Her beauty overwhelms—it does!
You ask me how? Because…because…
You really want to know?  I fear…
That then I’ll need another beer.

The way she moves—I’m thunderstruck!
When she turns and twists—am I in luck!
You wonder if she’s really hot?  For that…
I’ll need another shot.

Her lips purse in a wordless chant
To blow me kisses as I pant—
She presses me to the utter brink! 
Of what?  I’ll need another drink.

She rubs and licks—you won’t believe!
It’s hell for me—there’s no reprieve:
I’m locked tight in the boxcar of this hell-bent dame…
Please save me!  And pass that fine champagne.

I'm a creature, too!

If you’re sick and you take a paid sick day off from work (or even just take off from work), do you feel obliged to stay home in a “sick mode” even if toward the evening you’re feeling much better?

I had to consider this issue on Wednesday when I awoke with congestive heart failure (just kiddin—merely bad congestion), called in “sick,” took a couple of decongestant pills, and returned to bed.  After a full morning’s rest, however, I was feeling much better.  Enough to go into work?  Well…that’s the sticky issue:  where I work, when you call in “sick,” you’re supposed to be “too impaired” to return the same day miraculously out of the blue.  If you do, they wonder why you didn’t just come in normally because you are “obviously well” enough now—so you probably weren’t really sick, just “slacking”!  It’s a Catch-22.

So it’s Wednesday afternoon and I’m “sick” but feeling much better.  And because of the workplace’s expectation that I not return to work (they do not believe in miracles), I don’t.  So far, so good: I was legitimately sick and work relieved me of my obligation by issuing a “stay-home” expectation.  But I’m feeling much, much better (I do believe in miracles!) and so I decide to step out and cut the grass.  And trim the hedges.  And that work in the hot sun seems even to further purify my system and now I’m starting to re-attain that familiar inner body-mind glow.  So I think: what the hell—I feel plenty well enough to get a hair cut—so why not? 

Ah!  The haunting “stay-home” expectation now comes into play!  Or does it?  What if I wait until 4 PM when it would clearly be ridiculous to return to work for the last half hour of the day?  I’m still getting paid for the time, but if I’m feeling well enough, so why not go out and play tennis?  Or go down to the pub, have a beer, and enjoy an afternoon baseball game?  How long must I stay “sick?”  And in the evening, when at 80% recovery I’m already feeling much more vital than 99% of my co-workers when they are at the height of their health, should I not take that run down by the beach or through the cemetery?  Or take in a carousing evening at club? 

“Go ahead and do it,” I’ll be advised, “but don’t get caught!”  Caught?  Doing what?  Acting out of renewed health yet consistent with the workplace’s expectation not to show up?  Give me a break!  Next time I’m really sick and get better quickly after calling off, I’m going to run around the building where I work ALL DAY and run into the boss on his way out and see what he has to say!  Or maybe I just take a six-pack to the park, sit on a boulder in the middle of a stream, murmur *OM* and get drunk!

My kitten Hawk has pulled out of his plummet to incapacity and now seems to be defying the stark imminent-death prognosis of his vet. 

sleeping with toys

guarding my laptop

amused by human tricks

Still nursing the unconquerable hope,
Still clutching the inviolable shade,
With a free onward impulse brushing through,
By night, the silver'd branches of the glade--
Far on the forest-skirts, where none pursue,
On some mild pastoral slope
Emerge, and resting on the moonlit pales,
Freshen they flowers, as in former years,
With dew, or listen with enchanted ears,
From the dark dingles, to the nightingales.

                   Matthew Arnold
             from The Scholar-Gipsy (1853)

"The world has achieved brilliance without conscience.  Ours is a world of nuclear giants and ethical infants." - Omar Bradley

Imagine...

An Investigation Into the Magnitude of Foreign Conflicts...

...using probability theory (statistics) to determine the relationship between the business cycle, the election cycle, and the frequency and magnitude of wars...

