Discordian December

Winter is fucking depressing. Everything's dead and cold. The days are shorter. Relatives have that charming habit of timing their deaths with their favorite holiday. (Just one more! I'm gonna make it!)

AND FOR THIS REASON EACH MAJOR RELIGION DEVISES A WINTER FESTIVAL.

Chanukah. Christmas. Bright lights and gooey candles. Tacky shit on your neighbor's lawn that'll stay there until April. Something warm and happy to distract you from the fact that half the homeless people in the area are dying miserable deaths (the other half having gradually migrated to West Palm, Florida.)

So what of the children of Eris? What of her mighty Apple Corps? What of her loosely-or- completely non-organized and routinely ill-defined Legion of Dynamic Discord? (Or LOCNRILODD, for those that enjoy senselessly cumbersome acronyms, or SCA's.) What bizarre event exists to comfort them?

The Church of the Squishy Jesus (formerly the Church of the Pin-Striped Buddha) offers the following guide to celebrating a Discordian Crimbo. Call it what you like, (we call it Erisius) and don't believe a word that you read.

CELEBRATING ERISIUS

1) WHEN

The Church of the Amorphous Velociraptor (formerly the Church of the Squishy Jesus) holds its Crimbo between the 24th and the 26th of December, but only in fifteen minute intervals once every hour. These intervals are held at the top of each hour in the morning, and at the bottom of the hour in the afternoon. Wishing one of us a "happy holidays" outside of these times is considered extremely insensitive and offensive. Please note that this pattern is reversed for those living below the equator.

Discordians should generally celebrate their holiday whenever they damn well please, although they'll get more attention (and probably presents) if they do so at the same time as someone else's. It's effectively the same as planning a really big party on the same day as a friend's birthday, where the Discordian is the really popular kid and your friend is terminally ill.

2) PRESENTS

Discordians should feel free to accept presents from anyone for anything. The Church of the Dyslexic Omnivore (formerly the Church of the Amorphous Velociraptor) encourages its followers to "lie as needed" to appease generous would-be gift givers. Let your Jewish friends believe you're Jewish; let your Christian friends believe you're Christian. Many Discordians already belong to one of these "auxilary" faiths for one reason or another. Go with it. Your friends and God may judge you, but Eris won't. At least not for that. She does question your haircut.

A Discordian should only GIVE gifts if they feel like it. Find an old friend you haven't seen in a long time -- preferably one you don't know very well. Spend a lot of money on them. Spend much less on your family and friends. In fact, consider stealing from them to finance your other gifts.

3) MEAL

The Erisius feast is highly ritualized, much like the Jewish passover. Every dish is symbolic and should be consumed thoughtfully. A meaningful passage should be read aloud. (The passage may be selected from any text. The Principia Discordia is an obvious choice, but Frank Herbert's "Dune" is also popular.) The following should be consumed:

An apple - to represent the goddess, Eris.

Club soda - in rememberance of tonic water, which goes better with gin.

Gin - which gets everyone pretty sloshed.

Tonic water - because the first drink was awful.

A fig leaf - to represent genitals.

Nectar - to associate with butterflies, to associate with chaos.

Pizza - because everyone is still hungry, and way too drunk to cook.

This meal should always be consumed slowly, because it provokes thoughtfulness and good digestion. Also, a Discordian must avoid eating quickly, lest he be tempted to join an eating competition and sinfully indulge in large amounts of hot dog buns. This can be difficult, as members of the Church of the Ghost of Hayden Christianson (formerly the Church of the Dyslexic Omnivore) cannot enjoy the feast for more than fifteen minutes at a time.

Remember, all food MUST be prepared and handled by NON-DISCORDIANS. This is because Discordians cannot be trusted to wash their hands after each use of the bathroom. (I personally flip a coin.)

4) SINGING

We don't recommend it. You may sing some Erisius carols if you wish, or the Battle Hymn of the Eristocracy if you're too lazy to find one. Just don't bother to go carolling at other people's houses. Wait for carolers to come to you. Then, stand in front of them and sing back. Have some friends ready and drown them out. Repeat as necessary down the street, but don't stay out long. It's cold outside.

5) STORE GREETERS

Go off on each and every one. Phrases like "Merry Christmas" and "Happy Holidays" are flagrant attacks on Erisius. If someone has the gall to say such a thing within range of your hearing, you should immediately launch into a vindictive tirade against ethnocentrism and commercialism. Alternatively, you may reply "Happy Erisius" in a snotty voice. Alternatively, you may punch them in the throat.

If possible, get your shopping done first.

6) GREETING CARDS

The Church of Tomorrow's Leper (formerly the Church of the Ghost of Hayden Christianson) offers a wide selection of Erisius cards to send to loved ones. None of them are particularly relevant to the holiday, and all of them are pornographic in nature. If you would like a box, go to your local post office and ask to see "the merch." Someone will know what you're talking about.

7) DECORATIONS

If you are not creative enough to come up with your own decorations, you have no business being a Discordian. There, I said it. The Church of the Wayward Skittles (formerly the Church of Tomorrow's Leper) officially advises you to "go nuts with ribbons 'n shit." If you have the resources, consider a giant, inflatable golden apple on your lawn.

