my gooey center

2002-08-29T16:55:00.000-07:00

This blog will be deleted within a month. It has been a riot. I love you all.

2002-08-17T00:43:00.000-07:00

I suppose it's about time I reveal all of my secrets. Well... not all.

I suppose in order for me to tell a story I'll have to introduce you to the characters first. There was Zhenya, the fiery Russian. There was me; you know me. And there was Billy. Billy was the best of us all. Most people try to manifest themselves above the pitch of who they are in order to appear strong. Billy does no such thing. Billy even seems like she's falling apart on the outside, but on this trip, I came to know how much integrity she really has. And that's mainly what this story is about. Billy's integrity.

I flew out to get Zhenya; to bring her and her stuff to California. We put our heads together and decided to buy a cheap, reliable car to drive. The story really starts in a town just southeast of Raleigh, North Carolina at a house in a black neighborhood. Earnest's house. That's where we met Billy. Billy had been in an ad online. $700 for a '78 Chevy van. We drove Zhenya's Mitzubishi up to check her out, and we fell in love as soon as we laid eyes on her. We drove her to a nearby mechanic to get her checked out, and met our first obstacle with her before we even got across town. There was rust in the steel floor. In some spots, it feels soft like you could step through. There are a few small holes where small things can roll out onto the street. Zhenya drove her first, and she had a lot of trouble at first. She's a tiny little girl, and Billy is a huge steel van. The front bucket seats are set way apart and there is just empty space besides, so it looks pretty funny when Zhenya drives her.

The van started backfiring on the way to the mechanic. At this point I didn't know much about old cars, but here at the end of the journey I can say I know a great deal. In hindsight, it was pretty obvious that the van had sat for a long time and that the distributor wasn't in time. If you have no idea what that means, then you have an idea where I was at that day on the way to the mechanic. The mechanic charged us $20 to look it over and tell us what major problems it had. Again in retrospect, I know that he really didn't look at things he should have, and that he didn't look closely at anything. He told us only that the rear drivers-side drum brake had not been replaced when it should have been, and that grooves had been worn into the rotor. This wouldn't cause a problem soon, but eventually it would need attention.

We loved this van and we bought it for $700 and a lot of faith in serendipity. We started fixing her up on our free time. First we had a referred Wilmington mechanic time the distributor with a timing light. After that she kind of purred. Except she purred with a really hoarse voice because the muffler wasn't really on right, and the engine cover inside the van doesn't fit on very tight anymore, so we have a lot of sound in the cockpit. We decided to keep her looking exactly as she was on the outside. Dented, faded, rusted dark blue with white decal letters on each side reading ROUND THE WAY DETAIL. I found a carpet guy in the next town over that was willing to give me some free scrap floor carpet to lay inside of her. We drove out to him, and he turned out to be quite a character. Not only did he give me ample plush white floor carpet and insulation, but he told us exactly where to go clamming up the coast and how to prepare what sounded like some really good cheesy clam food. If we hadn't been so busy those last couple of weeks, we would have gone clamming with him and tasted that yumminess that was legendary in his neighborhood. Round his way.

Next we found a solid wooden twin bedframe on the side of the road. The people in the adjacent house said it was garbage and that we could have it. I borrowed a drill and and woodsaw and made it so that it would fit sideways in Billy. A litte plywood placed over the top of the bed and a double-size mattress. I cut and fit the carpet and now there was a bed. A six-gallon tank for water. A propane stove. Blankets. Sleeping bags. Billy is a temporary home. I found a little plastic yellow toy in the rear door while I was fishing around for a dropped screw (I was removing the lock to get a key made; we had no door keys). It was like those army guy toys, but it was in the shape of a cowboy pointing two pistols. His arms were at a ninety-degree angle. He was filthy. I washed most of the dirt off, and taped him to the dash with electrical tape so that he points a gun each at the driver and passenger. I also found a light bulb back there. The locksmith we found made us three keys for ten bucks, and we got to watch him use the coolest gadget I've ever seen. Superlative.

We made a friend, Scott, at Advanced Auto, and he ended up doing a lot of little things on the van that helped us out. Scott had been a US Marine, but since he got out he'd grown out his hair and dyed it pink. He tried very hard to get sex with the girls to whom we introduced him, but I'm sorry to report that the man had very little game. On the bright side, he hooked up a cigarette lighter for us, so we could plug in Zhenya's CD player, and he drained the sludgy transmission fluid, and he insulated the doors so we didn't get rained on anymore.

There were a few other modifications, but I want to get on with the story. Zhenya finished up her degree in Communications Studies, and we hit the road. We stopped first in Fayetteville and had our first problem on the way there. The power steering started going out. And then it did go out. The fluid was leaking. I spent two great days at my old friend Jeff's house with his new wife and his new kid. He made us cheeseburgers and together we cut one of the unnecessarily long vapor hoses in the exhaust and replaced the leaky power steering hose. It still leaked slowly, but not nearly so bad.

The next problem happened on the way to Asheville. Driving a back road between tobacco fields, the muffler fell off. I got out and rigged it up with a coat hanger and some duct tape. Turns out duct tape burns off and is useless in high temperatures, but the coat hanger stayed awhile. In Asheville, it was hanging off again, so we just took it off and put it in the back of the van. Problem mostly solved.

Asheville was another wonderful couple of days. I spent the night with Laura, who was back on her feet and feeling great. It felt really good to be around her this time.

Walking downtown, we saw a couple of kids walking with backpacks. "Are you travelling? Where you going? Where you been?" I'm friendly to travellers after this year. We talked and it turned out they were headed to San Francisco as well, and they had planned to make almost exactly the same stops that we were planning to make. Taos. Sedona. The Grand Canyon. They even had resources along the way. So Jim and Melissa hitchhiked across the United States without sticking their thumbs out. We had a couple of passengers.

And luckily, Jim was a mechanic. Jim and Billy got along famously. The first problem Jim fixed was that pesky power steering leak. He told me to pour a quarter of a thing of radiator stopleak into the power steering... uh... place. I did. It worked. It still does.

The next place we stopped was in Memphis. We stayed a night with our friends Jill and Joy while our hitchhiker entourage stayed with a friend of theirs in Germantown. The next day, we repacked the van and started getting used to the motions we'd have to go through in order to keep our travelling comfortable. It was already kind of crappy with no AC, and Zhenya wouldn't let the hippy passengers smoke in the van, so we wanted everything else to be smooth. Packing ice in the cooler with food on top of it in freezer bags so nothing got waterlogged. Refilling water containers from the big jug so we always had fluids while the hikers were taking a smoke brake. Checking fluids and cleaning the windshield while we got gas. Despite all of that, our hitchhikers managed to really slow us down. As soon as everyone was ready, one of them would spark up a smokeytreat. Somebody else would end up finding something to do while they smoked, and then they would light up another while they were waiting for whatever that was. It was like taking eight people into a grocery store. Nobody ever comes out.

The next night in Memphis, Jim found out that his grandmother had died. We took him out to Beale street and we all had a blast. I danced the dance of mindless ecstacy.

Billy, on the other hand, seemed to do better and better as we drove. She'd sat for a long time, so I think that she was cleaning herself out of gunk. She's an inline six on a heavy van, so she isn't all that fast, but we felt more and more comfortable pushing her. Jim adjusted the air intake in the carburator so that she ran better, and then adjusted the idle down. Now she could take hills a lot better, which would be important in the West.

Arkansas and Oklahoma ended up taking a very long time to get through. Jim and Melissa are both Okees. We drove around Little Rock looking for a grocery store, and it ended up taking a few hours. For some useless trivia at a party, it's really fucking hard to find a grocery story in Little Rock. Apparently eating isn't high priority near the Ozarks. Before we got away from all those ticks and mosquitos, Jim and Melissa somehow talked us into getting a cheap motel room in Arkansas. This marked the beginnin of some tension in the rest of the trip. Jim is apparently a wanted man by the DEA for having a meth lab a long time ago. Arkansas, Oklahoma, and Texas were going to be shitty because if they caught him, they would extradite him. Once we got to New Mexico it didn't matter. The local cops were hounding us in that little town we stopped in, just looking for a reason to pull us over because our Billy looks so suspicious. And we all look like drug runners. Jeff dyed Zheyna's hair and then mine, so we look quite stylish. And we have a little collection of dollar store sunglasses on the dash on the white carpet upholstery. And just as a nice addition, I got a little bike horn for Zhenya instead of fixing the broken horn since she is way to horn-happy when she's angry. Now when she honks at someone in anger, it makes her laugh. And I blow a lot of bubbles. I blew bubbles in every state. I'm getting side-tracked. We look like drug-runners with that van. So the cops were always on our ass. Luckily we minded all our ps and qs and they lost interest.

In Salisaw, OK, we stayed to let Jim visit his family. When we went to leave that night, the brakes were totally out. I have a suspicion that Jim or his brother had untightened them so that Jim could stay longer. Jim, it turns out, is very passive aggressive and manipulative. So we stayed the night and tried to find a new master cylander at Jim's cousin's salvage yard the next day. No luck, but we bled the brakes and found the tiny leak and they worked fine after that. We just had to check the fluid often. It took all day to get out of there. Jim wouldn't be rushed. But before the day was over, his other cousin welded and hung the muffler and catalytic converter and an extension pipe so we wouldn't smell exhaust inside the already hot cab anymore. $20. Sweet. Three days behind schedule, we pulled into Oklahoma City. This is where Melissa is from. We spent the night at her dad's house and made ourselves busy the next day while she visited family and friends. Two more days sucked into Oklahoma. We finally left by the moon and drove into Texas.

We slept and a truck rest area and then drove down into Palo Duro Canyon. It's absolutely a stunning place full of rattlesnackes. Jim and Melissa decided that they didn't like the energy of the place. They were very dramatic about it. They collect crystals and talk about how they can sense energies. They do so with a righteous sensitivity, and they bullshit a hell of a lot. I have no idea how those two found each other. I tried to explain to them that places in nature have only the energy that you bring in. They wanted to believe me, and they started to think I was wise, but they still insisted that the place had the worst energy they'd ever felt, and they pressured us to leave as soon as possible.

