20030721
The Show
His eyes met her gleam from across the floor. Her pull was magnetic. He had to go to her; to touch her. To hold her.
The palm of his hand gently stroked the back of her neck, as if he was unsure of where to start. His fingers began to move slowly, mechanically. His other hand grazed her belly and sent electric signals up her spine.
She was at his command.
His fingers began to move wildly, yet always in intricate patterns. He began to shift his hand up her neck, increasing the tension. His other hand strummed and played more violently at her midsection.
They watched him in awe from afar. Amazement betrayed their composure as they realized the intensity with which he controlled her. It was a feat that surely, they themselves, could not perform.
His hand continued to creep up her neck. His fingers flying more violently with every heartbeat. Always moving. Always increasing the pressure. His other hand nearly pounded at her midsection. He began to grind his pelvis into her back, gyrating seductively.
His hand, still moving up her neck, flew quickly now. The tension was unbearable. She began to squeal a shrill tortured cry. His hand beat and banged, his groin still grinding into her back, as his other hand finally reached the top of her neck. He held her there as she let out an orgasmic scream, a sustained cry of pleasure. And then they collapsed together.
They clapped.
He bowed.
His eyes met her gleam from across the floor. Her pull was magnetic. He had to go to her; to touch her. To hold her.
The palm of his hand gently stroked the back of her neck, as if he was unsure of where to start. His fingers began to move slowly, mechanically. His other hand grazed her belly and sent electric signals up her spine.
She was at his command.
His fingers began to move wildly, yet always in intricate patterns. He began to shift his hand up her neck, increasing the tension. His other hand strummed and played more violently at her midsection.
They watched him in awe from afar. Amazement betrayed their composure as they realized the intensity with which he controlled her. It was a feat that surely, they themselves, could not perform.
His hand continued to creep up her neck. His fingers flying more violently with every heartbeat. Always moving. Always increasing the pressure. His other hand nearly pounded at her midsection. He began to grind his pelvis into her back, gyrating seductively.
His hand, still moving up her neck, flew quickly now. The tension was unbearable. She began to squeal a shrill tortured cry. His hand beat and banged, his groin still grinding into her back, as his other hand finally reached the top of her neck. He held her there as she let out an orgasmic scream, a sustained cry of pleasure. And then they collapsed together.
They clapped.
He bowed.
DOM ON DREAMS
I am much more interesting asleep than awake and here is why...
Whenever I dream it involves one of these main topics, many of them violent and/or disturbing:
Fighting a HUGE battle for my backyard.
Being chased by bad guys, hellecoptors or "robotic sharks"
Finding a place to live...underground.
Buying or getting something very interesting of monetary worth and only after the first minutes of being awake do I realize that I didn't really get it. For example: Neil Young's guitar with bottle caps stuck to it or that lunar rover with the lowrider wheels (1 of only 5 made mind you).
Music. Very pretty music played by very dirty people.
Being interviewed and vomiting on my interviewer because I'm supposed to be some artistic "genius".
There are certain things however that remain consistant:
I can fly if I really need to yet when I do most topography looks like MS Flight Simulator.
Somehow fish (robotic sharks) are involved usually in an aquarium or large body of water. Often I have to save them from dying by putting dried fish into a bucket of water. Just like reconstituted onions in a fine packaged broth.
I can't run normally, but if I move my legs slowly and push off very hard I can bound for great lenghts, thus outpacing my opponent/would be murderer.
I don't look anything like myself. Rather I am a much better looking person with a completely different voice.
I know kung fu.
I am much more interesting asleep than awake and here is why...
Whenever I dream it involves one of these main topics, many of them violent and/or disturbing:
Fighting a HUGE battle for my backyard.
Being chased by bad guys, hellecoptors or "robotic sharks"
Finding a place to live...underground.
Buying or getting something very interesting of monetary worth and only after the first minutes of being awake do I realize that I didn't really get it. For example: Neil Young's guitar with bottle caps stuck to it or that lunar rover with the lowrider wheels (1 of only 5 made mind you).
Music. Very pretty music played by very dirty people.
Being interviewed and vomiting on my interviewer because I'm supposed to be some artistic "genius".
There are certain things however that remain consistant:
I can fly if I really need to yet when I do most topography looks like MS Flight Simulator.
