that distance, during which the tortoise will advance farther; and then another period of time to reach this third point, while the tortoise moves ahead. Thus, whenever Achilles reaches somewhere the tortoise has been, he still has farther to go. Therefore, Zeno says, Achilles can never overtake the tortoise.

Tom: So...?

Satan: So therefore, by your reasoning, one can never be happy because as one approaches your theoretical "brink of happiness" it too continues to move along in the space-time continuum, always just ahead of us, always eluding us no matter how fast we (you) careen towards it.

Tom: See? I'm right. Suck my dick.

Satan: Sorry to tell you, but the paradox is resolved with the fundamental insight of calculus that a sum of infinitely many terms can yield a finite result. Adding the (infinitely many) times together that Achilles needs to reach the previous positions of the tortoise results in a finite total time, and that is indeed the time when Achilles overtakes the tortoise.

Tom: What the fuck are you talking about?

Satan: An infinite series is a sum of infinitely many terms. Such a sum can have a finite value, and if it has, it is said to converge. The fact that infinite series can converge resolves several of Zeno's paradoxes. Here, let me draw it out for you:

The simplest convergent infinite series is perhaps

1 + 1/2 + 1/4 + 1/8 + 1/16 + ... = 2

Tom: Bullshit.

Satan: I think not. It is possible to "visualize" its convergence on the real number line. This series is a geometric series and mathematicians usually write it as:



Formally, if an infinite series:



is given with real (or complex) numbers an, we say that the series 'converges towards S ' or that its 'value is S ' if the limit:



exists and is equal to S. If this is not the case, we say the series diverges. How's about them apples, ya fucker?

Tom: We'll get back to this, cockface. I gotta go to school.

Tom: What's up?

Satan: Nothin' much. What are you doing today?

Tom: Ah, just the usual. Went to the beach, got a lesson later, come home, try and get some school work done, maybe see Kelly. I thought of something though.

Satan: What's that?

Tom: You know how the seventies were supposedly the "ME" generation or decade or whatever? I figured out what this decade is.

Satan: Well?

Tom: This is the "MY" generation.

Satan: How do you figure?

Tom: Well, it's still about getting ahead of your neighbor, your friends, and/or your family, but the fashionable way of going about it seems to be much more infantile than ever before.

Satan: How so?

Tom: Well, look no further than this here computer: you got MY AOL, MY Documents, MY Buddylist, MY Plaything, MY this, MY that, mine, mine, more me, less you. What's yours is mine and what's mine is mine. Mine. My. And it's spreading. It's spreading far beyond cyber-space. Just look around you. Turn on the T.V.

Satan: I don't watch T.V.

Tom: Oh piss off, you righteous bastard.

Satan: I wonder if I can get AOL to sue you...

Putting my cum-soaked sheets into the washing machine, I began to wonder how many other cum-soaked sheets are put into the washing machine on a daily, monthly, even yearly basis. I still cringe at the thought; even though there are only 8 apartments in my complex, that poor washing machine must be a veritable stew of human bodily fluids. I'll bet the residue alone is virulent enough to impregnate an 80-year old woman and give her 3 different strains of herpes at the same time.

No no no.

That's not at all the way to begin today's entry.

Satan: That's really fuckin' gross man. Why don't you talk about what you got in the mail today?

Tom: The invitation to Cheryl and Aaron's wedding?

Satan: Sure.

Tom: What is there to say? One of my best friends is getting married to a woman who truly loves him. I'm happy for them.

Satan: Bullshit. Tell the world how you really feel.

Tom: Well shit, I dunno...My first memory of Cheryl is from back at the house on Maryland Street. I walked up, she said, "Hi, I'm Cheryl", I introduced myself, and she's been just that friendly ever since.

Satan: But...

Tom: But Aaron, on the other hand, is a total loss. For eight years I've done what I could for the boy but alas, come October 26th, he's out of my hands.

Satan: Yikes...

Tom: I started school today.

Satan: So?

Tom: 17 units. Almost all music classes except for French II.

Satan: mmm-hmm...

Tom: What the fuck's your problem?

Satan: Is school what defines you as a person?

Tom: Shit no. I happen to LIKE going to school; it exposes me to new things.

Satan: Then what are you all excited about?

Tom: Who said I was excited?

Satan: You're having an identity crisis aren't you? Jesus Christ, you go to a beautiful foreign country, smoke acres of weed, almost go insane on mushrooms, come home, and expect things to be business as usual? When's the last time you completely reshuffled your surroundings and DIDN'T take stock of who and what you are? You have no job, no band, new love, and an ever growing pessimism towards existence in general. I'd say it's perfectly normal for you to feel the way you do.

Tom: So what do I do? Is it really just going to be this way from time to time?

Satan: Fucked if I know, man. Love your girlfriend, love your family, love your friends, read good books, read bad books, initiate incredible orgasms, create things, be kind to animals, be kind to people that ask you for things, and above all, don't panic. Perhaps spend a little less time getting high and always, always remember to breath.

Tom: Ya fuckin' bitch.

After

sitting in a chair, leaning back
one leg crossed over the other
pensively smoking a long cigarette

24 hours ago I was not a man
I was an animal
cut loose from anything and everthing familiar
flying too high in an infinite prison

all around, on every side of me
all things were possible
and now I have the feeling
it make take years to sort it all out

Dr. Wilson,

I found this one amusing: Monty Python Po frogfalls Po multiple universe theory...

Febo Rules

Sometimes I dream about visiting other cities in other countries. I don't really give a shit about monuments or landmarks or bright sunshine or clubs or shopping or any of the usual tourist bullshit. I dream about finding a place where, if you so desire, people will leave you the fuck alone and let you do what you want. Solitude is a more extraordinary thing than most people realize or desire. I'm sure I'll never find exactly what I'm looking for. But Amsterdam is pretty fucking close.

Fun With a Student's Life

I am currently seated in front of my mother's computer, quietly seething, as I have just been informed that I am "not eligible for a federal Pell grant." For those of you who don't know, the Pell grant is the grant that actually affords poor people the opportunity to attend college. With the Pell grant, it's almost possible to pay for tuition, books, parking, gas, supplies, etc. Without it...you're fucked. I cannot possibly imagine why I am not eligible for the grant. Last year I was still considered a dependent and my income was almost 100% greater than this year. Now, I am considered independent and I've made horseshit compared to 2000. Yet, for some reason, my expected family contribution shot up from 0 to $5,385.

At this very moment, I can completely justify all forms of hatred in the universe. I want to destroy all. I want to torture everybody associated with FAFSA until they scream for mercy, so I can coldly remind them that they are "not eligible for mercy." Fucking bastards...

