Month: January 2001

  • I've established a live chat applet using HumanClick! (upper left, just click on it). I actually tested it from two PCs in my house dialing out through separate ISPs. Here's the first chat (with myself):


    notforprophet: hi jack!


    Visitor: Hi, Jill!


    notforprophet: Ain't this a thrill!


    So while I'm not a huge, huge enthusiast of chat everyday and all the time, and I certainly value Xanga most for its personal publishing possibilities, I've just thrown this up to show others that some form of chat (this is one-on-one, not a chat room) is possible!


    By the way, it is supposed to flash different messages depending on whether I'm online for chat: *click for a real person*: online; but *leave a message* if offline, and then it resorts to providing form-mail to a pre-selected email address.


    Okay...who will be first...up close and personal? It's 3 A.M. EST and I'll wait 30 minutes for ya. Otherwise, hit me later.



    ...Well, deevaa first and then celeste in rapid succession just got me in a crossfire of colorful animated exchanges. Both are great chatters and I just flustered, blustered and melted into a pile of masculine slag. But it was fun! (*thinks to himself: back to the safety of the blogs! it’s a meat market out there!*)

  • These are the thoughts I can never write—or, if written, never share. How could I ever admit that I’m crazed beyond control just by the imminence of feminine energy? No, not just sight—though women always make the scene, for the spectacle of femininity has no compare. Nor just touch, nor soothing voice, nor enchanting fragrance. Though just light accidental brushing against women can thrill me with chills, and a woman’s unexpected whisper too near to my ear can claim my mind, and a girl’s blossomed fragrance ever compels me to fantasize myself as Pacino playing the blind Lt. Colonel in Scent of a Woman. Of taste? Don’t get me started—I can’t dare talk about that. Yet not one of these alone, or even the compilation of all, ever approaches—or even constitutes—the mysterious allure that female energy has for me, in and of itself.

    I’ve been on battlefields with spectacular histrionics, in fights of gallant kinetic involvement, awash in the ocean surf’s captivating and rippling rhythmics, at times soothingly intellectually massaged to my mind’s core. Immersed, engrossed, wrapped up, and absorbed in drugs, extreme sports, dark missions, far odysseys. No match. There’s no match throughout the abundance of all…to one moment of exposure to the vibrancy of a woman.


    So what comprises the source of this captivation? This magnetism which can be even empirically meager? This essence disembodied yet pulsing from the incarnate? So am I driven and ensconced in endless reflection…but reflection, like Narcissus, merely shows me myself. What Echo is there that I now long to hear, the actualization of which was clearly once near…but dispelled and now latent in reverberation’s valleys?


    Ah! Valley Girls, I ruse in response to myself. Probably as close with this answer as with anything else.


  • I have to talk 3.5 hours in a block twice a week while teaching. I'd much rather spend some of that time listening to my students, but it's rather difficult to cajole them into conversation in a required course that most of them prejudicially despise: Quantitative Reasoning (Statistics). So. like Chogyam Trungpa Rinpoche, with his philosophy of meditation in action, I attempt listening while talking. In the most shallow form, one only hears oneself talking. A little deeper, the silence surrounding one's words. Yet deeper, one's own soul simultaneously whispering, sometimes with mysterious intent. Beyond that, a communion of whispers from parallel realms. Then occasionally a psychic scream...from where? for whom? ...all as the transmission of knowledge proceeds unmitigated.

  • A great suggestion to modify the Featured Content page has been posted by gerry:

    "I would like to see the 'featured content' page renew every hour on the hour, and include only those posting that were created in the last 24 hrs."

    Please read gerry's log for the lucid rationale that underlies this suggestion.

    Then consider my suggested enhancement as stated in my comment on gerry's post:

    This is a great idea! But I would suggest an additional refinement. You do not get listed on the Featured Content page all because you submit a post. You must first get an eProp to get listed at all. Even a Comment without an eProp will not get you a listing. This is not fair. Although I tend to get the first eProp on my postings quite quickly because of the fair number of subscribers I've acquired, many new bloggers--some of whom have truly great and reading-worthy posts--may have a hard time getting initial recognition partly because the Featured Content page-which is used as a guide to what's popular-omits them until they get some recognition: a clear Catch 22.

    True, everyone does get listed on the Newly Updated page, but in addition to gerry's running relative time schedule, I'd like to see every entry listed on the Featured Content page also-especially on the Front Five rotating listing. That way those seeking initial recognition will be promoted more fairly along with the *regulars* for whom it usually isn't an issue.

    As long as the issue I bring to light above isn't resolved, I suggest that anyone who might be having trouble getting the initial eProp in order to get a Featured Content listing just create an alias identity and eProp themselves immediately after posting. You can, if you feel this is somewhat solipsistic, announce in your own Comment that you have logged in with an alias and *kick-started* your post. Think of it this way: If your back itches, and there is no one around to scratch it, you're a fool, if you can, but you don't scratch it yourself.

  • more than a word, but less than a poem:
    i don’t know what to say
    I feel intimacy fleeting, losing its sway
    suffocated with silence and non-response
    or responses misunderstood
    whatever was our friendship supposed to be?
    to me that pattern's plain:
    the talk, the openness,
    the intimacy indulged (or overindulged?),
    and then the fading away.
    and never anyone’s to blame.
    the pattern’s not with you
    -(or the one before)-
    it was a template born with me,
    the cost of my psychic disposition.
    my eyes get plucked out daily
    as the charge for my read on humanity,
    as the price of my seething in-touchfulness.
    yet forever it seems am i born again anew,
    in a morning of sunrises to see again
    that the world has once more repeated itself
    and i’ve lost another friend.