8) CHURCH

Discordians do not pray (because it is dangerous) and therefore get to avoid this boring practice. Instead, consult your pineal gland to find the goddess, and then just say "hi." No one ever does that anymore, and she really appreciates it.



That's it! Follow these guidelines and enjoy a happy Erisius. Or don't. It doesn't matter.
The goddess prevails! Maybe.

-Pope Zoopers the Classy
Church of the Belching Otter (formerly the Church of the Wayward Skittles)

OMG FINALS

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BLEEDINGOUTMYEYES

Melancholy

I'm kind of beside myself at the moment. I was working on my novel (for class) and suddenly felt that I needed to put it aside for a while. My brain's a little fried right now, partly from a regretable weekend and partly from writer's block, so I'm putting off on writing my paper too. I can't think of anything to really do with myself, and that's what drove me back here.

I've read everything in my room twelve times, and watched all my DVDs. I can't seem to push myself to do anything besides writing, but I can't write. So I'm here, writing without a purpose. That's how it goes, I guess.

I'm having a bad night. One of those nights where you want to go to bed just so time will pass. But I'm not tired and I can't clear my head.

Feeling lonely, lately. And I've been going about fixing it in all the wrong ways. I really need to get my head on straight and figure out what the hell I'm doing.

Incidently, I don't seem to have a nephew any more. I know they don't typically disappear like that, but sometimes shit happens.

Too many things happening at once. This year is going by too fast. I want to be a freshman again. I want to not make all the mistakes I've made. I want . . . let's be honest. I want a lot of stuff I can't have that lots of people probably want.

I think I'm going to get back to work now. I needed that. Professionals don't have writer's block . . . get to work.

Just keep moving, jackass.

On true love

I bought a bag of meat, recently. To be more specific, I purchased enough meat products to fill and engorge a Price Chopper shopping bag. With my personal funds barely in the black, I blissfully blew about $30 on sausage, hamburger, steak, and chicken.

There is a currently a package of "pan frying" steak defrosting in a steel bowl full of water.

I love meat. I love it so much I want to kill you and eat you.

I like the taste. I like the texture. I like the feeling of the protein making me stronger. I like the blood. I am not a person that needs cognitive distance from what he is eating. If you bring me a cow and a railroad spike, I will descend upon it with unrelenting wrath and voracious hunger, reveling in the slaughter because brutality is the finest spice there is.

If I could, I would eat steak every day until my arteries clogged up and I died. At that point, I pray that someone would have the decency to eat me. I will try to die tender.

Tragically, my apartment does not have any means of grilling at this time. That's why I'm buying "pan frying" steak (I don't have any idea what the hell it is or how the hell it'll taste) and pre-packaged burgers (they claim to be microwaveable, so they must be friable). The sausage and chicken are better fried up with pasta anyway. Nothing fuels you up better after a trip to the gym or a good session of karate.

Anyway . . . was I going somewhere with this?

I don't think so. That's all I wanted to say. I fucking love meat.


I would eventually like to eat a vegan.

On writing

I need pressure to write. I think that's what it comes down to. I need pressure, especially if the pressure is to do something else. It's those moments of stress, where the work really builds up and I know that I need to start getting some of it done.

That's when my brain says "shit. I need to write."

And I listen to my brain. It's my closest friend.

I can never write at home. Vacations are huge dry spells, which is tragic because I'm always waiting for a vacation to "finally finish that project," which is proof that I'm an idiot. Vacations are not a time for productivity. They are a time for gin and sleep. Incidentally, that makes most of college a vacation, but everyone knows that already.

Needing to write is a lot like drowning. I suddenly wake up and feel that I can't breathe, so I claw away at my typewriter like it's my means of reaching the surface.

Writing is active. If you want to write, you need to stop thinking and just fucking do it. Edit it later.

Some runoff

I'm not sure if it's the stomach crunches or the gin, but lately I've had the taste of vomit in the back of my throat a little too often. My less-than-stellar eating habits are also a likely factor, but I generally take it that senior year is meant to leave a bad taste in your mouth.

It's already an odd year, considering I'm only a little more than a week into it. A lot has changed, my luck withstanding (already killed my laptop), and it's been a period of contrasts.

Contrasts. Conflicts. Opposing forces. Balance. Mud.

This summer I had the pleasure of working the greatest job I have ever worked. I was able to work with children with "special needs," and it was one of those jobs that actually made me think "wow, I could do this every day and be happy. I can't wait to come to work tomorrow." I don't think I've ever felt that way before about anything.

Of course, I also did part-time work as a dishwasher, scrubbing crusty shit off of plates and peeling shrimp until my hands got chapped. That was a joy, truly. I love a job that lets you smell like a garbage heap at the end of the day because you're covered in deflected liquid leftovers.

"Hey, Tony. You want a drink on the house before you head home?"

"No, thanks. I really don't want to make eye-contact with another person until I've showered at least three times. I think I'd stain the bar stool if I sat down."

If being a gross, smelly, wet bum isn't enough to get a person down, being one in a nice restaurant full of attractive women should do the trick. They're lucky I quit without burning the place down.

