2429 lines
115 KiB
Plaintext
2429 lines
115 KiB
Plaintext
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Living in such a state taTestaTesTaTe etats a hcus ni gniviL
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of mind in which time sTATEsTAtEsTaTeStA emit hcihw ni dnim of
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does not pass, space STateSTaTeSTaTeStAtE ecaps ,ssap ton seod
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does not exist, and sTATeSt oFOfOfo dna ,tsixe ton seod
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idea is not there. STatEst ofoFOFo .ereht ton si aedi
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Stuck in a place staTEsT OfOFofo ecalp a ni kcutS
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where movements TATeSTa foFofoF stnemevom erehw
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are impossible fOFoFOf elbissopmi era
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in all forms, UfOFofO ,smrof lla ni
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physical and nbEifof dna lacisyhp
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or mental - uNBeInO - latnem ro
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your mind is UNbeinG si dnim rouy
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focusing on a unBEING a no gnisucof
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lone thing, or NBeINgu ro ,gniht enol
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a lone nothing. bEinGUn .gnihton enol a
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You are numb and EiNguNB dna bmun era ouY
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unaware to events stneve ot erawanu
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taking place - not iSSUE ton - ecalp gnikat
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knowing how or what 1/30/98 tahw ro who gniwonk
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to think. You are in FORTY-TWO ni era uoY .kniht ot
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a state of unbeing.... ....gniebnu fo etats a
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--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
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CONTENTS OF THiS iSSUE
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=----------------------=
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EDiTORiAL Kilgore Trout
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LETTERS TO THE EDiTOR
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STAFF LiSTiNGS
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[=- ARTiCLES -=]
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A TRUCKLOAD OF MiNDLESS, POiNTLESS, EGO-DRiVEN
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CRAP THAT YOU SHOULD JUST SKiP OVER Clockwork
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PAGE FROM A DIARY Crux Ansata
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AMERiCA ONLiNE: A STUDY or
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A HUMOROUS AND FRiGHTENiNG LOOK AT AOL Adidas
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HOW i SPENT MY SUMMER VACATiON Crux Ansata
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A DiP iNTO ALiEN DREAMTiME Kilgore Trout
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[=- POETASTRiE -=]
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FERTiLiZER Janet Buck
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FOR BEAViS AND BUTT-HEAD: FiVE COMMEMORATiVE HAiKUS Crux Ansata
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BONSAi Janet Buck
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[=- FiCTiON -=]
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ALCESTiS Kilgore Trout
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--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
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EDiTORiAL
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by Kilgore Trout
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Since nobody else seems to be able to do it right, I guess the zine is
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going to have to step in and get the job done. So, we are now searching for a
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small child (either boy or girl) or a midget to man the Apocalypse Culture
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Balloon in an attempt to circumnavigate the globe.
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We don't, however, have the funds that all of these billionaires do, so
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the only reward we can offer you is fame if you complete the trip. You may
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also be wondering why we want either children or a midget. Well, our balloon
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consists of a bunch of balloons. Helium balloons. Attached to a lawn chair.
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Lowtech, yes. Impossible, no. We'll give you a pellet gun and two cases of
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coke so you can go up or down. I'll personally throw in a small bag of corn
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chips as well.
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We're also taking on interns. BYOK.
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Eck. So, I guess it's time to announce that we are beginning year number
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five, and now I'm supposed to reiterate how happy I am with all my writers and
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how the readers are cool too and how I never imagined we'd ever make it this
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far without criminal proceedings and federally mandated wiretaps. So yeah,
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I'm happy to be here.
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Let me tell you a story. In the beginner, there was a zine. People
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wrote for it, uploaded copies to BBSes and the internet, and read it. It was
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good. God even liked it. He told me so. As the years went on, people came
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and went, but it was still published.
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And then, there was a great schism throughout the land, and great omens
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of apocalypse appeared in the skies. It was a time of the dawning of doom
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which doomed the dawn. An editor fell, dead, and a mighty ruckus occured
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over the zine.
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God laughed. He does that a lot, you know.
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And then, after much despair, confusion, name-calling, betrayal,
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crocheting, burling, a sampling of fine wines, and a handful of secret
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microdot communiques, Kilgore was ressurected in the tradition of, well,
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Jesus. And all is good in the land once again. So, that should answer any
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questions about what just happened during the past six months.
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On to the issue. Last month, it was mostly fiction. This month, it's
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not. Flip flopping is the name of the game in 1998. So, keep the submissions
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coming in, and next month I'll have a detailed account of my vacation to the
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Middle East over Christmas break, full of fascinating details and mindbending
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photos [photos not available in e-zine.] See you next month.
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--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
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LETTERS TO THE EDiTOR
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From: Rally Dilovska
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To: kilgore@sage.net
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Subject: (no subject)
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Brilliant! Kilgore, this zine is done great and right to the point...
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That's what i'm gonna be - can I have a subscription? Thank you:-)
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Rally
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[sure you can. stroke that ego some more and i might even give you TWO
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subscriptions. then you'll be the big kid on the block carrying around two
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printouts of the zine to smash the small fingers of the younger children to
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keep them in line for your strange, secretive slave labor camp running in the
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woods behind Mrs. Henderson's house where you manufacture wooden egg toys.
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god, sometimes it sickens me to see what some of our readers do in their
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spare time.]
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--SoB--
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From: MsHappy69
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To: kilgore@sage.net
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Subject: Re: SoB #41
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i cant download that becauze my compooter doesnt know how to. merry x-mas. do
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i know u?
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[i don't think you know me personally, but you did send us a letter last
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issue, so i would think you would kinda remember that. keep up the good
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work, and good luck with teaching your compooter how to do new tricks.]
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--SoB--
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From: Adidas
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Subject: I hope this reaches someone with some power at SoB
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Hey, this is Adidas, this is really getting ridiculous. What exactly is going
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on? I want some straight answers. Where is Kilgore Trout. What the hell is
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up with all these strange issues (ie SoB KiD, SoB 1000, Audio SoB, 37 and 37)
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I want someone to make a straight up issue which releases some answers, or at
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least in the mean time be funny because I can tell you for certain that I am
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not at all amused. Im stuck here wondering exactly where to send this Email
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and wondering whether or not it will make it to anyone.
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..i am a mage of no small water..
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[um, is this a straight enough issue for you? although i do have to say that
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there is some homoeroticism in my dream article, so maybe it's not as
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straight as i thought. yeah, like you thought you'd get a real answer out of
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me, huh? like i can prove to you that i'm the real kilgore trout? phooey.
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believe or don't. it's as simple as that.]
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--SoB--
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From: PrepKill
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To: kilgore@sage.net
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Subject: Well... it couldn't be snail mail
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Hello Kilgore,
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It took me a small while to track you down... Though the satellites
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were down and my best stalker was on vacation... I still managed to find
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you. It would've been harder if Mr. Perkins didn't tell me you lived
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next door. (O.k. now you know I'm bluffing.)
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Why the hell is this guy mailing me?
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Two reasons actually. First of all I wanted you to know I loved your
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ezine, SoB is a favourite of mine... a tad macabre and maniac depressive
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but otherwise my favourite ezine. It shares my sense of humor, and a
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sort of downtrodden view of life. My respects, Especially on Epiphany,
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Several of Crux's ramblings, (I named a character in one of my stories
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after him) and Night-World, which became the inspiration for a short
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story of mine entitled "Demon Writer."
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Wow, you mean someone else has read this crap?
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I've checked the ftp entry log, seems I was one of the very few on, and
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most logins (I later saved all the html zines to disk) Yes, I read a
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large portion, and even more. I loved it.
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[personal stuff snipped]
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Joseph (PrepKill)
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[thanks for tracking me down. and glad you like the zine. and i would
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venture to say that we aren't always downtrodden, but after putting this
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issue together, i'd have a hard time arguing that case. must be the snow
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(lack of.)]
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--SoB--
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From: Dweezel Zappa
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To: kilgore@sage.net
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Subject: mailing list
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Could I puhleeze be added to your mailing list? The SOB ezine is cool,
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and I'd like to get stuff it. As to the whole reason why I should be
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added crap (as per yer homepage), screw it, besides the fact I prolly
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don't deserve it... but do it anyway.
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Laterz.
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[too bad you aren't the real dweezel zappa, or then i might have a chance to
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go on the conan o'brian show and make an ass out of myself with you.]
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--SoB--
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From: Plastic Machine
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To: kilgore@sage.net
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Subject: Mailing list
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Date: Mon, 26 Jan 1998 10:31:35 PST
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I would like you place me on your mailing list. In a world of
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uninspired minds I would like to socialize with those who don't waste
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their intelligence.
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machine
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[heh. well, you've come to the wrong place. we waste lots of our
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intelligence. luckily some of us happen to write stuff down from time to
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time. i mean, if i didn't waste any of my intelligence, then i wouldn't have
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a high score of 93 seconds on the expert level of minesweeper. that's what i
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thought.]
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--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
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STAFF LiSTiNG
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EDiTOR
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Kilgore Trout
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CONTRiBUTORS
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Adidas
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Clockwork
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Crux Ansata
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Janet Buck
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GUESSED STARS
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Dweezel Zappa
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MsHappy69 [still not an SoB groupie]
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Plastic Machine
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PrepKill
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Rally Dilovska
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SoB OFFiCiAL GROUPiE
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crackmonkey
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VARiOUS SONGS THAT HAVE PLAYED WHiLE PUTTiNG THiS iSSUE TOGETHER
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"Freemasons of Enochian Magick" (Jack the Crowley mix) by Penal Colony
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"Fire Woman" by Psychic TV
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"Book of Lies" by The Electric Hellfire Club
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"K.N.K.A" (Climax version) by Project Pitchfork
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"Clown" by Switchblade Symphony
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"Friends and Executioners" by Rosetta Stone
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"What's Fair?" (Frustration mix) by Razed in Black
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"In Penetration" by Controlled Bleeding
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and a bunch of other stuff that I don't want to take the time to list
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--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
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[=- ARTiCLES -=]
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--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
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A TRUCKLOAD OF MiNDLESS, POiNTLESS, EGO-DRiVEN CRAP THAT YOU SHOULD
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JUST SKiP OVER
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by Clockwork
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So what is it with this silly obsession of women and their bodies and
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souls? I'd be willing to flatly state, with a Masterpiece Theatre-like
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accent, that if you thumbed through the previous words I've tossed before your
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eyes, you may encounter a theme of rants and raves of love and lust and
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lechery, all of wishful thinking. And when thumbing through this myself, I go
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blech blech ugh, thinking as though I have stated or revealed nothing new from
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the recessed digressions within me -- just spouting the same intentions bad
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thoughts and "Oh, looky, I'm a cool sensitive guy with feelings and Soul."
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Honestly, I'm rather disappointed in myself -- highly unsatisfied with my
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previously seemingly happy-go-lucky-with-content-and-unwritten-forethought me.
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But, no, no, no, no, no. I had to find a way to alter my mindset, direct
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a slappy platter of neurons to the left, I guess. It's perfectly fine,
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though. I know I should just cock my head a bit, smirk, and continue forth
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with the unthoughts of whatever is to be shall be, with no sorrow, guilt, or
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pity for the me I am. Why can't I do that. Why did I end that question with
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a period?
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This would be easier if you could just hop into my head. And I'm sure it
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would be easier if I could be completely honest with myself and hop into my
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own head. That would be neat. Have been trying recently. Did better than
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average, but not the best I can be. Perhaps I'm looking to offload the guilt
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I stuff into my gut.
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I sometimes wonder about diaries. I'm amazed by them in a way. If the
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owner can truly be honest to their ever reflecting mind on paper, than my hat
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goes off. I don't know if I could do it. I tried many years ago, twas about
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the female I was enthralled with at the time. I honestly am not sure if I was
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honest in that either. I'd like to say I was, rambling on, once again, about
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her beauty, and how I felt around her, and how I wish I could talk and wish I
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could say how I felt and what I wanted.
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So, am I being honest now? Probably not as much as I'd like to be. I
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wrote the first three words, or maybe the first sentence with just the intent
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to write, and then pops and fizzes sounded about in my head and formed the
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word ARTiCLE in purple fuzzy hazy smoke letters, and they sat there for a
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moment. So, the intent was changed, and now I ask if I write to be cool or
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write for the finding of peace within. I'd be un-honest if I said there was
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no coolness desired. I'm ego-full -- ego the size of Staten Island. Blech
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blech ugh.
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So, can you ever completely destroy your ego?
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Refer to the title of this article now.
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No matter how hard I try or don't try, I can always view myself as
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artificial, whether in writing, in conversation, walking across the street, or
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driving along the street. Non-contentedness in myself, I would assume.
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Loathing certain characteristics in others that I know I possess myself, yet
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rarely admitting it. It's all because of thinking. Too much thinking and
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analyzation going on.
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So nobody do the things I secretly want you to do -- no pity, no worship,
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no praise. Absorb, nod, and move on.
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But let me tell you a story, an investment in my psyche, brute and crude
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as my hand may allow, and you may tune into my head. Will it be about a
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woman? You can bet your uncle's hedgehogs it will. I only see it fair I warn
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you now, in case you'd care to avoid such dripping dimestore words.
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Contemporary romance without an ending, Bob, nothin' but.
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I'm going to admit I'm scared, very scared, for myself should I find me
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in a relationship anytime soon. That's probably what I fear most, much more
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than baby grand pianos falling from the sky with a cartoon whistle. And I'm
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scared to have sex again -- both normal performance anxiety, self-conscious
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"am I doing this well enough" kind of soak, and a bleak "the only woman I
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slept with chuckled in the face of morals; I slipped below them and lost my
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heart a few steps back... what will happen this time?" Of course it's fear --
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all my hang-ups and head dances are fear. Still caked in adolescent
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unsuredness, only jacked up a notch or so, knowing all the while why and how
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and the absurdity of the skits I roll through, yet not doing anything about
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it. A taquito of slapstick gerrymandering inside my head.
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By the way, there's a large blue mollusk on your left shoulder.
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Tangent #32: I think it would be rather interesting, and even
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stimulating, to let you people control my life decisions for a couple of
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issues. I'll spew out a few things I'm experiencing at the time, propose the
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question on it -- should I do this or that -- and do whatever you people think
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I should do, barring any obviously surreal suggestions.