  • The word for today:

    for those who verbalize:
    Om

    for those who internalize:
    -Om-

    for those with angel eyes:
    *Om*

    for those with Betty Davis eyes:
    (; Om ;)

  • Factions in Xanga (Tower of Babel?)


    I’m going to spin-off an insightful and heartfelt log of James from yesterday wherein he described David’s decision to *draw a line in the sand* of Xanga by rededicating his (David’s) site as a Christian Blog Web Ring with exclusive membership. Read James’ account, by all means. It is much more considerate than what I have to say.


    David describes his Blog Web Ring (BWR) thusly: “This site is dedicated to promoting those sites that are free of profanity and Sexual content and in no way limited to just Christian sites.” Free—as evaluated by David, self-appointed eCensor for his Christian BWR.


    So who’s next? The Aussie Blog Web Ring? The Female Blog Web Ring? The Under-Twenty Blog Web Ring? The Poetry Blog Web Ring (*tough one: sounds so good to me!*)? Which former common citizen Xangite bloggers amongst us will now step forward and apart as self-promoted eCensors for their special interest group (SIG) ? Come on! Don’t be shy. David’s led the way…time for us all to follow. Jockey for realignment one and all—or be left without a Ring! (almost like facing the fate of becoming a spinster..ooh). Actually, don’t worry all of you who fear that you may not meet the standards of *any* of the upcoming Blog Web Ring eCensors. I am going to start an Anti-Blog Web Ring, the only requirement for membership in which BWR is that all other BWR’s have summarily rejected you.


    By the way, the Xangites that go by the names of Christ, Jesus, and Jesus_Christ will not be joining the Christian Blog Web Ring. They have a curious leaning toward the tentative Anti-Blog Web Ring but are non-commital at this point. They have instructed me, however, to inform the Christian Blog Web Ring that they have no intention of disrupting or scandalizing their proceedings—as could be well possible, given the historic credibility associated with their names. Rather nice guys, I should say, for promising to stay so non-controversially low key.

  • Updated!


    We all pretty much agree that Xanga probably isn’t currently making much money for its sponsors, don’t we? And some of us have observed that one, if not the main, intention for the creation of this weblog may have been to generate a complex of Reviews that would promote commerce and somehow (???) return revenue to the sponsors. If so, that has not transpired thus far.


    Or is something else planned? Could it be that after Xanga’s probation passes and when the community is sufficiently large, that the sponsors will rollout their cash cow? If so, what form of enterprise might that be?


    Here’s some ideas:


    They post more annoying, but more lucrative, banners.


    And as Dienekes observes: You log until the point of no return and on your 20,000th post you're informed that *You have 10 free posts left. However, for $19.95 per month...*


    Then they create a *Geocities Plus*-type program that both offers new features as inducements and removal of other features (e.g., new annoying banners) as value-added by subtraction..


    What new features could the Xanga sponsors provide…for a small charge? Perhaps they are reading us to find out what we want, what we might pay for.


    How about archived backup of your journal on a special mirror site? Should anything happen to Xanga (hackers bust its frail portal, Bianca is kidnapped..oh,no!; wait! Bianca is the new Patty Hearst: she just took Genius prisoner, etc.), the mirror site remains intact and available to you to recover your writings, for a small fee.


    Would anyone be willing to cough up a buck or two a month to have their *comments* collected and available on a special-access comment page. Every time you make a comment on another log, your comment page is likewise updated with that comment. I well know that some Xangites are great commentators and enjoy it more than even journaling. Their real effort would lie in such an anthology of comments. Also, I have, and I have noticed that some others have, occasionally made a new journal entry out of a comment that was considered particularly worthwhile. So comments can sometimes be considered thought nuggets. Sometimes, too, you just want to remember some special comment you made to someone—but can’t remember where to find it. The point being that if your comments are part of you and you value saving them, you might....So..hmm.


    Might they package some sort of chat or *Human Click* type functionality for those willing to dish out a little currency for more current interaction and control? Provide and allow javascript applets as a thrown-in bonus?


    Or…now here’s an idea…might they not open an *eProp store* where you can obtain actual merchandise for accumulated eProps? Of course, like carnival games where the cost of a chance is often greater than the prize even if you win on the first try, the *donation* you make to *activate* your eProps will exceed the worth of the token merchandise—but who cares? Getting an *I’m an eProp whore* or *I’m an eProp pimp* button for one’s efforts and a little cash is just overly compelling!


    Paying for vanity? What if the Xanga lords would offer you the chance to view your *ratings* like never before? Well, first, return to you the overall daily rating chart along with individual post ratings. But not stop there: give you stats on who has overall over time given you the most eProps and most comments, charts to plot your daily *progress*, rates (your eProps and comments as a % of total eProps and comments) to give you a sense of weight...Nauseating? Perhaps, but that won't dissuade vanity. This, by the way, would avoid that characterization of being a popularity contest since it would be a private paid-for popularity *report* and not everyone would be playing *the game*. Until, of course, someone posted their *popularity report* as a log, and then the games, no doubt, would begin again...Of course, Celeste and Agrochick already know who are their most popular patrons (themselves? hehe) and so would not have that need of this service.