Somehow fish (robotic sharks) are involved usually in an aquarium or large body of water. Often I have to save them from dying by putting dried fish into a bucket of water. Just like reconstituted onions in a fine packaged broth.
I can't run normally, but if I move my legs slowly and push off very hard I can bound for great lenghts, thus outpacing my opponent/would be murderer.
I don't look anything like myself. Rather I am a much better looking person with a completely different voice.
I know kung fu.
Almost a week ago I broke up with my girlfriend. I am sad and lonely. I think it was the right thing to do.
A few days ago we did the mutual exchange of belongings. She gave me back a mix CD I made for her. I wrote "Chansons de l'amour pour ma petite amie, si belle..." on it.
It hurts to look at it, but the songs are so good I just can't help but be proud- Otis Redding, Al Green, Lauryn Hill, The Strokes, 50 Cent, The Doors, The Beatles...
A few days ago we did the mutual exchange of belongings. She gave me back a mix CD I made for her. I wrote "Chansons de l'amour pour ma petite amie, si belle..." on it.
It hurts to look at it, but the songs are so good I just can't help but be proud- Otis Redding, Al Green, Lauryn Hill, The Strokes, 50 Cent, The Doors, The Beatles...
This is my new "thrash metal" song. I'm quite proud of it. It's called:
Go To Hell
Kill yer dog; Drink its blood. (fast)
Masturbate; Pound yer pud.
Tell Jesus Christ to suck yer dick
And his flock of sheep to eat your shit.
GO TO HELL! (half time)
GO TO HELL!
Fuck yer brother; Fuck yer mom.
Hit a church with a home made bomb.
Drop acid every other night
Find a priest and pick a fight.
GO TO HELL!
GO TO HELL!
(Guitar solo)
Steal a car; Kill a cop.
Sit around and eat a lot.
Stab a child with a hunting knife.
Covet every neighbor's wife.
GO TO HELL!
GO TO HELL!
Go To Hell
Kill yer dog; Drink its blood. (fast)
Masturbate; Pound yer pud.
Tell Jesus Christ to suck yer dick
And his flock of sheep to eat your shit.
GO TO HELL! (half time)
GO TO HELL!
Fuck yer brother; Fuck yer mom.
Hit a church with a home made bomb.
Drop acid every other night
Find a priest and pick a fight.
GO TO HELL!
GO TO HELL!
(Guitar solo)
Steal a car; Kill a cop.
Sit around and eat a lot.
Stab a child with a hunting knife.
Covet every neighbor's wife.
GO TO HELL!
GO TO HELL!
20030720
"No longer empty and frantic like a cat tied to a stick"
My wife's friend was just dropped off at our house, crying as we met her. Her boyfriend had verbally assaulted her on the car drive over to the point where she jumped out of a (slowly) moving car. Her desire not to listen to Rage Against the Machine was the culprit this time. Instead of a weekend trip to the zoo, she is without a car, respect, and probably boyfriend and roommate. I once jumped out of a moving car from a verbal lashing. I got three cuts on my arms and shoulders, as well as ruined my wallet, a gift from my family. It really sucked, but life moved on. I never respected the person the same way though. The person was not my lover, but a long time friend. I don't know how much of a glutton for punishment this girl is, but this isn't the first time, and if given another chance, it probably won't be the last.
My wife's friend was just dropped off at our house, crying as we met her. Her boyfriend had verbally assaulted her on the car drive over to the point where she jumped out of a (slowly) moving car. Her desire not to listen to Rage Against the Machine was the culprit this time. Instead of a weekend trip to the zoo, she is without a car, respect, and probably boyfriend and roommate. I once jumped out of a moving car from a verbal lashing. I got three cuts on my arms and shoulders, as well as ruined my wallet, a gift from my family. It really sucked, but life moved on. I never respected the person the same way though. The person was not my lover, but a long time friend. I don't know how much of a glutton for punishment this girl is, but this isn't the first time, and if given another chance, it probably won't be the last.
20030718
I believe that beat driven music has been the future of music for some time now, at least 50 or 60 years or so. None of my teachers at SDSU seem to understand this. I don't mean that it's just the future of popular music, I mean it's the future of serious composition as well. This is what I've been realizing over the past few months. The beat complexity in some new music is just as complex and thought out as any Bach melody.