Melissa: What's a salt flat doing out here?
Drood: Maybe it's an EVIL salt flat.
Jim (very serious): Smartass.
Drood: Good-lookin' too!

We drove up to Raton, New Mexico and ended a chapter. Six days in Arkansas, Oklahoma, and Texas. I had planned on spending a single day there.

New Mexico was a much happier chapter. Jim and Melissa had lived in Angel Fire for a few years. They met there. They knew a lot of people and a lot of places to show us. In Raton, they knew the owner of the Best Western, and we got a free night in a hotel. Robert, the owner, also took Zhenya and I out to the local bar, wherein I got my ass kicked harder than it's ever been kicked at pool. By the bar owner. She plays every day all day. They were still all impressed that I only had two balls left on the table each time. Usually she wipes people out. Robert bought our drinks and we got drunk. He's all about partying. I sang karaoke to Zhenya. Stand By Me.

They rest of those kids drank more and took a lot of pills. We hung out all night in the jacuzzi and the heated pool.

We stayed the next night in an RV park, and the following one at a campsite. Taos area is neat. There is a gorge just west of town that I could spend a lot of time in. What is more beautiful is the rest of northern New Mexico along 64. Bunch of backwards crazies out there, but beautiful. Where the Rockies dip down and end, there are forested foothills of red, blue, and white fir and aspen trees. We found a yard sale in the middle of nowhere with some real steals. I got two great shirts for .50 each. Zheny got a pair of Wrangler cordouroys that fit her really nice for .50. I got a copy of War of the Worlds for ten cents, and a little knife for ten cents. And fresh socks for ten cents a pair.

Before we left New Mexico, we had a major problem with Billy. Jim the Arrogant Driver had knocked a hole in the aluminum pipe that goes back to the transmission. This is an expensive part, and it's a hell to replace it because you have to open up the transmission to replace it and you have to line everything up perfectly, and it's hard to do even if you have a rack to put the van up on. Which we didn't. Jim and I hit the hardware store. He got a rubber hose and two clamps and some J.B. Weld. $10. A temporary solution.

Arizona was also beatiful in a "hi, i'm in a desert" kind of way.

Pause. I feel like I'm narrating a slide show at this point. Unpause.

We slept at the Grand Canyon, and then drove down to Sedona. I made a big mistake and left the parking brake on for about a quarter of a mile down in Oak Creek Canyon. The small amount of brake fluid that was leaking in the rear driver drum caught fire and smoked for awhile. The steel parts all got hot and swelled slightly enough to make the brakes act funny and make us all really nervous. We spent the night in the Hilton Resort in town because Zhenya's friend from Phoenix works at a hotel and hooked us up. The next day we spent trying to look at the brakes. We couldn't get the rotor off. We had AAA tow it to a nearby mechanic that Harmony, the concierge recommended us to. They looked at it and told us it was fine. We bought a used tire since we needed one anyway. Jim was still nervous about the brakes.

We drove to San Luis Obispo in one night. It took forever. Literally. Okay not really. Just a long time. In the morning, the brakes were acting up and so was something else. Jim and Melissa met up with some friends and we parted ways. I went and found Kaja. We hung out at her work and she gave us coffee and car advice. She also gave us fragrant flowers for the car and was a lot more friendly and cool than I'd expected. Warmer. I'm glad to know her. I'll have to go visit when I'm not full of problems.

We found a mechanic that was really nice and drove the van around a couple of blocks to tell us what he thought the noises could be. He assured me it wasn't the drive shaft, which is good. He thought it was the engine "searching." I knew Billy was spiritual. He was great and he didn't even charge us. Which is good because we're going broke and we still have to get jobs and live in San Francisco. We went to mechanics that weren't busy to get the brakes looked at. They looked at them and told us a lot of what I could at this point call bullshit. They said the footings were put on backwards and that there was a gastket leaking in the master cylander and that all teh brakes needed to be replaced or we would crash and die. They kicked a lot of dirt and rust down into the drums in the process and didn't bother to clean it before putting them back on. Assholes. I had driven all night and not slept, so I was kind of in bad shape. Zhenya dealt with them and they treated her like a girl. It sucked. We were very nervous and yeah actually scared to drive the car. We thought she was done for. She was also leaking a hell of a lot of oil, which she'd done only a little of before.

But we drove her anyway. We drove her up through the hills of California. The next time we checked the fluids, we found out what that knocking noise was. The transmission fluid had started flowing freely again. At least we knew what it was. The good news was the brakes felt fine again, and the oil stopped leaking so badly. I guess it had been leaking because the van was a little overheated driving through the desert the previous night. We got to Sacramento at eleven oclock at night two weeks and four days after we left Wilmington. It was a long strange trip. Zhenya flew out to Kentucky this morning for some job training thing, and she'll be back tomorrow night. We'll go rafting and maybe hiking and then I'll show her the Gay Area. She will fall madly in love. We'll get jobs and get a place and be responsible and married and all that. Maybe. We'll see. The road already calls again. I've worked hard to get these hobbit feet, and I'm not just going to let them go soft.

I love you really hard.

Drood

2002-08-16T03:13:00.000-07:00

I just had one mutherfucker of a road trip. I'll try to write about it soon.

2002-07-27T21:57:00.000-07:00

Aries: (March 21—April 19)
The jury won't buy your story of demonic possession. Which is no big deal, because the demon just wanted your Milk Duds.

I normally don't give any credence to zodiac horoscopes, especially considering that the position of our solar system gives us thirteen actual star signs, and I'm not really an Aries because of it. But this one from The Onion really was dead on, so maybe I should give them a second shot.

2002-07-21T23:14:00.000-07:00

The answer is "No, you sick fuck!"

The question is, did I ever tell you about my cock-tassle? I made one and wore it for a few days once. Actually, Estrella did most of the work on it, but she didn't know at the time that her yarn tassle would eventually become my cock-tassle. I tied her colorful piece of craft to the base of a condom. I mean that I removed the condom and just had the little ring left. To which I affixed the tassle. Voila! A fitted cock-tassle. The yarn felt kind of good, and like I said, I wore it around for a couple of days. I told everyone that I was wearing it. A couple of my friends really wanted to see it, but were too embarrassed to press the issue. I laughed inwardly, but I laughed really hard and pointed outwardly. Eventually, my cock-tassle fell off in San Francisco on the way from a party. I sometimes wonder what ever became of it. If anyone actually figured out what it was. I can't imagine that they did. But I hope they did. And I hope they loved it as I did.

2002-07-21T20:27:00.000-07:00

Do the Right Thing

It bothers me that I am always so noble about everything. I always find myself doing the noble thing in any situation, even if it's detrimental to me. Even if the people I'm helping are hurting me somehow. I'm passive when I really shouldn't be. I should assert myself. I really don't like myself sometimes because of it. If I were someone else, I wouldn't like that person at those times.

But I never regret anything. I never have anything to regret, because my intentions are always so fucking noble. I want to regret something. I want to do something really worth regretting. I want to hurt someone dear to me for no reason. Especially if they don't deserve it. I never feel this way. And I'll never act on it. But I want to.

2002-07-20T18:21:00.000-07:00

Me and cruel Stagger Lee having a beer. Not shooting each other. We just know.

2002-07-20T18:20:00.000-07:00

What did you think you would find here?

2002-07-17T01:14:00.000-07:00

I'm not done offending people today. I had thought about putting one of those things on my site to let people comment on my posts, but when I get going, I don't like to pass the microphone around. This is one of the many things that has convinced me that I am very selfish. I don't dislike that about myself, and even if I did want to change it I probably couldn't, so it's a good thing I don't. I don't have any particular feelings about it. I spent my childhood and adolescence on self-improvement so I could be destructive as an adult. I wouldn't want to waste all that hard work.

Am I still talking about myself? Would you rather I talk about you?

Maybe I should talk about something more important. Is there anything? Politics are important, right? Except that today's politics will very soon become yesterday's and me having discussed them will have no effect whatsoever. I'll just have a record that I thought that somehow my opinion was important to the people around me, when I know very well it's not even that important to me. Maybe religion and philosophy. If you've read up on your Sartyr and your Calvin, I don't have anything special to add. And it you haven't, you'd do better to go read about it than to read what I have to say. I could write about my friends, but they are great in ways I can't trap on my keyboard. And they are thinking things from a point of view I can't crack into. So you'd only get a fraction of a story and the soup-film over the convection heat of their character. I could talk about music or film or something else that proves that I can remember a lot of names and usurp the opinions of others. So what's left? What will entertain you? What will give you the inexplicable compulsion to keep reading more because you are addicted like it was salt to the conflict between what I'm saying and how you think? Little movies in my head. Things that you don't like. But you do. But you don't. And I say it in a way that irritates you so much you want to tear off my ragged clothes and look into my smirk-mask and devour me from the outside because that's the only way you can think of to get in. If there is another way, I wouldn't tell you. A girl's got to have her secrets.

2002-07-17T00:54:00.000-07:00

I get little movies in my head. Usually they are a comedic reflection of the world around me, which only thinks it's playing the straight man. For some reason I thought of "feminist pornography" today, and a little movie popped up in my head of a bunch of women dressed as Hollywood would portray stereotypical feminists (think PCU). They're sitting around talking about something, and it's obviously a bad script by someone who has never heard of Maya Angelou. And the actresses are obviously porno stars with fake breasts, and that porno star acting that I won't call bad because what the fuck do I know. Anyway, not much time goes by before the pool man comes in with a bucket of wet ashes to explain why the pump has been acting up (of course they are the remnants of a bra-burning party), and they make short work of dropping their roles and making with the sex. Voila. Feminist porn!

2002-06-30T22:17:00.000-07:00

(i do not know what it is about you that closes
and opens;only something in me understands
the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)

eecummings

2002-06-22T11:05:00.000-07:00

I've been musing a lot lately about the forest:tree relationship, and how one is so distinguishable from the other that one will actually obscure the other. Even though it sort of is the other. This is all metaphorical, and only a thinly veiled metaphor at that. But I do think about actual trees and forests in the same context sometimes. Like The Tree. The fifty-foot tall magnolia that I love so much to climb. It's an organism. A life, if you will. Just one of billions of trees, and just one of hundreds that surround it. One tree in a forest. But it's the only one that I focus on. The only one important to me. The only one dear to me.