    Yes, and my favorite: Would you pay a small one-time or occasional fee to see who's who in Xangaland? Hey, the founders know who they give cookies to. So they could allow us to sort members by held cookie source and thus discover what *members* are posting from the same location. So when you discover that bianca and ylvas are posting from the same PC, do you conclude that bianca is laying low on the farm? Or when you see that heresmy2cents and holly green are also sharing a common source--is that a tryst or has Holly broken our trust? (sorry, Holly, but I would just love to imagine hearing you say: *here's my 2 cents, and here's my 2 cents, now here's my 2 cents...* in a spirit of double entendre, hehe).


    Thanks to tjenius for some attention paid to a journal competitor (oh,no! u mean that xanga isn't unike?) and what they are doing to feed their servers: livejournal.


    Or will the kind sponsors just keep providing us indefinitely with no cash-cow angle but new features forever for free? If so, let us bow to the Enlightened Ones.

  • Just a little rhyme from my childhood to set a tone:

    "It takes a dope... To kill a pope... But a dope who is true... To make fatal two. "

    Actually, this little rhyme usually took the form of a taunt:

    1st child (observing some stupidity on the part of 2nd child): "It takes a dope to kill a pope!"
    2nd child (typical response): "Shut up!"

    As a child, my invented riposte: "But it takes a real dope to kill two popes!"

    Now what the heck does that mean? Possibly that the universe is basically predatorial--and only our typical culturally-consensualized perception of it seems ever so much to render matters comfortably, cognizantly numb. Moreover, that some important truths lie beyond our five senses as we experience them.


    Beyond that, as Ludwig Wittgenstein, 20th century Austrian philosopher, once admonished: "Of that which we cannot speak, we must consign to silence."


    Well... perhaps so... for a time being.

  • I've tried to spider this site for archival purposes with the notion of placing it illegally (hell yes! come and git me suckas) on my own domain--should Xanga disappear | go *poof*--for all our retrieval purposes. But with all the members and all the graphics, it's just too large, too long in doing, besides: always changing! So don't forget: If you want to save your posts, *Submit & Email* to yourself--unless, of course, you cut-n-paste from pre-existing text.

  • A spin off Wildheart's Realm:


    Damn it--I missed The Games. Guess I was spending too much time in Xangaland. Curse Xanga...more heartbreak...more horror...this obsession with journaling. Better to be a man and of football possessed than a mole who is Xanga-obsessed. Wait--I can redeem myself and again become whole: Salvation is the SuperBowl!

  • Upon Celeste's advice: bleh...bleh...bleh. The spice is so blue on the planet of Dune!


  • There are so many *blahs* around Xanga, I feel left out without some of my own…


    Damn I’m bored…nothing to write about…blah, blah, blah…so glad the weekend is ending…yeah *weak end* : there’s so much truth in homophones…my thoughts are so poor that adding the metal of a bullet to my brain would increase its chemical valuation…blah, holly green castigating me as guilty of intellectual frustration spasms…blah...just hollow slutty thoughts such as:


    death as a participation in life: Lindburgh contemplating crashing into the sea as immersement in the life of the sea. Joseph Conrad proclaiming: "..to the destructive element submit."


    finding the genuine endpoint of life within oneself as the measure of individuation, a la Jung. but also consider: a premature determination of the endpoint of life as oneself as a form of modern social pathology. This prematurity consisting of cutting the social ties prior to a sanifying initiation into a growingly complexifying society. This society, to its discredit, has increasingly blurred the distinction between freedom and adriftness; and now increasingly casts out (hence, makes outcasts of) those who, due to lack of supporting mechanisms (nurturing neighborhoods, initiating structures, individuating opportunities), waddle adrift in their search for democracy's promise of freedom.


    consider Americans’ obsession with "dirt", i.e., the profane intimate lowdown on people's faults, frailties, and pathological proclivities as a measure inversely proportional to Americans’ genuine appreciation of the land as sacred, i.e., "dirt" as the source and return to life. Signifying the obsession: the willingness to contract with Oprah Winfrey et. al., masters and mistresses of sensationalism, billions of dollars for years of dirt digging.


    Nature as love's absorption. Nature as the organic charcoal filter to assorted social and mental delusions. Potential and seeming synchronicity as a strictly personal truth (unshareable) unless the touch, the expression, and the relationship is unambiguously established.


    this thought: act like the world owes you something and it will abandon you forthwith; act like you have something to give the world and it will quite likely embrace you like an only child.


    the current cultural expression of American femininity as a sham; the current cultural expression of American masculinity as a concomitant sham--co-conspirators in shamdom. the meaning of fashionable: sham-I-am.


    blah…blah…blah….


  • I seethe with thoughts-but are they mine? An encompassing madness seems to fill me with a clash of voices strange to me. I often ponder: could this deluge be the disembodying degraded spewings of recent corpses’ rotting brains? A collective psychic dribble not yet expunged-fleeting, without fixed reference, and of no use to life? As this psychic wave of a world passing washes over me, I wonder can I ride the surf?