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So, I'll tell you a story. Boy meets girl. Girl goes out with boy's
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friend. Boy wonders why, besides the physical attraction between the two.
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Girl and boy talk more, spend more time together than girl and boy's friend.
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Boy starts to fall for girl. Girl and boy's friend stop seeing each other.
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Boy and girl continue friendship, without crossing that line. Boy falls more.
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Boy tells girl of falling. Boy and girl don't discuss. Boy is tired of
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pointless emotional dystrophy, pointless hidden communications, pointless
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little tap dance games that entertain a small bit of his mind, but end up with
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avoidable confusion, frustration, and single-mindedness. Boy is tired of his
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own lack of ability to communicate without fear. Boy feels like he is fifteen
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again.
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Speak, boy, speak.
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I sincerely believe Leonard Cohen is a mac-daddy. I wonder if he's ever
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been to Spain.
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Boy can't be fifteen again, he has to be a mature neato 20-something guy
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who knows what's up and what's going down, pays the bills, and holds up that
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front well. Boy has no direction in his life at the time, and has an aching
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biting need to have someone with him who might pronounce their love. Boy
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finds it interesting that many of the people he knows hold the same feelings
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of super blahness, no direction, no inspiration, no content. Boy has felt
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girl grasp for that same safe feeling of love. Need perhaps.
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We're wrestling with the notion that love is selfishness. That's not
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what it should be, but is. I think I've said that before sometime, but it's a
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valid, important belief so I'll say it again. No wonder romance novels sell
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so easily - high demand for a worthy emotion that's not fulfilled in
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three-dimensional world. Read mostly by married women. That's wacky.
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That's ok, though. Everything is so candidly ok that it's silly. Worry
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is a myth. So I crave the ego satisfaction -- I know I do, wish I couldn't,
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and will hopefully work on relieving it, but there's absolutely no reason to
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stretch my soul on a poisoned balloon rack about it. No reason to smother my
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head in a plate of Kung Pao Chicken. Eat, drink, and be merry. Or be Mary --
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whatever you wish.
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<I have now assumed the reaffirming, comforting role as narrator, writer,
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and human. So, everybody relax and hug the person to your right.>
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Let's redefine a few words, shall we. I consider myself a savior.
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Though I don't think anyone should worship and follow me. I'm a savior if I
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somehow, in any of my babble, communicate something efficiently. Even more if
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the reader feels some kind of connection, understanding, thereby reassuring
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you's guys that you're not a wacko after all, that once again, everything is
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going to be alright. Uh huh.
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And making someone smile is the all time gigantuan of soul satisfaction -
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absurdity is brilliance, send Kurt Vonnegut a muffin. Give Woody Allen some
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fancy wingtipped shoes. To experience the absurdity created by those and
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others -- even my mother sometimes -- and to think that I could induce the
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same feeling in other, that I felt through them, is beauty. Wrap me up in a
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pastry with confectionery sugar. Mmmm pastries. Don't you love happy
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endings?
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Be careful skiing.
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--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
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"You are either on the bus or off the bus."
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--Tom Wolfe, _The Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test_
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--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
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PAGE FROM A DIARY
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by Crux Ansata
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0239 010298
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Some critical analysis of the real world, as filtered through television.
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On VH1, a special on the Lilith Fair. It says this fair challenged "sexism in
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the music industry." I am not in the music industry, and so I accept
|
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uncritically the claim that until recently women have been entirely
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marginalized in the music industry, and apparently been exploited by men
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behind the scenes. According to this story, with rare exceptions it is only
|
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recently that women in the music industry have had any self-determination.
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Looking at the claim, though, that the Lilith Fair challenges this sexism. I
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accept the group's right to have an entirely female tour -- actually, only
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female led bands, with men working behind the scenes -- but the claim that
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reverse sexism is a "challenge" to sexism is just foolish. This does not
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challenge sexism, that being the idea that women and men are different. It
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merely showcases women, consciously as women.
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But let us look at VH1's treatment of this. It says it challenges the
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common views of how women relate to each other, and cites Sheryl Crow saying
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people expect women to be competitive and catty. "Competitive", it seems to
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me, is a stereotype of men more than women, but I'll play with it. Preceding
|
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this claim, one of the Indigo Girls was describing the tour as "like summer
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camp." After the claim, emphasis is placed on a batch of cookies they were
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sharing. Lisa Loeb described them as smelling "like Barbie dolls." An Indigo
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Girl concurred. There followed a segment on make-up, with artists and a
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reporter discussing the emphasis placed on hair dos and eye shadow, and this
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atmosphere was described as "girlish".
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Conclusion: To my mind, I don't know what the Lilith Tour did or did not
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do for women, stereotypes, or sexism, but VH1's review of it serves to
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perpetuate certain stereotypes at the expense of others, still emphasizing the
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"inherent" differences between women and men, and implying women's guiding
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interests are beauty tips and baking.
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Incidentally, this reminds me of an episode I saw the other day of Home
|
|
Improvement. Ordinarily, the treatment of sexism in this show is good. It is
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not "feminist" in the sense of Naomi Wolf and NOW, but it is sensitive to the
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values and distinctions of both genders, and covers concepts in Betsy
|
|
Friedman, etc. This episode I had a problem with. I disagreed with the
|
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concepts expressed, probably because they were Desmond Morris's. The
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conclusion was that man is inherently promiscuous, desiring many mates, while
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woman is inherently monogamous. The claim woman is inherently monogamous is
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not very sound. While feminists like to attribute the insight to Elaine
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Morgan and other recent feminist scientists, the concept had already been said
|
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quite plainly in Schopenhauer and, I believe, de Gourmont. The real issue
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that should have been addressed is -- Wait, I'll describe the situation. The
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essence of the situation was that Tim "looked" at other women, and that this
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made Jill feel like an insufficient person because of this. At the
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instigation of Karen, a mutual friend, Tim agreed to try to go the evening --
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which they spent at a restaurant -- without "looking" at other women. He
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didn't manage it, and they discussed it. She said that she was concerned she
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was no longer holding his attention, and he said she was primary interest for
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him, and the concepts of Desmond Morris were discussed. In my opinion, the
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underlying problem was woman's -- in this society -- chronic insecurity about
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her appearance. It is not that women do not notice men, but that the
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situation is expressed differently. Appearance should not be any more a means
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of judgment than, say, expertise in butterfly collection, or the ability to
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wiggle one's ears. They are facets of the individual, but ought not be
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universal, imprisoning concepts, and one ought not feel like less of a person
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or more of a person based solely on appearance -- or any other individual
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quality. But this was not addressed. Insecurity about appearance was
|
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accepted not just as present, but as acceptable, and the noticing of beauty in
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others targeted as the "problem".
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Well, that was excessive. I'll go smoke now.
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0256 010298
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0510 010298
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I just finished transcribing the entries from last month I had written in
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my binder. I suppose now I can begin transcribing the notebooks from the
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summer. I don't know when I will start, much less finish, but I have one less
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excuse.
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I finished Lafcadio's Adventures today. It was better in the last book
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than it had been in the others. The blurb on the back cover said it discussed
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Gide's concept of the motiveless crime. It did not, of course, because there
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is no such thing as a motiveless action, much less a motiveless crime. Any
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action has a motive, and where there is no motive, there is no action. This
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is axiomatic. What the back cover meant, I suppose, is a crime with a motive
|
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not within the bounds of the accepted assumptions of society. As far as that
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goes, I suppose it did deal with a "motiveless" crime, and I suppose The
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Counterfeiters might, too, when I get around to reading it. The motive,
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though, of committing an action so one can feel one has committed an action
|
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without a motive is still motivated; the selection of action may be relatively
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arbitrary, but the motive is not absent.
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I suspect Gide knew this, even if his reviewers did not. In
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conversation, Julius -- I believe it was Julius, Lafcadio's half brother --
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observes that this presumed free man, who is capable of committing a
|
|
motiveless crime, is bound only by the first opportunity, and that is so. As
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the action itself is arbitrary, and the desire -- the motive -- exists to
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commit a crime without conscious motive, any crime that presents itself
|
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becomes obligatory given the strength of will of the actor.
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But I suppose even if it was not obvious at the beginning, I have about
|
|
beaten this topic to death. Perhaps the world translated "motive" from the
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French implies something different. In any case, much of this novel --
|
|
especially book five -- is Pessimistic. I liked it. I haven't finished any
|
|
other books today, though. I got up late and spent a couple of hours driving
|
|
Moonlight in the attempt to find his driver's license, and spent some time
|
|
transcribing more from the chapter on Schopenhauer I am trying to get on my
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|
website.
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|
I had dreams last night, but I can't remember them now. I ought to have
|
|
written them down. About the only thing I remember now was when the alarm
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|
went off. I had turned it down too far, and it was a distant ringing. In my
|
|
dream, I flew around the entire dreamworld, looking for what makes a sound
|
|
like that. I searched the entire place -- when I awoke I realized I searched
|
|
for six minutes in real life -- and found nothing, and eventually decided this
|
|
sound did not come from anywhere, but must instead be an inherent reality in
|
|
my world. The sound was not so much caused as it was in the nature of reality
|
|
to be accompanied by this sound. Then, though, I woke up, which was
|
|
fortunate, because that sound was irritating. As I said, though, I don't
|
|
remember anything else from my dreams.
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I think now, though, I am going to go back to reading.
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0519 010298
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0933 010298
|
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|
I can't sleep, so I finished the book on Keynes I picked up two or three
|
|
days ago at Barnes and Noble. It is in the Oxford Past Masters series, and
|
|
through a coincidence of names, sits on my politics shelf right next to the
|
|
Oxford Past Masters on Marx. It was one of those books I could read a page,
|
|
get distracted, and reread the entire page without even realizing it, but I
|
|
suspect this was simply because the field is so foreign to me I had difficulty
|
|
following it. M.C. said Keynes is no longer followed because his ideas didn't
|
|
work. I don't see that as a useful statement, since in economics it seems
|
|
more useful to me to discern between more or less useful models, but I suppose
|
|
it is a useful distinction if one assumes a victory condition. In that sense,
|
|
I suppose she is right from a microeconomic view. Keynes seems to have said
|
|
microeconomics could not accurately predict due to uncertainty, although this
|
|
book credits him with a lot of influence creating econometrics and the drive
|
|
to gather statistics. In the macroeconomic sense, it is harder to tell. I
|
|
knew Keynes had recently fallen out of favor, but also that, with Supply Side
|
|
and Marxism, was for a long time one of the big three macroeconomic systems.
|
|
I hear Neo-Classicism is in vogue these days, but I'm not sure what this
|
|
means. I suspect Supply Siders and Neo-Classicists may actually be people who
|
|
believe Say's Law isn't nonsense, but I'm not sure. I, personally, find it
|
|
difficult to believe anyone believes it, but people believe some strange
|
|
things. The book says Keynes theories have never been tried, but I can't say.
|
|
I don't know enough yet. I don't buy much of what he says; he seems to be a
|
|
reformist, and I generally don't buy reformists. In any case, it will give me
|
|
some more things to think about.
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|
|
|
Right now, I think I'll write about some notes I have on the back of the
|
|
receipt I was using as a bookmark, before I lose it. I write a lot of things
|
|
on scraps of paper which are subsequently lost, so let's see if we can make
|
|
any sense of this.
|
|
|
|
My notes are even more difficult to make sense of than my handwriting,
|
|
since I drift between catchwords and symbols, but let us pretend we are
|
|
looking at pointillist art, and see what forms.
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|
|
|
The first seems to be notes about greetings in France and the United
|
|
States. My French instructor the second time I took the first semester -- Ms
|
|
Stephanie D., if memory serves -- commented that one thing she found odd about
|
|
America was that here we greet our friends every time we see them, whereas in
|
|
France, one greets one's friend the first time they see them that day, and not
|
|
subsequently. Personally, I don't recall noticing this, ever, but then I'm
|
|
not big on greetings at all. This got me to thinking, though. Greetings are
|
|
very much an "I'm here, are you still there" exchange. It is also an
|
|
acknowledgement of worth, but I think the acknowledgement of presence is more
|
|
primary. The repeated greetings here, then, might indicate a lessened surety
|
|
that the person *will* be there next time. In other words, it is less
|
|
expected that an American will see his friend again than that a Frenchman
|
|
would. One wonders, though, why this should be. French culture has been more
|
|
scarred by wars and the like, whereas America has been insulated. This would
|
|
seem to disprove the argument that Americans are more afraid their friends
|
|
will be killed. Perhaps Americans depend more on their friends, or perhaps
|
|
the French are more resigned to the idea of losing their friends. I can't say
|
|
for sure; again, it is more to think about.
|
|
|
|
My next note says: "Girl in IHOP." I know what that means, but I
|
|
imagine in another twenty-four hours finding this note I would be as confused
|
|
as anyone else. What it refers to is from last night. While looking for
|
|
Moonlight's driver's license, we went by IHOP. When we got there, we had to
|
|
wait to speak to the waitress while two girls paid. When we got there, I
|
|
could see in profile the girl closest to me. She was a blonde, with short
|
|
hair. She was wearing a blouse and a long, straight skirt. I can see these
|
|
in my mind but, as usual, cannot describe even the colors. The details swirl
|
|
in my memory. I don't remember her as an objective reality, but rather
|
|
remember my impressions of her. In regards to my impressions, what she looked
|
|
like is much less of interest -- to me -- than what her appearance made me
|
|
feel.
|
|
|
|
This relates to something else I had been thinking about lately. I
|
|
referred to it the other day when I questioned where I think beauty to be, but
|
|
I find this better expressed in the question of where is pleasure. I will
|
|
take an example: Say that I am kissing a girl. My opinion of whether I
|
|
enjoyed this -- whether it was a "good kiss" -- says nothing about the kiss,
|
|
much less the girl. The thing, the *only* thing, the statement "That was a
|
|
good kiss" expresses is that my internal sense-experience, during this kiss,
|
|
was something I consider pleasurable, or desirable, or whatever system I am
|
|
using to examine the text of my life. Granted, the kiss provides data for
|
|
this -- whether I enjoy the technique, for example; in my own case, the degree
|
|
of yielding, etc. Also, the girl influences it. Whether one is "in love"
|
|
influences one's sense-experience. If one is, for example, in the process of
|
|
a rape, the anxiety may make one enjoy it less, or the thrill of the forbidden
|
|
may make one enjoy it more, or both. What it comes down to, though, is these
|
|
are influences, not determinants. At bottom, one *chooses* whether or not to
|
|
enjoy a kiss, or rather to define a kiss as having been enjoyed. There is no
|
|
"pleasure" "in the world", but only the "pleasure" we subjectively choose to
|
|
create, whether intentionally or by default.