I shouldn't have to justify this but given my current surrounding I feel I do. I also feel that my commentary is old news to a lot of people- hey, at least I'm getting with the program, better late than never. What I'm really trying to do is predict the future of music. It appears that all new music of value is scorned by the old school because it is too simplistic and can be explained away even to a non-musician in a matter of hours. That opinion, to me, is the height of naivete at best and at worst, the height of elite arrogance.
I shouldn't have to justify this but given my current surrounding I feel I do. I also feel that my commentary is old news to a lot of people- hey, at least I'm getting with the program, better late than never. What I'm really trying to do is predict the future of music. It appears that all new music of value is scorned by the old school because it is too simplistic and can be explained away even to a non-musician in a matter of hours. That opinion, to me, is the height of naivete at best and at worst, the height of elite arrogance.
The world is a snail, crawling across the pavement on a rainy day.
With instinct, it rushes into the great unknown
Maybe it will be better this time
Maybe there is more to life than standing still
Getting fat off the land
Hiding safely in the planter, eating flowers
The snail fears the summer heat
But he is fooled by the gentle rain
It sees its window of opportunity and charges
Foolish, foolish snail
You could not get out of the way of my shoe
With instinct, it rushes into the great unknown
Maybe it will be better this time
Maybe there is more to life than standing still
Getting fat off the land
Hiding safely in the planter, eating flowers
The snail fears the summer heat
But he is fooled by the gentle rain
It sees its window of opportunity and charges
Foolish, foolish snail
You could not get out of the way of my shoe
20030717
FUTILITY ON THE MOVE
As I sit here and ploddingly chip away at the leaning tower of items in my inbox waiting to be shipped all over the country, I ponder the stupidity of what I get paid for. Things arive, stay a while and then eventually go back to whence they came. I am just a layover in a vast pointless loop around the country. In New York someone signs a paper, sends it here to San Diego, someone looks at it and possibly stamps it PRIORITY, it ends up on my desk (in reality a dowdy folding picnic table with a computer on it) and I send it back. Many times I have wondered about typing a shipping slip, wrapping myself up and send myself along on a journey arriving at some dumfounded idiot's door punching them in the face affix a return slip to my forehead and arrive home the next day refreshed.
As I sit here and ploddingly chip away at the leaning tower of items in my inbox waiting to be shipped all over the country, I ponder the stupidity of what I get paid for. Things arive, stay a while and then eventually go back to whence they came. I am just a layover in a vast pointless loop around the country. In New York someone signs a paper, sends it here to San Diego, someone looks at it and possibly stamps it PRIORITY, it ends up on my desk (in reality a dowdy folding picnic table with a computer on it) and I send it back. Many times I have wondered about typing a shipping slip, wrapping myself up and send myself along on a journey arriving at some dumfounded idiot's door punching them in the face affix a return slip to my forehead and arrive home the next day refreshed.
20030716
Last night a man got stabbed across the street from my apartment. I'm not blaming George W. Bush for it but I think he's making harder for me to move out of the fucking neighborhood.
I read in Time magazine that Donald Rumsfeld says we're spending 3.9 billion dollars a month to occupy Iraq. Meanwhile the government is decreasing education funding to such an extent that some of the classes I need to graduate are no longer being offered.
How am I supposed to persue happiness when a rich man takes part of my wages and uses it to fund a war, rather than my education?
I can't help but feel that if we weren't still slaves to a master, subjects to a monarch, serfs to a tsar, our soldiers would stop fighting and come back to their homes.
I read in Time magazine that Donald Rumsfeld says we're spending 3.9 billion dollars a month to occupy Iraq. Meanwhile the government is decreasing education funding to such an extent that some of the classes I need to graduate are no longer being offered.
How am I supposed to persue happiness when a rich man takes part of my wages and uses it to fund a war, rather than my education?
I can't help but feel that if we weren't still slaves to a master, subjects to a monarch, serfs to a tsar, our soldiers would stop fighting and come back to their homes.
20030709
Bj's gay porno crazed ramblings?
Whenever I'm in a relationship, I freak out. I feel trapped when I can't communicate with the person I'm with. I was expressing this to Greg earlier today. He made me laugh despite myself:
De : DOUZON Gregory
A : tom amans
Objet : RE:______La_dinde_va_passer_Ã _la_casserole_:))
Get your pussy out of my seat !! I don't remember to who I spoke in these words (the words you taught me of course Hé hé hé) Was it Aaron or maybe Ray ?? I can't remember !