And when I'm in the tree, the equilibrium controlled mostly by my inner ears makes me hyper-aware of my spacial relationship with gravity and the horizontal plane of the Earth. Moreso than when I fly in a jet, because I'm looking down through branches that move across my vision at different speeds depending on their distance from me. When I move up into the next throng of branches, I can feel my whole world shift into another horizontal plane. Or maybe through several. Or millions. Or some infinite amount if you counted closely enough. I'm a monkey in a tree. I'm a shaman in The Tree. I am connected with an Otherworld made of round trembling feelings and shadows.

So many trees have so much character for me, but I don't get to know whole forests. They are sometimes very sacred places for me, and they certainly can be ambient and make me connect to the size of their trees and the depth of their moisture and the cacaphony of their insects. But I pass through them with no permanence to my intimacy. Like cities. They are places and I love them for the moments that I am there, but with few exceptions I don't reserve a place for them in my gooey center.

And the dark spaces in between the trees, that's a whole other love.

2002-06-22T10:38:00.000-07:00

When I spend time with Zhenya, I don't want to write about it. Even when it makes a great story. I feel like I'd be invading our life or tainting our closeness.

2002-06-20T13:39:00.000-07:00

I can't help myself reading any interestingly-titled blogs on my way to post something. Sometimes I am very pleasantly surprised. I think I will link this over to the right there if she keeps diddling about herself in the third person and making me glassy-eyed with... uh... stuff that would make people like her and I (and Annushenka) uncomfortable.

2002-06-19T19:51:00.000-07:00

The Atlantic Ocean is an old friend, and she's warm. The waters today were clear and turbulent as we fought our way past riptide breakers to the deep water. Stormy gray skies and brine foam in my eyes. I always open my eyes under water.

Last night I climbed up to the top of The Tree with my new roommate Sarah, and we both sustained injuries. First my knee actually popped out of socket and then quickly back in again as my reflexes threw all my weight on the other leg and twisted back to a normal position. Wow. It's a little tender today, but it seems to be fine. Wierd. Then Sarah actually slipped and fell fifty feet up in the tree because she was drunk and tree was slippery from yesterday's rain. I watched through the moonlight as she slipped below me and grabbed two branches as she fell, slowing herself before landing right on her moneymaker, straddling a third large branch. She's bruised, but just fine. It was fun getting down from there, considering my injured knee and her injured pussy.

We'd gone to listen to a band play downtown because the members live down the street from us. I ended up drinking beers because they were and I felt really tense. You would too if your new roommate was a six-foot Amazon beauty and she was drunk and all over you in a bar. When it closed, we went next door to a place with hiphop music playing and TURNED THAT DAMN PLACE OUT. There's James Brown, there's Michael Jackson, and there's me. Actually I probably look pretty silly dancing, but I like it.

So as of today, I'm officially back in Wilmington. 1. The only ones dancing. 2. The Tree. 3. The ocean. This is a gentle place, and there's something sexy about it's warm nights and southern glances. I'm happy here, knowing that I'm leaving.

2002-06-18T09:27:00.000-07:00

This is beginning to feel like an oblogation. Alright, stop whimpering; I'll write in you.

Remember in Cool Hand Luke when he's all ruin't from escaping and then getting beaten, and the other prisoners are all excited to know where he's been, and he limps away shouting "Stop beating it! Stop feeding off of meee?!" That's the relationship I have with my blog. It has to stay in a cyberworld ready to parse and collate at any moment. Completely still and chill, and then when I finally get back from my adventures and write about them, it gets to whirr into action and take in each word with a salivating mouth and opiate eyes. I would hate to disappoint it. It would be cruel.

So things went mostly like I thought they would, but with a few twists and turns and a lot of extra goodness. The first time we veered from schedule was when I inadvertantly flirted with this sexy ugly punk bookworm butch girl at the airport in SFO. I had to find a window seat to watch the midwest storms beneath us, and the only open one happened to be right in front of her row. So we chatted and flirted, and I ended up staying in that seat for the whole flight instead of sharing Malia and Andrew's first flight ever. What a horrible older brother I am. On the other hand, I've been playing with them for four months, so I guess I needed a break.

So we had breakfast and everything and got the rental car (they didn't have the little SUV we'd reserved, so we had to drive a Cadillac), and started driving from Knoxville to Asheville. We intended to drive through the Great Smoky Mountains National Park, and we did drive in it a little, but the kids were so whiny I was going to murder them right there on the parkway and bury them in a shallow grave a few hundred yards off into the woods (I'm not having children; this is a good thing for all parties), and my mother was falling asleep at the wheel because we only got two hours of sleep on the plane, and this is the best run-on sentence I've written in quite some time. The short story is that we veered into Gatlinburg, a little carnival tourist town, and my mother took the kids to play miniature golf while I slept in the greenhouse effect car and sweated out any toxins I've accumulated since before I grew hair down there. We shot over to I40 and she slept at rest stops occasionally while I ran around amid old maple forests full of green and mystery and gnats with the kids.

We decided to take it easy for a couple of days before the reunion. It was a good idea.

My extended family that doesn't really feel like my family because we never communicate sure can cook. There were so many great southern foods and even an awesome veggie lasagna and german cole slaw. The cole slaw made my mouth go limp with creamy sweet happiness. The the chicken casserole also provoked odd reactions from my nervous system. Good ones. And the peach pie... you get the picture.

Zhenya drove up from Wilmington and got to meet a lot of my family. People I didn't even know. We eloped in January, and nobody knows we're married, so I introduced her as my fiancee. We'll have a ceremony in the Fall I think.

We drove to Asheville from Spruce Pine on the Blue Ridge Parkway at sunset. I don't know how to explain how beautiful that is. We were going to drive up Mt. Mitchell on the way and watch the sunset from the tallest peak east of the Mississippi, but we missed the exit and ended up hiking up through a peak covered with these great little hardwood trees of which I forget the name offhand. Craggy Cliffs is what the area was called. It was uphill for half a mile like stairs, and I mean literally because these slabs of natural stone that were all about had been used to make stairs for about half of the way. At the top, a sort of eyrie had been built out of the stones, and you could see for miles and miles in every direction. I always accidentally find the best places. I'm good to travel with.

Asheville turned out to be the best part. Zhenya knew this lesbian girl Sarah through our friend Heather. Sarah turned out to be tough and beautiful and punkrock. She lives in this punkrock house that's free for now because the owner wants to turn it into a hostel and they are doing work on it. She works where she can get free food and beer, and her friends all have either trade jobs or jobs where they can get free stuff. Like Pete, who works on a farm outside of town. He lives out there during the week and lives at the punkrock house on weekends. He has got the most incredible smile I've seen in a long time. His eyes light up in this mellow way that makes him look very truly happy. And he smiles a lot. There were also these twin sisters that were really nice and great. I only remember Emily's name because she hung out with us the whole time. She had a limp mohawk and really great lips. She wore a cowboy hat and Airwolf sunglasses that made her look like a rockstar. Sarah and Emily and a bunch of women I didn't meet want to learn how to ride motorcycles really well and exodus across the country for awhile. An all-girl biker club. Neat.

We went skinnydipping in a slimy slimy pond on some campus. There was a Tarzan swing and water snakes. It was kind of strange when some families showed up with kids, but they didn't seem to care. This was the naked place. So within a week of being back in North Carolina, I'm once again surrounded with naked lesbians. I'm always surrounded with naked lesbians. What the fuck is up with that?

We were walking down the street downtown, and I heard a very strange thing for me to hear in a city I've never been in. I heard somebody calling my name. I looked and there was my friend Laura from Wilmington walking determinedly toward me with a huge smile. She recognized my shirt, and then was sure it was me when she saw my boots. I haven't seen her in a year. We started out a little intense last year for a few days. Very intimate. And then she ducked out saying that she had too many emotional things to deal with in her life just then. I half suspect that she just figured I thought the situation was more than it was, and that she had only really wanted some lovin' (which is a-okay in my book). The short of it is that we were pleasant to each other when we saw each other after that, but we didn't linger or hang out with each other. I think that's silly, but if she really did have some feelings for me that would be hurt when I left (which I always do) I can understand. Actually it happens a lot.

So she just moved up to Asheville and works downtown there. She was really friendly. I got the feeling that she'd been through a lot of bullshit and that maybe she was pretty desperate for a friend. I'd like to be a friend, but I had to leave Asheville within the hour, and now I have to buckle down here and save money to move to Frisky City because damn its expensive. I was very tempted to stay in Asheville for at least a week though. I really like that city. You have to know the right people to get properly introduced to a geography.

Well. I'm burning daylight. I have to go be responsible. Deep peace of the running wave to you.

2002-06-10T12:06:00.000-07:00

Psychotherapy (sung to the tune of that Glory Glory Halleluiah song)
by my older sister's namesake

Oh, mine eyes have seen the glory of the theories of Freud
He has taught me all the evils that my ego must avoid
Repression of the impulses results in paranoid
As the Id goes marching on

Glory glory psychotherapy
Glory glory sexuality
Glory glory now we can be free
As the Id goes marching on

There was a man who thought his friends to him were all superior
And this complex he imagined made life drearier and drearier
Till his analyst assured him that he really was inferior
As the Id goes marching on

Glory glory psychotherapy
Glory glory sexuality
Glory glory now we can be free
As the Id goes marching on

Do you drown your superego in a flood of alcohol?
And go running after women till you're just about to fall?
You may think you're having fun but you're not having fun at all
As the Id goes marching on

Glory glory psychotherapy
Glory glory sexuality
Glory glory now we can be free
As the Id goes marching on

Oh sad is the masochism, the vagaries of sex
Have turned half the population into total nervous wrecks
But your analyst will cure you, long as you can pay the cheques
As the id goes marching on

Glory glory psychotherapy
Glory glory sexuality
Glory glory now we can be free
As the Id goes marching on

Is your body plagued by aches and pains that you can't understand?
Compound fractures, ingrown toenails, floating kidneys, trembling hands
There's a secret to your trouble: you're in love with your old man
As the Id goes marching on

Glory glory psychotherapy
Glory glory sexuality
Glory glory now we can be free
As the Id goes marching on

Freud's mystic world of meaning needn't have us mystified
It's really very simple what the psyche tries to hide
A thing is a phallic symbol if it's longer than it's wide!
As the Id goes marching on

Glory glory psychotherapy
Glory glory sexuality
Glory glory now we can be free
As the Id goes marching on

2002-06-09T00:47:00.000-07:00

It has been a mutherfucker of a week. That's a good thing. To kick it off, last weekend I shared some intensity for intensity's sake. I met the most charming four-year-old I've ever imagined, and I did some interesting things in parking garages. Um, not with the four-year-old, pervert.