|
|
|
|
This is not, of course, by any means an original thought. In a way, it
|
|
is a restatement of Schopenhauer's explanation that there is no good anywhere,
|
|
but that what we desire -- or rather what the will as objectified in us
|
|
desires -- we arbitrarily consider good. I'm sure the pedigree is much older.
|
|
|
|
This is, though, a digression. I was going to have a much more realist
|
|
conversation.
|
|
|
|
I was struck by her beauty. (See, I lapse again into convention. If I
|
|
was being precise, I would say something like, "I was struck by the way the
|
|
relationship between the external stimulus of her appearance -- as I
|
|
understood it -- interrelated with my prejudices, causing me to consider her
|
|
'beautiful'," or something equally cumbersome. I hope my faithful reader by
|
|
this point knows full well everything I say is subjective.) She was not
|
|
perfect, by any means. She was not the kind that brings on heart attacks, or
|
|
which one would sever one's arm for a chance at. She was more than pleasantly
|
|
attractive, however, and my mood was elevated seeing her. It didn't really
|
|
occur to me for some time afterwards that my watching her could easily have
|
|
been taken as rude at best, or threatening at worst. I enjoyed, however, the
|
|
way she looked, and the pitch of her voice -- which I suppose I, as a
|
|
feminist, should feel ashamed for, as I have had it explained to me that it is
|
|
at least the opinion of the Japanese feminists that high pitched voices are
|
|
signs of subjection to male dominance, and the effort to make oneself
|
|
attractive by sounding childlike and vulnerable. I got to wondering what her
|
|
companion looked like, both to see if her friend was as attractive, and to see
|
|
if my subjective experience was skewed and I was seeing her as attractive more
|
|
qua female than qua her. When she moved, though, I could see that I found her
|
|
companion noticeably not attractive. Perhaps not unattractive; I can't really
|
|
say now, but noticeably not attractive.
|
|
|
|
Now, I wonder why I told this story. Perhaps the reader can see some use
|
|
in it.
|
|
|
|
I'm afraid my next note is incomprehensible. It says, merely,
|
|
"interesting." It is in quotes, so I wager I was going to talk about the
|
|
word, but I don't know what I was going to say. Was it someone that looks
|
|
interesting, in keeping with the last story? Or something that is
|
|
interesting? Perhaps the value of being interesting, or how we define
|
|
something as being interesting? Interesting as this discussion may be, I
|
|
don't know where it was supposed to go, and I have one more note, so I'll move
|
|
on.
|
|
|
|
This one is not more explicit -- "opinions" -- but it is more helpful. I
|
|
remember what I was going to talk about here. I remember one of the questions
|
|
on that questionnaire on Silence dealt with me, and one of the answers was "He
|
|
has opinions on things I have never even heard of." I picked this one, so I
|
|
remember it, and I thought it was an amusing paradox, saying that I have
|
|
opinions on things I have never heard of. Like all paradoxes, it only seems
|
|
to contradict itself, and that amuses me. I didn't think much of it, though.
|
|
Then, this summer, M.C. commented approvingly that I am interesting -- there
|
|
that word is again -- and one of the reasons was because I have opinions on
|
|
many things. I thought this very odd. I don't think opinions are good
|
|
things. I don't mean, of course, they are bad things. I think they are
|
|
neutral. The way I see it, one has to be pretty out of it to *not* have
|
|
opinions. They may be unformed. They may be parroted. They may even be
|
|
stupid. They are opinions, though. Perhaps also I am influenced by old
|
|
elementary school work, where we distinguished between facts and opinions. I
|
|
also always considered a "fact" to have some objective worth, while an
|
|
"opinion" was only, well, an opinion. Even an idea, which is equally
|
|
subjective -- in the non-Platonic sense of the word -- seems to have more
|
|
value, being closer to original. But I notice other places, too, consider
|
|
opinions to be good. I still find it very odd, but I suspect if I explained
|
|
why, I would just repeat myself again. I seem to be running out of steam.
|
|
I'll move on.
|
|
|
|
In church the other day, maybe New Year's Eve, aka the feast day of Mary,
|
|
Mother of God, I did an uncharacteristically bold thing. I smiled and said
|
|
hello to someone. Granted, it was S.L., who I have known for about a decade
|
|
now, but also, it was S.L., who I have known for about a decade now. She
|
|
didn't speak to me first, and as I walked towards the exit of the church, I
|
|
caught her eye, smiled, and said hello. She, too, smiled and said hello.
|
|
Then -- I say "then" as if it followed, but I was thinking this before,
|
|
during, and after -- I wondered what the effects of my actions would be.
|
|
Rather, I suppose, I mean "could be". I know rationally that this will be
|
|
mere data. If she remembers it at all, I will be merely another guy who said
|
|
hello to her. It is more interesting to think what could be.
|
|
|
|
For one thing, she is several years younger than me, but by no means too
|
|
young. Indeed, she must be about seventeen or eighteen. But her mother was
|
|
right by, and so far as I know she is still in high school. One of both of
|
|
them may find this suspect. I also know -- though I don't much like -- her
|
|
boyfriend. If my attention was seen as affection, this could cause problems.
|
|
On the other hand, if we pretended this was possible, she could return the
|
|
affection, or, more likely, be flattered by it. This could equally cause
|
|
complications, but likely will not, as I don't plan to ever speak to her
|
|
again, at least not of my own volition. From this simple action, though, it
|
|
is interesting to spin out fantasies of all the potentialities and problems
|
|
that could result. I have about spun out my interest, though, and so I
|
|
suppose I'll drop it and go shower or read to play in the highway or
|
|
something.
|
|
|
|
1017 010298
|
|
|
|
1249 010298
|
|
|
|
It may finally have happened. I may now be functionally blind. I was
|
|
reading, and all of a sudden, my vision lost an area. Not the periphery,
|
|
either, but just right-down of center. Indeed, as I write, I cannot see my
|
|
pencil, and only part of my hand. I can't see what I write, but only a few
|
|
centimeters behind.
|
|
|
|
At first, it looked like I had damaged my retina by staring into a bright
|
|
light, only (1) I hadn't, and (2) it has not gone away, and it has been ten or
|
|
more minutes. Now it looks like a floating thing, covering maybe ten or
|
|
fifteen degrees of vision. (That is an estimate. It's location makes
|
|
measuring it problematic.) Watching it against various backgrounds, I see it
|
|
looks like a band of color, woven. It looks like a stripped electrical wire,
|
|
with varicolored plastic wrapping over the copper. Or, it looks like I would
|
|
imagine it would look like if someone cut open their eyeball exposing the
|
|
rods, only being on the inside looking out, I am seeing what should be on the
|
|
outside looking in.
|
|
|
|
I see it the same whether I use my left eye, my right eye, or both. It
|
|
is there when I close my eyes, and remains when I take off my glasses. I can
|
|
read only around it, which means I have to hold the book towards the periphery
|
|
of my vision and yet concentrate on it, ignoring the thing, which makes my
|
|
headache worse. The fact it was sudden and in both eyes makes me worry it is
|
|
actually a mental problem, something in the wiring between eyes and brain.
|
|
God willing, it will go away, but this is the most frightened I have been in a
|
|
long time. I was positioning my book, trying to make sense of the words, and
|
|
holding back tears.
|
|
|
|
I'll break for lunch; maybe my vision will be corrected.
|
|
|
|
1258 010298
|
|
|
|
1337 010298
|
|
|
|
I seem to have back full vision, at least in the center of my range. At
|
|
the worst of the episode, I had lost near total vision in my right eye, and
|
|
the center of the left. At least, that was the way it looked. By the time
|
|
the peripheral vision started getting that bad, I was neglecting my
|
|
observations, and just sinking practically into shock. I told Mom I think I'm
|
|
going blind. Even with my sense of humor I wouldn't joke about that, and she
|
|
seemed able to tell. This scares me worse than anything else, even though I
|
|
have expected to go blind for a long time now.
|
|
|
|
"I am going blind." Can you even begin to imagine how terrifying that
|
|
is? To actually lose one's vision, even temporarily? (Provided, of course,
|
|
one did not know it was temporary. I mean terror, not discomfort.) For me,
|
|
everything that is real is in writing. I read and I write. If I lose a field
|
|
of vision like that, I will be incapable of continuing on as me. I will have
|
|
to exist, if at all, only in the past. The only thing I could hope for then
|
|
would be that the blindness was caused by a brain tumor, or some similarly
|
|
fatal malady. Maybe Mom is right, and maybe it is just strain from overusing
|
|
my eyes -- or my mind. I seem to waste so much time, though, I find it hard
|
|
to believe this. I sleep a lot. I drive, and that is relaxing. I watch some
|
|
TV and play on the computer some. I suspect it might be hysterical, though I
|
|
don't know what would have caused an onset now. I guess I'll have to wait,
|
|
and see what plays out.
|
|
|
|
1342 010298
|
|
|
|
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
|
|
|
|
|
|
"Evidently it was difficult for the forces of darkness to find good
|
|
servants."
|
|
--Mercedes Lackey, _Firebird_
|
|
|
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|
|
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
|
|
|
|
AMERiCA ONLiNE: A STUDY or
|
|
A HUMOROUS AND FRiGHTiNiNG LOOK AT AOL
|
|
by Adidas
|
|
|
|
America Online is a diverse, large and extremely interesting subculture.
|
|
There are several parts of AOL, of which there are several different features.
|
|
To understand all of AOL would take a long time -- too long to be on AOL.
|
|
Thus, this study is only in reference to certain portions of the large society
|
|
of America Online. This study will be extremely long as it will include lists
|
|
of places to go on AOL, transcripts from Chat Rooms, and other evidence of the
|
|
craziness that is America Online.
|
|
|
|
When you log into AOL you are greeted by a welcome screen that includes
|
|
your mailbox, and the nice voice, "Welcome! You've got Mail!" The screen
|
|
also includes various links to sections of interest in America Online. The
|
|
next screen that appears is called Channels. This is a large list of links to
|
|
the biggest and most popular parts of America Online. This list of channels
|
|
has on it the following sections:
|
|
|
|
------------------------------------------------------------------------------
|
|
--
|
|
|
|
AOL Today
|
|
News
|
|
Sports
|
|
Entertainment
|
|
Influence
|
|
Travel
|
|
International
|
|
Personal Finance
|
|
Workplace
|
|
Computing
|
|
Research & Learn
|
|
Internet
|
|
Games
|
|
Shopping
|
|
Interests
|
|
Health
|
|
Lifestyles
|
|
People Connection
|
|
Families
|
|
Kids Only
|
|
Local
|
|
|
|
------------------------------------------------------------------------------
|
|
--
|
|
|
|
Of course, this list is ever changing and I'm sure that the next time I
|
|
log on it will be different.
|
|
|
|
One of the important parts of AOL is the ever-popular chat sections.
|
|
These are listed as "People Connection" under the lists of channels (see
|
|
above). To understand the chat rooms, one must first understand the way the
|
|
rooms are set up. There are divisions in the chat rooms. First you have what
|
|
is called the "Public" chat rooms. These are open to everyone and have
|
|
various general names. Then there are the "Private" chat rooms. These are
|
|
open to everyone, however you must know the names. It gives you a place to
|
|
type in the name of the chat room that you wish to enter. If it is not
|
|
already in use, then it is created and you are the only one in there. Next
|
|
there are "Member" rooms. These are listed, unlike the private rooms, but like
|
|
the private rooms you can create your own. These are usually more specific
|
|
and personalized, as they are created by members. And finally there are the
|
|
Featured Chat rooms. These are set up where there is usually someone famous
|
|
or a topic thats in the news with an expert on stage who answers and talks
|
|
about whats going on.
|
|
|
|
When you choose to chat you are thrown into one of the hundreds of
|
|
lobbies. Its very difficult to get into Lobby 666 though because hundreds of
|
|
little kids want to be there. If you pick a public room, or a member for that
|
|
matter, there comes a lists of types of rooms which in turn have several rooms
|
|
in them. The types that exist for public and member rooms are Town Square,
|
|
Arts and Entertainment, Friends, Life, News Sports and Finance, Places,
|
|
Romance, Special Interests, German, The UK experience, France, Canada, and
|
|
Japan. If you pick Member than you can go and create a room in any of the
|
|
areas or pick a room someone created. Inside of Town Square in the public
|
|
rooms are some of the more popular rooms to talk, they are Best Lil Chathouse,
|
|
The Breakfast Club, Friends of Bill W, KTU Late Night Chat, Online Games Help,
|
|
Sunrise Diner, The Meeting Place, The Saloon, and Tips and Tricks. If the
|
|
rooms fill up there is an alternate one created, such as The Saloon 2.
|
|
|
|
One wonders exactly what the ages of the people are in the rooms, so I
|
|
decided to take a poll. It is not uncommon when in a chat room for someone to
|
|
call an age/sex check, where everone gives a response such as 18/m or 14/f. I
|
|
did this in four rooms, here are the responses I recieved.
|
|
|
|
------------------------------------------------------------------------------
|
|
--
|
|
|
|
December 23, 1997
|
|
|
|
Lobby 42 - 11:10 PM - 23 People Total
|
|
|
|
18/m
|
|
16/m
|
|
16/m
|
|
16/f
|
|
15/f
|
|
15/m
|
|
|
|
The Meeting Place 13 - 11:16 PM - 22 People Total
|
|
|
|
17/f
|
|
16/m
|
|
22/m
|
|
18/f
|
|
16/m
|
|
16/f
|
|
|
|
The Saloon 2 - 11:19 PM - 23 People Total
|
|
|
|
35/f
|
|
19/f
|
|
107/m (What a jerk)
|
|
16/m
|
|
|
|
Best Lil Chathouse 30 - 23 People Total
|
|
|
|
No one responded
|
|
|
|
------------------------------------------------------------------------------
|
|
--
|
|
|
|
What exactly do they talk about in these rooms? Well I made a copy of
|
|
one conversation in a room called the Red Dragon Inn which is a sort of RPG-
|
|
talk place where they demonstrate actions by colons. You'll see.