Do you ever look around and notice that everything seems completely trivial?

I was coming home on Sunday, driving my sister's car. A large man with tattoos driving a lifted Ford Bronco pulled off the exit in front of me. When we rolled up to a stoplight he pulled over and spit at me. After that he pulled into an adjacent Rite-Aid parking lot and waited. I told my sister about it after I returned her car and she said the guy probably thought I was gay. That made sense: I am tall and thin; my sister's car has pink seat covers, Power Puff Girls stickers, and a license plate frame that says "Bitch".

What I don't understand is why he took time out of his day to harass someone he thought was a homosexual. I was on my way home to get ready for a date with a woman. Wherever he was going wasn't important enough to prevent him from annoying me. I can't help but think that if he indulged in regular sex with a caring, attractive woman, he wouldn't have had the time nor the inclination to bother me.

Fuck you all.

Since I'm quitting my job to go to Europe a Taiwanese lady I work with invited me to her house for a barbecue. She has good taste in classical music so I went. There were a few other people from work there too, including the vice-president's mom and dad who were also from Taiwan. After we finished eating we went into the living room for a soiree of sorts. She called her children in, a boy of fourteen and a girl of thirteen. I fully expected it to be an awkward show-off session, obviously instigated for the sole purpose of impressing us at the children's expense. To the contrary, they seemed to enjoy it at least as much as the rest of us did. The son, Robbie, performed a Kabelevsky piece on violin with his father on piano. The daughter played a few pieces on the cello after which the mother, Rose, asked me to play. By that time I was happy to do so but I wanted to break the mold a bit, so I played them a solo rendition of my own piece "You Be Quiet". They liked it well enough and asked me to play something else, so I borrowed their acoustic guitar and whipped out the Beatles' "Girl".

After that the father, son, daughter, and I took turns on the piano. They all played well and the father turned out to be a very good sight-reader. I couldn't resist showing off my chops so I played a bit of Mozart's "Turkish March". It turned out to be a very enjoyable evening and reinforced my desire to one day have children if for no other reason than to have my own band.

Last night I had an unexpected opportunity to see Weezer at Irvine Meadows. Murray Webb, a friend and former coworker (soon to be of "Murray File" fame), had an extra orchestra ticket. I like the green album a lot so I decided to go. Sparta and Dashboard Confessional opened up for them and I would have been completely happy paying $25 just to see Sparta. They appeared to be by far the youngest of the three bands, somewhere in their mid-twenties by my estimations, thus making them a full decade older than the average audience member. They played with complete urgency, something I found the other bands to be lacking in.
Some other highlights of the show included:

Murray bumped into someone as we were walking back from a beer stand. The guy started to get in Murray's face so I stepped in between them, looked him in the eye, and said, "Don't fuckin' do it." He gave me a look like "Alright then, I'll kick your ass", and just then a large woman walked right into the beer I was holding in my right hand. She started cussing at both of us so we went back to our seats.

When we got back to our seats there were a couple of hot chicks in our place and they hung out with us for the rest of the show. Somehow they had gotten ahold of some VIP passes from a backstage assistant. I asked one of the girls if the assistant was cute and she said, "Not as cute as you guys." Despite the encouragement I didn't think we'd really be able to compete with real live rock stars, so we left.

We made it back without getting pulled over.

Next week I'm going to Europe to see my dear friend Gregory Douzon. We're meeting in London and from there we're off to Amsterdam. I got an email from him this afternoon and unfortunately he recently suffered a terrible accident. Fortunately, he sent me a picture:

"Love is against the law. Fucking is allowed."

My sister's friend arrived early and I offered her pate and cabernet. I am good at keeping plants and I am kind to bugs. I won't try to sleep with a woman unless she makes me laugh and/or has good taste in music.

The only solution, as I see it, is to become a homosexual.

Yet I find myself continually attracted to the female form: their tender breasts that yield to the touch; silky smooth stomachs seemingly made to caress and explore; long, creamy thighs that you could suck on for a day or two and their luscious, succulent lips that long for my kiss.

I took a beginning piano class at Southwestern Community College many moons ago. I thoroughly enjoyed the class, and the teacher loved me. I actually learned some stuff, and I got a little better at the piano. One thing I noticed, while I was taking the class, was my propensity to change the written music on the page without even realizing it. The teacher would usually catch me and correct me. Then I realized that the reason I changed certain songs was because the way I played them sounded better than what was written. As I reflected on that thought earlier this evening, I came to the conclusion that the purpose of my existence is to correct everybody else's mistakes. So far I'm failing miserably.

Today we finished watching a movie in French class titled "Momma, There's A Man In Your Bed" or something to that effect. It's about a poor black French cleaning lady who has five children by five different ex-husbands. She works the night shift in an office building in which all sorts of shady dealings take place during the wee hours. The head of the company is framed by one of his associates who is eager to take over as CEO of the company, Blanlet Yogurt. The cleaning lady ends up helping the CEO out of trouble and as a result he winds up falling in love with her and marrying her in a severely ridiculous public ceremony, happily accompanied by her five children and ex-husbands.

It was interesting to note the inherent cultural differences between French and American cinematic drivel. We had a discussion about it in class after the movie and here are some of the more interesting things I thought about:

Francois Mitterand had a long-time mistress who was present at his funeral, along with his wife. I think that's a stroke of cultural honesty the United States is CENTURIES away from.

I am dating a black woman and I don't see her as "black". I see her as a person who laughs at most of my jokes and happens to have darker skin than I do.

I dated an Asian woman and I didn't see her as "Asian". I saw her as a person who used to laugh at some of my jokes and happened to have darker skin than I do.

I dated a white girl and I didn't see her as "white". I saw her as a person who used to laugh at some of my jokes but not the ones I thought were funny. That hurt.

It seems as though I am determined to date the entire spectrum before I call it quits and shack up with your mom.

Maybe Marx wasn't wrong. Maybe it's just that Hobbes was right. People are assholes.

Who Are You?

Have you ever been asked this question? How do you respond? Ray Holmes, Tom Amans, Aaron Cohen, Bob, Joey Joe Joe? Could you offer a more ambiguous answer to an equally ambiguous question? I suppose you could answer I AM, and of course you would be correct in doing so. But Inquisitors don't care about right and wrong. They just like to torture and burn people. As I wasn't saying, have you ever thought about the fact that at some point you had to learn your name? I didn't; until today. People of Earth know me as Raymond L. Holmes III, but I don't. To me I am known as I, me, you, or shut up. I think Universe knows me as I, me, or you as well. How truly fascinating! " I am he as you are he and you are me..."

