I Once Had Sex With a Man; Just to Watch Him Die

The worst part for me was realizing I had nothing to write about.

I had no pain, I had no pleasure. I was a buoy, I was the yellow on the meter, I was the middle lane. I was the step between the predators and the plants. I was the primary consumer. I was neither here nor there, I was just... was. Bukowski says "everyone thinks they can be a writer, not everyone thinks they can be a plumber or a dentist." I don't know if I ever thought I could be a plumber or a dentist or a lawyer or a teacher before I read those words, but after, there was no way. After, I didn't even think I could write anymore. After, what was there I could write?

And there was no great pain, and that was the greatest tragedy, because there was no tragedy. A tragedy is suffering and strength, overcoming or weathering. I was stagnance. I was comfortable. I rode it out, and would continue to ride it out until I didn't know what I was riding anymore. Here's the new boss, same as the old boss, here's the new life, same as the old. Nothing changes, nothing's remotely recognizable from day to day, nothing can be coped with, nothing gives me enough dissatisfaction to actually rebel against it, just enough to keep me where I am and miserable. Just enough to make me wish there was less, but secretly hope that there'd be more, and soon. Always waiting for that last little bit, that last little touch that's going to inspire me or push me flailing over the edge.

I was a bucket on a matchstick lattice, and every day, every book I read, every film I watched, every laughing exchange I witnessed between people not me who would never be me and would never attempt to be, every comment from someone comparing great men to Chuck Palahniuk and thinking themselves unbearably insightful for discovering either pop-culture figure all on their lonesome was just another cup in that bucket, and eventually one would be one too many, and the lattice would crumble, would crash, and there, buried at the bottom with nothing, nothing left, I could build something worth a good God fucking damn.

But that's never coming. It never was coming. That cup never came, there was never a bucket, each cup sloshed and rained through whatever structure there was and came down upon me full, no barrier, no shelter. I was drenched daily, miserable and aching, and in the night I'd dry, and the next day I'd be an exmpty receptable, a new sponge ready to take it all in again, to soak it all in again, to put up with it for another mother fucking day and praying so hard that I would snap, that I would break free, that I wouldn't be the thing that I was that it hurt my beggar's heart. Gears stripped and soul stretched I would leave every morning hoping to shape the life I was living into the life I wanted to live and hoping that no one noticed it.

And who was I to say anyone was good? That any thing was good? Who was I to stand in the face of people who attempted, to achieved, and wave my flag and throw my stones and carry my balls in my hand screaming that I was the one who mattered, I was the one who was right. Intelligence doesn't make you good, it doesn't entitle you. At all. You can be an idiot or a savant or both if you're lucky and the only thing that counts for fuck is whether or not you try for anyone besides your own sorry skin. If you can carry someone else bleeding from your stomach, you're worth something. You needn't do all that, but why risk the margin of error?

Art is dead. Entertainment didn't kill it, but it was certainly found in the room with the corpse. Warhol and Lichtenstein and Avante Garde Film held a gun to its head while they force-fed it its own body, soma and soul, and watched it choke on its own potential, on its own progression. Like they gave a shit, like anyone gave a shit, while they used that fucked and flattened body as a shield through decadence and glamour and sexuality and enough cocaine to powder two of dear Andy's wigs. They stood on the body of their profession to reach the higher shelves, where the Greek masters and Bosch and Rembrandt and Van Gogh and Alrecht Durer and William Turner and Picasso and Dali and Kubrick had hidden their sweets and once they'd eaten their fill they burned it. They burned it all to the ever loving ground that no one might come after them, and they haven't. So no one may ever reach the heights you have, you must stand on the shoulders of giants. Then you must kill the giants.

I wondered if I'd ever have anything worth saying. I wondered if I was that removed, if I was that singular and unique, that there would be nothing and no one interested in what I had to say. That my experience was, like so much else, riding the median line, walking along the fence, just normal enough to be completely relatable but not unique enough to be at all enthralling to anyone who would care to listen. I go to New York and I go to Greece and London and Italy and I stay in my room and I read and look at the world through an Explorer window and call that life experience. I've never been in a fight, I've never been drunk, and I've never shot anyone for the hell of it excepting that lizard that didn't really have it coming but I tried to be as humane as possible for the little guy. Viking funeraled him, without the boat, afterward.