|
|
|
|
------------------------------------------------------------------------------
|
|
--
|
|
|
|
PrnsMorgan: is tha' why they are the way tha' they are?
|
|
RDI Destre: :takes her coffee and drinks greatfully her eyes surveying the
|
|
happenings::
|
|
Vvessen: ::bellows:: BARKEEP!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
|
|
ZorakBrak1: my Pleasure
|
|
AliENDorUU: :sharpens at her fans quietly, and drinks her milk... A
|
|
twisted amalgam of schoolgirl,
|
|
LadyVixenn: Aye..indeed..a pleasure to me...smiles
|
|
Phantom482: yep
|
|
AliENDorUU: dragon, and vicious warrior-mage:
|
|
Phantom482: that's why
|
|
RDI Destre: ::looks to the yeller:: Yes?
|
|
RomeoMike: ::laughs and puts his index finger on the 7th fret A and his
|
|
ring finger on the 5th fret
|
|
RomeoMike: high d::
|
|
ZorakBrak1: busy night isn't it
|
|
Lrd Will: -= puts slide on finger and checks it before geting a pick=-
|
|
PrnsMorgan: ::nods:: do I havea t.. t... twin?
|
|
EvilPhoeni: ::askes the barkeep for a gin&tonic and sits back in a near by
|
|
barstool::
|
|
RomeoMike: it's mostly this slid up and down the fret board::
|
|
Lrd Will: -=follows his lead=-
|
|
Saradya: ::Shrugs, and heads to an unoccupied table::
|
|
RomeoMike: ::shows him::
|
|
AliENDorUU: :cringes at loud noise, scowls at the screamer:
|
|
RDI Destre: ::turns back to Zorak:: Yes It really is
|
|
Lrd Will: ah
|
|
Dracandos: ::smiles::can i get you a drink or anything
|
|
NetMast508: ::Finnishes the wind and walks off::
|
|
ThWildCard: ::drinks the rest of his elven wine and sets the bottle in his
|
|
backpack, then pulls out the cork
|
|
RDI Destre: ::nods to the strangers and smiles::
|
|
Phantom482: No angel you have an older brother.
|
|
Vvessen: ::gets up with much difficulty from the small table and
|
|
lumbers over to the bar::
|
|
ThWildCard: on his Bloodwyne::
|
|
RDI Destre: I'm the tender tonight if you need drinks
|
|
PrnsMorgan: ::wrinkles her nose::
|
|
Vvessen: ::reaches behind it and graps a keg of ale::
|
|
LadyVixenn: I need no drink m'Lord.....smiles
|
|
RomeoMike: ::begins struming a steady rhythm on the three low strings,
|
|
then switches down two frets::
|
|
EvilPhoeni: HAy RDI can I get a gin&tonic
|
|
RDI Destre: ::puts the keg of ale on Vvessen's tab::
|
|
Vvessen: ::sits down heavily in the middle of the floor with the keg,
|
|
shaking the floor::
|
|
Phantom482: I know love it's not fair sometimes.
|
|
RDI Destre: \_/ gin and tonic for ya
|
|
EvilPhoeni: Would anyone want to join a guild
|
|
RomeoMike: ::does like wise and switche down two again::
|
|
Vvessen: Destre, you put it on my tab but you wouldn't get it for me?
|
|
RomeoMike: ::then back up two::
|
|
Ice pxe: ::from the swirling blackness of the outdoors appears a foot,
|
|
a shin, a shapely thigh, and
|
|
Saradya: ::Sinks into a chair, watching the inn attentively::
|
|
Lrd Will: -= follows him
|
|
RomeoMike: ::then is back to the begining::
|
|
Phantom482: I don't have any brothers or sisters
|
|
EvilPhoeni: ::grabs the gin & tonic and raises it to RDI:: Thank ya kind
|
|
person
|
|
AliENDorUU: :scowls at the Vvess, puts down the whetstone, picks up
|
|
one fan and opens it with a schick:
|
|
ZorakBrak1: I don't want to keep you from your duties, i'll be in the back
|
|
if you want to relax ::walks
|
|
Vvessen: ::eyes drawn to the appearing person::
|
|
PrnsMorgan: no' one?
|
|
ZorakBrak1: to the back::
|
|
Dracandos: are you sure? it would be no problem
|
|
RDI Destre: ::smiles warmly:: You would have been charged anyway
|
|
Kiflen: What type of guild?
|
|
WhiteDvil3: whats up in these mid evil times?
|
|
Vvessen: ::eyes snap to Ali Endor::
|
|
Ice pxe: finally emerging into the dimly lit inn a sweet face curling
|
|
with mischief, a smirk taunting
|
|
TeveshZsat: -= in the corner of the room, the shadows pull together=-
|
|
Ice pxe: the lips of the young girl::
|
|
RDI Destre: ::smiles and nods to Zorak:: Thank you again
|
|
EvilPhoeni: its a new guild...but fine and true
|
|
ThWildCard: ::sips some of his Bloodwyne and stands slowly::
|
|
|
|
------------------------------------------------------------------------------
|
|
--
|
|
|
|
So you can see that in these rooms they talk about absolutley nothing.
|
|
Then what is so damn appealing? I don't know. I just don't know.
|
|
|
|
On AOL one recieves lots of junk mail, people taking advantage of these
|
|
idiots, I recieved the following "chain e-mail" and since have recieved many
|
|
more like it.
|
|
|
|
------------------------------------------------------------------------------
|
|
--
|
|
|
|
This is not just your ordinary chain letter. Every person you send it to,
|
|
brings you more goodluck.
|
|
|
|
If you send it to no one, it will cause somone you like to hate you.
|
|
If you send it to 1 person, your next relationship will have lots of fun
|
|
times.
|
|
If you send it to 2 people, you will get a secret admirer.
|
|
If you send it to 3 people, you'll get a date for the next school dance.
|
|
If you send it to 4 people, you'll meet the person of your dreams.
|
|
5 people, the guy or girl you met of your dreams will ask for your phone
|
|
number.
|
|
8 people, your next realationship will be everlasting.
|
|
10 people, your best friends fine brother or sister has a major crush on you.
|
|
13 people, your boyfriend or girlfriend, will become totally faithful to you.
|
|
15 people, the person you have been crushing on for a very long time, will ask
|
|
you out.
|
|
18 people, your date for the next dance will ask you out.
|
|
20 people, you'll make out with your crush at a party.
|
|
If it can do that much sending it to 20 people, imagine what it will do if you
|
|
send it to more.
|
|
|
|
|
|
Real life story:
|
|
|
|
"I sent 28 letters, and then this guy that I had liked for nearly 3 years,
|
|
asked me to go to the senior prom with him.Then a few days later, he asked me
|
|
to go out with him. That was about 2 months ago, now we are the best couple.
|
|
He graduates in May, and he promised not to go to college until I graduate.
|
|
I'll graduate in 1998. He is the sweetest guy I have ever known."
|
|
|
|
Heather Thomas
|
|
1-4-97
|
|
|
|
"At first I thought that this was the weirdest thing I have ever read. But I
|
|
just decided to send it for fun. I wasn't having any lick with girls. I sent
|
|
23 letters. About 4 or 5 days after I sent them, I met this wonderful girl.
|
|
She was everthing I had dreamed of. I always thought these things were so
|
|
stupid, but now I send every single one out that I get. I asked her out about
|
|
a month after I had met her. She said 'YES!!!!' That was over a year ago.
|
|
Now we are married, and she is pregnant!"
|
|
|
|
Matt Jenkins
|
|
11-27-95
|
|
|
|
|
|
Now the consequences:
|
|
|
|
If you do not send this letter to anybody, your life will be a living hell.
|
|
You have 5 days to send this letter to at least 1 person. You can send this
|
|
to as many people as you want to. I am warning you...do not just delete this
|
|
letter. It is a new chain letter and we would like it to get sent around as
|
|
quick as possible. I refused to send it to many people when I first made it
|
|
in June of 1995, because I didn't believe it would work. I sent it to 38
|
|
people, then I got the best boyfriend that I could ever have.
|
|
|
|
|
|
***Remember***
|
|
|
|
You only have 5 days to send this to as many people as possible. Don't forget
|
|
to pass it on. Have fun in the near future with your new boyfriend or
|
|
girlfriend!!! I know this works from experience. Don't give up the
|
|
opportunity of a lifetime.
|
|
|
|
------------------------------------------------------------------------------
|
|
--
|
|
|
|
It's safe to say that I did not send out any letters. My life has not
|
|
been a living hell, it's just been hellish but it was just as bad before I
|
|
received this. The person I've been "crushing" on hasn't approached me, but
|
|
then again, I'm not exactlly sure how to "crush" on someone.
|
|
|
|
On AOL there is a thing called an Instant Message (IM for short), a way
|
|
to send quick messages to friends. After filling out a profile, I
|
|
unfortunetly was bombarded with IMs. I wrote on the profile that I lived in
|
|
Austin and went to school. Every time I logged on I received hundreds of IMs
|
|
saying "Which college do you go to?" or "Which high school?" or "Do you know
|
|
Jan Jenkins?" or "Austin sure is nice, huh?". I quickly changed my profile to
|
|
not have the city or the school part as well as taking off anything of
|
|
interest to anybody. I've recieved sickening IMs about some guy who went over
|
|
to some other guys house and "sucked him off" and met people that know people
|
|
at my school, but it was just too much.
|
|
|
|
AOL sucks.
|
|
|
|
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
|
|
|
|
|
|
"Well, I woke up this morning
|
|
I got myself a beer
|
|
I woke up this morning
|
|
Got myself a beer
|
|
The future's uncertain
|
|
And the end is always near."
|
|
--The Doors, "Roadhouse Blues"
|
|
|
|
|
|
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
|
|
|
|
HOW i SPENT MY SUMMER VACATiON
|
|
by Crux Ansata
|
|
|
|
21 August, give or take. After 0100. I'm back in Eamon Doran's. I haven't
|
|
been in a bar in some time, but as soon as I stepped in, with the loud Irish
|
|
music blasting, I started to feel better.
|
|
|
|
I knew if I stayed at home, drinking alone, I'd go crazy. I'd get too
|
|
depressed to do anything but weep. At least the rain washed the tears off my
|
|
face, but I still got an uncharacteristic ask if I was okay from the
|
|
bartender.
|
|
|
|
We've been breaking up now in earnest more than a year. Fourteen
|
|
months, at least. You'd think I'd had the knack by now. But, no. Every
|
|
time I think I've got it, she pulls something, and I fall back in love.
|
|
|
|
I thought at least by the time we started fucking again we were back
|
|
together. Guess not.
|
|
|
|
I know another lover would be a distraction. I know it. But I *need*
|
|
that distraction. I can't go on loving her this intensely my whole life.
|
|
|
|
I drank down a couple of glasses of water before I left. I hope I don't
|
|
get sick here. At least I have my notepad. She said to call her if I needed
|
|
her, but she was too tired. And, besides, she is the cause of my problems,
|
|
eh?
|
|
|
|
I remember one television show: "Women, eh? You can't live with
|
|
them ..." Pauses. "Got any more beer nuts?"
|
|
|
|
Ain't it the truth? Except I've never been in a bar with beer nuts,
|
|
whatever they are. But I digress...
|
|
|
|
I'm a failure. I know that. The fucking messed up thing is that, even
|
|
if I weren't, I wouldn't get her back.
|
|
|
|
She thinks I'm not a failure; just unproven, or something. I know
|
|
better. I fucking know better.
|
|
|
|
I'm the best thing that ever happened to her. I might have saved her
|
|
fucking life. But she doesn't need me anymore. I need *her*, but she
|
|
doesn't need me. So, I'm in a bar, getting sick, while it rains like there's
|
|
no tomorrow, and fucking missing her.
|
|
|
|
I'm a fucking loser.
|
|
|
|
I have to remember to stop with the one drink. I can't go on like this.
|
|
|
|
"So when you think of me, crack a beer and smile. Hey, life's a bitch,
|
|
and then you die."
|
|
|
|
Damn pencil won't work right.
|
|
|
|
She says I should write when I'm drunk. MC says I need to write like I
|
|
do when I'm drunk. Well, I'm drunk now, and I still suck. What's the point
|
|
in even feeling these feelings, let alone writing about them?
|
|
|
|
Fuck honesty. Happiness lives on lies, and what else is there to live
|
|
for? Or die for?
|
|
|
|
Tomorrow, I'll be hung over in the warehouse. Tomorrow night, I'll try
|
|
to pack, with another six pack of Killian's I bought today and maybe even
|
|
her, who will just break my heart again. I wish I could get drunk enough to
|
|
kill her. Get her out of everyone's life, everyone's bed, use her up like
|
|
she used me up. Like a spent commodity, a wasted piece of property.
|
|
|
|
Totally alienated labor.
|
|
|
|
Bad metaphors. Marx meets Goethe. Fuck the proletariat; I want to die
|
|
in the Revolution.
|
|
|
|
Texas. What's for me there? I Wish My Name Were Nathan misses me. I
|
|
Wish My Name Were Nathan won't go to bed with me. I Wish My Name Were Nathan
|
|
won't fill my heart. E.? She's probably bourgeois by now. An.? We're in
|
|
different worlds. Six years later, and Br.'s probably still a wet dream.
|
|
Jujube? She fell in love. I can't replace whoever it was. S.?
|
|
|
|
I've chewed out A. for speaking poorly of her. I've been chewed out by
|
|
Dad for being with her.
|
|
|
|
She's not a good answer, but she is an answer.
|
|
|
|
God! She's as proletarian as they come, but I don't *want* to end up
|
|
with her, even if I could, which I can't!
|
|
|
|
So, who? I hate being alone. I don't even have a friend to go back to,
|
|
much less a lover.
|
|
|
|
But, what holds me to New York? MC is a friend, but no doubt she's
|
|
getting sick of me. I feel I'm wearing my welcome thin.
|
|
|
|
(The bartender offered me food. I wonder if I look as drunk as I feel.
|
|
Which is, by the way, enough drunk to cope, but not enough to fall off the
|
|
stool. As Mom said, "An Irishman isn't drunk if he can hold on to the grass
|
|
and not fall off the world.")
|
|
|
|
As I was saying, I think I need to move on. New York isn't far enough
|
|
away. I have one friend left here, and one in Louisiana, but no lover, and
|
|
I'm less and less sure of my friends.