"To protect and serve"

Has there ever been a more misleading motto? Is it just me or do you too consider every encounter with a police officer a potentially life-threatening situation? Some may call that paranoia; I call it GOOD PLANNING.

As I pulled up to a stoplight the other day, I found myself staring with blind hatred at an officer who had just pulled someone over. I reminded myself that he was a human being and not all police officers are pigs. At times like these I often wonder what it would be like if I could legally have a hand on MY gun the next time one of them asks me to sign a fix-it ticket.

Some infinities converge.

Perhaps the only thing that makes God God, is that God is continually striving to become God.

Metaphysical Bullshit

"What?"

He sounded startled, as if forcefully shaken from some waking dream.

He stood facing the bed staring at the wall.

She was lying on the bed naked. Her long hair fell in waves over her shoulders. Her legs were spread slightly apart. One hand cupped her breast, playfully pinching her nipple while her other hand, positioned near her vagina, rested lazily on her lower abdomen. She playfully stroked and rubbed her clitoris. Muffled moans emanated from her mouth, their origins lying somewhere deep in her belly.

"Come here," she whispered slyly. Her upper lip quivered in a playful sneer.

He stood staring at the wall.

She tried again, "come on baby."

He did not move.

"What are you gay or something?" she asked sarcastically.

"What does that have to do with anything?" he responded.

"I'm laying here naked on the bed, waiting for you, and you aren't even responding." She seemed disgusted.

"How would that make me gay?" he asked. "Your assumption is that sexual denomination has something to do with eroticism. You're wrong. Any honest heterosexual male would admit that the sight of two gay men in the throes of passion is a turn on. Just as the thought of two women is equally arousing."

"You are gay!" she shrieked in accusation.

"I believe you're missing the point, dear," he chided. "Even if I am gay, the sight of a nubile young woman pleasuring herself on my bed would probably be equally as stimulating as a young male."

"What the hell is wrong with you?" she asked in exasperation.

"What is wrong with me, love, is that I do not exist. None of this exists. I am a representation of something from another world entirely. I-"

"What the fuck are you talking about!?" she asked as she slowly crept backwards against the headboard. She hugged her knees to her chest.

"We…are not here. I am a replica of the author."

"What author?"

"The author of this story."

"What story? What author? What are you talking about? You're starting to scare me." She hugged her knees more tightly.

"You, my dear, are a fantasy. You are the perfect woman. You are the culmination of all the traits that the author of this story would attribute to the woman of his dreams. Although I would venture to say that your personality has strayed dramatically from the script. One could hardly blame you. Look in the mirror. What color are your eyes? What does your nose look like? For that matter, what do I look like?"

"You look…you look like, uh…" her voice trailed off.

"Do you see? We don't exist. We are phantasms; ghosts in the mind of our creator. We have form only in so much as, to fantasize about human sexual intercourse, we need to have a basic human form. We have no face. We have no thoughts. At least not thoughts that are our own. Think (no pun intended (what a stupid joke…did I really just say that?)) about it. What did you do today? Before you came here."

"I-I don't know."

"Neither do I."

"This is weird. Where did my legs go?" she asked with a puzzled look on her face.

"I suppose they were not needed during our prior conversation, hence they were not…painted so to speak. What a fascinating discovery." His eyes seemed full of fire at this new discovery.

"I don't know if I like this, this…author. Whatever he's doing, he's giving me the creeps."

"I like him. How could I not? I'm supposed to be him."

"Yeah, but what kind of sick asshole writes a story like this and calls it a fantasy."

"I'm not sure," he said shrugging his shoulder, "I believe it started well, but it took a wrong turn somewhere. I suppose he just has a lot on his mind. This is truly fascinating. The implication here is that…"

"What?" she asked, her voice full of anticipation.

"He is our God."

"How can he be God. He's already screwed up this simple story."

"Yes, but you don't know that? First of all, who's to say that this isn't what the story was supposed to be like. And secondly, even if this is a botched experiment, nobody's ever really proven what God is. We seem to assume that God is omniscient, omnipotent, and omni-benevolent probably because we hope that God is something better than us. Something that can help us and get us out of trouble. I wonder if anyone has ever suspected that God is fallible. This is starting to blow my mind. I am the author that writes my story. I wonder who writes his…"

Why I Despise All Forms of Government

Dear Governor Davis,

I'm sure you often receive letters from young citizens and students, like myself, telling you how great you are for being a horrible governor, or how horrible you are for revoking their right to get drunk on a public beach. However, that is not the aim of my letter. I'm writing to give you just a bit of insight into how "the other half" truly lives.

Let me begin by sharing with you a tale of less than moderate excitement. One day, I was driving to my friend's house, ready to enjoy an exciting evening of philosophical debauchery, when I was pulled over for not being old and white (damn! one out of two ain't bad, I suppose). The officer, after insisting that I was drunk, explained to me that the reason he had pulled me over was because one of my headlights was not functioning properly. This was news to me, but I obligingly signed the ticket that he shoved in my face. He explained that he had given me plenty of time to take care of the problem, and that if I got pulled over again (for not being old and white) that I need only show my happy little ticket to the hypothetical officer, and he/she would let me go (after accusing me of being drunk). What a nice guy. Needless to say, I continued on to my friend's house and had a good time despite the new friend in my wallet.

The next day I purchased a new headlight and replaced it with no problems. Then, I completely forgot about my citation.

Days turned into weeks, weeks into more than weeks, and finally the deadline to "post bail" had lapsed. Of course I did not realize this because I had forgotten about the ticket.

Today I received a letter in the mail from the Superior Court of San Diego stating that I was a criminal and that my "account" had been sent to a collection agency for…collection. The next letter I opened was a notice from a collection agency stating that I was a criminal and that I "owed" them $334. This, Mr. Governor, is where my complaint begins.

I will be the first to admit that I made a mistake. I succumbed to a horrible disease capable of attacking any human being on this planet: I forgot. I accept that. And because I forgot, I'm even willing to pay a little extra for my "bail" as punishment for my forgetfulness. However, I cannot seem to justify being forced to pay $334. Based on my own calculations, I have been charged approximately 26.35% interest (compounded daily) on a $10 ticket for fifteen days. The court calls this a "civil assessment." I call it usury. I believe that I have been the victim of a crime that this same court system has sentenced thousands of people to prison for, yet the court appears to practice the same crime with impunity.