And I would have, if the steak wasn't so damn delicious . . .

Now I'm back at school, enjoying a shitty week and some great classes. It's a delicate balance, being miserable and inspired all at once. The new apartment is nice. I'm writing again, which makes me happy. I've killed my laptop and I'm running out of money. I have no idea what the hell I'm going to do when I graduate, but I'm ready to be a success.

Can't I just get paid to be awesome? Where the hell is that at the job fair?

I'm changing again. I'm getting stronger, and a little more focused. My libido seems to be off the wall, which is like a second puberty but a little less awkward. I'm perpetually annoyed at nothing in particular, and remain antisocial.

Oh, my youth. I'm not finishing any of my projects and I have no idea what the hell I'm doing when I do it.

I used to be mercurial. I used to dance in chaos. Now I worry I just don't give a shit anymore.

Maybe I'm just over-thinking it. Maybe I'm just tired . . .

Maybe things are too good, and I'm just convinced that it's all going downhill from here.

Maybe I need a dog. I don't even know what the fuck I'm talking about anymore.








. . . Get outta here. I'm trying to sleep.

Zoop da Woop

I have noticed, with great frustration, the name "Zoopers" is taken as a screen name on both Skype and AIM. With a little research, I found that the name is not as unique as I had hoped.

Apparently, there is a Zoopers.com, a "Zooper car" in a children's tv show, A "Zooper" child seat, and even a "Zoopers kid's club," which is at least logical, considering it's at a zoo.

I could swear they didn't exist when I first picked the name, two years ago, for my character in KoL. I'm really bummed out about it.

Now, some of YOU might be wondering where I got the name from. It's mostly a bit of nonsense. I think I was looking at a spelling of "super" as "sooper," and it was a pretty small jump to make "Zoopers." I thought I had a pretty good grip on the name, with characters on Kingdom of Loathing and Urban Dead, but I guess not. It's still obscure enough to grab on forums and online games, but man . . . Skype and AIM? What can I do?

Now I wonder what the word brings to mind for people. A kid's club, a child's seat, or a martini-sucking, pool-cue wielding psychopath? There's probably a variation on the word "bloopers," too.

I can't allow my good name to be corrupted in this manner. Please help me by using "Zoopers" as a slang term for some bizarre sex act. Pretend it's common knowledge and spread it around. Eventually get it on wikipedia.

I think it should mean to bludgeon someone mid-coitus.

"My husband and I occaisionally give each other zoopers to keep things interesting. "

"Yeah, she was getting a little too loud, so I zooped her and finished my business."

"I zooped your mom last night. I had to call the paramedics."


Silly, sexy, and somehow horrifying. Perfect.

A Quiet Window Reflection

From my window, I see children. There's a playground out there. It's small and simple, but it's well-kept. On sunny days, I can hear laughter. When the sun starts to set, the older kids arrive - the ones without chapparones. They speak crudely and they flirt boldly. With the children gone, they own that land.

The nights see a different crowd: the college students. They're drunk and rowdy; they have no balance; they fall off the teeter-tot. Part of them is adult . . . but while their world's spinning they're kids again, with no concerns or responsibilities. They don't flirt much; they're too busy yelling, like the children.

For all of them, even the parents that keep things safe, the world changes on one tiny lot. They aren't in the real world anymore - the children, the teens, the students - They're in a different place with simpler rules.

I'm going to drive around Worcester and collect all the syringes lying on the curbs. Then I'm going to buy a shovel. And I'm going to bring those syringes to the playground. And bury them. Right after I file down all the chains on the swingsets.

Why? Because they're all so fucking loud.







;-) winky face.

Pokemon Snap

There is something to be said about this. I'm not entirely sure what.

I took my camera around campus and took a bunch of stills. Some of them were interesting. Some were stupid. I'll be posing as many as possible.

During my travels, I came across and old friend and got a quick interview:




"Hey, squirrel. What's up?"



"Not much."



"See ya."


Man, what a great guy. I hope he comes back to plug his book.

The semester's drawing to a close and I am BUSY. There are five papers to write, a karate exam to prep for, and a job search to boot. Oh well. It has to be done.

I'm really looking forward to summer.

I just have to get to it.

Personal Reflection: Arrogance

A driving concept in America is that of the "self-made" man . . . the Jay Gatsbys, the Victor Von Dooms, the Donald Trumps. They come from poor, humble beginnings and accomplish great things. Their drive is admirable; one cannot contest their achievements.

The self-made man has a well-deserved sense of pride, and few have sympathy for under-achievers. "If I did it, why can't you?" they seem to ask. "Pull yourself up by your boot straps and get a job." They hold everyone to their own standards.

That's arrogance in its truest sense. There is false arrogance - a person holding others to a standard he himself does not meet - but I actually believe it's pretty rare. Most people that come off as "arrogant" easily back their claims. The scientist really is better at math than you; the critic really does write well; the jock really can outrun you. They aren't arrogant because they do something better than you . . . they're arrogant because they've made you aware of it.