Then I went hiking with Larry for a few days. We drove up to a lake, the name of which I will keep secret so that it doesn't become crowded (I'm selfish; fuck you), and canoed our camping gear out to a little island in the middle to camp. The second day we spent hiking up to more lakes. Plenty of snow in June to play in. No poison oak at 7000 feet. Nobody up there but me, Larry, Scout the Dog, and the occasional fisherman. And nobody but us up higher. Lots of birds. Lots of mosquitos. An osprey and a cinnamon-brown black bear cub. There were so many cascading falls and ponds and lakes (at least seven lakes on my journeys) and large ants ants and every new perspective was a postcard. I lost my diposable camera, so I can't even show you a crappy picture. I found it again when we got back to Sacramento. Just as well.

Needless to say, things have been busy but peaceful. I lost the cellular phone, and it seems like they are going to replace it. Great.

I'd like to report that I had some great revelations or something while away from the things of man, but I really just enjoyed it a lot. Not too much thinking outside the New York Times crossword I brought. So there it is. I should be able to relate some better stories soon. I'm leaving on the eleventh on a jet plane to Knoxville, Tenessee. From there, we will drive a rental SUV through the Great Smoky Mountains Nationaly Park and all its incredible wildflowers and trees into North Carolina. From Cherokee, we will take the bottom little segment of the Blue Ridge Parkway to Asheville, perhaps stopping to explore a little of the Callajusa River Gorge there. On Saturday the fifteenth, Zhenya will be riding up from Wilmington to meet me for my family reunion, which happens rarely. Sunday we will go back to Wilmington together where we will live for the rest of the summer. She's finishing up her degree, and I'll get some kind of work. After summer, we may or may not go on a spectacular road trip. If my San Francisco friends are able to put it together, they'll pick us up in Wilmington, and I'll get to simultaneously explore the whole north, which I've never seen, as well as introduce America to Zhenya properly. Also I've never been to New York or Boston or Chicago or anywhere up there, so I will get a whole new cultural perspective if it pans out. If not, we'll just fly to San Francisco. I hope to see some or all of you lovelies on the trip or at the end of it. Deep peace of the running wave to you.

2002-06-08T23:55:00.000-07:00

I'm getting there. I don't suck, but I've got a ways to go.

2002-06-08T23:37:00.000-07:00

Disorder	Rating
Paranoid:	Low
Schizoid:	Low
Schizotypal:	Moderate
Antisocial:	High
Borderline:	Low
Histrionic:	High
Narcissistic:	Moderate
Avoidant:	Low
Dependent:	Low
Obsessive-Compulsive:	Moderate
-- Click Here To Take The Test --

2002-06-08T23:17:00.000-07:00

Strawberry: 0/100 Pear: 20/100 Banana: 10/100 Tomato: 60/100 Lemon: 15/100

Take the What Fruit Are You? test by Ellen and Aaron!

2002-06-08T23:14:00.000-07:00

You're loyal to your friends and family. You try not to let people know when you don't like them, because you try you best to treat everyone equally. You're not a leader, you tend to follow orders and respect those who tell you what to do. You're smart and a quick thinker. You take life as its handed to you, and try to make the best of it. You're constantly surrounded by friends and family, and you're a respectable person.

2002-06-08T22:55:00.000-07:00

Find your Role-Playing
Stereotype, and visit mutedfaith.com.
[Angel.]

2002-06-08T21:02:00.000-07:00

You're ANGER! You're not the most pleasant person to be around! You've got a short fuse, and you're almost always mad at the world. You're represented by the color red.

2002-06-08T20:58:00.000-07:00

Which Kiss Are You?

And I can't spell.

2002-06-08T20:51:00.000-07:00

How Gay Are YOU? [?]

2002-06-08T20:47:00.000-07:00

You are 30% evil! [?]

You're still on the good side of 50%, but you're gaining on it. You're not as good as you should be, but you're good ALMOST all of the time. There's only an occasional time when evil takes over you, but when it does...

2002-06-08T20:42:00.000-07:00

Find your emotion!

2002-06-08T20:32:00.000-07:00

:: how jedi are you? ::

2002-06-08T19:50:00.000-07:00

Which Season are you?

2002-06-08T19:43:00.000-07:00

Which Musical Heroine are You? by blusteryvirgin

2002-06-08T19:28:00.000-07:00

src="http://test3.thespark.com/childtest/award/mnid.gif"
border=1>

2002-06-08T18:18:00.000-07:00

I'm exceptionally artistic!

Find your soul type at kelly.moranweb.com.

2002-06-08T18:12:00.000-07:00

Click Here To Find Out Which Symbol You Are

2002-06-08T18:07:00.000-07:00

Visionary, revolutionary, vigilante - these descriptions all fit you well. You are thoroughly disgusted with society and humanity as a whole, and you have several rather diabolical plans to reshape it to fit your designs. You're probably a loner, and most people think you're crazy. That's just because they don't understand, though, and you'll show them someday anyway. Heh heh heh. You are known to become very passionate about many causes, have torrid love affairs, and be seen as a either a demagogue or a hero to the proletariat masses.

Be cool! Take the What Do You Want Out Of Life? Quiz

2002-06-08T18:00:00.000-07:00

Which Peanuts Character Are You Quiz

2002-06-04T09:40:00.000-07:00

Would you survive a horror movie? Find out @ She's Crafty

2002-05-31T11:35:00.000-07:00

Blogger is hungry. It eats posts. I hope it's had its fill for the day.

2002-05-28T11:24:00.000-07:00

Just some surfing because my plans got pissed on for the day.

The chain went like this. I linked to this heartthrob from this Sam Spade's website. From there, I found her nifty boyfriend's site. He has many promising links that I will explore. They describe Brooklyn like the Oakland I love with all the good parts magnified.

I've never had any iota of a desire to go to New York City. Annushka is always talking about moving to Brooklyn because it's the shiznit (my word, not hers), and she finally wrote me to tell me her dream is being realized for at least the month of June. I'll be on the East Coast for most of the summer, so maybe I'll have to hitch up and see what all the fuss is about.

I hate being woken up by a single housefly when I'm trying to sleep in. It kept buzzing by my ear. I foiled it for awhile by pulling up the hood of my German army parka (which is oversized for the season because I took the lining out, and therefore a suitable blanket) and covering my face with it. But the tossings of sleep eventually confounded me further, and the veil of divine abjuration fell flacidly to the couch cushion. Buzzzzzz. Buzzzzzz. Fuck you. Fuck you. The housefly was not dispirited by my expletives. Buzzzzz. Buzzzzzz. I groped around for sticks and stones, but none were within reach. I vowed to kill the fly, it's wife and children, it's mother and father. Buzzzzz. Buzzzzzz. Apparently it was a single orphan, and it wasn't afraid of my sleeping ass. Buzz. Swiped. Buzz. Smack! Miss. Fuck. Coffee.

The monkey I know and love has returned. This is the sort of post that stole my heart in the first place, and consumated our complete-stranger relationship.

2002-05-27T02:10:00.000-07:00

In a characteristic fit of vanity, I read over some old posts. The earlier archives were broken, and I think they are fixed now. It seems I really lived a lot of life in a short time there at the end of last year. Makes it seem like now I'm just passing time. And I had no idea how slutty I've been! How marvelous.

2002-05-26T02:26:00.000-07:00

Enough of all this immersion. Tomorrow I'm switching to Harlequin romance novels and decaf. I'm convinced it is the path to enlightenment. Ghandi said.

2002-05-24T20:05:00.000-07:00

The Mystery of Edwin Drood

Charles Dickens had a great way of being subtle without being subtle.

2002-05-23T13:12:00.000-07:00

Conflict is drama. Without dramatic conflict, nobody would read literature, watch plays or films, or bother with dysfunctional relationships. Weened on dramatic conflict, we include the right amount of dramatic conflict in our lives to keep us feeling entertained, fulfilled, and domesticated. It's the ghost of what we've removed from our lives. The ghost of violence and fear. The ghost of survival and the presence of death itself. Death itself is only a ghost. We have stopped hunting and gathering to survive. We have stopped resolving our conflicts with violence, which is natural to humans, so we watch violent conflicts on ESPN or CNN or any channel or most films or most literature. We sit transfixed by it. Hypnotized. We stare without thinking about that we are staring at. We are staring because there is this thing that we have denied ourselves, and so we must crowd in and linger when someone else breaks the social laws to do what people want to do. Newscameras buzz overhead and everyone watches from a comfortable chair the ghost of humanity.

We have taken away death with social regulations, with technology to easily defy natural predators, with religion that teaches concern for our fellow man, with medicine that keeps the viruses in the best evolutionary shape, and cripples our own. What is the result of all this "good will?" What have we accomplished by expanding our niche to crowd out an unbelievable amount of other organisms? What have we gained by adapting to each climate on the planet?

I'll make a list.

1. We've damaged the ecosystem perhaps unrepairably. Pollinators no longer spread over long distances because settlements are in the way. Honey bees, coincedentally plagued by new parasites (that we brought in by using technology to trade over long distances not naturally traversed), may not survive, which will bring many more species to extinction, which will bring even other extinctions, and et cetera. But our technology will keep us alive, so we're safe.

2. We've probably killed ourselves by breeding super viruses that we won't be able to survive.

3. We've repressed our violence only to let it all out into technology. We save up our violence for when we make wars, and then we use our technology to kill each other from a safe distance. We could even destroy the whole world from a safe distance. Several times over. But those primative primates used to gut each other face to face with bloody spears! How vile and barbaric.