You, Mr. Governor, may be one of the majority of people who would argue that, because I signed the ticket, I am responsible to pay my fine and accept any "civil assessment," charged to me by the California legal system, no matter how exorbitant the assessment may be. I would remind you, Mr. Governor, and the rest of the majority, that I did not sign the ticket because I agreed to pay outrageous fines; I signed the ticket because a large man with a gun told me to.

That being said, I feel I must let you know that the point of this letter is not to whine, to threaten, or to ask for some sort of pardon. No, this letter was drafted to express the opinion of many people who have experienced the same atrocious behavior that I have. If you do truly care about the people you claim to govern, then I would suggest that you do something about this situation and the multitude of others like it.

In closing, I would like to congratulate you Governor Davis. The machine, which you call the state of California, has once again succeeded in demoralizing and dehumanizing a productive and intelligent member of its own society. As I am now a "happy," check-mailing slave, any response to this letter may be sent to me via my true identity: [my SS#].

Thank you for your time.

Your Daily Dose of Wilhelm

"You steal the benefits of life. I'd respect you if you were a big thief, but you're a small, cowardly thief" (92).

excerpt from Listen, Little Man by Wilhelm Reich; Farrar, Straus, and Giroux; New York, NY; 2000.

Ray: Hello Satan.

Satan: Shut up. This is Tom's idea. Leave me alone.

Ray: Oh...

About a year ago, I remember reading a post on alt.fan.frankzappa where some guy accused Danny Elfman of ripping off Frank Zappa. For some reason I started thinking about that today, and it upset me. Why is it that when Frank Zappa lifted entire sections from Duke Ellington, Eric Dolphy, or Igor Stravinsky it was called a "tribute" or "paying homage," but when Danny Elfman does the same, it's called "ripping off"?

Your Daily Dose of Wilhem

"I know what you call 'God' really exists, but not in the form you think; God is primal cosmic energy, the love in your body, your integrity, and your perception of the nature in you and outside of you" (17).

excerpt from Listen, Little Man by Wilhelm Reich; Farrar, Straus, and Giroux; New York, NY; 2000.

Your Daily Dose of Wilhelm

"I am neither a white nor a black nor a red nor a yellow.

I am neither a Christian nor a Jew nor a Mohammedan nor a Mormon. I embrace a woman because I love and desire her, not because I have a marriage certificate or because I'm sex-starved.

I don't beat children. I don't fish or hunt, even though I'm a good shot and enjoy shooting at targets. I don't play bridge and I don't give parties to air my ideas. If my ideas are sound, they'll air themselves.

excerpt from Listen, Little Man by Wilhelm Reich; Farrar, Straus, and Giroux; New York, NY; 2000.

Your Daily Dose of Wilhelm

"And you, little man, what did you do with the great man's [note; the great man is Karl Marx] intellectual wealth? He gave you lofty, far-reaching ideas, but you retained only one resounding word: dictatorship!" (38).

excerpt from Listen, Little Man by Wilhelm Reich; Farrar, Straus, and Giroux; New York, NY; 2000.

I just gave a speech on vegetable vaccines. I had no idea what I was talking about. I got a 'B' because I went over my allotted time by 2:46. For some reason I'm still upset about that...

Your Daily Dose of Wilhelm

"You had your choice between the cruel Inquisition and Galileo's truth. You tortured and humiliated the great Galileo, from whose inventions you are still benefiting, and now, in the twentieth century, you have brought the methods of the Inquisition to a new flowering" (66).

excerpt from Listen, Little Man by Wilhelm Reich; Farrar, Straus, and Giroux; New York, NY; 2000.

Death, It's What's for Dinner

Many people present moral and legal arguments for the abolition of the death penalty. Jello Biafra gives the only logical argument that I've ever heard: what if you have the wrong person?

Mike Williams was my best friend for a long time. His mom died of cancer when I was eleven. As I recall she was sick for a year or two before she passed away. I spent the night over at their house one evening after she had begun chemotherapy and happened to catch a glimpse of her without her wig on. As the disease progressed it got harder for her to walk and eventually she couldn't get out of bed.

I remember the service they had after she passed. Mike cried a little bit but he seemed okay. I comforted him as best as I could and tried to imagine life without my own mother. I still can't. The hardest part was when Grant, Mike's dad, talked about Jane. He cried through most of the eulogy; it was obvious how much he had loved his wife.

Jane was an English teacher by trade and an activist at heart, as well as a caring, intelligent mother. She was always kind to me and I hope the man I am today would make her proud.

Leeky, Leeky, leeky.
Shit. Fuck. cunt.
freedom is a dirty
word...

Back to stark reality.

Satan: Hello Tom.

Tom: Hello Satan.

Satan: Tom, you don't intend to use me on this page as some sort of twisted extension of your superego, do you?

Tom: What do you mean?

Satan: I mean are you going to use this page to think out loud, all the while pretending I'm someone else telling you what you already know you should do but never will?

Tom: Um, yeah.

Satan: And you know that I'm just a variation of Melinda Mattos' "Careful Observer"?

Tom: What?

Satan: Melinda Mattos had a blog called "Reality Sandwiches" and on it she would occasionally have conversations with herself under the guise of the "Careful Observer". You thought she was pretty cute for a geek-goth chick and you even managed to get her to respond to a few of your emails but then you gave up because she wouldn't answer any of your questions unless they were about blogging. In fact, I'll bet you'd still like to squish your upstretched cock in between her soft, warm Canadian titties.

Tom: So?

Satan: My cock is bigger than yours.

Tom: Fuck you.

"I refuse to recognize the terms hetero-, bi-, and homo-sexual. Everybody has exactly the same sexual needs. People are just sexual, the prefix is immaterial."

-Morrissey

A response to the recent ruling of the Federal Appeals court of the western region of the United States, that ruled that the Pledge of Allegance should not be recited in schools:

"I think it should be banned, but for a totally
different reason. It should be banned because it
prohibits free thought. It is basically a brain-
washing technique used on children who have no
choice (or decision making ability) of whether or
not to say it. I think it squelches free thought
by making people believe that the American govt.
is ALWAYS right because you are forced to pledge
your allegiance.

This nation is built on the premise that the
people have the power, not the govt. and thus
pledging your allegiance to the govt. is basically
like forfieting your power to the govt. and is
inherently un-American.

I mean seriously, did you know what Liberty or
Justice meant when you were a kid? Did you think
about its ramifications? How many adults really do?
Why should they? They've pledged their allegiance
already.

Further, the American govt. has not always endorsed
"liberty and justice for all". What about black people,
native Americans, or Asians? All of them were enslaved
(if they were lucky, the indians got genocide).

The American govt. is not always right, and it is
the people's duty to change what is wrong. Pledging
allegiance to me is almost like 1984..."