...if you were to imagine such, you might conclude:

17) The probability of a Big War equals the probability of an unavoidable Big War plus (1 minus the probabilities of both unavoidable  Big Wars and Small Wars)(times the probability of an avoidable Big War).

18) The probability of a Small War equals the probability of an unavoidable Small War plus (1 minus the probabilities of both unavoidable  Big Wars and Small Wars)(times the probability of an avoidable Small War).

19) The probability of a No War equals 1 minus the probabilities of both unavoidable Big Wars and Small Wars.

The authors of this staggering econometrically-modeled treatise are Gregory Hess of Cambridge U. and Athanasios Orphanides of the Board of Governors of the Federal Reserve Bank:

We present a general equilibrium model of conflict to investigate whether the prevalence of democracy is sufficient to foster the perpetual peace hypothesized by Immanuel Kant, and whether the world would necessarily become more peaceful as more countries adopt democratic institutions. Our exploration suggests neither hypothesis is true. The desire of incumbent leaders with unfavorable economic performance to hold on to power generates an incentive to initiate conflict and salvage their position---with some probability.  An equilibrium with positive war frequency is sustained even if all nations were to adopt representative democratic institutions and even in the absence of an appropriative motive for war.

Such precocious scholarship that the world affords!  So why do I remain stuck on Shakespeare??

Caesar's spirit, ranging for revenge...
Shall in these confines with a monarch's voice
Cry 'havoc!' and let slip the dogs of war...

                        --Julius Caesar, III:1

imagination births eternity's fate
as creation churns incessantly
ignoring the distinction of
*early* and *late*.
all that is needed has arrived
on time
in you.

to life!  to life!  to life!
the journey to life!
and beyond
has again
begun.

how blessed I am to have lived
as I have
escaping space and time.

Altogether, the Gardners collected more than 20 years of data. Their research covered all aspects of chimp development, but it was the experiments in sign language which caught the imagination of scientists and public alike. For the first time, an ape was using human language, as these films clearly showed. But instead of sealing the ape language debate, these images were to become the focus for a bitter dispute.   In this sequence from 1974, Washoe is shown a baby doll inside a cup. The camera seems to capture clear evidence of a chimpanzee sentence, 'Baby in my drink.'

         --Can Chimps Talk?  NOVA Show #2105, Air Date: February 15, 1994 

*Baby in my drink*
Signed Washoe the chimp knocking hard
On the doors of abstract communication.
Baby in my drink, indeed.
Ostrich feathers in my turtle soup.
Marigold petals in my tupelo honey.
Angel wings in my shrimp cocktail.
What else is new?
How far can we let things go?
*Baby in my drink* is just about as sensible as
Too many drinks in my baby
When she’s drunk.

It seems I always have the great fortune,
years after,
to re-encounter the women whom,
when I was in love with them,
found it in their hearts to devastate me. 
And I see anew. 
And tie my shoelaces this time before I trip over them.
And wonder how my eyes could once shed tears...
Yet love them still after all these years.

*Just this once.   I want to do it just this once.*

This notion is so appealing.  I’m wondering: can I really?  Yes.

But should I?   Hrm….

Many who have spoken these words and acted upon them have to regret their decision to adopt a time-inconsistent strategy.  Time inconsistency: what looks like the best and is the most appealing course from moment to moment fails to produce the best outcome in the long run.  “The best laid plans of mice and men…” ,  yes! –that’s it!  Best laid for the provision of instant gratification at any and perhaps every point in time.  The long-term plans of many people and even governments often go astray because free decisions are made to pursue such instant gratification. 

Did you know that the seat of the United States federal government is in D.C. and not New York where it originally was founded because an individual prevailed against a time-inconsistent strategy?  Yep.  Alexander Hamilton as the first U.S. Secretary of the Treasury insisted after the American Revolution that the U.S. repay all its war debts though Thomas Jefferson and James Madison argued against the repayment of some obligations to avoid the difficulties that increase taxation would cause.