I'm not accomplishing anything by preaching. I'm probably wrong. We probably are higher beings worthy of destroying the nature around us for what we shortsightedly view as noble goals. After all, I'll still drive a car all over the country just for my own entertainment, so how can I preach to anyone else? I'm not denouncing the culture that I'm very much a part of. I'm declaring the hopelessness of humanity and the pointlessness of everything we do and are.

And then I'm eating what we pass for cows these days and I'm digging in the earth to plant trees that will keep me fed and content to smell the genetically altered roses and smile when I enter a room made of materials that will still be around in thousands of years to show anthropologists how we were an enlightened age of ignorance.

So I'll go be charming and have sex and play fight to pretend I'm still a human being. I'll go live a strange and wonderful lie. Enlightenment of this cynical sort is only achievable if you are willing to actively ignore it. I believe in fairies and humans and other mythological beings because I choose to.

2002-05-23T00:16:00.000-07:00

Just a short note to tell the world (or the bits of it that are listening, which is all of it in my mind) that this is the best one-line entry I've ever seen. I hope she doesn't go back and add to it before you all can read it.

2002-05-22T00:04:00.000-07:00

Well water is delicious. "Well water," not "well, water." In Hope Mills, North Carolina, it was necter because the tap water was so bad from the upriver pig farms so they had to heavily chlorinate it, and it tasted like a very small pool with a lot of full-bladdered kids swimming in it.

~~~~<>~~~~

I had two Star Wars experiences today. One inside the theater, which I will not tell you since you can so easily go and experience it yourself in your way. The other outside the theater. The whole experience of leaving this cage and venturing into the safety of urbanity - even if only the urbanity of a town famous for being a cage. The closest theater showing Star Wars is in Lodi.

As I was leaving the house, I hooked my spiffy new cellular phone (no you can't have the number - its a crappy plan) to my belt. I dont' normally wear a belt, but I'm wearing these oversized cordouroy pants and they are annoying without a belt. So I had this electronic device clipped to my belt. After the movie, I admit that I pretended it was a lightsaber attached to my belt. Yeah, I told you I'm sexy. I'm also wearing a light blue old man shirt with not one but two shades of pink striping across the chest. I'm sorry ladies, but you're just going to have to restrain yourselves. And maybe go get a fresh set of undergarments, unless you weren't wearing any, in which case you should find a wetnap and wipe the cunty stains off your computer chair. Note: I stole cunty stains from Jess. It's the crest of the verbal wave.

But back to "as I was leaving the house." As I was leaving the house, I wanted a book in case I found myself waiting around for the movie to start or for a ride out or something. I finished up Crime and Punishment the other night, and all my other books were not at hand. The only book that was relatively small was a leather-bound Living Bible. I haven't read that fucker since I was twelve, so I grabbed it.

And then I felt like kind of a nut at Star Wars carrying around a bible. I snickered a lot. Toward the beginning of the movie, the sound started messing up, and it lasted for a good twenty minutes before I and several people went to get somebody to fix it. They stopped the movie for five minutes to fix it. On my way out, I asked the ticket girl to whom I should complain. After all, the John Williams scores were lauded by many, and they were completely ruined for a good chunk of the movie. I got my free pass for complaining, and I'm going to try to get out there for Spiderman, which I haven't seen. The great part about all this is that the ticket girl (oblivious to or maybe charmed by my bible) was hitting on me. That's the first time I've ever been hit on by someone in a wheelchair. She's sexy in a geeky way, and I was sad that I had the responsibility of meeting up with my ride right away. If I'd had the evening free I would have had something far more interesting to tell you all about.

So I walked down to the restaurant to meet my ride. It was about five blocks down Church Street. Me and my bible walking down Church Street. Past a big important church on my right and a christian bookstore on my left with a law office in between. I spit on the ground and thumped my bible. I'm good at thumping from Junior High School. I thought about capitalism and the human application of laws and institutionalized religion (bookstore, law office, church), probably because I was coming out of a Star Wars movie that covered all of these things in a way that made me think. Not think because it was very deep. Think because I oppose the ideas presented, especially since they are veiled as though to trick the weak minded into an altered moral structure. Like Narnia. Then I thought about how jedis go around tricking the weak-minded. Maybe the jedi represent mass media. They are warriors because mass media industries wield awesome powers backed by a mysterious Force (well not so mysterious actually, but to most folk). It is the representative of Uniformity and the idealism of those afraid to embrace the Dark Side of moral exploration. Just like every other institution.

I passed another church and thumped my bible. The forsaken opiate, which has given stead to the new and more terrible opiate of mass media. If everyone around me is sleeping, why aren't they dreaming?

~~~~<>~~~~

One of the books that wasn't at hand is Tales of a Punk Rock Nothing, which Annushka leant me so long ago and I'm only just now getting to. It's something special. Each page is making me remember her and how great she is. Jessica and I sat in her booth that first night in our whimsical curiosity. Jessica and I had a thing when we first met each other, but I had come to a point where I decided she expected more out of the situation that I had emotionally in me to give toher. So I told her all about it, and a week later she decided we should just be friends. So there we were a year and a half later in a lusty lady booth watching Annushka perform masturbation. Sitting in the small space side-by-side stiff as though we were in church. I hadn't brought my bible to that particular show, but hindsight is 20/20. A grown woman writhed around in a small booth behind some glass, selling us visual access to her body. But not even really her body. Just because she was naked doesn't mean we were looking at her body. We weren't paying attention to it. We were mostly looking at her pussy. Not just because that's the part you see most rarely in mass media and in public, but because that was the part she was thrusting toward us and touching all up on. And in. She was mostly selling us visual access to her pussy and the things she did to it. Her pussy was sexy in its own way too. Very. We'd talked with her to a reasonable length before she'd started her performance, and that's why she was so sexy. She was interesting and smart, and you could tell that and more just by the cunning dark eyes, but you couldn't deny it when she spoke. So after about fifteen minutes, she stopped and said, "why are you both still dressed?" I hadn't even thought about having that kind of party in there. We explained about how we were just friends, and the conversation went on and it came out that we'd once had a thing. Jessica asked a lot of stoopid questions about Annushka's life and morality. I flinched a lot inside, but didn't comment. Annushka sat through the third degree and answered the questions with a lot of maturity and patience. That's part of her whole feminist mission, you see. To educate the ignorant.

So the book she leant me describes a lot of punk culture, and riot grrrls from the early nineties, and I can see a lot of Annushka in it. I remember a lot of conversations along similar veins. I keep getting a shiteating grin every few pages like the one I had walking down Church street thumping my bible. She would appreciate that in a way that none of you could. I dedicate my next avocado to her.

2002-05-21T20:32:00.000-07:00

I'm glad I read all the bad reviews of Star Wars before I went and saw it because I was so very pleasantly surprised. I won't say anymore here, because if you haven't seen it, you should go at your earliest convenience. And know your U.S. history.

2002-05-21T03:49:00.000-07:00

There were tornado clouds above me today. Low, charcoal gray, and blowing in circles. I was waiting for a touchdown. It hailed really hard instead. It's strange to be in California and have tornado weather. I'll be in North Carolina within a month. I hope there will be an earthquake there.

The weather seems to be trying to tell me something these days. The clouds in my sky and in my coffee are definitely about me.

2002-05-18T20:33:00.000-07:00

There is an amazing sunset out right now. I glanced at it and was not stupified or awed. California is chalk full of amazing sunsets. I grew up with them. And I'm not going to go pretend that I'm so alive and precious that I can still appreciate every single one.

2002-05-18T10:57:00.000-07:00

I always suspected that Luke Skywalker was a bad guy, just like all the rest of those murderous rebels. Always chasing around his own crippled father with a deathstick. Come on! The man can hardly breathe! And that sick obsession with his own sister! And falling in with that lot of destructive aristocratic jedi led by a small green goblin. Where's Spiderman when you need him?

2002-05-17T21:11:00.000-07:00

Waffles? Frued? Don't you see the connection?

2002-05-17T21:06:00.000-07:00

Morality Play

Q: You pass someone in the street who is in severe need and you are able to help them at little cost to yourself. Are you morally obliged to do so?

A: Strongly obligated. I think it has to do with be being passive about things that don't conflict with my will. If it were of more cost to me, my will would be conflicted and I would be less obligated if at all.

Q: You have a brother. You know that someone has been seriously injured as a result of criminal activity undertaken by him. You live in a country where the police are generally trustworthy. Are you morally obliged to inform them about your brother's crime?

A: Not obliged.

Q: Do you think that assisting the suicide of someone who wants to die - and has requested help - is morally equivalent to allowing them to die by withholding medical assistance (assuming that the level of suffering turns out to be identical in both cases)?

A: No. Morality is more complex than to say that they are equivelent.

Q: You are able to help some people. Unfortunately, you can only do so by harming other people. The number of people harmed will always be 10 percent of those helped. When considering whether it is morally justified to help does the actual number of people involved make any difference? For example, does it make a difference if you are helping ten people by harming one person rather than helping 100,000 people by harming 10,000 people?

A: No. I have few moral issues with harming people. In fact, I may sooner have issues with helping them. But it is very specifically dependent on the particulars of the situation.

Q: You own an unoccupied property. You are contacted by a refugee group which desperately needs somewhere to house a person seeking asylum who is being unjustly persecuted in a foreign country. Your anonymity is assured. You have every reason to believe that no harm will come to your property. Are you morally obliged to allow them to use your property?

A: Weakly obligated. Again, my will is not in conflict, but I don't feel a strong obligation because obviously the "unjustly persecuted" is probably more ambiguous than is presented.

Q: A charity collection takes place in your office. For every UK£10.00 given, a blind person's sight is restored. Instead of donating UK£10.00, you use the money to treat yourself to a cocktail after work. Are you morally responsible for the continued blindness of the person who would have been treated had you made the donation?

A: Partly Responsible. And not a big part. Most of the responsibility lies with the original cause of the blindness, and all the other people that also did not donate money. And assuming partial responsibility doesn't mean that I feel bad about it. I don't really care if someone I don't know is blind. I have surprisingly little consideration for people I don't know and like.