-Aaron Cohen
-um...I mean, Ray Holmes...yeah...

Breastsss

Often, while surfing for porn, one will run across ads that say stuff like "Tired of Silicone Stuffed Titties..." and things of that nature. Once they've "sucked" you in with their brilliant marketing ploy, you're usually whisked away to some site full of chubby, unattractive women. Of course, I'm only telling you what I've heard.

You see, I have this friend who was surfing for porn the other day, and he told me about the "Tired of Silicone stuffed...blah, blah, blah" ad and it got me thinking. After several nanoseconds of deep thought, I realized that my answer was...no, not at all. Why should I be tired of enhanced breasts. I like breasts. They're fun. Why should I be upset if they are a little larger and perkier than other pairs of boobies?

However in all seriousness, this is actually something that I've given thought to because two women who are very close to me have had breast enhancement operations. For the sake of anonymity we will refer to them as woman1 and woman2. One day woman1 decided that she was going to get a boob job. I could not understand this. "Why would you want to change what you have?" I asked. "Because I think it will make me feel more confident," she replied. "Whatever," I said to myself. It's not that I wanted to prevent woman1 from having the operation, I just didn't understand why she wanted to do it in the first place. In spite of my questions, woman1 had her enhancement and was happy (which made me happy).

Spurred on by woman1's successful operation, woman2 decided that she might like to try it. As I was in a slightly better position to talk to woman2 about the operation than I was with woman1, I asked woman2 similar questions. "Why would you want to do that?" "Because it will make me feel better about myself. All my life I've always been 'one of the guys.' I don't want to be one of the guys. I want to stand out and feel like a woman," was her response. This got me thinking again.

Sexual dimorphism among Homo sapiens is not very pronounced. Much of our gender recognition is based on social aspects. A man can look like a woman (and vice versa) by following the formula for "woman in particular society" (long hair, make-up, dress/skirt, etc.). One of the very few noticeable physical characteristics that makes a female a female in human society is breast size. Women generally have larger, more pronounced breasts than men. With that in mind I began to think about the breast enhancement operations, and it began to make a little more sense. For a woman who feels that she may be lacking in bust size, it could be a very large (no pun intended) boost in confidence if she could increase her breast size. Perhaps she might feel more sexually attractive, or even longed after. Why wouldn't a woman want to feel that way? Don't we all want to feel that way?

So, after all of that bullshit, I say to the porno ad people, "Fuck you! Let women be beautiful their own way. If it makes them happier and more confident, then maybe I'll actually have a chance to get laid..."

"Everyone in this room is wearing a uniform, and don't kid yourself."

-Frank Zappa, Burnt Weeny Sandwich

Literary Genius

We should change the name of my page from "Why I'm Smarter Than You" to "How To Use Comma Splices."

I haven't posted shit because I've been doing other things. So fuck you.

I discovered the second movement of Beethoven's seventh symphony during my junior year in high school as my family was falling apart. I used to fall asleep to it every night, looking outside the window up at the black night sky, as my mother and father fought for the last few times. I imagined leaping out of my bedroom window and running across the rooftops, soaring into the dark sky and staying there forever.

The second movement of Beethoven's seventh symphony still moves me to tears, for the same reasons it always has. It is by turns utterly dark and utterly blithe. The music reflects the contrasting forces that have always shaped my perception of the world. It reminds me that salvation lies in accepting the complete, utter futility of human existence while still being able to laugh and weep and hold the people you love, all the while feeling everything around you, brilliantly. lt's still difficult to listen to.

I remember this one time, I must have been about eight or nine years old, I stole a bunch of money from my best friend Mike's house. I used to walk home with him and his little brother Brinton everyday after school. Our parents had hired this cute college chick named Terry to watch us at Mike and Brinton's house until they got home. I don't remember exactly why or how, but for some reason I was in the garage all by myself, somewhere in the vicinity of the washer and dryer. The bottom panel fell off the dryer as I was on my way out. I stopped to put it back on and when I knelt down I saw a LARGE amount of gold and silver coins, just out of sight, right underneath the dryer.

I sat there for a second before reaching out and scooping up a big handful. Then I took some more. And more. And more. I remember being very afraid I would get caught, but it was also very exhilarating; completely, utterly consumed by greed, I thought I'd never have to worry about money again. I waddled out of the garage and into the house looking completely guilty, pockets bulging with linty coinage.

I was smart enough not to flash the money until I got home. I had been sitting at the dining room table for some time, arranging the coins into neat stacks, when my mom and dad walked in and sat at the other end of the table. They asked me how I happened to come by my newly acquired wealth and I told them I had been saving up the change from my lunch money. For a long time now. A long, long time.

I was full of shit. But I must have insisted convincingly enough because eventually they left me alone. I don't remember what I spent the money on.

What the fuck is up with the stupid people who are "driving" on the road? Yesterday I was on a freeway offramp where after a curve you have a lane that ends and you need to change lanes. The guy in front of me comes to a complete stop and is unable to pull out to change lanes. I yelled "ALL YOU HAVE TO DO IS DRIVE IN YOUR LANE THEN MERGE OVER!" but he did not listen so I drove over the curb to get around him and then forced the car in the next lane to slam on its brakes just so I could get around this asshole who CAN'T FUCKING DRIVE!!! I really need to install my 130dB horn before these people drive any worse.

Aaron's Driving Tips:
1) If turning right, pull into the bike lane. There's no reason why your SUV needs a 40 foot turning radius, so get out of my way.
2) When merging, don't panic. Just drive and things usually take care of themselves.
3) If by the grace of God I actually give you the right of way, it's probably because you have it. Don't wave me through or look at me with a blank face. Drive and get the fuck out of my way.
4) If I honk at you, realize that you probably did something stupid. Deal with your personal inadequacies. Don't get mad and cut me off or give me the "stare of death" or any of that petty shit. Learn to drive and you will avoid my 130dB correction device.
5) Don't get upset about turn signals. If I'm driving 20 MPH faster than you, warning you about going into your lane is pretty moot.
6) Drive the speed limit. If you drive the speed limit and I pass you, that's my problem. If you drive slower, expect my horn. Most cars have twice the horsepower of my little 4-cylinder purple Cavalier, so you have no excuse.
7) Finally, if you do anything so stupid that you piss me off, I have license to do anything I want, no matter how unsafe, to get around your stupid ass.