I need to ride a train without a ticket. I need to get a permanent scar in anger. I need to fall asleep somewhere no one knows I'm there, with earplugs, so the only thing that brings me back to life is me waking up and coming back to it. I need to shoot the bottom out of a boat and watch the thing sink beneath me. I need to.

But I need to get a job, so I can pay for gas, so I can go get to work in the mornings. So I can wake up and spend the first three hours of every day in my own head, sobbing in screams for my poor, sleepstarved mind, and the last three screaming in tears for my dead language of a wasted day.

When there's nothing to wake up for, it doesn't make any sense to go to sleep the night before.

...

Boy... what got into him?

Zoophiliology

My long-standing obsession with the natural world of fauna is a well-established character trait. I had always planned on being a zoologist before finding my true calling, and to this day I like nothing more than learning about animals and, in turn, educating others about them. This might be something of a grind for people who are around me for extended periods of time (not unlike the Mrs.) who have to put up with diatribes of "Did you know chimpanzees have a 'word' for leopard?" and "The velvet ant isn't actually an ant, but a wingless wasp. The males have wings, but only the females are capable of delivering a powerful sting,".

This is currently, without question, the cutest and fuzziest wasp known to man.

I mean... damn. Who could put up with that? Not many. That's why I've been personally petitioning the Vatican to promote the Mrs. to sainthood. They keep saying things about "miracles"... and about how you have to be "dead first"... I think I'm just going to take a little sojourn down to the old Biggest Smallest Country in the World and spend the day with the friggin' Pope. THEN we'll see who sacrosanct, eh? Eh, Benedict? EH?!?

In the meantime, my smaller half is just going to have to tolerate my giddiness when we take trips to places like the Museum of Natural History, which is what we did today.

I love these things. I don't know if I like zoos or natural history museums best, I just can't decide. They both have their merits. Zoos focus solely on fauna, while Natural History museums cover all forms of natural... history, from cultures to animals to scientific phenomena. However, the flagship of the NHM is the "diorama," which serves to show stuffed, preserved animals in fabricated replicas of their natural environments, while in zoos you get to see the actual prancing, leaping, mostly-sleeping beast in the flesh. Like I say, they both have their advantages, and I would be loathe to have to choose, suffice to say that I supremely enjoy giving both institutions my patronage.


The Natural History Museum of Los Angeles County (phew), and its subsequent neighboring attractions in Exposition Park, constituted an awesome day. The Museum itself was a ton of fun, comprising multiple tasteful and interesting diaoramas, an insect zoo (which was a nice treat since I wasn't really expecting to see anything living there), a terrific place for kids to play in called the Discovery Zone (which alone, periferally and encompassingly, puts the entire Center to shame)which I enjoyed probably more than a man my age should, obligatory and fantastic dinosaur features, and an interesting special exhibit about the collapse of civilizations (which, while neat, was seemingly purported to be a hell of a lot more than it actually turned out to be).


One permanent walkthrough displayed fossils primarily from the Cenozoic period, which was basically an exhibit of how modern animals had developed from their prehistoric ancestors. It showed, in fossils of advancing development, how a small, doglike mammal becomes a horse, how tiny, hornless beasts eventually become rhinoverouses, and various other really fascinating examples of prehistoric, non-dinosaur life that I think are absolutely fascinating, giant lizards or no (after the fossils, we went through the dinosaur area. AWESOME!). The image above, for example, is an example of a giant bird of the Cenozoic period, and you can see just how daunting (read: fucking terrifying) coming across something like this is in the plains of ancient North America might be. Beware this ancient beast, young ones. Beware the beast that bears the name: The Terror Bird.

So... I guess there was a giant bird that we now call The Terror Bird. Is the point.

After the Museum, we hopped across the park to see the IMAX 3D Movie: WILD SAFAR 3D!!! You'd think after working at the Center, the Mrs. and I would be burned-out on the concept of the 3D movie, but it was actually pretty neat. You ride in a jeep across southern africa, looking for these creatures rather than just having them shown to you, and you get a real sense of the majesty of Africa. Not "kill the Tutsi" Africa, but "The Lion Sleeps Tonight" Africa. Mostly majesty, not so much genocide. It was a really cool movie.

We still had an hour or so before most of the attractions shut down and, since we exited the wrong way out of the ding dang theater and, since admission is free (!) we then paid a visit to the California Science Center's 3rd floor (their super-cool "floating" exhibit gallery, which puts the Old Center, floating gallery and all, to pitiful, dishonorable shame) which currently has an exhibit called Magic: The Science of Illusion!