It doesn't need to be intentional or explicit. A person doesn't need to be a braggart to be called arrogant . . . though it doesn't hurt. It's an inversion of modesty, and a person can be arrogant by example by holding himself to a standard that others can't meet. At its heart, it's a term of jealousy as much as annoyance.

"Arrogance" is always a negative term. Why? It reflects the attitude of a weaker person, and represents a value barely distinguishable from pride. Why are individuals that strive to be better seen as rude, instead of admirable? Shouldn't any idealist be arrogant? How can the world change if no one exposes its faults?

The answer is judgment. Pride asserts by its own devices, while arrogance asserts by comparison. It is not "strong;" it is "stronger than" or even "strongest." Real arrogance is active. One asserts superiority.

Still, it's curious that in many "likes" and "dislikes" sections of dating profiles (seen occaisionally on television or if you're bored enough to read a bad magazine), arrogance is one the most universally disliked features.

I believe it reflects two factors of our society. First, a universal arrogance. Everyone likes to be king of his castle. No one plays second fiddle. Who likes to be upstaged in their own mind? (This, I think, also leads to a dissonant concept of exhange: "if a person is strong, they shouldn't be smart, and if they are, they have a poor personality.") Second is my most widely-preached issue: this society is nearly devoid of accountability. People do not take stock of themselves - do not take responsibility for their behavior.

It's odd that I, a person generally striving against tradition and either-or perceptions, find myself fairly loyal to a sense of justice. I believe in people accepting responsibility for their actions. No conditions, no excuses. The judgement of circumstances is for other people, not the individual. It's a humble quality our culture lacks.

Now, to the heart of it: I'm arrogant. We ALL are. Some more than others, but all of us make judgements of others. All of us agree or disagree with a what a person does. It isn't wrong or right. It's a fact of life. Others decide your arrogance by whether or not you reveal it, and how.

I tell you to your face. It's the way I express my beliefs. I don't like people ignoring their faults. I don't like people being comfortable. I don't like complacency. You're welcome.

Now, it's bold, but is it arrogance? To me, it's not arrogance unless I ignore my own faults. I try not to. I have no motivation and little tolerance, to name a couple. I work hard at them, and to be conscious of them, but I've yet to master introspection.

And that's the point. People in glass houses shouldn't throw stones, right? Wrong. Because everyone has a fucking glass house. You don't need to be without sin to throw a rock; you just need to be prepared to take a few yourself. At least - and forgive my intertwined allusions - you'll find out how many windows you have. And for Buddha's sake, maybe you'll find the time to fix a few.

So that's my beligerent "fuck you" to the world. If I'm stronger than you, I'm going to tell you. If I'm not, I want to be. Because I'm not satisfied with the way things work, and I'll expose every crack in every wall that I find. I'm ALWAYS wrestling with the log in my eye, but I can still see the splinter in yours.

Of course, one should be careful not to speak out of place. Is it valid to criticize a mother's choices if you're not a mother yourself? Can you legitmately judge a household if you don't belong to the family? If you're not a passenger in a car, and you're not being endangered by it, should you complain about the driving? Judge if you must, and you do, but remember your place if you voice it. Your opinion may have no weight.

"Arrogance." It's a word used by the weak when the strong make them look bad. Can't we save it for the people that think they're better than they are?

They only truly arrogant thing is to refuse to listen to someone. To believe that you can ignore a voice because it says something you don't like. Shutting out what you don't want to hear.

That I can't excuse. It's beneath contempt.

Clarity comes with maturity. If you'll excuse me, I have a brother-in-law to headbutt.

Because he's weaker than me, and knows not of conviction.

Delays and Frustrations

My computer and I have a love-hate relationship. It's basically a cute but retarded child, doing its best to please me but failing miserably. It also has its share of speech impediments.

Usually, I'm greeted with a gentle "whiiiiiiiiiiiirrrrrrrrrrrrr," but yesterday I got a more eager "gggkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkk!" Still equating the computer to a retarded child, I slapped it until the noise stopped. Problem solved, I guess.

Well, nothing's ever that simple. The "gggkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkk" returned, louder than before. I gave the laptop another soft beating and it finally stopped.

Only . . . the "whiiiiiirrrr" stopped, too.

Within twenty minutes my computer shut itself down. The cooling fan has shat itself to death.

I had to drive home and borrow a laptop from my Dad. After a good 6 hours of hassle, I got it connected to the college network. I am officially a full weekend behind on my online assignments.

Ugh.

On the brighter side, the paper I was writing came back with an "A." I continue to amaze myself.
Lesson learned: if you want a good grade, do the assignment at the last moment possible. It somehow comes out better.

Great life skills indeed.


Meanwhile, the springtime sun grants me more energy, making me more impatient and reminding me how goddamn bored I am. I'm done with this semester, this nonsense, and this life. I think tommorow I will be a cowboy.

I've reached that wretched point where it's time to assess my skills, determine my value as a commodity, and start planning a career. Sadly, I feel ready to retire. I still expect someone to pay me for being awesome. With large bags of money. Every time I breathe.

