Thoughtcrime in the making
or
Observations, year 25

The advance of technology does not, ultimately, make us any freer. Perhaps that's the Great Fallacy of the Information Age. We think, we assume technology gives us more freedom, allows us to work less, and gives us greater, easier access to information... In short, it makes us happier than we were before. And maybe, for a short time, each new technological advance does indeed makes us happier. To me, the clearest example of this is the internet.

It's a major technological advance that has changed many facets of our lives, and unlike television or gunpowder or the wheel I've seen its development in my own time. And I'm glad to know something about it. I'll have stories to tell my children about the lawless days of software piracy, when you could download almost anything you wanted, if it was popular enough. It seemed like we were on the brink of making a really cool, needed advance in how we think of art in general and music in particular. What is music? How should we compensate artists? Should you be able to download music at will? What about copyright infringement? Do multi-billion dollar companies and platinum selling "artists" really need billions more? Do most struggling musicians care whether anyone dowloads their tunes? Is music or any other art a commodity to be bought and sold? Maybe it's just me wondering these things...wait, I know it's not. I try to avoid considering anything I do a commodity. To me this is acceptance of slave morality. I know I must work to earn money to buy food. That doesn't mean I'm going to accept someone else's price tag on my piece of shit concerto. Not realistic? "That sounds good...you could join a cover band. Write radio jingles." That to me is unrealistic. Art does not equal money.

This is the way the world was set up when I entered it. That doesn't mean it's the right way to do things. The idea of discussing figures is distasteful to me. And I don't think that has anything to do with the "market value" of anything I've done. I think most of my heros are of like mind. But how does one eat and still commit art?

Well, the rulers, elite, powermongers, what have you, have answered all of the above questions for us. They always seem to step in and take over new technology and use it for their own means, in whatever way they see fit. They always have. And why shouldn't they? They have the money to buy it, to pay for the research. And this is what I see happening to the internet. Two people used to be able to exchange their favorite songs online. Now that is illegal. Maybe it was always illegal, but it was never enforced. It's only gotten more illegal, and it's only going to get more illegal. Instead of a freeflowing exchange of ideas and art, the internet has become another shopping mall.

As computers begin to ressemble the human brain in both physical appearance and cognitive functioning, it will become necessary for the powers that be, the elite, etc., in order to maintain control and keep the royalties coming, to police our thoughts.

The only solution, as I see it, is the creation of an autonomous state out of reach of their reach. I don't know how to do this yet, so I'm going to go live in France. I have no hopes that things are going to be much better over there, but Europeans seem to have much better memories of social events, and they seem to get wise to the schemes of government a lot quicker than Americans do. I'm hoping to find an intelligent cynicism with the scent of roquefort.

A word on computers ressembling the human brain-

The human brain is the most powerful computing system yet known. I have a hunch/fantasy that one day programmers will look at the brain as a model to be emulated. As such, computers will become more "intelligent" than ever before. As the human brain is wet, squishy, and grey, I also have a hunch/fantasy that inorder to proceed with the development of the computer-as-modeled-after-the-human-brain, programmers will find it necessary to keep the computer moist, squishy and grey, for some reason...I don't fuckin' know.

Tom: I think I've entered into my existentialist phase.

Satan: Don't be absurd...

Tom: Existence is absurd. Pain is absurd. Without some synthetic concept of "god", these things don't mean anything. You are absurd. I am absurd. Freedom and responsibility are the source of man's dread.

Satan: Is that it?

Tom: It just feels right, okay?

Satan Which part in particular?

Tom: Existence preceding essence.

Satan: You really hate it when people tell you how to behave, don't you? Even if it's God.

Tom: I try to pattern my existence after those who seem truly vital. People who constantly learn and question things probably won't have the time or inclination to take an interest in MY sordid affairs, much less tell me how to conduct them. I hate criticism, especially of the "constructive" variety. At this point, God is kind of useless.

Satan: Say something in French.

Tom: L'être et le néant.

Satan: John Cage.

Tom: What?

Satan: "I have nothing to say, I am saying it, and that is poetry."

Tom: Ohhhh, touché...you cocksucker.

Satan: Don't get personal, ass. What about that feminist thingy you wrote down today?