|
|
|
|
C. took Kilgore. He helped me through a lot. Can I look to I Wish My
|
|
Name Were Nathan? He wouldn't understand, but maybe he could listen.
|
|
Kidknee? But we have been apart too long. I might as well say Dancing
|
|
Messiah, Mi. or Ultrasuede. At least they would understand. I don't know
|
|
what Kidknee has been through.
|
|
|
|
And why am I writing? So I have something to do. The bartender is
|
|
trying to clean around me. I'm practically alone in here. And, suddenly, I
|
|
feel the warmth drunkenness is supposed to bring.
|
|
|
|
If I weren't so drunk, I'd try to start a conversation with him, but
|
|
he's busy.
|
|
|
|
I hope I don't tip too little.
|
|
|
|
Now I've stream-of-consciousnessed through almost six of these little
|
|
pages, and said nothing.
|
|
|
|
Well, I have said I'm lonely, and she has destroyed me. Who does not
|
|
know that?
|
|
|
|
My family. That's about it. She didn't know about the college
|
|
situation in my family. How no one but my mother finished degrees right out
|
|
of high school. How I have to stay in for my family. It's none of her damn
|
|
business. She dealt herself out of my family. It needs to become opaque to
|
|
her again.
|
|
|
|
You're my friend if I tell you about my lovers, but I really love you if
|
|
I tell you about my family. Virtually no one knows about them. She does.
|
|
And MC. But not even Harlequin or Kilgore.
|
|
|
|
Half of me wants to find a bar in Austin; half of me wants to dry out.
|
|
I wonder who will win.
|
|
|
|
I want a job. I want to get money in Texas, so I can go on drinking.
|
|
|
|
(I keep starting my words in the middle, and writing them backwards and
|
|
then forwards. If I knew how to spell it, I'd say I'm dyslexic.)
|
|
|
|
I still have half my drink, and I'm at the point I should stop. But I
|
|
won't. I'll just slow down.
|
|
|
|
I wonder what the bartender's name is.
|
|
|
|
Now, I'm alone at one end of the bar, almost alone in the bar. The
|
|
radio sings about the day the music died, and the bathroom is broken. I'm
|
|
about drunk enough to sleep without dreams, and get up without them, too.
|
|
|
|
"This will be the day that I die, this will be the day that I die."
|
|
|
|
All is the present. Now I lie; now I die. There is no difference in
|
|
these statements, same emphasis.
|
|
|
|
I'll double my tip. Two dollars; almost fifty percent. And I just sit
|
|
here, have one beer, write, and have a couple of smokes. I cost no one
|
|
anything; I gain no one anything. I am superfluous.
|
|
|
|
And alone.
|
|
|
|
And in four days, I go back to Texas, and suppress all my feelings, and
|
|
deal again with the world in the way I know: Without dealing.
|
|
|
|
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
|
|
|
|
|
|
"What have you dreamed? It's all right, we told you what to dream..."
|
|
--Pink Floyd, "Welcome to the Machine"
|
|
|
|
|
|
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
|
|
|
|
A DiP iNTO ALiEN DREAMTiME
|
|
by Kilgore Trout
|
|
|
|
I don't keep a diary. But, like Clockwork, sometimes I've found myself
|
|
wishing I did. I guess I figured that I could look back years later and
|
|
figure out stuff about myself that I was too blind and stupid to realize then.
|
|
With a diary, I could relive past events, never to forget the essential
|
|
moments of my life and the life lessons that I learned. After all, these
|
|
events made me who I am today.
|
|
|
|
What a crock, eh?
|
|
|
|
I don't keep a diary because I'm lay-zee. That's right. Besides, I've
|
|
got something better than a diary, and that's my dream journal. I've decided
|
|
to select a few entries over the past year so that you, the reader, can
|
|
take a peek at what goes on in my head at night. Any armchair psychologists
|
|
(or professional ones, for that matter) are encouraged to write in and analyze
|
|
the dreams.
|
|
|
|
And yes, I really did have all of these dreams.
|
|
|
|
One note about the format that these dreams are written in. The way I
|
|
keep my dreams recorded is through email, sending them out to a select group
|
|
of friends and then saving them for posterity. They are usually written right
|
|
after I wake up, are very informal, and are composed hastily so I can get down
|
|
as much as possible before the dream starts to dematerialize. If you were
|
|
expecting Pulitzer Prize exposition, well, what the hell are you reading this
|
|
zine for, anyway?
|
|
|
|
All names have been removed to protect the innocent. After all, who
|
|
wants to have nasty rumors spread about them because of my dreams? I didn't
|
|
think so.
|
|
|
|
|
|
--SoB--
|
|
|
|
DREAM ONE: Girls, trees, and a chainsaw
|
|
|
|
DECEMBER 3, 1996
|
|
|
|
okay, bucky boy. you're so good at figuring out dreams, interpret THIS.
|
|
|
|
i'm standing next to a tree in a large field. it's an apple tree.
|
|
i'm standing next to it, holding a small video camera in one hand, like
|
|
i'm filming the tree but not looking through the camera. i can see my
|
|
reflection on an apple, showing that i've got my purple sunglasses on. i can
|
|
also see the reflections of two small oriental girls dressed in midieval
|
|
japanese garb dancing. they both have long pigtails.
|
|
|
|
that's the whole dream. there's some music playing, but i can't
|
|
remember what it was.
|
|
|
|
well, okay, that's not exactly the whole dream. later it turns out
|
|
that the tree is later used in an advertisement for some chainsaw
|
|
company, which shows this woodcutter who cuts through the tree, but the
|
|
ground falls out from underneath him. he hangs on to one of the branches
|
|
and then falls away. then the company's logo comes up and they say
|
|
something stupid like, "we just make damn good chainsaws, not the laws of
|
|
physics." but that occurred after the first scene was long and done
|
|
with. the two girls were gone. so was i.
|
|
|
|
fucking fucking strange. wish i could remember what that damn song sounded
|
|
like. forgetting music is starting to become a theme in my dreams.
|
|
|
|
|
|
--SoB--
|
|
|
|
|
|
DREAM #2: Concerts suck
|
|
|
|
JANUARY 29, 1997
|
|
|
|
okay. finally had a worthwhile dream to tell you guys about. this
|
|
one involved lots of celebrities.
|
|
|
|
so i'm at this concert. sitting in the audience. about twenty rows
|
|
back. anyway, while the band is playing, the dream's shots are kinda
|
|
like a music video, going around the band, switching between members,
|
|
etc. etc. i guess it coulda been an astral projection, and i ACTUALLY
|
|
WAS at a concert last night, BUT....
|
|
|
|
...i seriously, i mean fucking seriously, doubt the travelling wilburies
|
|
were playing with tim burton.
|
|
|
|
yeah, that's right. tim burton had a guitar and was playing along with
|
|
the wilburies. petty, orbison, harrison, wylde, and ringo? isn't he the
|
|
fifth one? anyway, they're doing all the standard guitar antics (getting in a
|
|
line and moving forward one foot at a time, running around doing kicks), and
|
|
then for some reason everybody goes into this "everybody solo" mode. jeff
|
|
wylde is spinning around on the ground while tom petty is signing wylde's
|
|
guitar. then burton runs over, grabs wylde's guitar, and HURLS it into the
|
|
audience. everything gets silent as the guitar hurtles thru the air. i watch
|
|
it's spinning flight as it hits somebody about five rows in front of me.
|
|
like, there's a head and shoulders visible, and the next second nothing.
|
|
|
|
still dead silence.
|
|
|
|
then, after a couple of moments, she sits up and waves, unharmed.
|
|
everyone claps. i THEN recognize her as the wife of my old director at
|
|
the state health department, the one from my old church who got me the job
|
|
(and is a pretty nice guy, too). so, anyway, the husband (g-----) gets
|
|
up and walks towards the back of the theatre, apparently to get something
|
|
for his wife. i wave at him, and he waves at me and keeps on walking.
|
|
|
|
now, here's where it gets kinda fucked up.
|
|
|
|
so, next on stage is nancy griffith. for those of you who don't know who
|
|
she is, she is a local austin folk singer with beaucoups of albums. i don't
|
|
own any. but the way she comes on stage is quite strange -- first tim burton
|
|
walks out into the middle of the stage, and then he turns into nanci griffith.
|
|
like a really damn good cgi fx shot.
|
|
|
|
now the dream's view is just nanci's face in front of a blue background.
|
|
she's singing something from _hamlet,_ probably one of the sililoquies. it's
|
|
dark and depressing. anyway, she starts getting real wrinkly, and she starts
|
|
looking real old while she is singing. i notice her eyes have strange
|
|
heiroglyphs going around the pupils that i can't read. her eyes also look
|
|
weird, like they're about to pop out, kinda like when the hooded guy in _flash
|
|
gordon_ gets thrown on the spikes (even though his DID pop out).
|
|
|
|
then nancy griffith proceeds to turn into a snake, bobbing up and down
|
|
and singing this shakespeare stuff. she finishes, and i am glad.
|
|
|
|
the wilburies come back out, more subdued this time, sans tim. dunno
|
|
what happened to the snake. maybe she went to get cast in that damn
|
|
_anaconda_ movie that's coming out. but i digress.
|
|
|
|
[pseudo-sexual happenings ahead. be forewarned. and now, clockwork,
|
|
this was not a wet dream, so don't even THINK of asking that tired question.
|
|
for those of you unfamiliar with that dream, i was dryhumped by a cat that had
|
|
somehow gotten into my dorm room. Clocky keeps insisting that it had to have
|
|
been a wet dream.]
|
|
|
|
so now i'm kinda reading message forums on isca on the laptop i somehow
|
|
acquired and brought to the venue. well, maybe laptop isn't a good word. how
|
|
about a kaypro luggable with the five inch wide screen and two 360k drives?
|
|
yeah, i was using that. weird. anyway, isca gets boring, and apparently the
|
|
wilburies aren't holding my interest since they're not being the wild men they
|
|
could be in their fifties. so i look around.
|
|
|
|
sitting next to me is a woman. she's in her early thirties, and the
|
|
sense i get from her dress is "professional working woman who is relaxing at
|
|
a concert tonight." she's very attractive, and then i notice a small child
|
|
sitting in the seat next to her. kids suck, so i go back to fucking around on
|
|
isca.
|
|
|
|
anyway, the travelling wilburies are playing, and i'm trying to tell
|
|
someone on isca how the wilburies are the ugliest band i've ever seen, and i
|
|
feel a head on my shoulder. it's the woman.
|
|
|
|
[older woman coming-on alert.]
|
|
|
|
i think, "gee, this is kinda nice," so i put away the laptop and lean
|
|
back and kinda just enjoy her head on my shoulder for awhile. somehow i've
|
|
got my feet on top of hers and she's kinda moving them around. THEN i close
|
|
my eyes and i stand up, and i'm standing on top of her feet which are in
|
|
midair. don't ask me how. then i worry that i might be crushing her feet, so
|
|
i sit back down and open my eyes.
|
|
|
|
so, basically the rest of the dream is just this cuddle thing. hold
|
|
hands, listen to the music, shuffle the feet around.
|
|
|
|
so then, towards the end of the concert, she tries to kiss me, which i
|
|
don't mind. so she starts to kiss me, pulls back, and asks, "what's wrong?"
|
|
|
|
i say, "nothing."
|
|
|
|
she starts to kiss me again, pulls back, and asks, "what's wrong?"
|
|
|
|
and THEN something made me wake up so i couldn't find out what was wrong,
|
|
or if the kid was hers, or what she even did for a living that gave her that
|
|
really strong "professional women" aura.
|
|
|
|
plus, when i woke up, my legs were totally numb and i had to lie there
|
|
for awhile before i could get up.
|
|
|
|
|
|
--SoB--
|
|
|
|
|
|
DREAM #3: Produced by Henry Winkler
|
|
|
|
JANUARY 30, 1997
|
|
|
|
jeez. i must be on a goddamn roll. and if this pattern continues,
|
|
well... weird... of course, this time, uh, well... just read.
|
|
|
|
so, i'm like walking down this country road in the middle of nowhere, and
|
|
this gray minivan drives by. some middle-aged, thin, scrawny, balding
|
|
man is driving it. he goes down, this hill, there's this loud crash, and
|
|
then this, uh, contraption comes up over the hill.
|
|
|
|
i need to describe this contraption. it's like built from parts of the
|
|
minivan that crashed, though it was built REALLY REALLY fast, i guess, since
|
|
the crash occured one second and the next this thing comes up the hill.
|
|
|
|
the old guy is driving it. well, kinda. like, it's got one minivan
|
|
wheel (kinda like a unicycle) but instead of pedals, there's a beam coming off
|
|
the main pole with the spare attached to it. he spins the spare with his
|
|
hands to power the bottom wheel. it's weird.
|
|
|
|
anyway, he stops next to me and i accidentally roll down the hill. well,
|
|
it's not a very big hill, only about six feet high. i start to climb up, and
|
|
he says, "no, let me save you." he pulls out a piece of wire and attaches a
|
|
bar to it and attempts to turn the spare tire into a pulley of some sort so he
|
|
can throw the bar down and i can grab it and then he can pull me up.
|
|
|
|
i remember thinking what a really crappy macgyver episode this would be.
|
|
|
|
i look around, and there's this old farmhouse a few yards away i never
|
|
noticed before. i figure it's gonna take this guy a long time to perfect his
|
|
saving device, and since he won't let me walk up the hill and be on my way, i
|
|
decide to go into the farmhouse.
|
|
|
|
i go in, and it's a lot bigger on the inside then on the outside. and
|
|
that's when the nightmarish-type part of it comes in. it's kinda like "clash
|
|
of the titans" with medusa slinking around, but all you see is her shadow
|
|
moving along the wall. this girl is reciting some poem about tearing into my
|
|
flesh and eating me whole, and i start trying to find a way out, but i get
|
|
lost in the big house.
|
|
|
|
finally, i just give up and stand in the middle of the room i'm in, which
|
|
is a study. there's a fire burning in the oven even though it's not cold
|
|
outside. the girl drags herself into the room cuz she's got no legs. i
|
|
recognize her as the blonde-haired girl (uh, nicole sullivan, i think... why
|
|
the hell do i know that?) from MAD TV. then she laughs and says that that
|
|
whole scare routine is to scare away the lesser men because she only wants the
|
|
ones who aren't afraid of women.