I see she is the one who tries to kill you by fucking over and over again... Pretty tough Thomas... A year of extreme fucking and still alive ?!!! Dammit !!! That's good !!
De : tom amans
A : DOUZON Gregory
Objet : RE:______La_dinde_va_passer_Ã _la_casserole_:))
No it's the opposite! I think I fuck her too much.
It's almost impossible to be subtle with that woman. If I want something from her I have to ask her very bluntly, many times. By the time she understands, I'm already very pissed off. Communication breakdown.
You said that to Bob. He still remembers it because he got totally destroyed!
De : DOUZON Gregory
A : tom amans
Objet : RE:______La_dinde_va_passer_Ã _la_casserole_:))
Oh Yeah Bob...
Ok I got it. You want to have the anus experience, right ? Well don't ask...and say you are sorry after...I mean when she stop howling STOOOOOOOOP
I need to go home and stop saying obscenities
I'm sure it's because Marilyn Manson..Be obscene..Be obscen..I like
this song..M Hé Hé Hé
Have a nice day Tom !
And don't forget : "Le mieux est l'ennemi du bien" !!!!
De : tom amans
A : DOUZON Gregory
Objet : RE:______La_dinde_va_passer_Ã _la_casserole_:))
Greg, you're...amazing.
De : DOUZON Gregory
A : tom amans
Objet : RE:______La_dinde_va_passer_Ã _la_casserole_:))
I hope I am amazingly funny and not amazingly thick ;-)))
Love
A bientôt !!
Whenever I'm in a relationship, I freak out. I feel trapped when I can't communicate with the person I'm with. I was expressing this to Greg earlier today. He made me laugh despite myself:
De : DOUZON Gregory
A : tom amans
Objet : RE:______La_dinde_va_passer_Ã _la_casserole_:))
Get your pussy out of my seat !! I don't remember to who I spoke in these words (the words you taught me of course Hé hé hé) Was it Aaron or maybe Ray ?? I can't remember !
I see she is the one who tries to kill you by fucking over and over again... Pretty tough Thomas... A year of extreme fucking and still alive ?!!! Dammit !!! That's good !!
De : tom amans
A : DOUZON Gregory
Objet : RE:______La_dinde_va_passer_Ã _la_casserole_:))
No it's the opposite! I think I fuck her too much.
It's almost impossible to be subtle with that woman. If I want something from her I have to ask her very bluntly, many times. By the time she understands, I'm already very pissed off. Communication breakdown.
You said that to Bob. He still remembers it because he got totally destroyed!
De : DOUZON Gregory
A : tom amans
Objet : RE:______La_dinde_va_passer_Ã _la_casserole_:))
Oh Yeah Bob...
Ok I got it. You want to have the anus experience, right ? Well don't ask...and say you are sorry after...I mean when she stop howling STOOOOOOOOP
I need to go home and stop saying obscenities
I'm sure it's because Marilyn Manson..Be obscene..Be obscen..I like
this song..M Hé Hé Hé
Have a nice day Tom !
And don't forget : "Le mieux est l'ennemi du bien" !!!!
De : tom amans
A : DOUZON Gregory
Objet : RE:______La_dinde_va_passer_Ã _la_casserole_:))
Greg, you're...amazing.
De : DOUZON Gregory
A : tom amans
Objet : RE:______La_dinde_va_passer_Ã _la_casserole_:))
I hope I am amazingly funny and not amazingly thick ;-)))
Love
A bientôt !!
20030624
Race Relations Part IV
I broke the news to Kelly. She got very upset and said it brought back childhood memories of friends' parents not letting her come over because she's black. She suggested that I go visit my grandparents while she waits with my stepmom.
No fucking way.
It makes me feel so ashamed, so dirty to have these people, so filled with misdirected rage, related to me at all. But I guess we don't choose our hands, do we? Aw fuck that platitude bullshit, I wonder what they would say if i was dating a black MAN. I mean, come on gramps, it's not THAT bad...
I broke the news to Kelly. She got very upset and said it brought back childhood memories of friends' parents not letting her come over because she's black. She suggested that I go visit my grandparents while she waits with my stepmom.
No fucking way.
It makes me feel so ashamed, so dirty to have these people, so filled with misdirected rage, related to me at all. But I guess we don't choose our hands, do we? Aw fuck that platitude bullshit, I wonder what they would say if i was dating a black MAN. I mean, come on gramps, it's not THAT bad...