But I want to learn about Werewolv....

BOOOOOOOOOOOO!

Yeah, Magic is sweet. The whole thing is cool, the floor is broken up into an outer ring where you can walk around and see four magic tricks performed, then you can go "behind the scenes," to the inner area of the floor, where all the magic is explained, the scientific concepts behind the tricks are all mapped out in different interactive exhibits for the kids to play with, it's all really awesome. My favorite part, though, is the section hosted by Max Maven. Despite an APALLINGLY poorly-designed web page (you'd think the man would be able to do better) Max distinguishes himself from other magicians by looking absolutely sorcerous.


Jesus. Christ. Max is a phenomenal mentalist, nit your everyday magician, and indeed one of a quickly-disappearing breed (pun intended). Rather than tricks and illusions, Max specializes in mind-reading, suggestion, interactive puzzles and thought manipulation, all in a wonderfully droll and sarcastic delivery. Psychology over matter. Really, really cool guy.

But Jesus God look at him! I've got nothing against Lance Burton or David Copperfield, but if those guys were in the 15th century they'd be shoveling shit and not getting paid for it. Max Maven would be placing spells upon people and brewing mind-control potions in a deep, dark dungeon with a stuffed crocodile hanging from the ceiling an a pet raven named Mortimer. He'd wear a conical hat! With stars and cresent moooooons!

Max Maven's the shit, guys, is what I'm saying.

Then I got really tired, as I've been trying to get my schedule back on track since I've effectively turned nocturnal. We went shopping, got a pizza, and came back here for a well-deserve'd nap. I woke up at about 3 and haven't been back to sleep yet. Shit. So much for that plan.

It was a really fantastic fucking day. I'm only glad we had the chance to do it together, because I don't think I ever would have bothered on my own (all that driving and parking... blegh). Thank you, The Mrs. Thank you for making me get off my lazy ass.

And, as always, Goodbye from all of us here in Lazy-Ass, Dead Language Land.

Which I say... every time... I stop writing.

Which... is now.

...

Goodbye.

The tagline also helps to let me know when I've stopped being incurably incorigible! Awh haw haw!

Subterraneanista

For the last few years I have had this project in the fire (perhaps more accurately described as on my back, over my head, or around my neck). Underground is a documentary I started making in 2003 during my time in New York, and I made a few return trips to El Manzana Grande to do more filming and get more material for the final project. However, active work on the film effectively stopped maybe a year or more ago, owing to good ol' laziness and lack of motivation on my part, and the raw footage sat catalogued and labeled in my armoir for all that time, waiting for me to finally pick up the flag and finish what I started.

Well... I'm starting to finish, finally. The Mrs. and I had quite a substantial row recently, the result of which (among other things) is that I realized I've always had this non-motivated aspect to myself, and it's not really who I'd like to be and, more importantly, just kind of a shit quality to have. It's really cute and all to have life pass you by because you can't do anything about it, but at the end of the day you're just some real shit dude that ain't been doing much of anything for the past few years. You wake up one day and look around and the things you should be proud of aren't there, they haven't been there since high school. And you're twenty-three, then the next day you're twenty-five, then the next day you're thirty then you're fifty and then you're dead and the whole time you were waiting for the thing that was going to make you do something, anything to pull you out of it.

Well, my girlfriend is that for me.

So I'm going through the tapes, methodically, and mapping out a narrative I'm going to be piecing together chronicling the adventures of Sho and myself in New York, and the progress each of us make, and the folly of misguided youth, etc. It's looking really good so far. I don't know if it's just my own biased perception, but I don't understand why student films look so shitty all the time. I shot this thing with a little Canon Elura on DV with incident lighting and rampant conditions. Even in the scenes when the camera can't focus because it's too dark, the shot still looks fascinating and actually fits snugly in the context of the film that's forming around the existing material as I go through it.

There now only lies Chapman to conquer, as I feel a deep need to insinuate myself, aggresively if necessary, into the recognized filmmakers of geniu circle, as I've seen the crap that the existing incumbents produce. I feel it necessary to begin asserting myself, to show myself for what I am among them, and to denounce them as the hacks and phillistines that they are. Call me elitist, call me a snob, these people aren't all that great, and they're winning awards and gaining fame and accolades for putting a peanut shell in front of a camera for fifteen minutes.

Damn it.