But  Hamilton insisted upon establishing the new government’s creditworthiness.  He understood  that the more expedient course of defaulting on the weaker holders of war debt would cast a shadow upon the trustworthiness of the new government to honor new debts. And that would, in turn, drive up the cost of credit by reducing America’s appeal to investors—an appeal the new nation desperately was seeking. 

So tenaciously did Hamilton cling to his position that he agreed to compromise and endorse a plan for moving the nation’s capital from New York to D.C. if his debt repayment plan passed Congress.  And it did.  And to this day the seat of the U.S. government shuts down if it snows more than an inch.

Instant gratification.  Yum.  Will I?  Will you?

no love is so much less than fun

—the last time I checked—

(my watch was broken).

I didn’t pick these flowers

simply to let them die,

I picked them for you.

and so they wallow in your foster care

—the last time I checked—

(there was none there).

I’ve named a star in your honor

now forever known as *Bright*,

upon some world in some night sky

it’s creating quite a sight

—the last time I never checked—

it’s not a dream, it’s not a dream, it’s not a dream…

I know her.  From years ago.  Her name is Linda.  O no…she’s waving to me… so I stop.  And roll down the window.

“How’re ya doing?  What are ya up to?” she asks.

“Just getting high,” I reply.

Did I say that?   Is that true?  Does saying it make it not so?

“I didn’t know you got high!” she lightens up.

“Ya, I used to,” I admit.

“When did you quit?” she puzzles?

About five minutes ago.”

Perplexed, she continues, “And when was the last time you got high?”

“About five minutes ago.  But there ain’t no more.  Gone”

She opens up the passenger door and slides in.  You got $20 for one of $30 for two?  Yeah?  Okay, just drive around and we’ll find some.”

Driving commences.  But there are cops everywhere we look.  Some guy got snuffed last night in this hood and Homicide is trotting hot.

“Damn it.  These cops—this is a bust,” I blurt.

“A bust?” she challenges.

I can see it running in her head.  She’s desperately looking around for the cops.  Or is she beginning to think that I’m a narc.  No—she knows she’s got too much on me.  Even if I turned out to be a narc, her lawyer, on the basis of past fraternizations, would get her off.  So she knows I’m not a narc…

“Whatdya mean, a bust?” she reiterates.

“Not a cop bust,” I declare--to reassure her.  I take a moment to look over at her in the seat along side and nod pointing with my eyes and my chin to her spectacular breasts.  “A bust like that!”  I proclaim with a grin.

“You’re silly,” she says, “keep driving.”

it’s just a dream, it’s just a dream, it’s just a dream…

Are Xangeroos in Real Life more stunning or less than they appear here?  Or are we really hollow men with xTools who can only thrive behind a blog?

We are the hollow men
We are the stuffed men
Leaning together
Headpiece filled with straw. Alas!
Our dried voices, when
We whisper together
Are quiet and meaningless
As wind in dry grass
Or rat's feet over broken glass
In our dry cellar.

Shape without form, shade without color,
Paralyzed force, gesture without motion;

Those who have crossed
With direct eyes, to death's other Kingdom
Remember us - if at all - not as lost
Violent souls, but only
As the hollow men
The stuffed men.
                    --T.S. Eliot, The Hollow Men

Ah yes, good ole T.S. obviously wrote this with me in mind!

But would not other Xangeroos fair better by assessment?

I met up with SuperSonicSunny yesterday and...she's definitely as or more stunning than blog life!  A shape with  great form, a shade with invoking color, paralyzing eyes, gesture with kick-ass intent;

Then I joined up with Laura, lcsaph, my initial buddy here in Xangala.  I hadn't seen here for...ever.  And has she ever changed.  Doesn't blog much anymore cause life is too much being entirely everything else.  She's more gorgeous than I could even remember (because she's grown ever more beautiful).  And happier, too!  ...So that's what happens to peeps that become ex-Xangeroos!