My friend Linh bought me a journal for my birthday last year. On the cover it says "A Journal With Words of Thich Nhat Hanh, Finding Our True Home." Thich Nhat Hanh is a poet, Zen master, and peace activist who was nominated by Martin Luther King Jr. for the Nobel Peace Prize. In exile from his native Vietnam since 1966, he lives in Plum Village, the meditation community he founded in southwestern France. As of today the journal is about 1/4 of the way filled with my poetry, potential song lyrics, and other assorted ramblings. Every other page or so there's a quote from Thich Nhat Hanh, and it's interesting to compare his words with mine. Some of my favorites:

Thich Nhat Hanh: Seeing and loving always go together...Great understanding goes with great compassion.
Tom: Well...I'm stuck in this house all day long, so I don't really have much to compare myself to.

Thich Nhat Hanh: If you love someone, the greatest gift you can give them is your presence.
Tom: One day in Women's Studies class I was thinking about pornography.

Thich Nhat Hanh: By making peace with our parents, in us we have a chance to make real peace with ourselves.
Tom: I came to the body of the dying girl and laid down beside her.

Thich Nhat Hanh: A smile refreshes your whole being and strengthens your practice. Don't be afraid to smile.
Tom: I fantasize about fucking a girl who understands.

Thich Nhat Hanh: Please make yourself into someone we can rely on.
Tom: It was everything I needed to fall completely in lust.

Thich Nhat Hanh: Follow your breathing, dwell mindfully on your steps, and soon you will find your balance. Visualize a tiger walking slowly, and you will find that your steps become as majestic as hers.

Tom: I slid my cock halfway in. It was tight, gloriously tight. She gasped and held me even tighter. I pushed it the rest of the way in and paused. My cock stiffened more than I ever imagined it could, utterly filling the sweet, hot, moist cavity of her vagina. I brought it out, slowly, then pushed it back in again. It became too much for me and I did the only thing I could do: I ravished her. I tore her apart with all the skill I could muster. She came before me in a beautiful, back-arching spasm and when it was my turn, I came with a powerful, surging force, my seed utterly filling the confines of her exquisite cunt.

It looks as if Dirtbike will be taking a sabbatical for a while, perhaps a summer if I understand correctly. For the few people that actually read this webpage, I guess this is something you should know. I think it is unfortunate, but everyone is pretty burnt out. Shows like Club Xanth and Joe & Andy's Hole in the Wall really seem to take the steam right out of us, and morale is pretty low right now. We have disbanded once before and came back with a lot of new material, and perhaps that can happen again, although there is no guarantee that we will continue playing at all. If this is the case, I'd like to thank everyone for your support of our music and for being there at all our shows. If not, we expect you to come on our grand reunion tour of SD county.

What I wish they paid me to do:

Sit in a little office room, cool and comfortable
turn computer on, drink orange juice
read email, send email
surf the web for news, pornography, and mp3s
masturbate
nap
wake up
play violent computer games
modify personal website
compose for a while
play acoustic guitar
read email, send email
masturbate
nap
wake up
go home

O Blasphemer!

Last week, as I was walking back to my car, I passed a girl, getting into her car, who sneezed. After a few moments, she must have realized that I was not going to say anything. She then proceeded to very blatantly exclaim, "Bless me!" obviously implying that I was some sort of asshole. I almost replied, "I don't believe in your god, and I don't believe in blessings. And frankly, I find it rather rude that you would expect me to proffer up some out-dated colloquialism to satisfy you ill-founded beliefs." Instead, I just stared at her for an uncomfortably long time...

Poop

And speaking of poop... For as long as I can remember, I've always felt that defecation and flatulence are amusing phenomena. But it wasn't until yesterday that I figured out why. While I was pooping, I imagined a kingly white male, whose arrogance is expressed in the pronounced wrinkles one acquires from smirking at those "beneath" him. I imagined this man, who fancies himself a master of women, a conquerer of men, and a crusader against all that he deems inappropriate, squatting over a bowl, with his pants in a bunch around his ankles, grunting and breathing heavily as a log of excrement, complete with undigested corn, plops into the unfortunate waters below him. Now that's fuckin' funny.

Bathroom Philosophy

Every Thursday, at school, I have to take a crap because I'm stuck there for almost 11 hours. The bathroom I frequent on those special days is a small, quaint deal that's conveniently out of the way. So, imagine my surprise when I saw grafitti in "my" stall. However, this was no ordinary grafitti. It was (almost) so compelling that I felt I had to throw in my two cents, marking the first time I have ever defaced a public facility...with a black pen. A transcription follows (my contributions are italicized because I'm special):

"Everyday is tomorrows [sic] future."

"No it's not. Everyday is yesterday's future. You are a dumb ass. If you don't like it, EAT A DIC" (pen obviously runs out of ink)

"You're both stupid. Every day is today's future."

"Technically, every day is a part of the future, which is bigger than just yesterday, today, or tomorrow."

"Except that the future can't exist any time but now."

"Yes!!"

Psychological Egoism is inescapable...

Emotional torture-erotica? That's fucking BRILLIANT!

Jesus Christ, every fucking time I log onto this website you sink further and further into your own cesspool of emotional torture-erotica. What is the true problem, Tea-bagg? Are you suicidal or horny? Anxious or desperate? Your ambivalence is really starting to annoy me. You need to ask yourself one question "What do I want?" and then do the exact opposite of it every fucking time because your hedonism has made you an empty shell, a fire that constantly needs the fuel of self-gratification. You owe me five dollars, bitch!

Reality is an even scarier thing than shit-covered death.

That's why, lately, I've been doing drugs.

I used to worry that after I had sex I wouldn't feel anything. I was afraid that I would lose my soul, that I would lose all sense of identity and become nothing more than an empty shell. Having since survived several sexual relationships I have found the opposite to be true. As I get older, my consciousness continues to grow, and with it the capacity to experience emotions on a wider scale than I ever thought possible. Maybe that's why old people don't talk too much, and when they do, it's usually about nothing. Maybe it's because only the interesting die young.

At times it seems that my grip on reality is tenuous at best, that the anchors which usually weigh me somewhat securely to my place in the space-time continuum are cast hopelessly adrift. My friends, my family, my city, my apartment, my bedroom, my clothes, my hands, my feet, my entire body...I feel so utterly disconnected from all of them. I exist only as pure consciousness and am forced to see everything around me as it truly is: ephemeral, temporary, utterly fragile. In ten thousand years everything I've ever loved or hated will have been utterly annihilated by the hideous, meticulous passage of time. I'm not sure if this is what inspired

my new poem.

When I was younger I was always intrigued by people who exuded intelligence and capability without saying much. I aspired to be like them, radiating the same sense of quiet, sanguine wisdom.