Fuck, I'll probably start slacking with that, too. And they'll decide they need a younger man to do my breathing. Someone with moxie. Someone that can do the job in a cautiously ambitious manner, a manner that everyone can agree is impressive.

Welcome to the world. Bleed something interesting, take your cancer, and sit down.

A great morning.

I awoke from my three-hour pause in consciousness the way I usually do. Abruptly. A flock of poorly synthesized birds screech a song from the small clock on my improvised nightstand - a steel cabinet, capable of withstanding a canon blast, which I use to store my medicine and cleaning supplies. The birds push my body to move, growing louder until they reach a point where the noise is no longer discernable as "chirping," but as an onslaught of high-frequency, vessel-bursting clatter that easily tears through the dorm walls.

Countless innocents are depending on me for a pleasant morning. I cannot fail them.

I silence the birds with one swift strike. It is well-practiced and precise. I've trained for years.

But then the low hits me. The downside jump-starting your day with adrenaline is that it quickly fades once the threat's been neutralized. The room is quiet again and I'm still in bed. My body is heavy. My eyes won't synch with my brain. I have to pee.

Now, that last one may seem like a good reason to get up, but somehow I manage to reset the alarm. I don't remember if I sleep or not. I probably just go limp and don't move for a while. I'm conscious, but inert.

I blink and the ungrateful avian bastards, revived through my infinite mercy, recommence their assault. Perhaps they proclaim their joy of living, or perhaps they sing my praises. I strike them down. The wound is non-fatal . . . striking the wrong pressure point maims their vocals, which persist in a cold "ehhhhhhhhhhhh!" It's hard to listen to. I finish it quickly.

Next is a quick shower; it gets the blood flowing and cleans out my eyes. I dress and brush and look in the mirror - there's no time to shave. There is work to be done. There is work to be done and there is little time.

And I'm hungry.

There is work to be done and I'm hungry.

Hungry people cannot get work done.

Shoes and a jacket. Sunglasses. Fuck, it's bright. I walk with a skip because it's early, and I can probably make breakfast. Man, those eggs are gonna be good. I mean, the eggs are terrible, but they'll be good because they're breakfast. And breakfast is a change.

I get to the caffeteria and swipe my card.

"It's continental, you know."

"Huh?"

"Breakfast is over and lunch hasn't started yet. There's no food."

". . . "

I go in and find that breakfast is still out. It's just picked-apart and getting cold. I grab a bunch of runny eggs with cheese, then some diced potatoes and a bagel with cream cheese. Once I have a table, I get a glass of orange juice and three cups of coffee. It's all fuel for writing. Except the potatoes. They're too hard and gross to eat.

Caffeteria eggs and caffeteria coffee are known to induce what can best be described as "rectal prolapse." I feel the sudden urge to clear out, and leave. On my way back, I meet a squirrel. He sits on the wall next to me, eating a nut. He doesn't run from me, so I start a conversation.

"Sup, squirrel?"

"Just chillin' out. Eatin' a nut."

"That's cool."

"Yeah."

"Well, see ya."

"Later."

And I keep walking. Do I have a cookie? I think I have a cookie. I eat it while I walk past the fitness center. The joggers are jogging in the window. Mmm, cookie.

The sun's warm and I stop walking. I smile. I'm alive and it's feeling pretty good. The paper's due in eight hours, and I didn't get much done last night. I've gotta get to work.

I've got a lot of work to do. No time left. The next eight hours will be grueling, and all because I couldn't make myself work three days ago. I barely worked last night.

And now? I laugh. I'm going to pump out a paper I care nothing about because it's what I do. I have one thing to do and no choice but to do it. There is only the paper. My life is forfeit.

And I laugh. It's a good cookie. The sun feels nice. My body doesn't want to stand, and I'm worn out from a sleepless week. A week of all-nighters in which nothing was accomplished. A weak of false effort.

And I laugh. Because fuck, I've been bored.

White Space

This


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because


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But this catches your eye because it's more substantial and capable of holding your attention but not too long. If it were too long it would be dense and you might feel hesitant to read it and would probably end up skimming it.

This next bit is also small and compact which makes you comfortable with reading it, because it's easy on the eyes and you don't want to work too hard to get the information and it's just so small it won't intimidate you. It's safe and easy and you love it.