So the film's looking good, I only hope I have the courage to finish the film in the way that it should be finished. That'll make more sense once the thing's done.

Also, registering for classes is getting to be a litle difficult as I get down to the nitty gritty of what I need to take in order to qualify for ding-dang graduation. I'm a little worried about just what I'm going to have to do in order to make this whole "college" thing work out, but hopefully it'll all come together.

I'm taking it seriously, that's all I know.

I may be going to Colorado for ten days in January... we'll see

Certainty

No Doubt, as much as I enjoy the band, is constructed of a singer that used to be in a serious relationship with her bass player, and isn't anymore. There is nothing else going on with No Doubt.

Any other good band you can break down into the fantastic things that make it up. Morrisey's disenfrachised depression plus Johnny Mar's inventive and impressive guitarwork, Brad from Sublime's lyricism that micxed latin sympathies, street concerns, and hip-hop language with a ska/rock/reggae sound and masterful guitar work, the Offspring's accessible punk proclivites, their fierce and fearless hooks, and the savant-like musical gifts of Noodles.

No Doubt is all about Gwen and Tony's breakup. Gwen herself, in many ways, is all about her and Tony's breakup. twenty years later, it seems, and she's still hardly able to escape it, only driving the point further into the asphalt with "I Know We're Cool," which is a song about how she's married now. BUT IT'S STILL A SONG ABOUT TONY.

For God's sake... Simple Kind of Life, Spiderwebs, everything on Return of Saturn... hell, everything on everything. Everything the band has ever accomplished has been fueled by Gwen's star quality, and her star quality is fueled by her rejection complex. It all comes back to Tony. And now, she's married to Gavin Great-Hair and you'd think it'd all be over.

WRONG.

Deep down, we all know Gavin isn't right for her. Even if she can't see it, we know what's best for Gwen, and we were all hoping, deep withing our dark, dark cockels, that she'd eventually come around and that Tony would realize the HUGE mistake that he made and they'd get back together. Honestly, they should have. The only "problem" is that, were that to happen, that would be the end of No Doubt. Gwen's deep-seated insecurities would shrivel and die, the idea of national stardom and hip-hop collaborations would no longer appeal to her, and she and Tony would come home, settle down, and we'd all have big Sunday lunches together. That's what we're all thinking, but this whole Gavin thing doesn't fit in.

Personally, I'm waiting for the split. Gavin's a bit... fussy. I don't think they're going to make it, especially with this new wrinkle about the "16-year-old daughter Gwen didn't know about." Boooo. Tony wouldn't have done that to you, sweetie. You deserve better.

And yeah, it'd be the end of the band, but what better ending could there possibly be? Gwen leaving and the rest of them floundering as they attempt other projects? Abandonment and despair? Getting your head bashed in while you sleep by a co-boner in your rough sex perversion? Let's not go down that road, guys. No Doubt is a story, a story about a big/small-town group that makes it big even in the face of tumultuous internal relationships, how those rejections and settled friendships should have torn them apart but, instead, propelled them to glory, and how, in the end, love reigns supreme and Gwen and Tony get THE HELL TOGETHER. I mean, get it together, guys, and GET TOGETHER.

GET THE FUCK TOGETHER ALREADY.

...

So... I just wanted to talk about that. Also, now that I get to thinking about it, I miss Brad a lot. I wish he were still around. I don't think he gave us enough before he left. I'm grateful for it all, as I'm sure everyone is who appreciates his music, but I just get the feeling like he, more than any of the musicians we file under "lesson for the teenagers," finished himself before he actually finished. Anyway, Brad was the shit, and I'm glad I can still listen to what he did, I wish I could hear what he should have done.

...

And, finally, a Survey:

Watching yourself rock out on the guitar in your kitchen, watching yourself do so in the reflection of the oven in which your mom is cooking up a lasagna.

Dork, or, Not Dork?

The Answer when we Return, here, on Dead Language Land.

Answer: Dork.

Of Majuscules and Uncials

Observations:

-What does it mean about a man when he scans the archives of his favorite webcomics, looking for whatever posts were put up on September 11 of any year? 2001, if they have it?

-Montague easily becomes the word "montage" simply by removing the letter "u." A "Montague Montage" would be a series of short clips showing Romeo attending the Capulet's party, Old Montague heeding the Prince's words of warning, Romeo climbing to Juliet's window, Romeo killing Tybalt, fleeing to Mantua, and then killing himself. This falls under the category of "Things Which Wouldn't Quite be Funny Enough in their Actualy Incarnation to Follow Through With.