Q: Someone you have never met needs a kidney transplant. You are one of the few people who can provide the kidney. Would any moral obligation to provide the kidney be greater if this person were a cousin rather than a non-relative?

A: Yes.

Q: You can save the lives of a thousand patients by cancelling one hundred operations that would have saved the lives of a hundred different patients. Are you morally obliged to do so??

A: No. Maybe more sick people should die. We're overpopulated and we're not naturally evolving. I certainly can't vouch for the character of any of those people. If I knew them it would be different.

Q: Are your moral obligations to people in your own country or community stronger than those to people in other countries and communities (assuming no unusual circumstances - for example, suffering because of famine - in either your own country/community or other countries/communities)?

A: Yes. Particularly my own community.

Q: You deliberately sabotage a piece of machinery in your work place so that when someone next uses it there will be an accident which will result in that person losing the use of their legs. Are you morally responsible for their injury?

A: Responsible.

Q: You know the identity of someone who has committed a serious crime resulting in a person being badly injured. Are you morally obliged to reveal their identity to an appropriate authority so that they are dealt with justly?

A: Not obliged. Not morally anyway.

Q: You can save the lives of ten innocent people by killing one other innocent person. Are you morally obliged to do so?

A: No. I'm not obliged to save ten strangers, and I'm not obliged to kill anyone. This would make me an effete ally in a war. However, I may do so depending on my moods and whims. Sometimes the moral structure I've managed to lift from my shoulders rears its head when I don't expect it.

Q: You see an advertisement from a charity in a newspaper about a person in severe need in Australia. You can help this person at little cost to yourself. Are you morally obliged to do so?

A: Not obliged. If I were to help people in severe need, there are plenty nearby to start with. In any case, I'm mistrustful of advertisements.

Q: You are required to send a person a gift, and you have bought a bottle of drink to send to them. However, you discover it is poison and if consumed will cause blindness in the drinker. To replace it with a non-contaminated bottle will cost you UK£10.00. You give the poisoned drink as a gift anyway. Are you morally responsible for the blindness of the drinker?

A: Responsible.

Q: A situation arises where you can either save your own child from death or contact the emergency services in order to save the lives of ten other children. You cannot do both, and there is no way to save everyone. Which course of action are you morally obliged to follow?

A: Save my own child.

Q: You can save the lives of ten patients by cancelling one operation which would have saved the life of a different patient. Are you morally obliged to do so?

A: No.

Q: You own an unoccupied property. You are contacted by a welfare organisation which desperately needs somewhere to house a person from a nearby town who is being unjustly persecuted. Your anonymity is assured. You have every reason to believe that no harm will come to your property. Are you morally obliged to allow them to use your property?

A: Weakly obligated. More so than the questionable refugee above. Aside from moral obligation, I'd probably feel strongly obligated for reasons that I admit are more than a little vain.

Q: You become aware that a piece of machinery in your workplace is faulty and that if it is not repaired then there will soon be an accident which will result in someone losing the use of their legs. Despite knowing that nobody else is aware of the fault, you take no action. Shortly afterwards, the accident occurs, and someone does lose the use of their legs. Are you morally responsible for their injury?

A: Responsible.

Q: You can save the lives of a million innocent people by killing a hundred thousand others. Are you morally obliged to do so?

A: No. Actually it kind of depends, but most likely no. The strong factor here is selfish preservation. It seems the act would doom me because I'd be responsible for the deaths of that many people. If it seemed likely that my actions would be anonymous or at least understood, I would feel morally obligated if the million that could be saved were a great bulk of a certain culture or strain of race. While fewer people would benefit this planet, I wouldn't compromise diversity.

2002-05-17T18:48:00.000-07:00

I find this very interesting, although I ran across some contradictions.

2002-05-17T02:02:00.000-07:00

Mongoloid children get stuck in my teeth.

2002-05-17T01:50:00.000-07:00

So I got a ton of email about my Mouthful Micromessiah idea. Apparently there are a lot of people out there in need of just that sort of thing. And then there are a fuck of a lot of critics too. Here is my first advice, and be reminded that I'm getting blackbean sauce all over the keyboard in order to tell you this. If you know me, and you know I dig your groove, please wear a bicycle helmet for the love of Pete!

It disturbs me that so many people are scouring the internet for "six year old pussy" and "twelve year old pussy." I'm not disturbed because people are finding my site that way, and I'm not even disturbed that they are then intrigued enough to enter my site from the search engine. I'm not even bothered that they are probably reading this right now. I'm disturbed because I think I'm a very sexual person. Yeah, I'm pretty sexy. And I just don't see the draw. Maybe I'm not as sexy as I thought.

Maybe I made a mistake by going out and making a bunch of friends. Now I miss them. It kind of sucks a chubby one.

2002-05-14T12:55:00.000-07:00

Not thinkin about love. Not thinkin about bright moons. Twinkling stars. Love letters. Warm summer nights.

I'm thinkin about pure sex! Hard sex! Rough sex! Aarrghh!!

2002-05-14T02:30:00.000-07:00

When I was out in the Gay Area last weekend for the May Pole festivities, I got a chance to visit Hate Camp for an evening. Hate Man wasn't there, but a lot of other familiar faces were. Free pizza came pretty quick and some of it was pretty foul. I tried to eat it anyway to look tough for the punks and homeless that make up Hate Camp. There are these two women that usually show up and I can't figure them out. They are always together and they are dressed pretty normal. I think they put up some of the homeless at their house now and again. But they seem as into Hate Camp as any of the homeless people. Only the younger one stuck around this time, and she had an eleven-year-old girl with her. I thought it was interesting they'd bring the kid to Hate Camp. The girl seemed to take it all pretty well. She never smiled, and frowned occasionally when someone yelled CUNT or COCK as a part of the conversation.

Two of the punks got in a shouting argument that lasted hours, but was very interesting to observe because they stayed within the rigid framework of the Hate Camp therapy-group-like rules. One of the fellows was beligerant and defensive. He started by having a problem with the other fellow coming into his space. He became beligerant and then the other fellow felt he had to match his attitude, so it spiraled out of control. Whenever one would start yelling, the other would yell back just as vehemently. The first guy couldn't see that the second guy was only yelling because the first guy was yelling, and always at the exact same pitch.

I told the little girl my new favorite joke about the muffins.

I'm curious about that woman that's always there. She wasn't in a good mood at all that night, and she seemed to go out of her way not to specifically give vibes to me since she didn't know me. But she had to push and slap with all the people that she know, which I guess means she's stressed. Ah, Berkeley.

2002-05-14T00:38:00.000-07:00

I decided if I'm going to be taken seriously as a CDROM messiah, I'm going to have to grow out a beard. If it gets to be too much hassle, I'll just wear a fake one. An obviously fake one with white elastic bands showing and a solemn expression.

If it seems like someone is not taking me seriously, I will point at the fake beard and clear my throat loudly and deliberately. If at some point I find my advice completely ignored, I will rocket into a guilt trip about how I spent twelve dollars on the fake beard, and that I won't have my genius overlooked by the likes of YOU!

2002-05-13T00:39:00.000-07:00

I want to get really wise and then have people following me around waiting for me to give them insighful advice, which I will only dispense while I'm eating. Thus Spake Zarathustra around a Mouthful of Cheeseburger.

But I don't want to have to go sit up on a mountain for years at a stretch to get wise. Maybe there's one of those self-help shortcuts out there. Enlightenment for Dummies or something. How wise can sitting up there with your thumb up your ass make you anyway? How wise can you get without washing dishes? Further, how can you avoid washing dishes when you're eating all the time so you can dispense invaluable advice - versatile philosophies for the modern consumer on the go?

I want to be the hero that fits neatly into your briefcase. I want to be a microhero. I will leave millions of little snippets of myself on little mpgs, doling out advice and filed by subject OR by the ethnic variety of my food. Need to know how to deal with your mother? Check under Oedipus or under dutch apple pie. I want to be a CDROM messiah.

2002-05-12T23:54:00.000-07:00

Whenever I go to the beach I go swimming. Even if it's in Oregon in October. I go swimming and I don't wear any clothes.

My mind likes to swim in the ocean too. My mind and I are a lot alike. My mind also likes to skinnydip. It sheds me and wades in, and the sun glints golden off its corded physique. It swims gracefully out past the breakers healing in the cold brine. Submerged two or three feet beneath the surface, where an altogether different sun shines down, my mind lets go and drifts with the tide.

Sometimes I lay on the warm sand staring out at the waves crash in for hours without thinking. The sexual and elemental violence of the ocean pounds and burbles and murmurs endlessly. It reaches cool cunning fingers toward me, and slinks back in a marvelous dance. My mind is out there somewhere in all that immensity. Doing its thing. I'm here doing mine. The birds (glorious) call out just to call out. Clouds and fog and night and day move over us all in an unstoppable rush.

When I visit the shore, it's not a vacation. It's a homecoming.

2002-05-11T01:58:00.000-07:00

I went to a Beltaine party last weekend. For the whole weekend. I brought friends to introduce to other friends, and set up my tent out past all the others under a tree with a beehive in it so they would buzz my afternoon naps along. Before I'd accomplished anything, I made the mistake of eating a magic green cookie by accident. It wasn't as though someone gave it to me, and it isn't as though there were just magical green cookies laying about to be accidentally consumed. No. There was a sign that I forthrightly ignored. I'd never experience that Mary Jane before. Not even when I dated Sivan and her and her friends would hotbox the car I was driving. Never even a contact buzz.

But this weekend, my esteemed readers, Edwin Drood was very very high. I hallucinated in the stratosphere. I kept waking into my present each second with no past or future for context. This was especially distressing when we were fighting with foam weapons. Every second, I would awake anew into battle. I sometimes could defend myself quickly enough, but I don't think I got any counterattacks in.

It was more distressing when my befuddled state allowed me to neglect care of my person, and I developed sunstroke. I remember after a hot, dry foam battle walking all the way to the furthest tent to get my cup so I could get some water. This was after collecting myself for an hour and looking in the wrong places for another hour of course. It seemed to take me forty minutes to walk that quarter of a mile. And forty minutes back. Then I got distracted with something and lost the cup and had to spend another hour looking for it. I shouldn't have worn a black sweater the next morning either.