20030623
I got a response from my grandparents. It was very concise; thank you for the warning and yes, a visit would be very uncomfortable at this time. Maybe later.
I think racism is an extreme form of displacement. Someone feels so badly about themselves or so completely not in control of their lives that hatred becomes an outlet. How else could someone despise the presence of someone they've never met and disown a family member? I dunno; it hurts more than I thought it would. That's probably why I was avoiding it.
I just want to explain to my grandfather that poon is poon. Black, white, brown- it all feels good. After that, it's all about what's attached to it; can you have a stimulating conversation with it, does it make you laugh, does it still love you after the hard times, when you curse and scream in a drunken fit?
I think racism is an extreme form of displacement. Someone feels so badly about themselves or so completely not in control of their lives that hatred becomes an outlet. How else could someone despise the presence of someone they've never met and disown a family member? I dunno; it hurts more than I thought it would. That's probably why I was avoiding it.
I just want to explain to my grandfather that poon is poon. Black, white, brown- it all feels good. After that, it's all about what's attached to it; can you have a stimulating conversation with it, does it make you laugh, does it still love you after the hard times, when you curse and scream in a drunken fit?
20030620
I made the mistake of reading an article on MSN about whiteness studies. The concept of race usually annoys me and this was no exception. I did a Google search on whiteness and found this website:
Apparently their mission is "to deliver a simple, sincere, message about ethnic stereotyping", by ethnic stereotyping. I thought it was pretty funny. At first glance I think someone could mistake it for a white supremacist site OR an anti-white site.
Ethnic stereotyping is usually okay with me, as long as it's funny. I'm thinking of sending my grandparents a Fighting Whites t-shirt for Christmas, just to mess with their heads.
Apparently their mission is "to deliver a simple, sincere, message about ethnic stereotyping", by ethnic stereotyping. I thought it was pretty funny. At first glance I think someone could mistake it for a white supremacist site OR an anti-white site.
Ethnic stereotyping is usually okay with me, as long as it's funny. I'm thinking of sending my grandparents a Fighting Whites t-shirt for Christmas, just to mess with their heads.
20030617
I'm going to visit my dad in August. He recently moved to an island several hundred yards off the coast of North Carolina. My maternal grandparents live on the same island a few miles away.
I would like to see them but I'm bringing my girlfriend, and they're flaming racists. Last night, I sent them this letter:
Grammy & Pop:
Hi there, it's me your grandson Tommy. I hope you guys are doing well, I'm doing pretty good out here. I finished the spring semester with a 3.84 so I'm pretty happy, even though I got one (1) B.
Anyhow, I was writing to let you know that I'm going to be coming out to North Carolina in late August and I would love to see you both. I'm bringing my girlfriend Kelly with me. I've been with her for over a year now and she's by far the nicest female I've ever been with. She is also a beautiful black lady; I wanted to let you both know ahead of time so as not to make anyone uncomfortable. I know she would love to meet my whole family and I can't wait to introduce her, but please let me know if you would rather wait until a later date.
your grandson,
Tommy
I swear I've read about this sort of thing before, but I never thought I'd have to deal with it in real life. I wonder if they know that if they don't get over it, they might not ever see me again. Sorry to be so dramatic.
I haven't told my girlfriend yet. Thank god she doesn't read this blog.
I would like to see them but I'm bringing my girlfriend, and they're flaming racists. Last night, I sent them this letter:
Grammy & Pop:
Hi there, it's me your grandson Tommy. I hope you guys are doing well, I'm doing pretty good out here. I finished the spring semester with a 3.84 so I'm pretty happy, even though I got one (1) B.
Anyhow, I was writing to let you know that I'm going to be coming out to North Carolina in late August and I would love to see you both. I'm bringing my girlfriend Kelly with me. I've been with her for over a year now and she's by far the nicest female I've ever been with. She is also a beautiful black lady; I wanted to let you both know ahead of time so as not to make anyone uncomfortable. I know she would love to meet my whole family and I can't wait to introduce her, but please let me know if you would rather wait until a later date.
your grandson,
Tommy
I swear I've read about this sort of thing before, but I never thought I'd have to deal with it in real life. I wonder if they know that if they don't get over it, they might not ever see me again. Sorry to be so dramatic.