Finally, I rendezvoused with LonelyLittleChic, too.  And she raves for real just as well as she banters by blog. Lonely--you ask, is she really Lonely?  I would have loved to imagine that in my company she wasn't!  Oh hell, I can imagine that!  So I imagine that she wasn't so Lonely!!!  But what do I know??  I saunter in cemeteries and imagine a hullabaloo!  But a Chic?  Oh yeah!!!  Even I couldn't mistake that!  So LLC is needing some TLC? 

Oh I'm so befuddled and so bemused--quick--someone--throw a water balloon at me!

I want to abundantly thank everyone who expressed heartfelt support in response to my lament upon the imminent loss of my cat Hawk (as described in yesterday’s blog).  Your compassion is so appreciated.

After work yesterday, I returned for a short visit to Lakeview Cemetery, the site of my Sunday blog, to re-ground myself and put my grief over my pet’s terminal prognosis into perspective.  And that it did.  I strolled about the lush, rolling cast of the reclusive grounds which are decorated with opulent mausoleums of great extent, obelisks of grand height, architectural archways and columns that appear as if they could have been stolen from the ruins of ancient Athens or ancient Rome, and sculptures (both dark and angelic) as large or greater than life. 

So while stopping here and there in reverence to take in the compass of a life completed, I suddenly found my warrior sense of balance and serenity again.  And thenceforth started a playful tour of improvising and articulating poetic epitaphs as I ambled about, fancying myself the poet-laureate of those there placed in bed.  I can only imagine, in retrospect, that I was a sight.  And became a sight enough for sure as out of the blue there appeared a tour bus, Lolly the Trolley. 

It was filled with sightseers hungry to acquire an appreciation of some of the movers and shakers of 18th, 19th and early 20th century Cleveland society so luxuriantly there assembled.  And while they came expecting to take in landscape, architecture, tombs, and perhaps, an occasional passive mourner, unbeknownst to me, I had instantly become their pivotal  interest.  For the bus had snuck up on me while I was sing-songing laureate-like along amidst the green pastures casting, upon each grave I passed, broken-off bits of sycamore bark from a rather huge molted sheet of the same which I had picked up earlier along the way.  But maybe, just maybe, they didn’t hear…maybe they didn’t see??

 Yet all in all, taking everything into perspective, which is stranger: me or a Lolly the Trolley lollying about a cemetery??!!

Xanga Tips and Tricks

I’ll bet you know something I don’t.  So I want you to ‘fess up and make my life easier.  What are the sparkling gem-secrets about Xanga that you’ve discovered along the way that have made your blogging experience a whole load lighter??  What experientially- or intuitively-divined method have you stumbled upon to make blogging for you a zen-like non-ordeal?? 

Okay…okay…so you protest that time’s still a prick and the non-instantaneity of the world generally sucks, but surely you must have one tip, know at least one trick, that could salvage for all of us one additional sliver of time from our life online to let us but smell one more rose before we croak??

I do not ask but as I give.  So below are some items of proffered froth that I have churned up from the bottom of my own procedural blogging bucket.  For many of you, all of what I’m about to offer may seem mundanely matter-of-fact: “I already knew that,” will be your response.  Very well.  Then teach me: tell me something you know that I don’t.  I am the grasshopper.  You are the master.  Teach!

Thought to self: *I think perhaps that tender newbie Xangaroonies might benefit the most by our “insider” (translate: Xangalescent, Xangarelic) insights.  So let us here nurture such  new-blogs lest someday in our moment of blogging senility they stomp us out mercilessly in an act of ungrateful ascension.*   *hahahahaha* … … …

If you find it hard to read someone’s blog because the background color and text do not contrast much, yet you still want to read it, try holding down the left mouse button and selecting the text using your mouse.  The text and background should then contrast more vividly.  If you find it hard to read someone’s blog because it doesn’t make much sense, try reading it backwards.  If it makes more sense then, look for the mark of 666 and then get the hell out of there.