-Mr. Hyde, the sinister alter-ego of Dr. Jekyll in the notorious Robert Louis Stevenson book, can have the letters in his name (Mr. Hyde) rearranged to form the word "rhymed." Having discovered ths fact years ago, I had intended to use it in a story in which modern forensic scientists, using urban legend, newly found evidence, a rare copy of Stevenson's book, and a wacky new intern with radical ideas, learn that Jack the Ripper was actually Stevenson's alter-ego whom he'd created using much the same system as Dr. Jekyll did in his most famous novel-cum-confession. This peice falls under the category of "No."

-John Cassavetes was in a film called Rosemary's Baby, directed by Roman Polanski, in which his character allies himelf with an antagonistic if seemingly harmless old man named "Roman Castevet." I always thought the character's name was a strange combination of the leading man and the director, which lends itself to even more oddity when a huge plot point of the film is that Roman's name, the letters rearranged, spells the name of a known witch. I don't know if I'd be cool with making a movie where the lead character is a child pornographer named... my name... reversed... or something.

Also, the letter "A," as I remember it, was written in picto-form as a bull's head. I saw this as a child in the dictionary, and I always thought it was pretty cool.

So. Now you know.

Jersey

"Unpretty," TLC? More like... ungrammatical.

This zing?... Untimely!

ZING.

...

So today's sort of been a "garden" day, for some reason or another. In one of my classes we had an in-depth lecture about traditional Japanese gardens from which I took precious little other than they aren't traditional and barely Japanese. Then I went to watch Peter Greenaway's The Draughtman's Contract (still a great film even on a second viewing, which is my way of saying I HAVE SEEN MANY FILMS YOU HAVEN'T, SOME MORE THAN ONCE) in which the characters spend an awful lot of time discussing gardens, their meaning, and the general preference over wives thereof.

So... what's the deal? Every now and then something like this happens where, throughout a given day, I will be bombarded with certain concepts or even words and I will think to myself, "Mackles, you sweet motherfuckler, this means something. You need to get to work on this. It's a sign, Mackillicutty. It's a fucklering, fucking sign."

So... gardening?

Honestly, without even getting into the whole "it's a sign" thing, I've been slipping really easily lately into the realm of the inspired, or at least it's been extremely easy lately to inspire me, and I started thinking that our backyard here is kind of drab, really a lot larger than a hedge and general brickwork arrangement gives it the appearance of, and generally not very utilitarian or aesthetically pleasing. I mean, it's a fine backyard, there's really nothing wrong with it, but so much more could be done with it, and it could be done so much better. The way it is now could so easily be changed into something really, if not remarkable, than at least much more pleasing to the eye.

Also, wheat! My conviction that I should make bread from scratch which struck me some months ago has thankfully not fallen by the wayside of my memory like so many fleeting fancies before it (Fancy That would make an excellent title for a gay sitcom and/or an upscale redecorating program. Must talk to Tyler about moving ahead with this). Therefore, before the first frost is on the ground (here is So Cal, we call it "Shit, I need to close a window.") I need to plant my patch of wheat since November is plantin' season. I wonder how I will incorporate the yielding land to the aesthetic land, and whether my skill at gardening, which I hold in such high regard, will be able to meld the two into some kind of supergarden or, as I call it, the Ubergarten, capable of both rendering sustenance and providing visual, kinetic pleasure.

I... don't think... there's a way...

to make gardening sound cool.

...

There was once a warlike king who, in his rise to power, stormed through a remote and wild village, inhabited by hunters and trappers. Among them was a most beautiful young woman, and rather than dispatch her or throw her to the men (for she was far too beautiful to part from after having first laid eyes on her) he kept her as his own and, furthermore, married her, making this village girl the queen of a quickly growing military empire.

The King, in an effort to please his new bride after having destroyed her village in his passing and most likely slaughtered her entire family, built her the most beautiful palace in all the land, a true testament to their growing prestige as, his army on the warpath, land upon land was conquered. He built this glittering stronghold for her, and she was pleased with her husbands gift, never really minding all that much about her family to begin with, come to that. She would spend hours just roaming the halls of the miraculous, lavish palace, gazing at its beauty and looking out of its many windows at the beautiful surrounding hillsides.