I haven't told my girlfriend yet. Thank god she doesn't read this blog.
20030616
My dad used to piss me off a lot when I was a kid but we definitely had good times too. He used to work at a print shop that was situated in a medium-sized business park. There was a pool in the business park and for a few years he took me and my sister there almost every weekend. Looking back I'm not sure why it was so goddamn fun; the pool was pretty small, there were no diving boards or slides, and 9 times out of ten it would only be me, my dad, and my sister. I think it was fun because we made it fun. My dad was always good at conjuring fun out of thin air, if he happened to feel like it.
One afternoon we went to the pool and were dismayed to find a padlock on the gate. My sister and I were distraught until my father suggested we simply remove our festivities to the beach. When we got there, we rolled up all the windows and turned on the heater full-blast. It was already about 90 degrees outside and soon we were all dripping with sweat. I don't remember whose idea that was and I don't remember who was the first to break, but that was probably the only time I've run right from a car straight into the ocean.
Some years later my dad told me that we were never even supposed to be in that pool. Apparently it was the private property of one of the companies in the business park. "I didn't want you guys to worry about it", my dad said.
One afternoon we went to the pool and were dismayed to find a padlock on the gate. My sister and I were distraught until my father suggested we simply remove our festivities to the beach. When we got there, we rolled up all the windows and turned on the heater full-blast. It was already about 90 degrees outside and soon we were all dripping with sweat. I don't remember whose idea that was and I don't remember who was the first to break, but that was probably the only time I've run right from a car straight into the ocean.
Some years later my dad told me that we were never even supposed to be in that pool. Apparently it was the private property of one of the companies in the business park. "I didn't want you guys to worry about it", my dad said.
20030610
20030609
One day I was talking to Bob and he told me that he was afraid of being a Salieri. Sometimes I too wonder if I am damned to a life of mediocrity...and then I think about what would happen if I somehow went back in time and killed Jimmy Page. There would have been no Led Zeppelin. The greatest band in the world- never to be. Robert Plant would have been just another struggling musician who may or may not have ever made anything of himself, just like me. John Bonham would have continued laying pavement and arguing with his wife about quitting the drums. I don't know what would have happened to the other guy. Ha-ha. John Paul Jones would have remained a studio musician until the time came for him to unleash a diabolical, nine-part plan to take over the Avery Shipping Label Company.
It's not my fault I'm not a rock star. I just haven't met the right people.
It's not my fault I'm not a rock star. I just haven't met the right people.
20030605
20030601
Maturity School
I really need to find a job. I've been looking almost everyday; a few interviews with temp agencies and a few applications have been turned in. I guess it's time to start acting as desperate as I really am, which means taking anything that comes along: fast food, retail, telemarketing...
I spent 2 hours playing video games today instead of looking for a job. It was just such a beautiful Sunday.
Since I entered SDSU, I have had to relearn how to provide for myself. It is difficult making ends meet on a fixed income. I did a lot better at it in the spring than I did in the fall, so I'm trying to go easy on myself. Obviously I still have a lot to learn. What confuses me is that before I went back to school full-time, I did it for four years without a major hitch. Even after the life-threatening fire that took almost all of my personal possessions I got back on my feet without ever returning to the bosom of my mother or father's household.
I look at the people I go to school with, most of them several years younger, and can't help but notice the differences in socio-economic standing. Their parents seem to help them with everything. I do not loathe them. I envy them. It's the sort of situation I want to provide for my children.
I've been hanging out with Aaron again. Aaron, I have determined, comes from the most functional family out of my five closest friends, with the exception of Dominic. Aaron's life is financially stable. In the past he has said that I could be where he was if I had really wanted it. I could have done well in college and gotten scholarships. I didn't like high school. I stopped concentrating on school in the sixth grade. Until then I was an excellent student. My parents divorced in high school and it destroyed every illusion I had. It wasn't the sort of thing that I could simply shrug off. So is it my parents fault I am where I am? I don't want to play the blame game. I don't blame anyone for the person I am. The truth is, I don't think I'm that bad of a person. Oh wait, I think I just figured it out: I've spent the better part of a year giving my all, or at least 99% of it, to one thing: school. I got one "B". The rest were "A's". I blocked everything else out: music, reading, writing, personal growth. That's how much I put into and I think now I simply want a return on my investment. The problem is, I don't think there's going to be a pot of gold and/or self-actualization waiting for me when I get my degree.