  • Life as a super-sleuth:


    I think bianca has become ylvas. Resoning: ylvas is one of the strangest birds in the Blog, and bianca is quite the chicken for having flown the coop.

  • You know who you are...


    You kissed me off again with your blog
    --do you know how cheap that feels?
    I'm pissed off by your log:
    why don't you give me something real?


    I'm heading downtown to a club
    to catch a buzz and feel
    as mindless as I need to
    to forget that i'm a dream.

  • Upon a lost post of petal's:


    Imagine being the sole possessor of all lost posts, forgotten thoughts, faded memories--for everyone for all time. You could know *nothing* except all that's lost and forgotten. Would madness ensue or brilliance?

  • I'm about to start teaching in the university on Tuesday and I'm hardly energetically prepared to return. Oh I have the lectures, the powerpoint presentations, the handouts, the homeworks...fairly well aligned. And I've gotten new texts with interactive cd-rom components.... It's just that I'm not yet fired up to resume the *professor* role so soon again. Ill now for 10 days with flu symptoms galore, my voice is still scratchy and my color's too pallid. And I've got so much else going that's all quite undone: two websites for client/friends to update, a client's dental office small network to attend in repair, a client's door and window showroom to refinish that was damaged in a car wreck, a client's half bath to wallpaper ASAP, some cable to run in another dental office...all of that on top of my regular *government* job.


    While all I really want to do...is smoke some good weed. I mean, xanga and read.

  • Predawn Trilogy

    i’m not too sick of convictions
    nor tired of taming around.
    want no gift for my birthday:
    hate just sulking in circles out loud.
    brooding juices me of my mind’s mood--
    won’t dwell long in that moldy doldrum.
    a life drained ’s not much worth living;
    so why am i sapping again?



    you give me nothing to think about
    but that’s better than nothing at all.
    your predictable roll-out of rhythmic indulgence
    leaves me staring blank-faced at the ground.
    for just as long as you’ve been here
    i’ve been sensing that something must change.
    yet as long as you insist to remain near
    my life never will get rearranged.



    sensuality washes over me
    in a sudden whim of remorse
    derived from a pure psychic dimension.
    first uptight, I ease out
    then submit and succumb
    to this wasting away of pretensions.
    in the end all the verve
    that’s ever rattled this earth
    is reduced to a single sensation.
    and i’m staggered to find
    that it’s only my birth.

  • I remembered this morning that I had forgotten something very important from a while ago: a request from someone (who?) for something (what?). I was haunted by this because I knew that if I didn't remember, this person's request would go unattended and that would be very, very bad.

    So I concentrated amidst a torrent of extraneous noise that suddenly seemed to surround me (when you're trying to remember as hard as I was, even a pin's drop sounds like a sonic boom). Suddenly (English for Eureka!), I remembered! (The particulars of which are so boring I won't even mention.) I had nearly given up hope, but remembered! And I was so impressed by my own prowess at recall that I started thinking: Damn, I have a great memory! However, after a while's reflection, I started to think that I wouldn't have needed such a great memory for remembrance if I just had a great mind to collect it all and hold it ready to begin with. In other words, having a great deep recall memory (where you can dig to churn things up) may be indicative of a mind that's too puny to hold it all at once. Maybe Einstein had no such memory at all but merely kept his swirling universes of thought ever present in his mind like a PC with infinite RAM and no hard drive. Hence, the greatest minds may have no offline memory! And those with the greatest offline memories may be compensating for a miniscule ready access mind! You can just forget those with neither…hmm…forget…what?…never mind!

  • Poptardis and Bluemoo just crack me up! Above the *PORNSTAR NAMES* contest headline on his page, Poptardis has posted a *Poptardis and Bluemoo* couple shot. As I looked at the page it hit me: the careful juxtaposition is carrying a subliminal payload. But he's not *that* clever, is he?

  • I love to spin off all the great logs out there. And today agrochick78 proved to be just the right flare. Like one race car following on the bumper of another to reduce wind resistance, I first offered this as a comment but now as a weblog. But let's be fair: read her log first, then leave any comments, eSmoochProps, or smileys right there.


    I became a vegetarian for a while in the military. Not satisfying a natural craving for meat heightened my predatorial outlook. I was *always* unfulfilled, always watchful -- a predisposition that benefited me in my jungle exploits.


    I think that the meat industry is a sexist conspiracy. Old men yearning for prepubescent young girls with dolly parton tits. Oh yeah, those cattle hormones can pump them up quickly. Prod every young girl into becoming a properly-busted Barbie. Hormones! I love them. I hate them. I need them!


    The food chain or pyramid or castle or kingdom reaches its epitome in our *food industry*, the meat industry being the centerpiece jewel. This is about as *natural* as Tammy Faye Baker's makeup or keeping wild beasts in the zoo (no, I’m not being redundant). Granted, to the degree that the market for meat reflects our natural cravings, the meat industry can be considered an expression of nature. Ah, but the injected hormones to plump up and make things so sumptuous: Nature in its marvelous workings forgot about that!

  • Old West outlaw and gunslinger John Wesley Hardin was born May 26, 1853, in Bonham, Texas. Rumored to be so mean he once shot a man for snoring, Hardin was shot to death in El Paso on August 19, 1895. Despite his killing of over forty people, Hardin had a reputation as a gentleman among those who knew him, and he always claimed he never killed anyone who didn't need killing....