The king, happy his wife was so pleased with his wedding gift, noticed this behavior and, surmising her gazing to be her longing for her previous connection to the outside world, decided to once again construct a gift for his wife the likes of which the world had never seen before.

He came to her one day, staring out the window as she so often did, and explained to her that he planned to build her a garden. And not just any garden, but a garden the beauty of which would be known throughout all the world and throughout all of time. A garden to be remembered in the ages and a garden to be seen in life. A destination worthy of pilgrimage, of lifelong meditation, of simply appreciation and symbolic of only his love for her, his queen. He would build her this garden because, as she quickly confirmed after explaining his suspicions, she missed her closeness to the natural world she had grown up so very near to, and he would give her the most glorious garden the world had ever seen.

A plot of land was picked adjoining the castle, and the king and queen set about designing the garden. However, as they tried to decide how the garden itself should actually look, it quickly became apparent that neither of them could agree upon any one thing the garden should encompass. The king, having grown to power through a lifetime of military servitude and only maintaining that power through the respect for and further maintenance of that very military, preferred rationality, order, and geometry. The hand of man overpowering and exerting force over the wild, that was the king's chosen aesthetic. The queen, having been raised in a small village and having been taught from childhood how to commune with the earth, preferred the ordered chaos nature provided. Let the trees grow where they may, we'll scatter berry bush seeds, not plant them. Allow the garden to grow free and untended, allow the glory of nature to be shown by the only gardener truly fit to wield that medium, nature herself. The unplanned, the natural, the organic, the power and quiet beauty that was nature, these were the queen's preferences.

Neither of them wanted to concede, and they argued long and loudly about how the garden should actually look until it was the day before their first anniversary and still the plot of ground set aside for the garden had not been touched. That night, they had been arguing heatedly over the placement and shape of the main garden path, a feature that would dictate all other areas of the garden as they were to be extrapolated and built upon the unifying concept of the walkway.

"My king," said the queen, exasperated and ready to attempt a bargain, "The symbol your men carry on their shields and the symbol of your strength for the whole of your career has been the bull, and our stables overflow with them, horns and hooves. They show your strength, your commitedness, your fury in battle. They are still, however, creatures of nature, and are therefore subject to the whims of the great Earth mother. Tomorrow, let us take your finest steer out to one end of the garden plot. We shall release him, watch his progress, and wherever he goes until he leaves the grounds, there shall we lay our path. What say you, husband?"

The king thought long and hard. Finally, a tight, resigned smile on his lips, he agreed to his wife's ultimatum.

The next day the royal couple met at the castlemost border of the garden plot while servants nearby tended to the king's finest bull, a huge, black, shimmering hulk of an animal, which they brushed and fed apples to mollify its obvious foul temperament.

The Queen, enjoying the spectacle, looked to her husband who, impatiently, waved to her that she should get the thing underway. She ordered the animal released and, with a quickness belying fear for their safety, the servants quickly scattered away from the bull, who stood in place a moment longer, chewing on an apple and deciding for himself to finish before attending to any other matters.

The king, watching the bull standing there, slowly chewing its snack, walked over to the servant holding the bag, took an apple for himself, and walked to the border of the garden plot on which they now waited for the bull's trespass. He favored his wife with a smile, which contained a smugness that, in turn, earned him a look of confusion from the queen, and placed the apple squarely on the border of the property, precisely on the midpoint of that particular side.

The bull, having finished his apple and deciding to move onto other business, then decided that business should be very much like the business he'd become used to attending and headed straight for the apple the king had set on the ground. He picked it up off the ground in his teeth and began to chew on it noisily.

The king, another apple already in his hand and the servant with the rest following dutifully behind him, walked ten paces into the garden plot, perfectly perpendicular to the border, and put down the apple he was holding. And, of course, when the bull was finished, it was business as usual. He walked, positively trotted, to the next delicious treat awaiting him.

The king continued this way until he had led the bull in a perfectly straight line across the entire plot of land, and when he was done, the bull back in his pen and the queen accepting her husband's desire for order, the main path had been planned...

Perfectly bisecting the plot into two halves with one straight line.

The Moral of the Story:

Don't fuck with the king.

...