The other distressing thing was that there was some sort of conflict between the friends I'd brought and some of the people already there. Normally, I would be a charming diplomat suited for just that sort of altercation. But I could only sit stunned, occasionally waking up into the moment and reevaluating the situation all over again. Like a broken record.

There were great things happening, though. For one thing, Sheyna met Clark, and planted a big kiss on him. Clark was very confused, and handled himself like the Vulcan he is. It was transcendent. We danced and wove a maypole! Even high, I felt its flirtateous ticklishness.

Unfortunately, that was the extent of the flirting I was able to manage since I was incapacitated by my first narcotic. At least that pesky gateway drug is out of the way so I can get to the good stuff. I did somehow manage to kiss my friend Estrella pretty good with strawberry fresh in both our mouths. That happened quickly and I don't remember there being any kind of lingering flirt from it. I do remember her lips feeling really good, but you can tell that they would by looking at them.

The next day I had more function, but most of everyone left. I got a couple of good full-contact fights in. I lingered for the afternoon with the few remaining folk, still not with my wits, since I ignored the dehydration obviously occuring in my body in favor of playing frisbee and cooking. And laying directly in the sun.

That night I met a well-dressed hippie. I think his name was Darren, but I could be so very wrong about that, my precious. I acted as a chaperone between him and Willow for the evening, since he was her ex-boyfriend. When we got in the hottub, all of the accumulated bruises and fever and aches and sore muscles from heedlessly torturing myself shot out like an invitro sample, and was replaced with a pleasure on a level I hope to reach again someday. Willow made us all breakfast. Fresh mango and papaya (I thought of you) cut up into gooooood yogurt. It was the devil. I love the devil.

I went home and proceeded to suffer from the sunstroke and the foam slash to the windpipe I'd taken. And a big heat blister on my lip that's still there. I can't seem myself eating anymore pot. It didn't lend anything particularly useful, interesting, or pleasurable. And it tied my hands for the weekend. It's a good thing everyone was great enough that I still had a pleasant time (and have I mentioned before that Willow's ranch is beautiful and still green in May with different depths of shade and patches of yellow flowers and purple heather?). Next year I'll steer clear of cookies and tartes.

2002-05-11T01:23:00.000-07:00

It occurs to me that some of you might want to know what I do for a living, while others couldn't give a damn blam Toucan Sam greeneggsandham. I spend most of my time crocheting leper bandages. Tirelessly.

2002-05-09T00:28:00.000-07:00

My lovely, sunbright smile,

That's pretty much what I was getting at, except maybe that capitolism has been around since trade has been around, and genocide has been around longer. In fact the Romans were our superiors at genocide. They did not fuck around.

It's disconcerting how many people I meet that think along these same lines, though. Considering that nothing has ever been done about it, even though some great published minds have been addressing it for some time now. If we're going to reduce the population, I say we start by EATING THE RICH. Once they're not sucking up all of the resources, we can figure out where to go from there.

2002-05-09T00:08:00.000-07:00

I'm concerned. I'm looking at my leg. The muscles are defined, and when I flex them in different ways, they bulge in different ways. For some reason, my mind drifts off to how a freshly baked chicken or turkey leg meat pulls gently off the bone, and now my leg looks appetizing. It's not even like I'm hungry or anything. I mean I just ate. Is that the danger of cannibalism? Eating one's self?

I had a dream last night that I don't remember. I never remember them, and that's only just a hyperbole. I was typing, and there were people around. I type pretty fast, but I was somehow typing like I were dancing to funk. I would change up rythms and circle around beats and jump in at an inappropriate place that works out somehow because you were more in tune with the spirit of the music than those around you. There were people around watching me type as though I was at one of those eighties hiphop dj record-scratching contests (read: wikka wikka wah). They could see my words projected simply on a screen, and they would cheer when my fingers danced funky and the words came out good too. But what if I'm wrong? What if it's the other way around? What if when I'm dancing I'm really just typing?

I have new stories to tell, but I haven't been in a storytelling mood. I'll get around to it when I'm out from underneath these heavy mountains.

2002-05-03T11:25:00.000-07:00

I'm at the UC Berkeley campus jacking into their computers as though I have no regard for the sactity of rules meant to protect rich parents from being exploited by layabouts. I like it here because the keyboard is so new and nice, and the monitor is so clear and expensive and flat, and it all gives me a great buzz to immerse myself in such opulence. Also it's nice that girls are giving me those looks that I've almost forgotten about staying in Acampo with hicks for over two months. I think a handsome man sitting next to me was coming on to me when he asked me if I was going camping because of my backpack. It has a tent and sleeping back affixed to the outside. He smiled that smile and asked me questions until he caught on that I was just a friendly guy anwering his questions. Charming smile, though.

2002-05-03T11:16:00.000-07:00

I'm reading from the greater minds of written human history. I'm trying to do it in order to see how thoughts have progressed and regressed. Every time I see a Calvin and Hobbes cartoon, I have this almost unrestrainable urge to skip forward to John Calvin and Thomas Hobbes. Patience, young padawan, patience. I don't know what the Greeks and Romans were. I suspect they were not too far distant from us. A bunch of hairless monkeys. Social and violent. The morality is all the same. We haven't had any advancements except for technology, which mainly allows us to communicate more efficiently. So now the stoopid people can spread their ignorance just as easily as the wise can teach. So I don't know if that's too much of an advancement.

2002-05-03T10:44:00.000-07:00

I used to make out violently with the moon when she was full. The problem is that she's so lovely and round and curved, but when I'm up close, the curves extend out to where I can't percieve them. So it's like I'm making out with a wall. A very dusty wall. That's why I said "used to."

I also used to make out prettily with the moon when he was crescent. After about the third time I was "accidentally impaled," I called the whole thing off. He wasn't a very attentive lover anyway.

I used to make out coyly with the sun. Don't get me started. Let's just say that she tastes like burning and leave it at that.

When the moon hits your eye
Like a big pizza pie,
That's a -
NATURAL CATASTROPHE!!!

2002-05-03T10:39:00.000-07:00

I'm making friend swirlies again. Don't you rotten children forget to celebrate Beltaine this weekend. Erect a maypole! Dance around it! Leap through bonfires that you may glean what fortunes will grace the upcoming harvests! Lick fresh dew in the morning! Make out in a field under the moon!

Recipe for friend swirlies: Clarkus, Sheyna, Willow, Megan, Kat, Jessica, Celeste, Mike, Robert, Duffy, myself, others I haven't yet met. Put them on Willow's ranch for two days with some tents and a maypole. Mix well. Fight with foam weapons. Frolic in the forest. Season to taste with massage oil and condoms.

2002-05-03T02:12:00.000-07:00

I complained to my wife that sometimes I'd like a little pussy. She said, "Yeah me too - mine's as big as a house!"

I love that joke from Predator.

2002-05-02T14:57:00.000-07:00

take free enneagram test

2002-05-02T14:49:00.000-07:00

which children's storybook character are you?

this quiz was made by colleen
Is this annoying yet?

2002-05-02T02:41:00.000-07:00

I put up another picture for those that like to gawk at my awkward youth. Also I put up some pictures of my beautiful wife.

2002-05-02T02:36:00.000-07:00

It just doesn't get any better than that. Is there a religion or society based around meaningless internet quizes? I want to join.

2002-05-02T02:30:00.000-07:00

I've never scored this well on a test before. I think I'm getting smarter.

2002-05-01T01:37:00.000-07:00

There's something wrong with this post.

2002-04-30T01:01:00.000-07:00

Lose it. All of it.

2002-04-30T00:51:00.000-07:00

That's odd. I just smelled myself, and I smell like wax. Time for a shower.

2002-04-29T00:33:00.000-07:00

The wisdom of kings.

2002-04-29T00:05:00.000-07:00

The mother of invention

2002-04-28T23:18:00.000-07:00

For some reason, reading this teacher's journal gave me good feelings. There must be some little bit of heart tucked way down in my chewy nuget center.

2002-04-27T17:32:00.000-07:00

Okay, it was idiotic, but now I can show you embarrassing photos.

2002-04-27T15:27:00.000-07:00

I am silenced by my own ineptitude. I need technical assistance.

2002-04-26T13:19:00.000-07:00

"Man is least himself when he talks in his own person. Give him a mask, and he will tell you the truth." Oscar Wilde.

2002-04-26T12:50:00.000-07:00

I read a couple of Carl Sandburg compilations when I was a kid, because my town was really stoopid and boring. I read thousands of his poems. It was horrible, but I couldn't stop. I found maybe three that I thought were good. He's kind of like Thomas Edison in that way. Theta made me remember that.

The Hangman at Home
(1920) Carl Sandburg

What does a hangman think about
When he goes home at night from work?
When he sits down with his wife and
Children for a cup of coffee and a
Plate of ham and eggs, do they ask
Him if it was a good day's work
And everything went well or do they
Stay off some topics and talk about
The weather, baseball, politics
And the comic strips in the papers
And the movies? Do they look at his
Hands when he reaches for the coffee
Or the ham and eggs? If the little
Ones say, Daddy, play horse, here's
A rope – does he answer like a joke:
I seen enough rope for today?
Or does his face light up like a
Bonfire of joy and does he say:
It's a good and dandy world we live
In. And if a white face moon looks
In through a window where a baby girl
Sleeps and the moon-gleams mix with
Baby ears and baby hair – the hangman –
How does he act then? It must be easy
For him. Anything is easy for a hangman,
I guess.

There. Now you don't have to read all those bad poems to find a good one.

2002-04-26T12:14:00.000-07:00

If... and if...

See which Greek Goddess you are.

2002-04-25T18:56:00.000-07:00

Sanity
torn to ribbons!

2002-04-25T18:43:00.000-07:00

I loved the aliens the most. I mean that in a dirty way.

2002-04-25T01:18:00.000-07:00

Vincent's religious background makes the Joseph explanation seem likely, but his letter to his brother kind of denies that idea. Kind of. My friend told me his theory earlier tonight. That Vincent painted what he saw, and that he was looking through tears. I've been fighting back tears all night thinking about it.