    I wrote the following just for the hell of it. I wrote it in the same spirit that this outlaw took lives. Not that I would ever take lives like he did. I'm just killing these stanzas with reckless abandon. BTW, I don't have a gun anymore--don't need one: I think I can run faster than most bullets out there.


    The Ballad of John Wesley Hardin, 1853-1895


    Born in the world, little John Wesley,
    Blessed with a child: his parents so happy,
    Born to this world, little John Wesley,
    Suckled sweetly by momma and fondled by pappy.


    A Sunday school child was little boy Johnny,
    A bright shining child and the son of a preacher,
    A Sunday school child was little boy Johnny,
    With the Word of our Lord, the Good Bible, his teacher.


    But the times became tough in post-Civil War Texas,
    And times became tough for young Johnny the lad,
    The times became hard in post-Civil War Texas,
    As the black man was freed and the South's pride was had.


    And little boy Johnny grew, toughened, to manhood,
    Little boy Johnny grew, quickly, a man,
    Little boy Johnny grew, roughened, to manhood,
    With a heart angry and despert, he viewed the South Land.


    Then one day in Washington County John shot an old black man,
    One day in Washington County in a moment of rage,
    Without word of warnin’ John shot that old black man,
    Death's hands on twin six guns from that moment engaged.

    And then on to Horn Hill and Kosse and Waco,
    And then down along the Old Mexico way,
    With twin guns a'blazing and fingers a'vibrant,
    He felled every man who got in his way.


    O, what's it like to kill a man, John Wesley Hardin?
    What's it like to kill a man, to gun a man down?
    What's it like to kill a man, John Wesley Hardin?
    Forty men dead at age twenty-one!


    Every lawman now was after John Hardin,
    Lawman and bounty hunter--Hardin: Dead or Alive,
    Every lawman now was after John Hardin,
    With a finger ready on the trigger of a Colt .45 .


    And though on the run, Hardin continued his killing,
    Sheriffs Reagon and Helms he fiercely cut down,
    Though on the run, Hardin kept up the blood-spilling,
    Passing from one to another Dixie town.


    But in Pensacola Junction, Rangers trapped Hardin ,
    Texas Rangers caught Hardin in ‘77,
    They took him and tried him with no doubt of outcome,
    And John was sentenced 25 years to old Huntsville prison.


    Now in Huntsville John spent the long years a'studying,
    In Huntsville John spent the years studying law,
    And as 15 years passed and John Wesley was pardoned,
    He signed up and passed the Texas State Bar.

    And he became a lawyer in the town of El Paso,
    But practicing law in El Paso town,
    John was not the same man he was before prison,
    And he boozed now, and bragged, and carried recklessly on.

    And one day he drew a quarrel with Young Johnny Selman,
    No gunplay, just words, over a young saloon gal,
    One day he drew a quarrel with Young Johnny Selman,
    As he carried about in his derelict ways.


    Now Old Selman, Johnny's father, feared for his son's life,
    Old Selman felt surely that Wes would kill Johnny,
    Old Selman, Johnny's father, feared for his son's life,
    So he decided himself to take care of Wes Hardin.

    And while Wes was dicing one afternoon at a table,
    While Wes was rolling dice in the Acme Saloon,
    Old Selman burst in with a long ten-gauge shotgun,
    And without word of warnin’, he shot Hardin down.


    O, what's it like to kill a man, John Wesley Hardin?
    What's it like to kill a man, to gun a man down?
    What's it like to kill a man, John Wesley Hardin?
    Shot in the back, and laid in the ground!

  • Breaking Take...


    Perhaps eProps are heartbeats keeping Xanga alive:
    when the Heart stales and stops: Clear! Poom-poom!
    eReinvent and Revive.
    We are just the pulsations
    of this Great Xangan nation.



    Comment from a Kalaelyan_OOC post…


    eProps as *valuation* will always have faults--so it remains fun to probe this inferior currency. I think the Lords of Xanga should keep changing the structure of eProps. One week just like last week, this week what we have, next something different. Then it won't matter how we use them or abuse them or refuse them because, in the hash, they'll reinvent new significance. Hell, the Lords of Xanga may have just that planned: keep us hopping with new takes on the most current *structure*. When the *structure* grows old, reinvent, await new takes. We'll keep bustling and hustling with new reads on the *latest*: "eProps Take 3", "eProps Take 4"...endless retakes on the Xangan Hollywood set!


    Comment from a Josiepoo post…


    For the devious: Write a killer Christian poem (like David) that gets a load of xtian loving eProps and comments. Then edit the content entirely with a tribute to Howard Stern.


    Comment from an Alice post…


    Like talking knowledgeably and articulately about how to make money, talking about eProps is one sure way to get them. As *money and the economy* is the Great Myth of current culture, so eProps are becoming the great myth of Xanga. In some other era, past or future, where the great mythic force is something more noble, such discussions of eProps would just not occur. But we're here and it's now...and, of course, you (Alice) deserve them.


  • This ditty is nothing but a tribute to Laura, the sweetest and most kick-ass girl around....