And rightfully so because this part is fucking dense. It goes on forever and there are so many words and it couldn't possibly be interesting but you know there must be a lot of stuff in there or else it wouldn't be so long but for God's sake why couldn't have broken it up a little? It looks big and scary and you don't want to get into it because it's not easy anymore and its starting to become a chore. Ok, so far so good it's not too difficult and I'm getting pretty far in this beastly freaking block of text but I'm working pretty hard here and the sentences will start to run together if the block of text gets repetitive and I'll have to work hard here or the sentences get pretty freaking repetitive and this text works pretty hard here and I'm running out of patience and someone must have writer's block he's not working very hard and his sentences are pointless and someone will work hard enough to read it but I'm running out of patience and this is a pointless freaking block of text and do I really have to read this? I feel like I must be only half-way and at least it's moving again but my God it's slow and there's something interesting going on but it probably could've been simplified or presented better. I'm starting to lose interest and maybe I'll scan ahead and the next bit looks shorter but I'm already so far into this mess I may as well finish it must be near a point if it opens up so much in the next paragraph so this must be the meat and potatoes of it. I can't belive this thing is still going and did he really not have anything interesting to say it's so annoying it's like eeeeeeeeeeeeeeee eeeeeeeeeee eeeeeeeeeee eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee and what the hell is that he's just filling space with nonsense and my eye got pulled here because it breaks up the repitition and I'm working pretty hard here and running out of patience, because it's pretty freaking dense and oh my god it's back to that again why can't he end this and move on to another paragraph my eyes can't breathe oh my god the whole thing's repeating I'm not reading that. And rightfully so because this part is fucking dense. It goes on forever and there are so many words and it couldn't possibly be interesting but you know there must be a lot of stuff in there or else it wouldn't be so long but for God's sake why couldn't have broken it up a little? It looks big and scary and you don't want to get into it because it's not easy anymore and its starting to become a chore. Ok, so far so good it's not too difficult and I'm getting pretty far in this beastly freaking block of text but I'm working pretty hard here and the sentences will start to run together if the block of text gets repetitive and I'll have to work hard here or the sentences get pretty freaking repetitive and this text works pretty hard here and I'm running out of patience and someone must have writer's block he's not working very hard and his sentences are pointless and someone will work hard enough to read it but I'm running out of patience and this is a pointless freaking block of text and do I really have to read this? I feel like I must be only half-way and at least it's moving again but my God it's slow as turtle droppings and there's something interesting going on but it probably could've been simplified or presented better. I'm starting to lose interest and maybe I'll scan ahead are you actually reading this far? and the next bit looks shorter but I'm already so far into this mess I may as well finish it must be near a point if it opens up so much in the next paragraph so this must be the steak and potatoes of it. I can't belive this thing is still going and did he really not have anything interesting to say it's so annoying it's like eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee eeeeeeeee eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee eeeeeeee and what the hell is that he's just filling space with nonsense and my eye got pulled here because it breaks up the repitition and I'm working pretty hard here and running the marathon, because it's pretty freaking dense and oh my god it's back to that again why can't he end this and move on to another paragraph my eyes can't breathe oh my god the whole thing's repeating oh god thank you it's over.

This part comes next, and it's not the shortest piece on the page but compared to the last bit it's a godsend because man this is tiny. I can just let my eyes dance over it and no one has to work hard and I'm reading for pleasure dammit I shouldn't have to work hard. Everything's really spreading out again and it feels much more free.

A one-liner is a nice break so I'll pay attention to it.

Here comes the bottom, now. This thing is almost over and I can see that it's smooth sailing from here. Everything's open and loose and I can relax and take my time now.

Another gentle wave of text keeps things easy and smooooth. I can keep this going all day, but I know I don't have to because there's the end coming up in just a little bit.

Next is this which is almost the end, but I can see he'll end with a single line that's probably supposed to be clever or insightful, and he definitely wants me to pay attention to it. So here it comes and it's gonna be the final word

And here it is. This is the end.

A Science of Laughter

Practitioners of Zen believe that humor is the highest form of expression, because it can transcend language. Generally, a joke doesn't need to be explained to someone. It is what it is and it's funny. They love puns and riddles.

So the Zen Buddhists place comedy as the highest form of expression, while other cultures place it among the lowest. The latter seems a bit pretentious, don't you think? So let's give the Zennies the benift of the doubt and trust their wisdom.

What is funny? Comedy takes many forms, but humor is mostly a privelege. A social privelege, as a matter of fact. Humor relies on degrees of "separation;" that is, a person's ability to enjoy a joke is dependant on their freedom from hindering social factors. If the ideal is the purity of mind to embrace humor, then factors that detract from a person's ability to laugh at something are restrictions on a person's mind. Such factors include personal strife, trauma, and pressure as a result of such things as terrible experiences, racism, or social construction.

In other words, a holocaust survivor is less likely to be able to appreciate a joke about the holocaust. An individual that has been plagued by racial violence will have difficulty finding a racist joke amusing. An uneducated person will not grasp wordplay. A person raised to be concerned with "proper" ettiquette or behavior may be too serious to enjoy off-color humor.

One joke may amuse one individual and offend another. The difference is in each's level of separation from the material. A person that cannot escape the negative factors that hinder humor will be restricted in their openness to certain types of humor. It's widely unavoidable, though pitiable, if the goal is an ability to laugh at everything.

Separations are also temporal. For some, separation increases with time, so a joke that may be "too soon" now may be more acceptable later. More likely, the lack of separation is just magnified by the proximity of the topic. On a wider spectrum, temporal separation reflects differences in humor between generations.

Humor is a privelege. The highest point of mental liberation is to find humor in any subject. If you hear a joke that offends you, the immediate reaction is "that's not funny." The truth is that your experiences or background have left you enslaved to a hindering force that makes you unable to appreciate the humor. You are not as priveleged as those that can laugh. While you are surely able to laugh at other things, you're limited in what you can laugh at. You're trapped by your need to hold subjects sacred or taboo.