|
|
|
|
we then proceed to have sex.
|
|
|
|
afterwards, she smokes a cigarette and says i have to leave so she can
|
|
have fun with the next male that happens her way.
|
|
|
|
then i woke up.
|
|
|
|
|
|
--SoB--
|
|
|
|
|
|
DREAM #4: You are in a maze of twisty passages, all alike
|
|
|
|
FEBRUARY 9, 1997
|
|
|
|
so, i'm in book people, looking around at books. this is what i normally
|
|
do when i go there. anyway, somehow i discover a secret passageway behind one
|
|
of the bookshelves, and somehow i KNOW that this is a secret passageway to the
|
|
playboy mansion. i go trapsing along the hallowed halls to hugh hefner's
|
|
house when i realize that i parked in the parking garage, and if i didn't get
|
|
my car out of there, it would be locked up and i'd never make it home.
|
|
|
|
i turn around and exit the passageway, except i'm in some other part of
|
|
austin. damn mazes of twisty passages, all alike. anyway, clockwork and
|
|
nathan show up, and i tell them that i need to get my car out of the
|
|
bookpeople garage, and then we can all go to the playboy mansion.
|
|
|
|
right as i'm saying this, a family (husband, wife, two teenage daughters)
|
|
walks by and overheards us. the father, who kinda looks like fred goldman
|
|
without the handlebar mustache, says, "you know how to get to the playboy
|
|
mansion? we'll take you there!" the family seems really happy to be able to
|
|
go. there's too many of us to get into one car, so clockwork and nathan and
|
|
the parents get into clockwork's ford probe, and me and the two teenage girls
|
|
get into the other car. we all take off, and the girl that is driving cannot
|
|
drive worth crap. i was scared, cuz she was swerving all along the road,
|
|
apparently not being able to keep the car in one lane. it was worse than the
|
|
dream i had where ansat was driving on the wrong side of the road cuz "that's
|
|
how you kill people."
|
|
|
|
the driving went along for a while, and then i woke up. numb.
|
|
|
|
|
|
--SoB--
|
|
|
|
|
|
DREAM #5: Kilgore's speech amounts to *carpe corpus*
|
|
|
|
FEBRUARY 17, 1997
|
|
|
|
it appears that i'm at a convention of some sort. i'm not really sure
|
|
what type of convention, but there are tables all along the walls of this huge
|
|
auditorium with various groups hawking their various ideologies. i end up
|
|
meandering up to one of them which happens to turn out to be some fundie
|
|
christian group. the man, dressed spiffily in a three piece suit, asks me,
|
|
"if you, as a good, moral christian, could get rid of any one group of people
|
|
on earth, who would that be?" i replied, "probably fundie christians like
|
|
you." he gave me a miffed look and i said, "no, just kidding. actually, i
|
|
would probably get rid of all the preachers."
|
|
|
|
now i sensed a crowd gathering behind me. i started to make a speech
|
|
about how each individual had the right to interpret the bible as he saw fit,
|
|
and no one was supposed to do that for him. probably would have been a better
|
|
argument for _liber al vel legis._ anyway, this speech turned into a state
|
|
of the union type deal, where i would say a few phrases, and then people would
|
|
clap. throughout this whole speech, i couldn't see anything.
|
|
|
|
after i finished the speech, i had an epileptic seizure. in the dream,
|
|
not in real life.
|
|
|
|
i woke up at nathan's house, and clockwork and me and nathan went outside
|
|
to smoke a cigarette. i asked clockwork what he thought of the speech, and he
|
|
started making fun of me, saying that when the seizure was starting to set in,
|
|
i was having trouble pronouncing words, like "vigilenth."
|
|
|
|
then i woke up. i wanna say j---- v-------- was in the dream, but i'm
|
|
not sure.
|
|
|
|
|
|
--SoB--
|
|
|
|
|
|
DREAM #6: Now we know why the band was called 10,000 Maniacs
|
|
|
|
FEBRUARY 17, 1997
|
|
|
|
this occured after i woke up from the last dream and went back to sleep.
|
|
|
|
in this dream, i'm married, although not to the arab woman that i was
|
|
married to a while back in another dream. we also have a child of around 4 or
|
|
5 years old. daughter. female. pigtails.
|
|
|
|
we're walking down the drag on new year's eve in the afternoon, but it
|
|
feels like summer. we walk past metro, and i can see c--- (a worker) inside,
|
|
but the sign on the door says they are closed for the day. we decide to hop
|
|
in the car and go driving.
|
|
|
|
for some reason, guadelupe (the street which we are on) doesn't
|
|
continue past mojo's... it leads right out onto some highway. we drive
|
|
down this for awhile, hit a small town, drive through, and then hit a
|
|
wall of smoke. we figure it's a fire, so we turn around and start
|
|
driving through town again. the girl wants something to drink, so i stop
|
|
at a convenience store.
|
|
|
|
inside, it's chaos. little kids are running around everywhere. there's
|
|
a long line. i grab a few sodas and wait in line. when i realize that there
|
|
aren't any workers at the cash register, i go up and start taking people's
|
|
money and ringing their sales up. the manager finally comes in (she looks
|
|
like the red-headed, thick-glasses wearing, poisoned-spike boots spy from
|
|
_from russia with love._) she takes some snapshots of me with a camera, drops
|
|
it, and says, "i'll be back for you." then she runs off.
|
|
|
|
i take the camera, wonder how the pictures turned out, and go into the
|
|
back of the store. there just happens to be a darkroom. i develop the
|
|
pictures, and they came out okay. then i hear a commotion outside, and the
|
|
manager is back, armed with an ak47. she fires some shots and pulls the chain
|
|
gate that protects the store down. i barely jump under it in time. when i
|
|
look around, i realize they've kidnapped my wife. i should have known the
|
|
pictures were a diversion.
|
|
|
|
i take my daughter and we drive back down to the drag. we park and get
|
|
out, and see ru----- and r---- outside. now, however, we are being followed
|
|
by c---- b-----, d----- p----- (georgetown folx from high school) and natilie
|
|
merchant (famous recording artist). i tell ru-----, "man, we're being
|
|
followed, and we need you to help us fight them." ru----- replies, "what, you
|
|
want to fight out here in the open? you'll have your own KENT ALLEY!" i'm
|
|
still not sure what that's a reference to.
|
|
|
|
ru----- leads us down an alley to a corral. we're all sitting on the
|
|
wooden beams, me and my daughter and r---- and ru----- on one side, natalie
|
|
merchant, d-----, c----, and my wife on the other. i tell natalie, who is the
|
|
head of the other side, to give me back my wife. she starts in on this
|
|
monologue about something i can't remember. c---- and d----- apparently want
|
|
to beat my ass, but have to wait for the orders from ole tigerlily herself.
|
|
so, they start beating up on each other. c---- gets a little too involved in
|
|
his work, cuz d----- starts screaming, "hey, man, stop, you're gonna take my
|
|
nose off." too late, cuz c---- kinda pulls the nose off revealing a snout
|
|
underneath. d----- falls off the beam onto the ground. c---- jumps down and
|
|
tries to lift him up, but d----- protests, "no, don't or my brain will fall
|
|
out." c---- doesn't listen and pulls. d-----'s face comes off, revealing the
|
|
face of a dog, kinda like mcgruff the crime dog, and his brain and spine fall
|
|
on the ground. his brain doesn't have any curves on it. he lets out one
|
|
"woof" and expires. c---- starts to cry and holds d-----.
|
|
|
|
natalie looks really pissed off and gives me my wife back. then i woke
|
|
up.
|
|
|
|
|
|
--SoB--
|
|
|
|
|
|
DREAM #7: Religion sucks, let's drink coffee
|
|
|
|
FEBRUARY 24, 1997
|
|
|
|
yeah, so i'm sitting in my new testament class. apparently we are going
|
|
to watch a film or something. l------ (a girl in my class) sits up against
|
|
the back wall of the room in between desks, kinda like we did in high school.
|
|
anyway, clockwork shows up in the class, and he sits in the desk in front of
|
|
me. the professor (er, preacher in professor's clothing) starts the film, and
|
|
apparently clockwork and i have already seen it. we jet.
|
|
|
|
we end up at metro. but it's not the metro we know. for one thing, it's
|
|
in belton (yeah, i shoulda realized that it was a dream). the inside is the
|
|
same, but the front is kinda like mojo's and they have picnic tables out
|
|
front. so we go upstairs after procuring our coffees (after all, clockwork is
|
|
now drinking coffee). we sit around, shoot the shit, etc. etc. clockwork has
|
|
to go do something, so we decide to meet back here at 7:00pm. it was like
|
|
11:30 or something. so i decide to drive to austin and go to CHURCH. i have
|
|
NO idea why, all i know is i went, saw my mother there, said something to her,
|
|
she said something back, and i drove back. it was around 6pm now. weird time
|
|
displacement. anyway, i go into the coffeehouse to wait for clockwork. as
|
|
i'm passing the picnic table, my roommate and his father and grandfather are
|
|
sitting there. i say hello, and they invite me to sit with them. i accept,
|
|
and then all three of them start berating me for not ever complaining to the
|
|
people next door who play their music too loud every now and again. i try to
|
|
explain that it's really nothing to get upset about, but they won't listen. i
|
|
get up and go inside. clockwork shows up later, we talk some more, and then
|
|
we leave.
|
|
|
|
next day. nathan and i are now attending UT. we decided we needed bikes
|
|
to get to class, so i borrowed styx's. nathan, naturally, rode his own. we
|
|
go to our first class, leave, and head toward the bikes on the rack. while
|
|
i'm unchaining my bike, some girl comes over and we starting talking. as i
|
|
have never ridden a bike around campus, it is totally natural for me to walk
|
|
towards my next class and talk with this girl. when we depart ways after
|
|
about 45 seconds, i remember the bike, remember i unchained it, and race back.
|
|
it's gone. stolen. i'm panicking, thinking styx is gonna beat the bloody
|
|
hell outta me for getting his nice bike stolen. i race down the street
|
|
looking for someone riding his bike. no luck.
|
|
|
|
nightfall. i'm still searching. riots have broken out across UT for no
|
|
good reason. i walk past a parked white van which has its back doors open. i
|
|
peer inside and see three people huddled around a guy lying on the floor. he
|
|
looks like he's begging for his life, and the two men and one woman are
|
|
screaming things at him. "i can't believe you did that to her." "what kind
|
|
of man are you?" "you evil bastard" etc. etc. then, they put this huge rock
|
|
(say, a foot in diameter) inside a binder and slammed it down on the guy's
|
|
head. i usually don't get nauseated in my dreams, but hearing the crack of
|
|
the bone and watching the guy's head go flat really got to me. i woke up. i
|
|
still remember that damn sound.
|
|
|
|
|
|
--SoB--
|
|
|
|
|
|
DREAM #8: Gimme some sugar, ya bitch
|
|
FEBRUARY 25, 1997
|
|
|
|
okay. the latest line of "let's fuck with kilgore" has been insinuating
|
|
that i have a) incestuous relationships with my sister, all thanks to
|
|
clockwork's wacko dream, and b) that i have fucked my dog. neither of these is
|
|
true, but it appears the dogfuck meme has decided to invade my dreamworld.
|
|
let's hope that doesn't happen with the other one.
|
|
|
|
but it doesn't exactly start with any dogfucking. actually, there is NO
|
|
dogfucking, just dogflirting (not done by me). and no, clockwork, this was
|
|
not a wet dream.
|
|
|
|
the dream starts off with me at a drenched UT. for those of you who were
|
|
at UT last night, you know what that looks like. for those of you who
|
|
weren't, well, just picture a big college campus after rain. for those of you
|
|
who were out looking for your monkeys, feh.
|
|
|
|
i go inside the union building carrying a vcr and a laptop computer. i
|
|
am supposed to be recording some television show for my sister, and i decide
|
|
to use those little information televisions for my task. i rip out part of
|
|
the wall, hook the contraption up, and apparently it works. i get lots of
|
|
strange looks since i'm sitting in the middle of the hallway, partially
|
|
blocking the entrance to the men's bathroom, with wiring and what not going
|
|
all over the floor. that task accomplished, i head home. don't ask what
|
|
show. knowing that my sister wanted it recorded, it most likely sucked.
|
|
|
|
i head home, give the tape to my sister, and hear my dog barking from the
|
|
backyard wanting to be let in. i open the screen door, and instead of running
|
|
inside, it stands on its hindlegs, and puts its front paws on my arms. she
|
|
cocks her head to the side, makes some weird purr sound, and i can tell she is
|
|
on the make. i decline the offer, namely by pushing her away from me. she
|
|
swiftly changes into a nude stephanie seymour, speaks to me "oh, kevin, you
|
|
want me, i want you, etc etc" and then changes back to the dog.
|
|
|
|
i repeat this EXACT SAME SCENE about seven times. sometimes the dog's
|
|
face resembles that of a deer.
|
|
|
|
then i woke up. or i thought i woke up. turns out i was in the dream
|
|
still. i look at the clock, go back to sleep. then i woke up. or i thought
|
|
i woke up. i look at the clock, go back to sleep. then i woke up. or i
|
|
thought i woke up. i look at the clock and go back to sleep. this repeats for
|
|
a while.
|
|
|
|
then i really wake up, am dead tired, and want to go back to sleep but
|
|
get up and go to class. and my whole face was numb, even my tongue. that's
|
|
fucked up.
|
|
|
|
btw, last night i remember in some other dream that i obtained lucidity
|
|
and found it extremely boring. must have been because everything looked
|
|
like blocky appleii graphics in that dream and i wasn't going to have any
|
|
of that.
|
|
|
|
|
|
--SoB--
|
|
|
|
|
|
DREAM #9: Lawnmowers, blue oyster bar robbers, and a bit of Christmas
|
|
joy
|
|
|
|
okay. apparently i'm eating lunch at the student union building. for
|
|
some reason i have brought my stereo along with me, and i'm playing frente's
|
|
_labour of love_ ep. while i'm eating, i can hear a group of people who are
|
|
obviously annoyed with my music, so i turn it down. they then yell at me to
|
|
turn it down after i already have. i just keep staring quizically ahead, and
|
|
they make remarks about what a doofus i am. i distinctly remember one of them
|
|
referring to me as "the guy with the spore sticker on the stereo," but i could
|
|
never see a spore sticker on the radio. (for those of you who don't know,
|
|
spore is a boston punk band that is now broken up. fuck me i'm god.)