    Laura’s Butt


    Laura’s butt leaves Laura’s face
    …something…
    and its no disgrace.
    Born with freckles that weren’t spread out
    Her butt is what its all about.
    God made a choice¾behind or face:
    Bum got freckled,
    Mug unspeckled.
    Other freckled girls wonder
    Why the hell
    Their faces couldn’t have
    Turned out as well.
    Well, God loves a joke
    As an exception to His rule:
    And that’s why
    Laura’s face is cool.

  • I've been pretty deathly ill (if not in actuality, so feeling) and didn't go to work today. Totally lost my voice, weak, unable to sleep. The onset of this flu like debilitation was Wednesday midday. But the flu always wracks my body, not my mind. So I pressed on... Though shaking and shivering Wednesday night, I was unable to sleep--maybe due to a combination of analgesics and wine--stayed up doing Xanga until 4:30 AM sharp--so really most likely just an ADDICTION to some self-imposed striving for Xangan perfection--then had to get up at 7:30 to go to work. walkin' Flu-man work was shitty, should NOT have been there but in bed totally--but nobody gives a crap. No woman, no mother, no matron, no TLC--so fuck it I thought--push on. Wrote you--once? twice? Felt blown off by your weblog comment. Said fuck it all, can't devote anything, any more energy, any attention to anything but my own healing. Realized that I'd absolutely repeat the previous near-all-nighter on Xanga *unless* I did something drastic--so shutdown my site: no eProps, no comments, no journals, no presence. Especially no eProps--damn crap gets you watching them. Yeah, I knew i was #3 overall at the end of last year; #1 on the charts on last day of the year; #3 or 4 again overall into this year. Playing the game, playing fair--truly surprised by how well I was publicly received--but playing nonetheless. Went home, tried to sleep, couldn't sleep--now 54 hours with the flu and 3 hours sleep--drank wine, lost my mind. Woke up voiceless and *called* more at *whispered* in sick. Slept mostly, but browsed and commented a little. It's Friday night now and I'm somewhat better. My voice is still crackly but my strength has returned. I've got painting and consulting to knock out this weekend, Still, I'm going to revive the weblog soon--soon as my attention to it is no threat to my health. Thanks for permission--I'll publish that ditty. But don't be surprised if it gets no attention. Doesn't matter--just want to do it cause I thing that your kule :)

  • We hardly ever realize that we can cut anything out of our lives, anytime, in the blink of an eye.

    The Wheel of Time, Carlos Castaneda

  • We're trying to dis this eProp craze with the power of satire and casualobserver is the one taking it all too seriously. Maybe casualobserver needs to be more self-reflecting and less casual about self-criticism. Listen to her rant: "I got tired of seeing David at the top of the list all day long. When I saw someone was catching up to him (vickyvix) I gave her just enough eProps to push her ahead of him." Tired of seeing! Catching up! Push ahead! Sounds like it could be a mildly obsessive involvement to me.

    Maybe she should read lcsaph's entry and texaco's comment about OCD (obsessive compulsive disorder).

    Or just heed the following quote:

    "If a warrior is to succeed in anything, the success must come gently, with a great deal of effort but with no stress or obsession."
    --Tales of Power, Carlos Castaneda

    Or just join in and have some fun.

  • While all you eprop ho ho ho-s and madames amd junkies are out there scurrying around (Holly Green, could you pleeease let me know where you fit in), I've decided I want to become the Comment King (to hell with prime minister of TuvaTuva)! Give and take more comments than anyone else. Give, give, give. Get, get, get. Let eProps occur like the climax of lovemaking as incidental homage. My insight is from the military, first de-programmed, then re-drilled: "Got to take the crap now, so you can dish it out later."



    *now don't forget to update that time stamp

  • Yesterday Wildheart played a game,



    "Monsur" was his name,



    Alone she propped him to the top of hot,



    And made eProps a shame.

  • Once upon a time, I woke up a wounded puppy. The world, it seemed, had finally come crashing down around me. And as my previously preferred phenomenological fantasies faded under reality’s new, harsh, brutalizing light, I found myself haunted by a gnawing suspicion. It seemed to me that the totality of women in my world had begun¾all at once and for some inexplicable reason¾to ignore, to just abandon me. Well, if not as accidental societal company, at least with respect to my psychological and personal needs. The truth, indeed, seemed like a bitch.

    Wounded puppies, however, are known to yelpingly overreact. And I was no exception. My chewing suspicion of a calculated female indifference turned out really just to be a byproduct of a self-inflicted teething process involving nervous paw-chewing. Into a short learning curve, after the gnawing ceased and some healing ensued, I began to reconstruct my newfound predicament. I then realized that what I imagined as an entire gender’s class-action against me was merely a minor concomitant in the grander course of fate. If women, as I had legitimately perceived, had really come to forget me, it was only because such was a consequence of God doing nothing less. Oh yes. When God forgets you, you better believe that the rest of the world follows course--not intentionally or knowingly, just forgetfully, yet invariably!



    Now when I claim that God forgot me, I don’t intend to suggest that He (probably She) had forgotten only me from forever and for always. There’s almost surely a plural subset of People Whom God has Forgotten. Membership in this group may be entirely accidental or may be part of a design grander than the Grand Design. It really doesn’t matter. But this is not to say that God was not my pilot. God was very much always my pilot. (Though Satan--he--or probably a she, too--was the suspected co-pilot). In any case, at the time that God forgot, both She and Satan emergency-ejected from my soul’s cockpit¾for whatever reason¾for the duration of my soul’s sortie. Now that is a historical fact.