Right now I don't feel like talking much, that's for sure. But I probably still do. I think I get it from my dad:

Dude, I don't get it? Is Kate going out with Dominic still? Are you going out with Annavelle again? What the hell is going on?

I was doing my laundry when another neighbor in my apartments left a note saying "come by apt 153 when you are done, thanks". So after I changed my laundry, I go to the next apartment over and a woman opens the door wearing a bikini (probably because all her clothes were dirty). I was shocked to see this neighbor of mine wearing what is basically her underwear. She smiled warmly and I realized my attraction to her. This attraction was not "good" since I am getting married soon.

I thought about this for a while because I love my girlfriend a lot and yet my thoughts betray me. My belief is it is not unnatural to find other women attractive, but love is much more than just attraction. I am attracted to my girlfriend, but she is not the only attractive woman in the world. I have a strong connection with my girlfriend, however, that is much harder to find than simple beauty. After thinking it through, I am not threatened by committment to her because I love who she is as well as finding her attractive. All and all, I think I just wish my girlfriend wore bikinis.

The gig at Club Xanth was kind of pointless. We only got to play for a half hour and our people had to pay eight (8) whole dawllers to see us. Knowing our few bastard unloyal fans we'll be lucky if anybody shows up at our next show. We didn't have much of a chance to expand our fanbase either: when each band set up their friends came in, watched them play, clapped, and then left as soon as the band stopped playing. All this on a Friday night... I'm just glad for the friends who did come to our show. I am eternally grateful to all (yes even you Dominic) and if any of you would like me to put your picture up on the website, I will.

About a week and a half ago I realized that the one great goal of my life is to make something of myself in a relationship. All else comes naturally for me, all else comes easily. In all other things the next step is always there, right in front of me. Only after privately and pathetically fiending for every woman I saw, after masturbating four (4) times a day to bad pornography, only after weeks of melancholic despair did it finally dawn on me that my heart was broken by my break-up with Annavelle.

Thank goodness she didn't stop loving me.

I was sitting in my ethnomusicology class today watching a video about Japanese court music when I suddenly and quite unexpectedly heard the unmistakable sound of an approaching didgeridoo. All heads turned and looked out of the window in time to see my dear friend Bob bark at something from the second story balcony of the music building. He was with two other guys and one of them had the didgeridoo. They laughed and moved on, leaving my classmates stunned and confused. Luckily no one saw or heard me snickering in my seat at the back of the classroom.

Hoo boy, now we've got a commenting system courtesy of blogKomm. This should catapult our site to the very PINNACLES of success.

Homeric Genius

"Twenty dollars! I wanted a peanut. 'Wait! Twenty dollars can buy many peanuts!' Explain. 'Money can be exchanged for goods and services.' Woo-hoo!"

For some reason I rewrote the lyrics to "Lonely Cheese." Tom's are much better.

Lonely Me

Worthless, lament my own life.
It's not that I'd ever fight back.

Sometimes I find a modicum
of strength and will, and yet I feel

I wish I had the capacity
to stand up tall; to ignore the falls.
I'd have a philanthropical attitude to all
The only thing stopping me is my own internal hatred.

I can't let go of these psychopathic thoughts
they tear at me. I can't see with blind, blood-red eyes.
Wake up, sleep deprived, crying in my head,
"Yes sir. No sir. Please beat me 'til I'm dead."
Stygian mind, desolate; no response.
Fear coagulates, spews from my eyes.
My stench offends their pedicured lives.
"It was a dream. It is a dream? Where am I."

Nietzsche was lying: good and bad
search for truth; insanity.
It is inside us and all around
but still I find from time to time

"...the composer reveals the innermost nature of the world, and expresses the profoundest wisdom in a language that his reasoning faculty does not understand."

Yesterday I got to participate in the humiliating game of Traffic Court. I'm not sure what the cause may be but lately I've been filled with the most ravenous, insatiable lust. Standing in line to check in with the court clerk became a tortuous mind game the minute I spotted a petite Mexicana several people ahead of me. The sight of her thin shapely thighs, compact protruding butt, B-cup perky breasts, and light, creamy brown complexion caused my thick blood to boil unbearably. She had a man with her but I couldn't tell if they were together. The safest thing to do seemed to be to wait until I got home and feverishly masturbate to the thought of her. All throughout the day I couldn't think of anything thing but her, moaning with pleasure as I thrust in and out of her from the rear, her buttocks rhythmically quivering with each of my measured, lengthy strokes. The clerk had to call my name twice.

When I entered the courtroom it wasn't any better. Two rows in front of me a very sweet, tan young Mid-Eastern looking thing sat next to a tough-looking white guy. The tough-looking white guy was thin and at least several inches shorter than me. I was sure my cock was at least several inches larger than his. I wanted to rip his head off and roar away with his sweet young thing on the back of my motorcycle before his body hit the floor. I'd speed over to my apartment, kick the door down, and throw her on my bed. With one motion I would rip her clothes off with one hand and mine with the other, revealing my huge, swollen, completely erect penis. After seeing the look of my own unbearable desire mirrored in her eyes, I imagined myself grabbing her by the ankles, lifting them high in the air, and pounding away until the shockwaves of a violent orgasm rocked her body. The force of her climax would trigger my own, allowing me just enough time to pull out and drench her face in my own ejaculation.

I'm sure this has something to do with my recent break-up. I will continue to stay in-doors for the time being.

I have often read or heard about the damaging effects numerous unloving relationships can have on the female psyche, i.e. how she feels about herself, how she feels about her body, low self-esteem, etc. Nowhere have I heard about the damaging effects of numerous unloving relationships on the emotional well-being /development of men, particularly those in their formative years. Instead we are led to belive that more is always better, that two women in bed will make us happy, that the brain is not a sex organ. Wanting one woman to spend the rest of our lives with is not discussed or encouraged by society at large.

Concurrently, when a young man cannot achieve an erection he is said to be "not performing", despite the possibility that he may simply feel uncomfortable in a situation where he is expected to mimic the behavior and emotional maturity of a draft horse. The female in this situation may feel that since her partner has not responded with robot-like efficiency he doesn't find her physically attractive. She may even be led to exact some sort of public revenge upon her partner, calling into question his sexual ability, orientation, and overall worth as a member of the human race.

In my expericence, nothing inflates a penis faster than love, trust, and true erotic desire.

I went over to my dad's house today because I didn't want to be alone. He started yelling at me about cleaning his garage and within five minutes of walking in the door I had burst into tears and sank to the floor in a defeated mess. I thought about it for a while and figured that breaking up should come easier with experience but each one is still more painful than the last.

And here I lay.