2002-04-24T18:54:00.000-07:00

This week, I've learned that there are just some questions that you shouldn't ask your mother. Learn from my mistakes, kids!

~ What's a clitoris?

~ You know what I used your toothbrush for? Guess! No you have to guess!

~ Is it just me, or do you smell old?

2002-04-24T13:55:00.000-07:00

Take the What High School
Stereotype Are You? quiz, by Angel.

2002-04-24T00:15:00.000-07:00

Any Other Day (part 4)
by HWRNMNBSOL

It was a DAY LIKE ANY OTHER DAY!

My arms, heavy like two logs, rested on a wrong fence in a wrong pasture on a wrong day on a wrong planet with my wrong cousin sitting next to me. It was a day when nothing seemed to matter. Like hell.

"Gonna be a scorcher," said Jemmy, one rail over. I grinned at her around my straw.

"Ain't it?" I said. She grinned back uncertainly.

"Tell me about New York City, Nat?"

I stared at the cows. Their tails were forked. I got down from the fence.

"No way," I said, and snapped Jemmy's neck

and

~~~~<>~~~~

and the room was a deep and pulsing green. The bed was really just a long table, and the wires coiled into delicate and terrible machines. Gravity was light, and I bounced up off the table with ease.

They were, in fact, clay.

And just as fragile.

~~~~<>~~~~

I never did figure out the controls. I spent my last days in some kind of observatory with a big bubble looking forwards. Most of the time, Jemmy kept me company. The stars were cows, and we watched them companionably in silence. Some days, though, the holes in my head hurt too bad, and Jemmy left me alone those times.

I apologized to her for breaking her neck. She didn't seem to mind much. She always was my favorite cousin, years ago when she was a little girl and I was a long ways from even considering being a spacer pilot.

And in the last days, when the star became a disk became a sun became an inferno and eclipsed my bubble, Jemmy stayed by my side, and held my hand.

"Gonna be a scorcher," Jemmy said, one rail over.

It sure was.

2002-04-24T00:14:00.000-07:00

Any Other Day (part 3)
by HWRNMNBSOL

It was a day like any other day (?)

I leaned my arms against the split-rail fence, being careful to keep my sleeves down so the splinters wouldn't prick my skin. I never used to give a good goddamn about the splinters, but for some reason I did today. Like any other day. Day. Clay. Day. The sun beat down hot on my head

[where the wires entered my skull]

; I canted my hat to keep the sun out of my [pack of l] eyes. It was a day where nothing seemed to matter, even the stuff that was just WRONG.

"Gonna be a scorcher," said Jemmy, one rail down. She was one of the WRONG things. She looked right, but there was nothing behind my cousin's eyes. Nothing at all.

"It's too hot," I said,

[clay men like it hot!]

"and too humid,"

[clay men like it wet!]

"and this isn't our farm, Jemmy." The cattle never blinked, and the everpresent crickets were entirely silent. Jemmy looked over at me. She didn't blink either.

"Nat, you gotta tell me about the Spaceport in New York City." The grass was blackened, as if from a fire. The fence was made from cherry wood, which doesn't grow in Texas. Jemmy's smell was faintly acidic.

None of that mattered: I felt a wave of laziness

[needles!]

wash over me, and I didn't care anymore. Hot summer days; same as any other day; just lazing with Jemmy

[on an operating table]

on a hot summer day on the farm. And talking about New York City.

"The... spaceport is pretty big and important, I guess." Lazy. Didn't matter. Any other day. "Maybe twenty thousand marines there. I don't know for sure." My head felt like a big, lazy balloon.

"Can you land a cruiser there, Nat? How about a big cruiser?" That wasn't Jemmy. It didn't matter, but it wasn't Jemmy. It didn't matter...

It did matter.

I stared into the coldness of Jemmy's eyes. "You ran under a combine when I was twelve." As I recall, Jemmy used to blink. "You're dead."

Jemmy frowned.

2002-04-24T00:10:00.000-07:00

Any Other Day (part 2)
by HWRNMNBSOL

It was a day like any other day.

I leaned with my bare arms against the split-rail fence. Little splinters pressed up off the wood and jabbed into my skin, but I didn't seem to care very much. The sun beat down hot on my head; I canted my hat to keep the sun out of my eyes. It was a day where nothing seemed to matter.

"Gonna be a scorcher," said Jemmy, one rail down. His boots, scuffed and cracked from years of hard work in the hot sun, were hooked in the lowest rail. We looked out over the pastures, watching the cows graze contentedly

[little clay men]

on the tall grass, and we chewed straws. The lowing of the cows sounded oddly thin and distorted.

"Yep," I replied.

The sky was dotted with clouds. They raced quickly over the Texas countryside

[too quickly. little clay men!]

bearing little or no rain. It was summer, but the grass was green. Strange.

Jemmy turned to me. "Nat, tell me about New York City. I ain't been but once, and I was only two."

"I know that, dummy. You almost died of the mumps."

"Yeah, wull, I don't remember nothin'. Are there soldier men in New York City?"

I shrugged. New York City was awfully

[little clay men with needles!]

far away, and why was Jemmy asking this stupid stuff anyhow? "I guess so. I mean, they got a spaceport and stuff." It was a lazy summer day, and I felt very calm.

A little line creased Jemmy's forehead. "Wull, how big a spaceport? Can you land cruisers there? The big ones?"

A thought snapped into my head and the world turned very grey. I looked at Jemmy out of the corners of my eyes.

"Jemmy, you used to be a girl."

[needles! new needles!]

2002-04-24T00:07:00.000-07:00

Any Other Day (part 1)
by HWRNMNBSOL

It was a day like any other day.

I leaned with my bare arms against the split-rail fence, which was oddly smooth to the touch. The sun beat down hot on my head. On any other day I'd have worn a hat, but today it didn't seem to matter. It was a day when nothing mattered.

"Gonna be a scorcher," said Jemmy, one rail down. His boots, awfully shiny and new for a farm kid, were hooked in the lowest rail. We looked out over the pastures and chewed on straws.

"Yep," I replied.

The sky was dotted with clouds. They were all perfectly round. I pointed up at them. "What's with the clouds, Jemmy?"

My favorite cousin Jemmy squinted up at them. "Dunno, Nat. What's wrong with 'em?"

"They're round," I said, but not disagreeably. The round clouds didn't bother me. Much.

Jemmy turned to me. "Nat, tell me about New York City. I ain't never been."

"You lie like a dog, Jemmy Golden. You were there with the mumps when you were two." Jemmy flushed red.

"Wull, that don't count. I don't remember nothing from when I was two. What's in New York City?"

I shrugged. New York City was awfully far away. "It's full of people and cars and stuff. Nothing real interesting." I didn't care much. There was something bothering me, but I didn't know what it was.

Jemmy was persistent. "Wull, are there lots of soldiers and stuff?"

With a start I realized what was wrong. We were looking out over a large, green, empty pasture. I stood up and gaped with amazement.

"Jemmy, where the hell are all the cows?"

2002-04-24T00:02:00.000-07:00

I made a virtual model. I don't know if this link will work. If it does, and you've seen me naked (read: you know me), you can see that they were too generous with my package.

2002-04-23T18:29:00.000-07:00

I get to try and smash Clark in a couple of weeks with foam weapons. We've been having the pre-battle with words via email. I greatly disparaged his intellect. I couldn't love myself if I wasn't such a raging geek.

2002-04-23T17:31:00.000-07:00

Sad Man Tells a Fairy Tale
by HWRNMNBSOL

Once upon a time there was a princess who lived in a magic wood. She was very happy until she was set upon by wolves. They shredded her into six thousand-three-hundred-and-ninety-two bits.

Exactly.

~~~~<>~~~~

Once upon a time there was a a magic frog that sang to the queen from a lily pad outside her window. He sang beautifully for seven nights, but some biology teachers caught him and soaked him in formaldehyde. He swelled up to the size of a cow's tongue.

~~~~<>~~~~

I should also mention that there was once a very silly little boy who loved to go snorkelling, and some faeries gave him a silver snorkel which let him dive down thousands of meters, so he did and the nitrogen in his blood made him all giggly until he hugged a moray eel.

But that's not the point.

~~~~<>~~~~

The point is that once upon a time there was a fairly sick author who thought up a story about a princess who got mauled, and also dreamed up a tale about a frog that was pithed, and went on to write a horrid little essay about a kid who got nitrogen narcosis and died a painful death.

And this author went on with his life as if nothing terrible had just occurred, and absolutely nothing at all bad happened to him.

Ever.

~~~~<>~~~~

And you may well think that that's not a terribly meaningful thing to say, and you may be right, especially since you're only eight years old. But you haven't got all the information I've got.

Just wait until you're older.

~~~~<>~~~~

Because once upon a time there was a Federal Express pilot who was concerned about a job performance review, so he smuggled a hammer on board a flight and attacked his co-workers mid-journey. A bunch of guys went to the hospital for no reason at all.

This story is true.

~~~~<>~~~~

And once upon a time a chemical plant in Bho Pal, India, had a itty bitty leak, and thousands of people went blind and had horrible burns and died, mostly because a certain company wasn't all that careful about yearly maintenance.

This story is true.

~~~~<>~~~~

And once upon a time millions of Jews were rounded up into pens and had their gold fillings removed and got gassed and stuck in ovens and then only forty years later lots of people were denying the whole thing had ever happened, and lots of people believed them.

This story is true.

~~~~<>~~~~

And - and - and the guy who wrote these stories is still sitting up in the clouds, writing more stories. It's all he does, writing stories: and they all come true. And the rotten thing is, where he is, nothing bad ever happens.

By definition.

~~~~<>~~~~

Anyway, that's your bedtime story.

G'night.

2002-04-23T17:24:00.000-07:00

I knew this would eventually happen. I have achieved internet whoredom. I even have a pimp!

2002-04-23T17:21:00.000-07:00

Would you trade your words for freedom?
That's the barter of a blind man.

Indigo Girls

2002-04-23T01:56:00.000-07:00

protagonist

2002-04-22T17:28:00.000-07:00

I guess if I'm going to post a few times a day, I should have this fucker in reverse chronology.