    What can be the sane reaction of a man (or woman) who comes to realize that he or she belongs to a small group whom God has forgotten? Well, you can’t blame God. That’s totally idiotic. She is God! As great and as good as can be. And if something goes amiss, there is no grander other entity or authority that can assign cosmic fault in such instance. Nor, of course, should He or She blame Herself. Times are hectic and He’s, to severely strain a metaphor, only human. In any case, there has never and will never be reckoning flowing from the earthly realm as a vector to the divine.



    So what’s the proper reaction? Should you despair? Well, if you presumed that you were going to heaven, you might despair. But then you’re more suffering the karma resulting from the capital sin of presumption--and that’s not despair. You should just cease to presume and you’ll be okay. On the other hand, if you had a certain certainty that your waywardness had you on the fast track to the deep-hot-downunder, then why, indeed, despair? God has forgotten your transgressions, too (just hope that She doesn’t have an efficient bureaucracy in place to manage such details!) If, however, you’re in between¾like most people: not with a foot in heaven or a foot in hell, but with both feet firmly planted in some lukewarm middle goo (purgatory)—still you shouldn’t despair. After all, the goo is squishy, you haven’t forgotten God, and you can still pray! So despair only when both you and God forget each other and you fall face first unconscious into the goo; not merely when She deigns to forget you.



    Nonetheless, once forgotten, you will find your self in a most curious situation: you are not getting rewarded, but you are not being punished; you’re not given credit, but you’re not being blamed. When God forgets you, you are cast into the amazing experience of being utterly human. The foremost and signature characteristic of this utterly human experience is an immediate availability to the psychic understructure of all reality. This is not to say that you will gain effortless access to the psychic realm, only that it becomes fully available to you. But that is another story.



    So what should you do? Pray! Harder! “God, You may have forgotten me (though in my finite wisdom I’m likely mistaken), yet I do humbly remember You. May I someday prosper in Your sight once again! When next you choose to remember me, O Lord, please give me a sign that I may see: if one, just one, loving woman returns to me, the angels will sing and I will know!”



    Just remember¾until reassured: strawberry fields forever.

  • I'm cracking...up. No, not laughing, the other kind. I just left this comment on James' Blog . But I gave him 2 eProps, Oh God help me:

    What's needed is an eProp option: to turn them off, to turn them on, to hide the numbers but not the ranking, to allow for comments but not for eProps, to allow for eProps but not for comments (for unabashed egotists and Ayn Rand fanatics), or maybe to allow for 1 eProp or 1 comment but not both. Any and every kind of mix and match you can imagine: eProp confusion! eProp hysteria! Start every *other* new user out with a 1000 eProps in their bank. Every time they get a comment, they loose an eProp. Every time they "get" an additional eProp, they really just get a random generated quote of the day for a comment. Allow us to donate the eProps we've collected to others. Start eProp factions, eProp gangs. Have a dynamic counter of the *total* eProps generated by all members. Strive and drive with undiminshed intent to increment that total. Divide that summation by the number of all members thus calculating an impersonal average which EVERYBODY gets! eProp utopia. eProptopia!

    I have crossed into the Promised Land.

  • If you bite the hand that feeds you, at least don't bite it off.

    Bianca Broussard is the hand that fed us.

    She has very pretty fingernails.

    Strolling on...

    Most everyone knows his or her height. But how many people know the actual measured extent of their reach with arm up and fingers fully extended? With arm up and a fist? How about arm and fingers extended at 90 degrees frontward? When could we use this knowledge about our selves usefully? Would a *handyman* tend to possess this self-knowledge more than others? Has anyone ever died because they lacked this awareness of their actual dimensions?

    Strolling on...

    My kitten was helping me type this morning. He crouched fully-hidden behind my laptop display and proceeded to stalk my typing hands by reaching around with just his paws, first one paw on one side, then the other paw on the opposite side. Tap..tap,tap. I think my kitten is cyber. Any future typos are due to him!

    Strolling off...on a Xangan walkabout.

  • Xanga just went haywire! The entry immediately below was "timestamp updated" without my intercession. And some "funny faces" were moved into my "Eye Candy" entry, again, without my assistance! OK--who out there has hacked my password? Or is the server schizoid? Or am I losing it?

  • *This is the older entry mysteriously updated*

    *Skip below this for something newer*


    I am feel so borderlined that nobody was upset with my Artichoke poem. It pisses *me* off, so why shouldn't it you? Hey, maybe you are all nearly as crazy-violent and lost as me. In that event, a different tack. A lullaby to awaken the beast:



    (from a playful interchange with lcsaph)



    i love love
    love loves you
    you love love
    so that makes two.



    we love each other
    love are we
    baby loves love
    so that makes three.



    baby grows up
    and baby know the score
    baby finds a mate
    and that makes four.



    babies sing the refrain
    ‘love are we’
    babies having babies
    five, you see.



    and the world keeps turning
    …six, seven, eight…
    statistics keep a’churning:
    all find mates.



    and by the time of nine and ten
    …our generation’s gone…
    hopefully they’ll remember us
    in this little song.



    but even if the numbers end
    and when the world is done,
    we will know forever that
    you and i are one.