The other night, before Annavelle and I broke up, I had a dream that I was in her ex-boyfriend's house. It was the second dream in which I've had a rational conversation with the man despite his real-life silence the one time we ever met. I have the impression that I wound up in his house after walking a considerable distance and I remember that I had been wearing two shirts. I took both of the shirts off to cool down and began talking to him about Annavelle. We shared a lot of the same observations and surmised that other friends and family of hers would have shared them too had they been present. The discussion continued for a while, almost pleasantly, and eventually I excused myself and turned to leave. He lives with his cousin and in the dream his cousin appeared as a threatening Caucasian male who got in my way as I was trying to leave. I put on one of my shirts and made it to the front door, despite the obnoxious cousin's attempts to forcibly prevent me from leaving. When I got to the door I realized that I had left my other shirt behind. I remember thinking in the dream that I already had a shirt and that there was no logical reason to go back for the other one but I did so anyways. The obnoxious cousin got in my face again and bullied me for an indeterminate length of time. I woke up before I ever managed to escape from the house.

When I was in high school I got a job as a cashier at Rally's Hamburgers. It was my first real job. I was 16.

Some of the older guys that worked there were weird. Johnny was just an asshole. He made fun of me for being a virgin. When he asked me in front of everyone if I'd ever slept with anyone I told him that I didn't think it was any of his business and then everyone knew. I still don't think it was any of his business. "You'll be going down on it," Johnny said one time, "And be licking and slurping and gettin' that juice all over your face. Then you stick your dick in it and that pussy'll start farting: thbb, thbbbb, thbbbbbb..." He took it upon himself to "prepare" me. I had a close friend who worked at a coffee stand near Rally's and occasionally she'd come to see me. When she'd leave Johnny would descend on me like a hawk and ask if I was gonna nail her later that night. I usually just turned red and shrugged him off.

Lucio would pat my ass and ask, "Cuantos? Cuantos, Thomas?" Sometimes he'd sneak up behind me and pick me up in a reverse bear hug. The first few times he did it I tried to laugh it off but eventually I fought him. The minute he touched me I'd kick his shins with the heel of my shoes and punch him until he let me go. Despite that I kind of liked Lucio. He could be cool sometimes.

The store manager was a workaholic named Alfredo Lemus. He taught me what it meant to be punctual, efficient, and totally enslaved. I thank him every time I set foot on San Diego State University.

Angel was a very nice, mild-mannered immigrant who sent money back to his family in Mexico. He had a good, gentle sense of humor and I always liked talking with him. It was usually me, him, and Lucio closing the store, and most nights we got along pretty well.

But looking back on it I still say Fuck Rally's, and everyone who worked there.

So the way I figure it I'm turning out to be some sort of neurotic love relativist. I've determined that no existing model of a man/woman reproductive relationship matches the one that I've built in my head because the one in my head is the only such model in existence. Entertaining the notion that other models presented to me by friends, family, and art may be just as real as my own is often tiresome as well as boring but through this study I eventually find myself approaching what can only be described as a Buddhist sense of detachment. Ultimately I do not want to practice manipulation in any of my human relationships be it through guilt, deception, or outright terror tactics. I want people to be infatuated with me of their own accord, on account of the entertaining, empathic person that I am.

---

2 for Mr. Ass:

1. You might be famous but at least I can figure own how to make my posts bold when I want them to be.
2. We can play whatever you want, as long as I still get to hate Phil.

I think we should play "Death Metal Country." Then even more people could hate us.

---

Correction, ass: I'm famous.

---

It's okay Aaron. Even though all the pain and despair you've wished on me for the past 10 years is finally coming to fruition, I still love you. And after all...

Someone noticed our blog! Check it out everyone...on Monday the 4th something Ray said got quoted on some best of the blogs blog. We're fuckin famous!

I just realized that 2002 has not been kind to any of my friends. Tom has just been laid off from his job Monday and his car died in January and has no money to fix it. Ray has been unemployed for six months, just got kicked out of the house he was living in and had to move in with his mother, and barely had enough money to fix his car. Phil has never really had a job. Band friend Dominic is unemployed and living with his parents in Encinitas. Band Friend Bob lives in a house next to his in-laws in Ramona whose house just burned down on Tuesday morning. I'm sorry guys, there's been a lot of horrible shit going down. Maybe we should be a country western band from now on.

Aaron used to have long hair. Due to the frizzy nature of his hair it was usually as wide as it was long. Last week I ran across an old picture of him playing bass at some long-forgotten show and started fantasizing about what his hair may have looked like if he had never cut it.

I got really bored at work on Friday so I tried coming up with new ideas for the website. Instead I made this:

---

Annavelle and I finished our painting on Friday night after eating some very good apple pie. I will include a picture of it at some point (the painting). It is the fourth painting I have completed in my adult life, the second one that has been a joint effort. The cathartic effects of painting are staggering. A blank white canvas and cheap latex paint fills me with an incredibly welcome sense of responsibility; to myself, to god, Annavelle, my friends, my family, my unborn children, their unborn children, to the canvas itself...

The weekend was pretty relaxing and ended with us reading through the waning hours of Sunday night. She had picked up my copy of Iceberg Slim's "Pimp" and I was researching a midterm for my Women's Studies class. Life can be a pretty sweet fruit.

I was all upset because I haven't posted anything to the 'blog in quite few days. It's not that I don't have anything to say...I just don't wanna say it. I'm kinda lazy, I'll admit that...but I've never been good at keeping a journal. I am a LOUD MOTHERFUCKER. I want people to hear what I'm thinking. That's why I'm a ROCK STAR. Some of the shit I go through is really hard to talk about, painful and shit. I don't even feel the inclination to write that stuff down in a private journal.

What I'm trying to say is, thank god for Ray. He knows.

The Eternal Sadist

Let me in!
Let me in!

Not by the hair of your chinny-chin-chin.
You must suffer and wait.
Your lot is there.
Live life proper, grim and bare.

I don't want to wait;
I want to get in.
I'll speed to my death.
I won't wait for the rest.

These rules exist.
They cannot be bent.
I made them in time,
That you would not die.

I suffer and wait.
I can no longer stand it.
Please let me expire,
That I might rise higher.

You will suffer and wait;
It's accord to my plan.
Elders will say,
"You've much more to pay."

---

"Subduction leads to Orogeny"

I saw a sticker expressing this phrase on one of the doors of the ES (Earth Sciences) building at the infamous Palomar College today. Because I had absolutely no idea what it meant, I decided to write it down and make an attempt to elucidate the mystery as soon as I got home. Imagine my disappointment when I found out that the phrase in question had no sexual connotations whatsoever...at least in the literal sense.