Tom: Oh yeah. I found out that a "feminine" cadence is one that ends on a "weak" beat. I admit that if I was a woman this would probably annoy the shit out of me just because it equates feminine with weak. However I'm not a woman. I am a man, and I don't like being told what to think, especially in a sneaky way like this. To me this woman-weak man-strong bullshit is the height of Aristotelian is/isn't subjectivity. It's fallacy all the way.

Satan: Surely you stated that a bit more eloquently in your notes.

Tom: You be the judge:

March 2004

The doctrine of partriarchal hierarchy /domination handed down to us represses men and women equally. It heards the male population towards the belief that women are weaker than men in all things. Males who oppose this doctrine have their manhood as well as their sanity called into question by its adherents, male and female. In accepting the doctrine of male superiority, as in donning a pair of someone else's glasses, a man's perception becomes blurred by the subjective notion that women are "weak" and men are "strong". When a man or a woman tries to force their observations into this constrained box, fallacies abound and insanity is assured.

Satan: Interesting, but do you think anyone will buy it?

Tom: I don't care, and I don't have to.

I lost a lot of money in Las Vegas. Happy Birthday Leah!

I would like to invite everyone to join me in celebrating the music of Daniel Rodriguez. He's an ex-cop who got famous singing patriotic songs in the wake of 9/11. My favorite album so far is "The Spirit of America". Lee Greenwood eat your heart out.

I wanted to invite everyone to come join Cheryl and I in Portland, Oregon. We have found it extremely difficult to find suitable housing in San Diego, a city we both love and hate. We grew up here too, we both have family here, we both have jobs and friends here. We can find new jobs, we can make new friends, but honestly the entire thing would suck if we left all of you guys behind.

With the projected future of San Diego, along with most of California, few if any of us will be able to afford a life here. We work to the bone to pay our rent/mortgage, we live next door to homophobic hippy baby-boomers who have children in college and fear going to Hillcrest, we live in a city where police are notorious for killing people, we live in a city where everyone is getting very very old, where young people are moving to Temecula, Hemet, or Arizona to start a family. We live in a place with the highest gasoline prices, electricity costs, water costs, state tax, sales tax, and most importantly cigarette tax. We live in a place where our ocean is constantly polluted from rivers and poor sanitation, our air is filled with smog from LA, Tijuana, and San Diego combined, and these problems made worse by the recent fires that swept through the few areas of town where we would ever afford housing.

Cheryl and I, with our full time jobs and masters in our fields, can afford a $350,000 home. The median house price in SD is $450,000. The market shows no sign of slowing down in the next few years either. We can afford a 2BR condo in a decent area (Penesquitos, Poway), but not a house. After looking in Portland, Cheryl and I could afford a big house in one of the nicest areas of town. So could you.

Portland has a population of 500k in the city and 1.5 million in the outskirts. It's not that much smaller than SD. It rains more. It's colder. The ocean is colder and further away. It's not as nice as San Diego. Few places are. I know we all have an attachment to this city and leaving it won't be easy. All I ask is that you think about joining us and check it out.

It was a vicious, unprovoked attack.

Well, maybe not unprovoked. Or vicious. I was drunk and I spilled a drink at Victor's house. That is my heinous crime. I am, as I was then, unimpressed. I didn't mean to do it. Other people got up to clean it, so I sat back down. And got punched in the leg. It was weird. I still think it's funny how scared and upset everyone got over a spilled drink. Everyone but Ray. He didn't even get off the couch. If more people could be like Ray the world would be a kinder place.

Bob said to me last night, "Yeah, but you weren't even gonna clean it up." Maybe I wasn't. Maybe I enjoy fucking people over. In your face Victor. That's what you get for being cool. Yeah.

Last week Ray spilled something on my carpet. He didn't mean to do it. I didn't mind. I cleaned it up for him. Quid pro quo.

Then there was Saturday night. We were going to the AMC theater in Mission Valley. Dominic got mad at me. He yelled at me. Made me feel dumb. In front of people. He was freaking out. He was scared. It's happened before. Does he have a problem? I don't know. What did I do? I tried to help. At first. Then I started taunting him. Maybe that wasn't the right thing to do. I'm sorry. At first he seemed to know where he was going, then he asked for directions. I started guiding him along the route I would have taken. Shortly after that things went wrong, tragically wrong.

Why do people who know me well ask me for directions? I usually fly by the seat of my pants no matter where I'm going. The journey is more important than the destination. I think Dom thought I was trying to trick him. Why would I do that? We had 10 minutes to get to the movie, a movie I really wanted to see, a movie that I got everyone together to go see. Maybe instead of asking me for directions he should have asked me for moral support. I can give that.