Composing in Word and copying/pasting to Xanga works fine when viewed by Internet Explorer but often leaves a nasty random residue of trash code (something like <xml:o namespace……etc, etc., :font> ) if viewed by Netscape.  To avoid the trash code for Netscape viewers, first copy your finished, spell-checked Word composition to the Notebook applet and then copy and paste from that applet to the posting applet.  You may lose some of the formatting features of Word along the way (Word hyperlinks, etc.), but will have had the convenience and benefit, nonetheless, of a more powerful composition application for your draft.  But if you hate Netscape and Netscape users with a passion, just cut-n-paste directly from Word--Bill G. would be proud of you!

If your’e using Internet Explorer and the Xanga applet to write poetry, you’ll notice that at the end of every line, if you hit the “Enter” key, it will skip a line between lines.  Like this:

I hate the yearning white gap

Of unfilled unpoetry.

To avoid the “skipped” line above , hold down the “Shift” key and then hit “Enter” :

The claustrophobia of existence
Seizes my verse too tersely.

You can take back eProps that you’ve awarded.  Just go back to the post and downsize.  But why the hell would you ever want to do that???  Please…no..don’t try it here!!

Your opportunity to appear on the Featured Content list starts and runs for 24 hours from the time of a post’s first submission.  Updating the timestamp doesn’t buy you any more time on the list (it once did!).  Also, the last I checked, if you privatize a post and then make it public, the 24-hour Featured Content clock started from the first timestamp  of the Private post.  So if you want the full 24-hour Featured Content exposure of a Private post going Public, the best thing to do is copy (cut-n-paste) the whole post into a new xTools submit window and submit it afresh.  Get ready, get set, go!

If you’re using AOL and the built-in AOL browser and your connection terminates, you’ll lose everything in your xTools entry window since the built-in browser closes with AOL.  However, if you use AOL and launch a browser, either Internet Explorer or Netscape, that is not built in, losing your connection will not close the submit entry window and you can always cut-n-paste and save your work to another application (Notepad, Word, etc.).  If your not using AOL and its built-in browser but like torture, you should use it.  There are so many more limitations the AOL built-in browser places on blogging that it’s a scream!

If you have Premium, Xanga offers a download archive service for all your blogs as a backup.  If you lack Premium and want to back up your work, you can: 1) copy it into a Word document, for instance, and save it; 2) email the post to yourself and retain the email; 3) use the “Add to Favorites”, “Make Available Offline” feature of Internet Explorer to store a cached copy of your current posted page on your PC; 4) take a picture of your monitor while its displaying your post and save that!!!

If you’re posting pictures (.jpg’s), first decreasing their color depth from 16.7 million to 256 colors will greatly reduce the size (hence storage space needed and time-in-loading) of the images without noticeably hampering their quality at all in almost all cases.  There are a lot of free graphics programs that can accomplish this routine task.  When posting pictures of beautiful nekkid women, however, never do this!!  Losing even a single hue of beauty, however imperceptible, to me, is mentally cruel!! 

…I’m sure I have another tip or too, and If I remember any more, I’ll post them as a comment here. 

Okay, now it’s time to hear from you!

I've a dream... 

I'm going to build a huge radio telescope

and broadcast my blogs as binary code to the heavens someday

so that any intelligent life elsewhere intercepting them

will *shudder* in terror and stay away!!

P.E.T.I

The Prevention of ExtraTerrestial Investigations

*catches breath*

[Updated at 4:20 P.M.]

You know Cheri_Herald figured this out!!  There was a secret strategy to this, a twist of negative psychology...but listen to her:

Oh no, no, nooooooooooooo---They'd have to check you out!