So, today officially marks the anniversary of writing in this journal. I've been "blogginatin," as the kids call it, for a whole year now, and I have to say I truly enjoy it. If nothing else, I feel a lot more comfortable with my own writing, or at least the process thereof. I've learned to trust myself and my gut instincts when it comes to putting to page whatever I want to write about, without concern about whether or not it's the right thing to put down. I'm more comfortable now than I ever was about the ideas that come from me and the amount of editing they must go under before being allowed out into the world. Of course, I don't think my confidence has been affected so much (as it's always been solid as a titanium-diamond-stainless-steel-kryptonite rock) as my ability to, almost subconsciously, do that editing work before the ideas even have a real chance to form into anything dangerous I'd need to think about to begin with.

So... I learned something.

Aren't we all proud of me.

PERSONALS:

To my... one... reader who's been with me the whole time; who, to this day, still tells me about the entries she reads and uses it as insight into my soul; who laughs at my stupid observations, acts concerned about my petty worries, and pretends not to mind my crippling flatulence...

There's just no one in the world I love as much as I do you. I don't know if this is the right forum for it, but I only ever used it to talk about whatever the hell I wanted to talk about, and using it to explain how very much you mean to me and how very much I need you every god damn second I can still breathe seems like a much better way. So today, on the anniversary of this ridiculous exercise, I don't want to do anything other than tell you, good enough once that it wouldn't take any more, that I love you with all of my little black heart.

Also, the fable the garden discussion.

And I farted just now, typing.

...

...We can talk about that later.

...

Is kryptonite known for its hardness? Maybe it's brittle. I wonder what it registers on the ol' Mohs hardness scale.

...

Update: I used spellcheck for the first time on eBlogger, and the malfunctioning dinothesaurus told me that not only was the word "motherfuckler" supposed to be the word "motorbike," but in order to stem any suspcions that it may just be trying to come to any conclusion at all over such a made up word, it suggested that the mispelling of "anythign" was probably me trying to type the word "antigen."

HOW DO YOU COME TO ANTIGEN BEFORE YOU SWITCH THE LAST TWO LETTERS, HAL?! YOU GOD-DAMNED MOTORBIKE!!

WAKING THE NEIGHBORS!

OH MAN!!! OOOOOH HO HO HO MAN!!!

OH MAN I JUST GOT HOME AND WHILE I WAS WALKING UP TO MY DOOR THE ALARM TO MY CAR WENT OFF!

OH MAN I COULDN'T GET IT OFF FOR LIKE A GOOD TWENTY SECONDS!

THAT DOESN'T SOUND LIKE MUCH, BUT WHEN YOU THINK OF A CAR ALARM GOING OFF AT 2:30 AM THEN IT IS ANAWFUL LOT INDEED!

OOOOOH HOOO HOOOO HOOOO MAN!!!

Trabadour

When I'm not working (and by that, I mean, when I don't have a job) I can't help but feel listless, unaccomplished. I can't justify my existence solely with school, I need to have a job as well, or I'm just not satisfied. I just don't feel like things are how I want them to be. Largely, that's because, without a job, I mostly sit around in my pink sweatpants and try to think of things to do instead of actually doing any given thing.

I'm trying to keep busy, just to keep myself on this side of the cliffs of madness. For instance: Today, I learned a little programming in trying to get some links up on this page, which eventually proved successful. Also, I played a ton of GTA: San Andreas, because now, with the red-hot surface of the internet being pumped directly into my brain, I can look up and immediately implement codes. I've been battling the whole of the city of San Fierro for a few hours and...

Awesome.

There was practice today, so says the glowing box, but from the listserve I can only surmise that two fighters were going, and it just wasn't enough to drag me the hell out of bed. Apparently, only Brutus (a little bulldog of a man) and Rory (a LARGE bulldog of a man) were going to fight today, and I need more than David and Goliath to get me out there. I'm not trying to learn how to fight a funhouse Hall of Mirrors, people. I'm trying to learn to kill before I can be killed.

I've applied for a job at New Horizons Computer Learning Center, where I'd be teaching computer applications like Photoshop and Illustrator, which would be pretty freakin' awesome. I'm not so certain that I'm exactly what they're looking for, but there's just so much bullshit between people trying to get as much as they can for as little as they can and ending up getting applicants who want the exact same thing, only going the other way. There's no honesty, it's just people trying to set up the ground rules and hopefully put themselves in a good position for what will, eventually, become a compromise. Carumba.

...

On Sticking Thumbtacks into the Wall of my Art Class Over and Over Again:

You need to get a really sharp point on the thumbtack you select, for any bluntness or, heaven forfend, broken tips will result in obstruction of the penetration into the corkboard-like wall surface, especially in a repeated poking, and will defeat the purpose of this near-pointless enterprise.