Why I Fucking Hate People

I was already kind of annoyed by the fact that I had to go to work today. Like Aaron said, it's quite difficult to concentrate. But the attitudes of many of the customers that I was forced to be nice to threatened to overwhelm me at times.

While I was worrying whether or not my friend in Ramona was okay, a woman angrily shoved her drink in my face. "There's no whipped cream," she snipped. Ordinarily, I would take her drink and say something like, "I'm sorry. I was not aware that you wanted whipped cream, but it's no problem to put some on there for you." Today however, the conversation was slightly different.

"You're right," I said, "Caramel Macchiatos don't come with whipped cream. If you wanted whipped cream, perhaps you should have asked for it." Yes, folks. That is not an example of legendary service, and I don't fucking care. The whole goddamn county's on fire and this dumb cunt is complaining about something that's not on her drink, that's not even supposed to be on her drink.

The night was full of wonderfully pathetic people pretending that nothing was wrong. It was fun to imagine the screams of terror emanating from the mouths of these stupid sheep when they found out that there was a fire next to their ugly houses. But as long as it was only other people crying and dying, they didn't have to worry about it.

The highlight of the evening, however, came when I was not there (I was at lunch). And I'm actually quite glad that I was not there. Apparently some asshole came into the store and told my shift supervisor that he was very angry because two of the stores he went to in RB were closed. The shift tried to explain to him that the fires that had raged through neighboring communities only just yesterday were probably drastically affecting many of the people that worked at those stores. He explained that this was not an acceptable reason to close down a coffee shop. His brilliant solution to the problem, as the shift told me, was to "fly people down from Washington." This "solution" baffled me, and so I asked the shift supervisor what she thought he meant. She too was as confused as I, and so we tried to rationalize this man's thought process:

Okay, so we somehow find some people in Washington that don't mind entering a disaster area to work at a coffee shop. We pay for them to fly down. We pay for them to stay in a hotel. We pay for them to work, and we pay them even more to work since they are toiling in hazardous conditions. Then we pay to fly them back to their homes in Washington. What the fuck...are people really this stupid.

As I already mentioned, I am glad that I was not there. Had I been there it would have been rather difficult not to shout: "Hey dipshit! Have you looked around you lately? Have you noticed the brown air that you're breathing? Have you seen the scorched earth throughout San Diego County? Have you heard about the 200,000+ acres that have burned? Have you heard about the 600+ homeless families? Are you the stupidest man alive? Did you know that you could go to 7-11 for coffee? Are you intelligent enough to operate a coffee machine? Perhaps you just weren't aware that, nowadays, we can make coffee in our very own homes. That is, those of us who have homes. So why don't you take your dumb ass the fuck out of here before I light you on fire and call the local news station."

Meeting people like that truly makes me think that, if a large percentage of the world died and evaporated, the rest of us could have a happy little time on this planet.

It seems God has smiled on me and my loved ones, all my friends, almost everyone I know. The fires around town have blackened the sky so dark that I can't see the sun. The air so bad that I am short of breath, even as a smoker it is affecting me. I'm leaving work now because I have trouble focusing, although after the last few days I don't know why I should be expected to.

This girl I work with but don't know very well is apparently sleeping with a married man that I have worked with. From what I understand, everyday this girl and the married man sneak off at lunch to have sex. Also, apparently, this girl routinely gives this guy blowjobs at his cubicle every morning.

I recently checked a medical website that the average ejaculation is between 3-6 milliliters of manjuice. Now these two have been going at it for a year, so doing the math if she gives him three blowjobs a week times 50 weeks, that's 150 blowjobs. That equals about a half a liter of cum that this girl has swallowed this last year alone.

I love math.

Cheryl and I had a long discussion last night over why Tom and I fight so much. I proposed that Tom often starts by making some snide comment about me and I just respond. Tom then responds and we just keep going on and on. But this can't be true because I'm sure I do the same thing.

Cheryl proposed that Tom and I are so competitive that we often look at the negatives of each other's lives rather than encouraging all the positives. I don't think that's true either because Tom and I have often times spoken seriously and done just that to each other. It's only when we're bantering that we make such competitive comments like "My sister would never date you, Aaron" or "That's ok, I can just buy your sister with all my money" that we start angering each other.