If there is a divinity, if there is an enlightenment . . . its symptom is laughter.

Waxing Philosophical

I rarely share my inner thoughts on the internet, but I'm looking to change that. To get the ball rolling, here are some quick ideas on a few areas.

1) Religion

My chief criticism of Christianity is supplied by its own creation story. Adam and Eve are banished for tasting the forbidden fruit of the tree of knowledge. So the great original sin is learning. Mm, convenient.

All religions are equally valid. They fulfill a social function and attempt to provide answers that humans desire. They are dangerous enforcers of binaries (heaven-hell, God-man, good-bad, believer-heathen) that always favor one and marginalize the other.

There is no such thing as an absolute. Nothing is purely one but not the other. There is no universal right or wrong, and no such thing as Truth.

And I've found that when you abandon the need for Truth, you become much more open to perspectives.


2) Police

I hate the police. For one thing, I can't criticize them without being called ungrateful. Yes, the police protect me, but did I ask them to? I never had a say in the matter. I'd rather protect myself.

Now, with my talk of binaries before, I'd be a hypocrite to accuse all cops of being dicks. They aren't. Many are really great guys who believe they're doing a great service. Others might be decent guys just doing a job. Some are dicks that want to be a tough guy.

My main problem with police is that when they happen to be dicks, you feel as though there's nothing you can do about it. They're the man, after all. But people forget that they work for us. We pay them. We're the ones they're meant to serve. They should answer to us and be accountable for how they treat us. I personally think they should be required to announce their name and badge number when they pull over a vehicle. Like a free "how's my driving" prompt that reminds people that they have the right to be treated well. If this person isn't doing their job well, they should be reprimanded or fired. Simple as that.

Man, I should be mayor. Anyway, some people are aware of this relationship and tend to be given more respect by cops. Typically these people are older white males. This is generalizing, but the fact is that young adults and especially teenagers get a lot of undeserved shit from the police by virtue of being young, and minorities deal with it too.

Unchecked power will be abused. Period. Cops should be held to a higher standard and monitored more. Especially in low-crime suburbs where they've got no excuse for their behavior but boredom.

3) Love

Get over this word. The love I have for a friend is the same I have for my mom is the same I have for a girlfriend. The experiences make the feelings and the nature of the relationship. Anything else is sexual. "Love at first sight" is bullshit. You feel attracted to and infatuated with a person and then tack on deeper things later if you're lucky.

4) Life

Life is a game, and some people play to win. I just want to have fun playing. The length of the game doesn't matter . . . I'd prefer something longer than checkers or Hungry Hungry Hippos, but shorter than Monopoly. Risk is a good, long life. Err, game. Life should be a good game of Risk. You should piss off your friends, conquer all you see, and defend Kamchatka.

And stop cheating. Games aren't fun if they're too easy.

5) Reproduction

I shall have one child. Male or female. He/She shall be raised to be developed physically and mentally. He/She will be raised a ninja. My child will be educated to choose his/her own beliefs and be informed of the limitations of existing beliefs and knowledge surrounding him/her. My child will pick a gender, so that this paragraph will be easier to type.

6) History

History is subjective and is therefore inescapably linked to literature. Only basic facts are undeniable; the rest is relative to the presenting perspective, with the dominant force's story being the most widely accepted.

7) Mathematics

Advanced mathematics deal widely with theoretical numbers and concepts. Once real numbers go out the window and imaginary numbers become the basis for formulae (imaginary numbers, not variables), I feel that mathematics lose their validity, as they are no longer tied to the natural world and the numbers become meaningless. It's a system of logic that transcends any reality it can be applied to.

8) Randomness

Does not exist. Randomness is an illusion, and represents a result beyond the receiver's ability to predict. For example, when a die is rolled, the result is not random. The sides of the cube are turned by the released energy determined by the force, distance, and angle of the roll, as well as other factors. These collective forces determine the number; it is "random" because we cannot perceive and process all of these factors to predict a result. In a computer program that generates a "random" number, the program pulls values from a variety of places such as a timer that the user cannot see or perhaps follow. The variable does not come from nowhere, and no equation produces "random" answers.

9) Science

The biological will become indistinguishable from the mechanical and cybernetics will lead us into a post-human era. Our bodies are as programmable via drugs and gene manipulation as machines are via computers. Machines currently supplement our physical and mental abilities and soon our biomechanical minds will allow us to store and process data never before possible and we will march toward omnipotence behind the latest advancements in cyber-porn, which naturally pushes the industry and leads to each breakthrough in technology.

10) Turtles

Turtles fucking kick ass.










And there you have it. Deep, deep thoughts.

Thoughts so deep, you'll drown.

In thought juice.







It's sticky.

A day at the theater

I saw a few shows recently. Some are movies, some are broadway musicals. Here's a quick run-through of what I thought of them.


1) Les Miserables

Longest running show on Broadway for a reason. It was so good I bought the soundtrack. Arguably the best musical out there, superior to "Phantom" in every way. Everyone should see it at least once.

