20020731
20020730
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…"
"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.
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.
20020729
20020726
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.
"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.
20020725
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.
"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.
20020723
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.
"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.
20020722
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.
"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.
20020718
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.
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.
20020717
20020715
20020711
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.
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.
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