Posted 8/20/2001 at 4:00 pm

Damn straight, hon!  So now that it's out, here's what I was really thinking:

So what am I up against??

In 1961, Dr. Frank Drake, an astronomer who is a member of the Advisory Board of the SETI League, developed an equation for calculating the number of extraterrestial civilizations:

According to Drake's Equation, there are about 10,000 technologically advanced, communicative civilizations in the Milky Way, our galaxy.

So why can't we/they (SETI) find any?

Are we that inept in reaching out?

Why are the years of massively-arrayed searching and searching so entirely unrecompensed??

Because Dr. Drake was wrong!  There are currently only 9,999 such advanced communicative civilizations in our galaxy—discounting us!!

I mean, what the hell kind of message are we sending them anyway?  Counts on digital fingers up to ten?  A digitized rendition of the Pythagorean theorem??  Hey baby, school’s out forever in the rest of the universe—they’re all hiding out from us because they know Earth 101 (Room: 3rd planet from Sol) sucks!!!

That’s why I feel the sun has set on SETI
And I just want to get PETI
Cause I figure that YETI
and his distant kith and kin
Will dig a real fellow-motherfucker
And just decide to BLOG on in!!

So what I really want to say is:  Aliens Here Welcomed!

(after all, they couldn’t be much stranger than all the rest of you! )

There is nothing worse for mortal men than wandering.
         --The Odyssey

I haven’t fallen asleep but I have awoken.
And find myself a stranger here.
This land of vertical time
With nothing before and nothing behind.
And nothing to do
But add the zeros
Here jettisoned about
As numerous as the carcasses
Of insects drought-stricken
And desiccated by the sun.
So I count them
One by one by one…
And though they’re adding up to nothing
They’re tallying to infinity.
So I’m encasing each one
In its own little glass block
And building a staircase
To the stars.

Ain't they cute??!!

A Xanga proposal and acceptance!!

(...she knew all along ~!~!~)

A couple of blogs ago, I wrote:

3) Somewhere along the way, the "Find Members Like You!" search engine got hammered.  It can still find the "first 25" members by whatever filter (e.g., "gender", "age", etc.), but the "Next 25" hyperlink just returns an "Oops!"  I guess the "Oops!" is supposed to be cute enough to dissuade me from being pissed.  I mean, I would really like to know more than just the first 25 (most recent published) Xangaroos from my state.  And I wrote the XangaTeam on this--and never got a reply!  But who the hell am I anyway??!!  (Hint: think *hacker* , XangaTeam, believe that I'm deranged enough to start thinking like a *hacker*).

In reply, Dan Huddle of the XangaTeam stepped forth:

Sorry, I never saw your email about this.  The bug should be fixed now.

Thanks!

Dan

Yea, Dan!  Hey, ya know that *hacker* thing was just a stance....  Thanks for the promptitude!!!

And it is fixed--it works!   Funny other thing though...today while searching using the Premium feature of "search this site" (yours or mine, for instance) for just any ole thing (well, *orgy*, for instance, on *Dan's site*), I got hits from everyone's sites.  So either the "search this site" function newly needs tweaking, or Dan is surreptiously trying to spread the word about a Xanga orgy!!

...And, oh yes, Xanga adding more hard drive space: YUM!

Now I can upload the encyclopedia I was previously reticent to post!!

Check out these prankster dudes...

My inside *guess* is that at least one is carrying a concealed weapon and several contraband while the cop (background) writes a ticket on the hood of his car for "trespassing."  One thing about these guys: no stinking badge ever ruined their fun!

Part IV  Polistrophy (political catastrophe)
Part I: What Kind of Holiday Was That?
Part II: Holding the Vision
Part III: All That I Could Be...