Nevertheless, I guess what I'm experence may simply be a case of the bends as I rapidly decompress from the pressures of academia.
But, to digress:
Perhaps I have always been on the path to financial mediocrity. After all, my parents have struggled all their lives. My dad doesn't anymore but that is because he married a woman with a master's degree.
Looking back, I think I will get out of here one day. That's why I liked Jay-Z right off the bat. I wanna change. Not all at once, I just wanna keep changing. All I want right now is to make music, my own music in the studio. Maybe I'll play with Dirtbike. Maybe I'll play with and Lee. I just want to pay my bills, pay off my smallest credit card, fix my motorcycle, and maybe get a tattoo.
Maybe I'll hump my girlfriend a few times and take her out to dinner.
I really need to find a job. I've been looking almost everyday; a few interviews with temp agencies and a few applications have been turned in. I guess it's time to start acting as desperate as I really am, which means taking anything that comes along: fast food, retail, telemarketing...
I spent 2 hours playing video games today instead of looking for a job. It was just such a beautiful Sunday.
Since I entered SDSU, I have had to relearn how to provide for myself. It is difficult making ends meet on a fixed income. I did a lot better at it in the spring than I did in the fall, so I'm trying to go easy on myself. Obviously I still have a lot to learn. What confuses me is that before I went back to school full-time, I did it for four years without a major hitch. Even after the life-threatening fire that took almost all of my personal possessions I got back on my feet without ever returning to the bosom of my mother or father's household.
I look at the people I go to school with, most of them several years younger, and can't help but notice the differences in socio-economic standing. Their parents seem to help them with everything. I do not loathe them. I envy them. It's the sort of situation I want to provide for my children.
I've been hanging out with Aaron again. Aaron, I have determined, comes from the most functional family out of my five closest friends, with the exception of Dominic. Aaron's life is financially stable. In the past he has said that I could be where he was if I had really wanted it. I could have done well in college and gotten scholarships. I didn't like high school. I stopped concentrating on school in the sixth grade. Until then I was an excellent student. My parents divorced in high school and it destroyed every illusion I had. It wasn't the sort of thing that I could simply shrug off. So is it my parents fault I am where I am? I don't want to play the blame game. I don't blame anyone for the person I am. The truth is, I don't think I'm that bad of a person. Oh wait, I think I just figured it out: I've spent the better part of a year giving my all, or at least 99% of it, to one thing: school. I got one "B". The rest were "A's". I blocked everything else out: music, reading, writing, personal growth. That's how much I put into and I think now I simply want a return on my investment. The problem is, I don't think there's going to be a pot of gold and/or self-actualization waiting for me when I get my degree.
Nevertheless, I guess what I'm experence may simply be a case of the bends as I rapidly decompress from the pressures of academia.
But, to digress:
Perhaps I have always been on the path to financial mediocrity. After all, my parents have struggled all their lives. My dad doesn't anymore but that is because he married a woman with a master's degree.
Looking back, I think I will get out of here one day. That's why I liked Jay-Z right off the bat. I wanna change. Not all at once, I just wanna keep changing. All I want right now is to make music, my own music in the studio. Maybe I'll play with Dirtbike. Maybe I'll play with and Lee. I just want to pay my bills, pay off my smallest credit card, fix my motorcycle, and maybe get a tattoo.
Maybe I'll hump my girlfriend a few times and take her out to dinner.
20030131
20030125
20030121
20030108
20021230
20021229
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.
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.
20021227
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.
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.
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.
20021217
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.
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.
20021212
20021122
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.
20021121
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.
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.
20021120
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.
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.
20021119
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.
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.
20021117
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.
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.
20021104
20021012
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.
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.
20021009
20021007
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.
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.
20021003
"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...
Who is God?
I AM...
20021002
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.
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.
20020928
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!
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!
20020927
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...
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...
20020925
20020921
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.
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.
20020919
20020918
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: 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.
20020915
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: 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.
20020913
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.
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.
20020912
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.
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.
20020908
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...
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...
20020904
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...
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...
20020903
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.
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.
20020829
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
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
20020827
20020824
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.
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.
20020823
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...
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...
20020814
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.
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.
20020812
20020811
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.
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.
20020810
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.
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.
20020808
20020807
"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.
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.
20020806
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.
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.
20020801
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..."
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.
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.
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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