2) Equilibrium

The best and worst movie I've ever seen. Let me explain. The movie is like the Matrix mixed with 1984 and Fahrenhite 451, so you get that classic dystopian social commentary with some kick-ass fighting and a traditional hollywood ending. That's where the paradox comes in, for me. It's really refreshing to have the protagonist in a 1984-ish break out of his hopeless situation and kick some ass. It's what we want to happen in those stories. We want the guy to win and liberate himself and the people around him.

But, well, having that neat ending where everything's fixed by killing the bad guy sort of defeats the purpose of those stories. They have endings like that for a reason, even if they're not what we as an audience want. It's too easy. So the ending feels cheap.


3) The Producers

Danza, bitch! Do I need to say anything about The Producers? You've probably seen the movie with Nathan Lane and . . . Ferris Bueller, so you know what it's all about. It's bigger and better in Broadway, and the fact that I was flanked on all sides by little old ladies really enhanced the experience.


4) 300

This movie was so manly it made me crap my pants, only when I looked in my pants it was actually a steak. Yes, you heard it. This film will make you crap a steak.




That about covers it. Ciao.

Sexy.

Spring break has arrived!

Whoo?

It seems my break is a week earlier than most of the fold, which I find a tad inconvenient.

It's a nice day today. My medication has just ended and my infection is clearing up nicely.

I will strive to be productive this week. Ninjapirateofficial.com has been updated. It is sleek and sexy now.

Resist the urge to lick your screen.



Ok, go for it.

Buzz

They're giving out free samples of "Rockstar" energy drink outside the cafeteria today. I've never had it before, so I took a can. It's 16 oz., "double size" and "double strength." Seems logical enough.

Pop the top. Ksssch.
Ooh, red #40.

It tastes like a snakebite. Or, if that simile doesn't work for you, it tastes like a cactus took a piss.

I've never been a fan of energy drinks. Bawls is the only stuff I've had that actually tastes good. I think Redbull is disgusting, and this stuff is just like that but sweeter.

But the weird thing is that the more you drink this stuff, the more you tolerate it. Once you've gotten accustomed to it, you start to like it. So you keep drinking and your energy comes back.

So I drank the damn thing in about three minutes, and decided it'd be a nifty time to write.

The first thing on my mind is the weather. It's playing games with me. Yesterday . . . holy shit I'm typing quickly . . . yesterday was BEAUTIFUL. Absolutely fucking gorgeous. The sun was out and everything was warm. The snow was melting just the right amount that snowballs were easy to make, and there was this gentle breeze that just seems to carry good feelings on it.

I was pretty happy. Hell, I was sociable. I went to work and had FUN. I was laughing and everything. Throwing snow, getting hit with snow. Not getting annoyed when everyone takes too long to do something. It was a good day.

Today it is raining and snowing, and it looks like shit. The good feelings in my body are running through my feet and back into the ground. Eeeeehhh.

Luckily for me, it's time for midterms. I can take all that negative energy and use it to not write my papers, which will at least give me the pleasure of sweet, sweet procrastination. I look forward to it.

You need something to look forward to.

That's all for today, I think. This drink has lost its thunder.

Introductions

Hi, there.

My name is Tony, and I started blogging about 5 years ago. I stopped after I got a website, because it felt more professional and blogs were becoming overdone. Seriously. When I was blogging, everyone was dicking around on livejournal. Now everyone has a freaking blog. My professor has a blog. My desk has a blog. My pet fish has a blog, and I flushed his ass in fourth grade.

Blogs are tiresome, and any self-respecting writer should feel uneasy being lumped into a group of people doing the same thing. Especially a group that is so in the public eye that it enters speech on . . . on . . . television! Guh!

But it is never long before a trend becomes a medium, and soon it must justify itself. Blogs have become ligitimate, and I can't ignore that. I may be desperate to be different, but should I shun the form altogether like some brooding whelp? No! It just means I should try to do something new with it. Let the avant-garde of the internet be born!

You see, I've had a terrible problem lately. I killed my ability to write. I killed it dead. I killed it through restriction . . . restriction by expectation and the illusion of productivity. "I want to write fiction!" I said, and I wrote fiction. But the fiction stopped. It still swirls in my mind, but the desire to process it is gone. Likewise my drawings, my comedy, and my assignments . . . all clogged in the seive. I spent too much time looking at WHAT to express instead of expressing.

And then came depression. I was suicidal for about a month, and generally unhappy for six. I've had an odd obession with death for years, and I'm told I think too much. Sometimes it's incredibly oppressive . . . I actually feel heavier and have trouble breathing.

But I've no time to waste on depression. I've got shit to do! Fake smiles get old and I finally sought professional help. Medication, despite popular conceptions, is of limited help. I'm required to attend therapy, which I find does very little that normal introspection and occaisional venting can't. Regardless, a person needs someone to talk to, and I don't normally like sharing all that much.

Well, my doctor is an old friend, and she knows me pretty well. She decided that I should begin blogging again. She feels that it will allow me to express my thoughts without feeling like I'm wasting time, because other people will be reading it. The ultimate goal is that I'll write freely again.

So here I am. Back in the fold, on medical orders. Let's try to make the best of this, shall we?





Oh, and I haven't said "fuck" yet.




There we go.