If, like me, you must do stupid, meaningless things, at least do them well.

THIS IS WHERE I WOULD PUT A SMALL-TEXTED STINGER, BUT FOR SOME REASON MY MAC DOES NOT SUPPORT TEXT EDITING DAMN IT.

Would That I Could

I had more to say, after writing that last entry, but it felt so unimportant after what was said that I thought it would essentially be like renting out ad space on your first manifesto. Just after you get past the part about eliminating the proletariat or the white race or the Catholics or something, there's an ad for Jerry's Dogs and the whole thing just makes you hungry.

Nectarhoozle, I promised pictures from war, and pictures from war I have come to deliver... feeling some obligation to own up to some promise, if any, after failing to deliver porn after having promised to do so in the first real post ever.

So, to set the scene, Prado National Park, Great Western War, the Year of Our Lord 2005, the setting: Troy.

Enjoy my awesome.

...


One of the big deals about this war that I was so excited about, that I believe I commented on earlier, was the fact that all the scenarios were going to be centered around the legend (read: movie) of Troy, Homer's Iliad. True to form, there was a boat battle (ghastly) there was the
beach landing and attempted capture of the sanctuary of Apollo (which I didn't take much part in, mostly due to the boat battle's ghastliness) and throughout the weekend there were numerous rez battles and castle battles and knights showboating and Corvus dying and many, many opportunities to kill many, many people but, mostly, it was a chance to fight as a Greek invading the city of Troy... and that appealed to me most of all. I'm sure the entire thing was cooked up by Dirk (or Direk... I believe it is officially) as he's recently become extremely entranced by the Hellenic legends and has gone so far as to, in his split from the Orkneys, name his new fighting group the "Myrmidons," however, the entire thing felt as if it were planned especially for little old me, and in keeping with the egoism of my proud ancestry, I took up the call, broke in my new persona, and donned the helmet you see above, a beautiful Corinthian made by Brand himself whiel he was king. It'd been sitting on my shelf for a while, unstrapped and unpadded, awaiting its virgin battle... and O how the battle did come.


I do love this sport, this life of war. Saturday proved to be the glory day, and as I've said many times after the fighting was over, I think I did the best fighting of my life on that Saturday. My brothers and I took Corvus apart, not that they're all that difficult to dismantle once you realize that a) most of them can't fight all that well to begin with, b) the ones that can are so surrounded by those that can't as to be bogged down by their presence and c) they are afraid of you. I had Ichtius with me, a short sword which, for most SCAers, is certain death, and all that I'd do is walk straight up to the line of pretty red shields with their pretty corvid heraldry (visible in the background to the right) and try to catch up with them as they'd back away in terror. The Corvi that can fight fight well, and hit hard, but they're too busy trying to maintain the line to protect themselves. My brothers and I slaughtered them, time and time again, to the extent that I wasn't even thinking about them as I made a mad rush at Achilles (my good friend Jedon), batting their spear aside and killing indiscriminantly and effortlessly as I went. Gods, my house is a house of legendary glory, if only we have the faculty to realize it.

The tournament, as always, was a little weak. The Lord of the Great House enjoys doing the "Pas" every year in which that red barrier is built and placed within an eric (this year being made of posts extolling the twelve virtues of chivalry or some such antiquated notion that no one, NO ONE, adheres to within the context of everyday life, only in one of making someone stop something that bothers you) and the people fighting have to fight over the damn thing. Weak. Sauce. You ask me. The gentleman I'm fighting against up there thought it a good idea to call all the other fighters there "pantywaists" (wh... wha?) and the proceeded to fight each and every one of us, single sword to single sword, three counted blows. Also, he proceeded to lose to every. single. one. of. us. Every one. Didn't win one fight. And I had my little Icthius, slashing him up, not being nearly as long as his sword. Boo-ya. We were going to do a Bear Pit tourney (much more our style, wherein there is scrapping and struggling and wrestling over weaponry and chaotic fighting for survival and honor) but I fell asleep. D'oh.

At any rate, the war was the best war I'd ever attended, as I've said before, but my exploits and those of my house are all that I really had been meaning to discuss, and having done that, I think I'm going to hold on to the rest of the photographic documenation of this particular fightfest until another subject occurs to me that they'd serve in providing visual aid for. Until then, if you haven't, join the god damn SCA. It is awesome.

God help me I do love it so.