In all honesty, constantly fighting with Tom is rather tiring and sad because in the end I think it keeps us at a distance from each other. Despite this, I think we just like pushing each other's buttons and regardless of long-term effects, and I don't see anything ever really changing.

So the Patriot act is in full effect and we here have changed many forms here in the mailroom, many forms. But this is the funny part this is how our company defines it...

The USA Patriot Act, which stands for Uniting and Strengthening America by Providing Appropriate Tools Required to Intercept and Obstruct Terrorism, was enacted to prevent money laundering and stem the flow of financing to terrorist organizations through the financial services industry.

Soooo this thing was about MONEY LAUNDERING??? WTF? You can now be jailed with no notice and held without being charged and it is about money laundering and the financial services industry?
And why the fuck is this another acronym? Which flag waiving act started this manditory use of fake military terminology for everything? I can see G Dubbya there in his treehouse sucking on a popsicle saying "Ok guys new rule: everything this government comes up with to solve any problem MUST be a hokey poorly thought out acronym or color coded code."
THEY CAME UP WITH AN ACRONYM FOR U.S.A! Jesus H Fuck, it already is one!!! What the hell does Schwarzenegger stand for?

On 9-28-03 Radiohead kicked my balls off.
That does it, Radiohead is now my true favorite band. The concert last night was proceeded by listening to 94/9's pre concert radiohead show in thick traffic. Then followed by Kate and I doing very heavy beer drinking at the trunk of the Volvo. Beer inside the show was $7.00, so we saved well over $400. We sat drunk, eating stale stone ground corn chips and cheese dip and occasionally I would leap away to pee on the vegitation in the expansive dirt parking lot. We missed Supergrass and stumbled in an hour late.
Radiohead took the stage and everyone stood up. They didn't sit down again for the whole show. I have never seen an entire concert crowd stay at its feet for a whole show, much less sway in perfect unison in an a truly shared moment of musical bliss as blue lights behind the band sofltly waved. I felt as if we were having the same collective thought if we were a giant backup chorus for the band as we all sang as one. Radiohead don't always play pretty music and are often paint a picture of a reality that is thoroghly depressing, which in fact it really is. The feeling last night was yes, we all feel that way and while we may never get over what ever it is that keeps us from a perfect and easy existence at least we know that others are there with you, chanting in unison "this is what you get...when you mess with us."
We exited the show en mass in what My friend Lee calles "group fantasy phase out" still thinking about the show experience yet not quite feeling the reality of a horrid traffic jam that awaited. We got to the car and Kate fell asleep in the passenger seat. I opened the trunk, got another beer and sat on the hood watching the sea of stationary tailights and sillouetted human figures in the dim light and dust. I offered beer to the guys stuck in the car next to me and we talked about the concert, kyaking and music in general for an hour. The ride home was surreal and a sence of overwhealming accomplishment came over me once we finally reached the freeway, as if I had personnally walked and conquered those many miles on foot. The whole way home in the back of my head was that chorus of fans, still endlessly chanting the last line from Karma Police "for a minute there, I lost myself...I lost myself." and I realized again how much I want to play music and how it makes me live and breathe and how deeply I want to feel exactly what I experienced last night again and again and again...but be on the other side of the stage, looking out, sparking it, controling it watching it as it all goes down.

Ray: No one here but us faggots.

Satan: ...

I walked into the bathroom at work. There was a row of urinals. A little green man sat wedged between the last urinal and the wall, masturbating. I was appalled.
"Jesus Fucking Christ!" I screamed. "What the hell are you doing?"
He smiled at me and, still pulling furiously at his little green penis, gave me the finger. I didn't know what else to do so I asked him his name. He flipped me off again and in a small, grunty voice said "Mescalito."
"What?" I asked, not quite hearing him.
"Fuck you!" he shouted, "Mescalito!"
With that he flipped me off once again. This time he held the gesture for a few moments, his hands bobbing up and down in an oddly syncopated rhythm. Sensing that I would get no more of an explanation from him, I left the restroom, made my way through a maze of cubicles, and sat down at my desk.