  • Two Birds, One Stone

    Yesterday I posted a comment to vickycix in response to a challenge she was undergoing to stand up and be counted. Her quest was:

    "Anyways, I don't know if I told you guys, but I'm currently writing this application for this summer school thing in the States...the topic is: "What makes you unique?"....bleurgh! Aside from the fact that EVERYONE IN THE ENTIRE WORLD is unique (unless there are some clones out there that I don't know about, and no, I don't mean you Dolly, Polly or whatever your name is), how is it possible to write an essay like that without sounding completely arrogant and sellf-absorbed? (unless you write something like "I'm the stupidest person in the world, and that makes me *real* special")."

    Today I got enthralled by the log of agrochick78 where she describes her *path* by way of an introduction....

    I, too, have a path, by way of introduction. And it is the comment I shared with vickyvix. One stone, two birds. The stone sinks deeper into the earth while the birds fly ever higher overhead:

    My name is Stefan Friedrich. I am at least three years old and am certainly an incorrigible mystical fascist who very much hopes some day to become Prime Minister of TuvaTuva or some other terra incognito thirstily in want of an aggressive, marshal lunatic with a highly-developed, cosmically-political imagination.

    My favorite and probably my only hobby is communicating intelligently with space aliens (star children, we are all star children) which I do by scribbling messages in classical Chinese on sheets of Charmin toilet paper and flushing them down the toilet at midnight on the 14th day of every lunar month. As of yet I've received no reply communications, but you must understand that these things require time and much patience.

    My philosophy of life is simple though arcanely drawn. It is found fully expressed in the sixth chapter of the Tao Te Ching by the ancient sage Lao Tse. It reads:

    The valley spirit forever lives;
    It is woman, primal mother.
    Her gateway is the root of heaven and earth.
    It is like a veil almost unseen.
    Seize it: it will never fail.

    Granted, it doesn't make much sense. And even less so before translation. But, then, a good, healthy philosophy of life ought not to make much sense, less to suffer the hazard and risk of a deadening bureaucratization.

    Some people have said that I resemble Jesus Christ. These people are idiots. I do not at all resemble that man. In fact, I believe that I do not resemble anyone living or dead. I think I was born not to resemble. A solitary facial fingerprint in the look-alike pool of life. If you've never seen me but are curious to know what I look like (you must be strange), the best thing to do is to go to the mirror, gaze at your own image, and say "He does not look like this."

    Affectionately.




  • “Today is a good day to die!”


    daily morning prayer of Crazy Horse, 19th century warrior.




    1) Rumi, a 16th –17th century Sufi (Persian) poet observed: “No one knows your real name until your very last breath.”


    2) Schwelgien, a 21st century American non-poet has further observed: “The process of your birth finds no surcease until your very last breath.”


    3) Furthermore, the process of your death commenced with your very first breath.


    4) There is only birth and death. The common perception that birth and death are discrete entry/exit terminals with a segment of life (lifespan) “in between” is misleading. Birth shades into death as death shades into birth. Any segregative distinctions are superfluous.


    5) If one views life as something sandwiched “in between” discrete dichotomies of birth and death, then one is apt to consider as the foremost practical issues: “What do I do with my life?”, “What am I to make of myself?”, and “How am I to make a living?” In other words, one encounters the difficulty of what to do with the “intervening” segment of time. If death is seen as something inevitably awaiting us, the issue is: "What can (should) we do while we wait?"


    6) If, however, one understands life as the ever-developing and interacting processes of both birth and death, then no “intervening” undefined state arises. One is always being born to some degree (a logically fuzzy birth) and is always dying to some degree (a logically fuzzy death). And naught else.


    7) Hence, life is never the matter of fill-in-the-blank. Destiny is always occurring. “Life is much too busy being everything to seem anything--catastrophic included,” 20th century, e.e. cummings.


    8) Death in the common perception is merely a spectator sport. Everyone watches “the event.” Even the person dying, if conscious, is sometimes inclined to observe “the event.” “I don’t want to die!” is then the lament. As if there were another choice! As if one hasn’t been dying from one’s first breath!


    9) Death is truly experienced as a unique process--no fingerprint, no snowflake is as individual as each and every one of our deaths. Yet we never die alone. Which amounts to saying that no one lives your life but you, yet you never live alone. "No man is an island," 17th century, John Donne.


    10) Gossip assumes the pretense of knowing someone’s real name before their last breath. In this light, gossip is seen as a form of societal hyperventilation.


    11) Death always shames those who gossip. People who gossip live in secret shame because death makes gossip infamous. Who dare gossips about the dead without dread of recrimination?


    12) Hence, gossip is the deathcast in the spectator sport of life. Woe on he or she who lives watching death and dies watching life--by proxy through gossip--without ever fully living and dying themselves. As Merton, 20th century mystic-monk, made out: there are “those who hide in the shadow of an answer to a question they are afraid to ask.”


    13) Kerouac, a 20th century American poet/writer observed: “There is only the Golden Eternity.”


    14) There is only our Golden Eternity.

  • Tis so cool that the New Year wiped away the top 100 eProp records--the Rankings--of last year. Too bad that can't happen everday!



    An average man is too concerned with liking people or with being liked himself. A warrior likes, that's all. He likes whatever or whomever he wants, for the hell of it.





    A Separate Reality, Carlos Castaneda





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