|
|
|
|
so, i go into some backroom of the SUB after i finish eating, leaving my
|
|
nice stereo behind (it's a christian campus, NOTHING gets stolen here, yeah,
|
|
uh-huh.) it turns out that clockboy has gotten a promotion, and a new office,
|
|
and that new office is a room in the SUB. i can see clockwork right now,
|
|
reading this, groaning at the fact that he probably wouldn't consider that a
|
|
good promotion. never fear. you weren't around. but your computer was, so i
|
|
messed around on it a bit, even though i don't really remember what i did on
|
|
it.
|
|
|
|
i leave clockwork's office and find myself in my grandparent's house (my
|
|
mom's side, not the set that in the coolio stalker dream told me not to drink
|
|
the american cheese wine cuz it would make me felch.) one of my uncles is
|
|
there, my grandfather, and so is tracey walter (he played miller in _repo man_
|
|
[1]. if that doesn't ring a bell, how about bob the good from the first
|
|
batman movie?) actually, tracey was in the garage, cuz we heard a loud crash
|
|
out there, and we run out, and my car is parked in the garage, and tracey has
|
|
run into my car on his riding lawn mower, smashing in the back corner of my
|
|
car. i am not happy. we move the car out onto the driveway to get a better
|
|
look, and as tracey is trying to manuever the lawnmower into the garage to
|
|
park it, he hits the front corner as well.
|
|
|
|
tracey comes up to me and says, "i hope you're not too pissed at me."
|
|
"pissed at you," i respond. "how could i be pissed when i am the only person
|
|
i know of whose car has been hit by a riding lawnmower TWICE IN ONE DAY!?!!!"
|
|
then i unloaded on him. then i apologized, and we all decided to go get some
|
|
tools to fix the car. as we're crossing the street to get to my uncle's car,
|
|
these two security-looking guards pop out of the bushes next to the car and
|
|
draw guns. i think, "oh shit, what's going on?" they seem to be motioning
|
|
behind us, and i hear one of them say, "yeah, can't you see him? he's up
|
|
against that wall."
|
|
|
|
i turn around and spot a guy with a gun standing against one of the
|
|
house's walls. the guards rush him, and a rumble ensues. one of the guy's
|
|
friends comes to aid him, and i get a good glimpse of them. both are dressed
|
|
like the guys in the blue oyster club in the police academy movies. down to
|
|
the little hats and leather straps across the chest. i'm worried that the
|
|
fight will move into my grandparent's house, but i want to get out. the guys
|
|
overtake the cops and start heading our direction. not good. instead of
|
|
hopping in the car with my uncle and grandfather, tracey and i take off for
|
|
the nearest house. we open the door and run inside. i go into the laundry
|
|
room and sit on a couch that is in there. tracey runs past me, followed by
|
|
the two robbers. there are some shots, tracey screams, and then everything is
|
|
silent.
|
|
|
|
sometimes i wish i could shoot back. but no, i never get to play with
|
|
guns. i remove my shoe and stand next to the door, waiting to bop the next guy
|
|
that comes thru the door. my boots aren't steeltoed or anything, but
|
|
apparently it's the best i could do, since washing machines are kinda
|
|
unwieldy.
|
|
|
|
anyway, from the door where they all ran to, a small boy of about 10
|
|
comes walking out. he looks miffed, turns to me, and says, "why don't you
|
|
people play nicer?" he then walks out the front door of the house. about five
|
|
more boys repeat this pattern, saying the exact same thing. this fat kid then
|
|
comes out of the door and shoves me back onto the couch. then this huge black
|
|
man (think ving rhames but really really buff) with this really cool
|
|
hairdo/beard combination [think mr. t for the nineties, more intricate and
|
|
actually looks good]) comes in, points a colt45 (the gun, not the malt liquor)
|
|
at me, and shoots me point blank in the chest. i stare up at him in
|
|
bewilderment.
|
|
|
|
everything goes black.
|
|
|
|
usually when i get killed in my dreams, i wake up. not this time. oh
|
|
no. now the guy who shot me has to explain the moral of the dream. whoo hoo.
|
|
|
|
scene change. like the opening of a movie. winter. big city. snowing.
|
|
"i'm dreaming of a white christmas" is playing. the camera is situated
|
|
somewhere high up and pointing down onto a busy street, probably six lanes,
|
|
three going each way. there is a median strip in the middle, and that is
|
|
where the black guy who shot me is standing. the shot is far off, and then
|
|
slowly zooms in as he begins speaking. here is what i remember of his
|
|
monologue.
|
|
|
|
"what the boy should have said is that he doesn't believe in santa
|
|
anymore. oh, sure, we raise our kids well, give em food to eat, give em
|
|
clothes, and then they wake up one day and realize the world is still shit.
|
|
while they're at home playing with their toys, some small girl is turning blue
|
|
because she's freezing to death in the snow. well, the times are a changing,
|
|
and i'm gonna make sure people believe in something."
|
|
|
|
i believe if i hadn't woken up, i would have been watching a really bad
|
|
b-movie revenge flick. i should have stayed asleep, but after he finished the
|
|
monologue, i remembered that i was shot and better check it out to make sure i
|
|
wasn't really dead. cuz if i WAS dead, and that was the movie i was gonna
|
|
watch, well, i would have preferred to have a soda...
|
|
|
|
[1] i still love this damn quote from miller in that movie:
|
|
"say you're thinking about a plate of shrimp. suddenly someone
|
|
says plate, or shrimp, or plate of shrimp. out of the blue. no
|
|
use looking for one either. it's part of the lattice of coincidence
|
|
that lays on top of everything." needless to say, go rent the
|
|
movie. if you don't, you're out of the gang. and you also have to
|
|
watch a&e's edited version, where everyone says stuff like "flip
|
|
you, you mellonfarmer."
|
|
|
|
|
|
--SoB--
|
|
|
|
|
|
DREAM #10: The kids of today have to defend themselves against the 70s.
|
|
|
|
April 15, 1997
|
|
|
|
i date farah fawcett. (older farah, not charlie's farah)
|
|
|
|
|
|
--SoB--
|
|
|
|
|
|
DREAM #11: magick meets grunge fashion
|
|
|
|
April 17, 1997
|
|
|
|
i'm standing in front of this huge, muscular bald guy who is wearing only
|
|
a leather vest. he's got a rod through the middle of his penis. attached to
|
|
the rod is a chain, and attached to the chain is a five-pound brick. we
|
|
proceed to have a discussion about whether or not this was a technique used by
|
|
crowley to improve meditational success. once i prove that there wasn't a
|
|
documented source of this for crowley, we then talked about whether or not it
|
|
would do the job anyway. i declined to try it.
|
|
|
|
|
|
--SoB--
|
|
|
|
DREAM #12: From assault to Zapatistas
|
|
|
|
April 18, 1997
|
|
|
|
the location is somewhere in mexico. i'm staying at the house of j----
|
|
v--------, and r--- e----- is there too. (old high school friends).
|
|
apparently, saturday night live shoots on location right now, and they are
|
|
shooting a sketch in the bathroom. the sketch deals with a big bald fat man
|
|
swimming around in the bathtub singing songs about the galapagos islands. [if
|
|
you've ever seen the b-movie _eat_, he looks like the alien who takes on a
|
|
human form that eats only italian men and then spits up their buttons.
|
|
consequently, r--- e----- is the only person i have ever found who has seen
|
|
that movie.]
|
|
|
|
r---, j---- and i are watching them film this sketch, and j---- is saying
|
|
how they always come down here and film stuff. i ask him if he gets to
|
|
keep any of the props, and he says, "no, but they give us these really
|
|
cool burger king paper crown hats." he then passes out a bunch of
|
|
methamphetimines. i decline, but it seems like i get a second hand buzz
|
|
cuz for about thirty minutes everything looks like it's on sped up film.
|
|
think of j---- running around the house on film stock and style ala _road
|
|
warrior_ car chase scenes.
|
|
|
|
anyway. after a while j----'s father gets a call saying that the indians
|
|
are retreating and that they've got to leave. turns out the mexican
|
|
police are moving in on the zapatista rebels that have been hanging out
|
|
in the forests, and j----'s dad fears lots o fighting. apparently,
|
|
j----'s dad is also a sympathizer and fears he might be jailed. he tells
|
|
j---- to pack as much as he can an put it in the car. (j---- drives a
|
|
geo metro, which doesn't leave room for a lot.) we head off to j----'s
|
|
room and try to decide what to take. j---- says he wants his tv, so we
|
|
start carrying that outside, and j----'s father says, "yeah, son, you'll
|
|
love where we're headed to. we're going to a small island in the
|
|
caribbean where there's no electricity. we'll be able to get away from
|
|
it all."
|
|
|
|
we turn around and take the tv back inside. we pack up some books (there
|
|
was a really strange section of the dream here where i was just looking at the
|
|
books on his shelves cuz they were all turned backwards, ie. the spines were
|
|
up against the wall) and put his weight lifting set in the car too. his dad
|
|
comes in to play video games on the tv with the mexican police closing in.
|
|
j----'s sister comes in (i dunno if he even has a sister, but this one looks
|
|
kinda like kari wuhrer from _remote control_ and _beastmaster 2: through the
|
|
portal of time_) and starts pouting cuz she needs her dad to do stuff for her
|
|
and he's playing video games. he just keeps on playing.
|
|
|
|
we hear some screams outside and go to see what's happening. the mexican
|
|
police are outside with about four cop cars and a bunch of armed guys. we
|
|
hightail it into the forest.
|
|
|
|
i get separated and end up lost. i fall asleep and have a dream. in the
|
|
dream, i'm walking past the LBJ fountain on the street like i'm going back to
|
|
my car. there's a guy about ten paces ahead of me walking as well. this
|
|
cyclist whizzes by me and clips the guy in front of me while yelling, "vroom
|
|
vroom!", who goes down and spills all of his papers everywhere. i run up and
|
|
help him. he looks a helluvalot like james spader. we get all of his papers
|
|
together and start walking down red river (a campus street). he's going on
|
|
about his hatred for cyclists on campus, and then in midsentence he grabs me
|
|
and kisses me deeply. he picks me up and swirls me around (this in the middle
|
|
of the road, mind you), and then lies me on the ground and tries to get on top
|
|
of me. i stop him, and he looks kinda disappointed, but he thanks me for
|
|
being honest and goes off.
|
|
|
|
i wake up and start walking.
|
|
|
|
i end up outside this church, and apparently i've missed the wedding of
|
|
the girl who played jo on _the facts of life_ and some guy. brad pitt is
|
|
standing outside with some other people, and he chastizes me for being late.
|
|
we go inside to find the reception.
|
|
|
|
we get into an elevator (the building is huge) and go up. the reception
|
|
is on the top floor, so brad and i and some other people get on the elevator
|
|
and go up. on the way, we stop at floor 7 to let some people on. i look out,
|
|
and i see this sign that says, "homicide ward" and some people pushing gurneys
|
|
past.
|
|
|
|
"uh, brad," i say. "i think we're in a hosptial."
|
|
|
|
"yeah, that's right. they held the wedding in the hospital chapel," he
|
|
responded.
|
|
|
|
the chapel in the hospital. wow. what a classy wedding.
|
|
|
|
we stop on the next floor to let more people on and off, and this floor
|
|
looks like a convenience store. brad wants to get something to eat (even
|
|
though we're going to a reception) so we get off. i jokingly remark, "wow, a
|
|
convenience store. i bet this is the robbery ward."
|
|
|
|
boy, should i have kept my mouth shut.
|
|
|
|
gary busey runs into the store with some chick and they start telling
|
|
everybody to put their hands up. i remember thinking that this isn't gonna
|
|
work cuz they're armed with only lead pipes, and that if this was a movie
|
|
they'd be using something more powerful.
|
|
|
|
boy, should i have kept my mouth shut.
|
|
|
|
busey runs up to me, holding five grenades and shouting, "look at us!
|
|
we've got gren-odd-us-ez!" he kept yelling that over and over, chasing people
|
|
around. remember this convenience store is huge, there's about ten patrons,
|
|
of which brad and I are two, the store owner, and gary and his chick. for a
|
|
while everyone's running around the aisles trying to avoid gary in case he
|
|
decides to pull some pins. once, i glimpsed the chick beating the shit out of
|
|
the store owner, and all of this green liquid stuff was shooting out of his
|
|
head. not a pretty sight.
|
|
|
|
somewhere along the line i get tripped up and end up on my back at the
|
|
end of an aisle. i lift my head and look down the aisle. a small bald boy
|
|
(if you've ever seen the movie _aurora_, you know what i'm talking about.
|
|
otherwise, picture a really ugly, thin, frail bald kid with sharp teeth.) he
|
|
is sitting on a wood plank with wheels.
|
|
|
|
"you like to go 'vroom, vroom,' don't you, boy?" he yells. "you like to
|
|
go 'vroom, vroom!'"
|
|
|
|
with that, he shoots off down the aisle on this makeshift skateboard.
|
|
(he's lying down on it, btw. it's kinda like the luge.) he runs me over with
|
|
the goddamn thing, and when he hits me, he goes flying off into the candy
|
|
section. an older gentleman in a tuxedo comes over, helps the boy up, and
|
|
says, "master, you've had your fun. it's time to go home now."
|
|
|
|
that's all i remember. someone wanna analyze that puppy? heh.
|
|
|
|
|
|
--SoB--
|
|
|
|
DREAM #13: Vampires accesorize the commoners
|
|
|
|
May 16, 1997
|
|
|
|
|
|
happy happy joy joy. i'm going to recite for you a dream of mine. it
|
|
occured last night. i hope you enjoy it.
|
|
|
|
the time: at night.
|
|
the place: on the drag.
|
|
the players: myself, c-----, Jujube, and Nathan.
|
|
|
|
we were walking down the drag, apparently having just gotten Nathan some
|
|
beefsticks from the 7-eleven. we were heading past the taos coop when some
|
|
guy stopped us and handed me a cape and a cup full of fake, black fingernails.
|
|
these weren't press on fingernails, though -- they were more like thimbles
|
|
with little protusions resembling fingernails on the end. kinda like the
|
|
things you see magicians wear in 80's fantasy movies like _conan the
|
|
destroyer_, except all black. anyway, i stick them on and put on the cape,
|
|
and we continue. we walk down to the old church where the dragfolks hang out
|
|
from time to time, and who happens to be leaning against the fence but our
|
|
beloved j--- sh---!