A few minutes later my boss arrived and began detailing a sales report that needed to be recalculated. It was difficult to seem interested. Mescalito suddenly appeared sitting on top of the cubicle wall directly behind my boss. If my boss sensed the little man she gave no indication as she rattled on, seemingly unaware of the green imp masturbating feverishly some ten feet away from her. I tried not to notice but the whole scene was so completely absurd that I couldn't help but snicker out loud. Each time I did Mescalito would give off a little grunt of satisfaction and flip me the bird, grinning ever more diabolically, pulling his pud with increasing speed. Fortunately he was so precariously balanced on the cubicle wall, little forest legs dangling over the side, that the force of his pleasure-pounding caused him to fall backwards. Soon after my boss finished telling me about the sales report, having noticed neither my barely contained laughter or its source.

I arrived home from work that day tired but in excellent high spirits, perhaps a result of the sheer unbelievability of the events I had witnessed. At the time I lived with my girlfriend Erica. She got home from work before I did and usually greeted me at the door. Today she was nowhere to be found. Not yet worried, I set my keys down and went to the kitchen for a glass of cranberry juice. Halfway through the glass I heard the unmistakable sound of squeaking bedsprings coming from the bedroom Erica and I shared. I dropped the glass mid-swallow and burst into the room. I was utterly shocked to find Mescalito fucking the shit out of my girlfriend.

A friend of mine emailed me and some of his friends that I know an article from Rolling Stone that ranked Hendrix as the greatest guitarist ever. I responded back "Well at least Clapton didn't win" because I don't care for Eric Clapton (he got 2nd place) and I think he's overrated, especially when compared to guys like Hendrix, Townsend, Page, Fripp, Gilmore, Zappa, Prince, and countless others. This was the response I got from one of the friends

"another jealous amateur, How many records/cd/albums have you made? What record company have you signed with? Oh that's right I forgot you are the music man!"

Somehow, people percieve me as an asshole.

You knew what you were doing
When he asked you, you said "ok"
You knew what he would do with the picture
But you didn't care
Maybe it was for money
But maybe it was because you wanted to,
And money had nothing to do with it
So you got down on your knees
And sucked his cock better than you ever have before
Because he was holding that camera
You wanted to look like a good whore
You wanted to earn that money
And you smiled for the camera
You may be somebody's daughter
But today you're the slut
In my porn folder
That I jerked off to
Thank you

Tom: Okay, so say me and Sade like, hook up. Do you think she'd watch porn with me?

Satan: I dunno, she doesn't really seem like the type.

Tom: I know. She'd probably think it's disgusting and exploits women.

Satan: But...you don't know that for sure. For all you know Sade could have a large collection of really good porn. She could afford it you know. Hell, she might even finance her own porno movies because she feels that they could be made better, more romantic AND intelligent. Hell, she might love nothing more than firing up a fat spliff, puttin' on some sweet hardcore XXX fuck flicks, and boning her favorite man till the morning sun comes up.

Tom: I...I...love her.

Satan: Yes my son.

I've always liked Sade. Unfortunately, my affection has recently crossed the line into near-obsession: I bought a Sade DVD, concert footage filmed on her last tour. I don't even own a DVD player. As such, I did the only thing I could think of- I sent in a prayer request to Peter Popoff. It went something like this:

Dear Rev. Popoff:

I am obsessed with the singer Sade. Lately I have been having impure thoughts about her everywhere I go: at work, at home, in my sister's room, etc. I don't know what to do. Her beauty and sensual voice have caused me to stray from God's path. I pray that with your help I can find it again.

Thank you,
Tom Amans

I'm really, really hoping for a response.

Today I pulled project lead aside and decided to make a point about my meager raise. I told him that I was brought onto this project to be a programmer, but that I was also coordinating the power outlets, rearranging the test area, and all sorts of other stuff that isn't part of my job but someone elses job who gets more money than me. Also, I wanted him to know that if I am successful, the other guy will get equal props as me and a pat on the back when I did the brunt of the work. Basically, I'm underpaid for a Master's student, underappreciated, and my work is trivialized while others get glorified.

After saying all this, it dawned on me... he really didn't give a shit.

I don't know if limericks are passe or not, but then again I really don't care. I wrote mine about HIGH SCHOOL.

I thought about high school today
what it took to make the grade.
Well things sure have changed
since school bells last clanged
and forced ME to sit well behaved

They cut the budget to start,
cut Music, Dance and then Art.
Home Ec got the chop,
they even cut Shop!
Saved cash, but are the kids smart?

High school is college prep now
You need ivy-league know how.
Just look at me
(a college degree)
but can't get a job in this town.