|
|
|
|
[non-georgetownians: j--- sh--- was the cool assistant principal at our
|
|
high school. he is now a principal at an elementary school in georgetown.]
|
|
|
|
so, he's standing up there, and he sees us coming, and we go over to say
|
|
hi. he starts off on this rant about how i'm some satanist because i'm
|
|
dressed up like a vampire, and how i worship satan and am going to hell. i try
|
|
to explain that i'm not a satanist, and even if i were, most satanists don't
|
|
believe in the literal existance of satan. alas, he keeps ranting on and on.
|
|
i decide to adhere to his idea of what i should act like, so i decide to make
|
|
the fabled satanist hand sign (also known to heavy metal concert goers and UT
|
|
longhorns.) somehow the cape is restricting my movement, though, so it takes
|
|
me about five minutes to get my hand out of the cape and raise it in the air
|
|
and make the sign.
|
|
|
|
this pisses off j---. i mean, he gets all huffy. "i'm gonna kill yew,"
|
|
he shouts and starts to pull a metal rod out of the fence.
|
|
|
|
we run.
|
|
|
|
he runs after us. "have you ever been hung up like a jacket on a
|
|
coathook?" he yells. "boy, you're gonna be so high up you are gonna fall and
|
|
die."
|
|
|
|
as we pass the taos coop, i look at the wall and it seems like there's
|
|
someone standing there, but he's semi-invisible. i stare at him for a second,
|
|
and then he's gone. we turn around, look back, and j--- is no where to be
|
|
seen. then we hear a loud bloodcurdling scream that could only be the voice
|
|
of j--- sh---.
|
|
|
|
then the shadow guy returns to his position by the wall, winks at me, and
|
|
fades out of view.
|
|
|
|
then i wake up.
|
|
|
|
yadda yadda yadda.
|
|
|
|
|
|
--SoB--
|
|
|
|
|
|
DREAM #14: Don't mess with the military man
|
|
|
|
JANUARY 21, 1998
|
|
|
|
i stayed up til about 2:20am perusing thelema93-l messages that have been
|
|
backing up on my harddrive like a mofo. i decide to go to bed, do a
|
|
pseudodevanney golden light meditatory preparation, and then i do a nice, no
|
|
frills LBRP in my head.
|
|
|
|
after the banishing, i decide to explore the space i've done the
|
|
banishing in, which is basically me with my feet on earth, but my body is
|
|
really really long, so i extend thru the atmosphere and i've done the
|
|
banishing in space. it's all about macrocosm, microcosm, bay bee. i fumble
|
|
around, looking at planets, asteroids, etc. the light of kether is above me,
|
|
a single point, so luminous that it even hurts to look at, even though i know
|
|
that is a mere pinprick of what kether really is.
|
|
|
|
somewhere in there, i think i pass out/fall asleep.
|
|
|
|
i come to, and i should have checked the clock, but i didn't. i've got
|
|
this hulking pulsating throb going on inside and around my head, but it's
|
|
going down my whole body as well, unlike previous times. this time is
|
|
different because it's not so much a painful throb but more of a rythmic, au
|
|
naturale type of shishkabob going on. very euphoric. but i'm not really sure
|
|
what to do with it, so i figure i should just sleep it off.
|
|
|
|
hoo boy.
|
|
|
|
so, the dream takes place at my school. great. apparently, i decide to
|
|
join the corps. yes, that's right. UMHB has it's own ROTC program, but
|
|
they're even more militant than the A&M folks. i can't remember why the hell
|
|
i did it, but i did.
|
|
|
|
i go in, everything is cool, i sign up, they give me a uniform and a
|
|
bunch of guns. (maybe they were MACiel, RUGERiel, GLOCKiel, and UZIel. okay,
|
|
so it's only in the lesser banishing ritual of the 12-gauge shotgun
|
|
[burroughs, bless his soul.] i stole that from some guy on thelema93-l, btw.)
|
|
then they cut my hair.
|
|
|
|
ayee! it's painful. i feel like ansat in early 1996. i think my hair
|
|
was shaved totally on the sides but they left this weird dreadlock thingamajig
|
|
floppy doorag on the top of my head.
|
|
|
|
i don't remember much of basic training. i'm not sure i really want to.
|
|
so this goes on for a while, normal existence at school, and then, somehow, a
|
|
celebrity shows up on campus.
|
|
|
|
and it's none other than...
|
|
|
|
<drumroll please>
|
|
|
|
DiRK BENEDiCT!
|
|
|
|
<cymbals clash>
|
|
|
|
yes, that's right. Templeton "Faceman" Peck from the _A-Team,_ Starbuck
|
|
from _Battlestar Galactica,_ and even the experiment gone horribly wrong in
|
|
the classic 70s horror flick _Sssss!_. he's at my school and he wants to see
|
|
ME. <schoolgirl sigh>
|
|
|
|
so, i meet him, and i just want to shake his hand. he outstretches his
|
|
arms, indicating that he wants a hug.
|
|
|
|
i LEAP into his arms, wrap my legs around his waist, bury my head in his
|
|
neck, and yell "Mommy!"
|
|
|
|
scene change. apparently i PASS OUT in the dream at this moment. all i
|
|
can remember is that i'm trapsing around a swamp with a sweater wrapped around
|
|
my waist, and then i realize that THIS is a dream and i'm actually wrapped
|
|
around dirk benedict. i wake myself up.
|
|
|
|
for a while, i see the scene as a removed observer. i am passionately
|
|
kissing dirk benedict. i finish, and he backs away, fanning himself with his
|
|
hands. then the POV changes and i'm back in my body, and he's kneeling beside
|
|
me, pining. somehow i know that he is now totally in love with me. maybe
|
|
it's the fact that his blue denim shirt is now unbuttoned and his well-defined
|
|
pecs and abdomen muscles have all been rubbed down in oil. (when he had time
|
|
to do this, i do not know.)
|
|
|
|
then ANOTHER total scene shift. instead of spending the rest of my life
|
|
in some happy fantasy land with a man who was the only man able to actually
|
|
make friends with a Cylon and teach it poker (i also wanted to find out if he
|
|
actually had testicles in my dream), i end up in the Cairo Hilton with griphon.
|
|
|
|
griphon, you are no dirk benedict. sorry.
|
|
|
|
we end up picking locks to break in to hotel rooms and just lounging in
|
|
chairs. kinda like a how long can we stay in one room without getting caught
|
|
game.
|
|
|
|
then i woke up for real, light was coming thru the window, and i wasn't
|
|
sure whether that was a good thing.
|
|
|
|
|
|
--SoB--
|
|
|
|
|
|
So there you have it. A small slice of my nightlife. Yeah, there's a
|
|
big chunk of six months that aren't represented in there, but the dreams then
|
|
weren't that great. Some people have said that having these types of dreams
|
|
all the time must drive me crazy. Personally, I like it. At the very least,
|
|
it's a helluva lot better than network TV. And besides, sooner or later my
|
|
dreams are going to start coming true, and then we'll see who isn't king
|
|
around this smarmy planet, okay? If that happens, God help us all.
|
|
|
|
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
|
|
|
|
|
|
[=- POETASTRiE -=]
|
|
|
|
"The poets? They stink. They write badly. They're idiots you see, because
|
|
the strong people don't write poetry.... They become hitmen for the Mafia.
|
|
The good people do the serious jobs."
|
|
--Charles Bukowski
|
|
|
|
|
|
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
|
|
|
|
FERTiLiZER
|
|
by Janet Buck
|
|
|
|
Whiskey tears evaporate
|
|
and still the scent remains.
|
|
Fragrances malingering.
|
|
Despite the clearing wind.
|
|
Despite the thumbs and
|
|
wells of ink that spill
|
|
upon the empty page.
|
|
I wonder if I'll ever have
|
|
a key to shadows of the night.
|
|
The missing bones. Receptacles.
|
|
Plastic pots that start and
|
|
grow the roots of strength.
|
|
|
|
The silken blouse of who you are.
|
|
I hope I never wear it out.
|
|
You give and give and sweeten life
|
|
like whipping cream on coffee black.
|
|
A muted strength. Unselfishness.
|
|
You said that veins must always bleed
|
|
before they clot, before they scar.
|
|
A crutch behind the potted palm.
|
|
Our pace determined by the drive.
|
|
Like hearts beneath the ribs of love.
|
|
They work from inside out.
|
|
|
|
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
|
|
|
|
|
|
"Fantasy love is much better than reality love. Never doing it is
|
|
exciting. The most exciting attractions are between two opposites that
|
|
never meet."
|
|
--Andy Warhol
|
|
|
|
|
|
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
|
|
|
|
FOR BEAViS AND BUTT-HEAD: FiVE COMMEMORATiVE HAiKUS
|
|
by Crux Ansata
|
|
|
|
Beavis, on Values
|
|
|
|
Bigger is better.
|
|
I said: Bigger is better.
|
|
Size is everything.
|
|
|
|
Beavis, on Fear
|
|
|
|
Todd might kick my ass,
|
|
And, that would probably suck.
|
|
I hope he's not mad.
|
|
|
|
Beavis, on Desire
|
|
|
|
Naked boobs! Naked
|
|
Boobs! Naked boobs! Naked boobs!
|
|
Naked boobs! (That's cool.)
|
|
|
|
Beavis, on Gender Roles
|
|
|
|
I don't want some dude
|
|
With his schlong slinging around
|
|
Saying, "Dude, good game."
|
|
|
|
Butt-Head, on Thanksgiving
|
|
|
|
Chair beneath my butt:
|
|
I hope you do not break.
|
|
I'd be on the floor.
|
|
|
|
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
|
|
|
|
|
|
Brain: "Pinky, are you pondering what I'm pondering?"
|
|
Pinky: "I think so, Brain, but what if the chickens won't wear the
|
|
nylons?"
|
|
--from an episode of _Pinky and the Brain_
|
|
|
|
|
|
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
|
|
|
|
BONSAi
|
|
by Janet Buck
|
|
|
|
Her stump, a leg, its pages torn
|
|
from bibles made of accidents
|
|
and other cruel curves of fate.
|
|
Yet so mortal in its stance.
|
|
Black, black elegance of sorts.
|
|
The dark is made of operas
|
|
and over-coming storms of lies.
|
|
Much the same as otters
|
|
sliding on the rocks.
|
|
The ocean is so dangerous
|
|
and still they call it home.
|
|
|
|
A desert but for flowing tears.
|
|
Until it finds a place to rest in folds
|
|
of someone's open heart.
|
|
Fragile driftwood bending in
|
|
to reach the sky.
|
|
I guess it's just emotion's art.
|
|
The ways of finding cups
|
|
of sand to anchor it.
|
|
Keep it from exploding bombs
|
|
I hate to say, I have to say,
|
|
a simple pair of eyes.
|
|
|
|
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
|
|
|
|
|
|
[=- FiCTiON -=]
|
|
|
|
|
|
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
|
|
|
|
ALCESTiS
|
|
by Kilgore Trout
|
|
|
|
Alcestis stares at me from across the room with insect eyes. I can hear
|
|
her buzzing in my head, inviting me to come over and make meaningless small
|
|
talk until we decide that the time is right and that we should go back to her
|
|
place to explore each other and satisfy our carnal impulses. She wants me.
|
|
She wants me to be her lover for the night, to make her feel special and
|
|
important and loved and wanted. I know she has goosebumps covering her arms,
|
|
her arms filled with larvae waiting to burst out and consume me if I conceed
|
|
to her unspoken proposal. Her eyes betray her, those green eyes masquerading
|
|
with intensity to conceal the hollowness of her deep, lifeless sockets. She
|
|
blinks, and I feel myself weaken.
|
|
|
|
"That boy is gone," Jim says to Sandra, who smiles as he speaks because
|
|
he pays her to be attentive. "He's got cancer, you know? The fatal kind, and
|
|
he'll do anything he damn well pleases because he knows that he is going to
|
|
die soon. I wish I could live my life like that, babydoll. A doomed man
|
|
doesn't have to worry about consequences or morality. What a wonderful way to
|
|
life. Alas, I'll probably live for a century, and knowing that seems
|
|
miserable."
|
|
|
|
Alcestis combs her already perfect hair, each long, black strand settling
|
|
into place as the comb runs through them. Her gaze never leaves me, and I
|
|
wonder what it is like to caress her hard breasts, to feel her long probiscis
|
|
uncurl from its hidden place and plant itself in my neck, sucking up my blood
|
|
with horrendous slurping noises. She mouths words I can't make out, words I
|
|
don't want to hear or understand. She blinks again.
|
|
|
|
"Don't take much to be a loser. Ain't that right, Bobby? Hmm. No
|
|
matter. Look at him, Sandra. Go on, look at him. He's caught, trapped in
|
|
himself and that whore across the room. See how they prolong the ievitable,
|
|
trying to make each moment last longer? Staving off time makes things
|
|
meaningful. Don't you agree?"
|
|
|
|
Alcestis slowly motions to me with her small hand, beckoning me to
|
|
accompany her in the little death. The cancer in my head swells with
|
|
impunity, gnawing away little by little at my brain. She wants to beat the
|
|
cancer at its own game, to be the one who kills me first. Even temporary
|
|
death prepares me for the real thing. She blinks a third time, and I am
|
|
ensnared.
|
|
|
|
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
|
|
|
|
State of unBeing is copyrighted (c) 1998 by Kilgore Trout and Apocalypse
|
|
Culture Publications. All rights are reserved to cover, format, editorials,
|
|
and all incidental material. All individual items are copyrighted (c) 1998
|
|
by the individual author, unless otherwise stated. This file may be
|
|
disseminated without restriction for nonprofit purposes so long as it is
|
|
preserved complete and unmodified. Quotes and ideas not already in the
|
|
public domain may be freely used so long as due recognition is provided.
|
|
State of unBeing is available at the following places:
|
|
|
|
ftp to ftp.io.com /pub/SoB
|
|
World Wide Web http://www.io.com/~hagbard/sob.html
|
|
|
|
|
|
Submissions may also be sent to Kilgore Trout at <kilgoret@geocities.com>.
|
|
The SoB distribution list may also be joined by sending email to Kilgore
|
|
Trout.
|
|
|
|
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
|
|
|
|
|