It’s a gloomy day here today in Cleveland, Ohio.  Ponderously overcast and the air’s as still as a mummy on display.  And I’ve hopped into my truck and driven to Lakeview Cemetery.  And I’ve put on my shades anyway ‘cause even though they allay the meager light, the yellow tint warms the appearance of these ruins.  Yes, the home of any tomb—a cemetery—is a ruin, however you cut it.  Time, here, is quixotically ticking on the other side.  The side of eternal trans-temporal, trans- and post-ruinous transformation.  But since I now must see my laptop’s keyboard to here type…*takes off shades*…ah, much better!   *pops top on can of beer* …ah, much, much better! 

Now I’ve got to keep track here ‘cause it’s 4:12 PM and the sign says at 5:30 PM they’ll lock the gates to the cemetery and my truck will be hostage.  Maybe I should just leave, park my truck outside, and come back.  Then there will be no time constraints.  I can stay the night, if I wish.

But, I’m just about in the proper mood… *takes a swig of beer* …sitting on the bottom back step of the mausoleum of one of Cleveland’s once most rich and beneficient families: the Hanna empire.  It’s a nice view—Grecian granite columns declaring architectural dominance on the top of a secluded highly-landscaped hill—a  nice place to pretend to spend eternity.  Here’s to ya Hanna…*takes another swig of beer*….

So I guess soon now’s a good time
To prop-push a curious post
To let you see just how I saw
A world leader turn to toast.

*hrm…clever rhyme.  But if you do the rhyme, you got to do the time…*

*so now I must let festivities depart*

*now I must detach even from you, dear Xangeroos, to find a stillness in my heart*

*I am trying to find a moment of sinking.  A moment that blessed me some years ago.  A different cemetery.  And a more brilliant exposure to the ultimate*

*That’s why I’ve come here.  And there’s no turning back…or is that a trick?…since I am journeying, journeying…and time itself must now lose track…*

…Corozal, Panama, August, 1981…still in a cemetery…

I usually run in this cemetery like a hot-blooded stud would make love to Madonna: at least daily.  But I never stop, never stop.  Here there’s a gauntlet of death and of dreams met and unmet. And I bring a freshness, and a tease of life recovered and revamped.  So why stop until I’m dead and I drop—cause I’m a falling star….

But rules—who makes the rules? 

So upon one blessed day, I stay alive…but I stop.   I drop.

down

down

and I’m underground.

And in the grave of a young girl, she was 12 then, and nevermore.    Her body’s here—a ruin evacuated: Sprit’s gone!  There's such a residual vibrancy here and clear of maculate morbidity! 

Then…

I’m evacuated, too. And I’m back above the grave but still *stopped* .  And my first conscious realization is: *necromancer I am not* and then…

The flight of “reality” began.  Having stopped, without any reason, for the first time ever while here running about, and *sunk* into a grave, and then rebounded out, I began to notice, to get a sense of, how to say?, a suck-ance, a rip-pance, a tear-age … And then I’m clearly sensing: a soldier I am no longer.  And the powers-that-be are no longer either…as some tragedy has befallen all and the world has become the earth…the dirt…the dust…the yet-to-be-evacuated womb-tomb…the bleedless crust.  And all is forfeited.

So what was actually happening?  I had stopped running—unconsciously—first time ever for years and years and years—and then found my conscious self above the grave of a 12-year-old girl.  The grave marker was constructed of iridescent blue tiles that were mortared together and appeared like so many Central American tributes to the Virgin Mary.  And I had apparently been psychically-seduced—*sunk*—???why???—into the privacy of her, this young girl’s, tomb.  When I recovered—consciously—back above ground, I was immediately struck by an overwhelming sense of a total power vacuum pervading the country politic.  Say what??   I no longer felt the pull to duty from my own organization nor was I able to discern any form of order or organization from any authority anywhere about, at any level of awareness, opportunist politicking, notwithstanding. 

* I am free—a world without boundaries!!! But why and how?*  

Then thirty seconds later American choppers flew overhead, towards the Atlantic coast, at full speed.  Three—tail-on-tail, just over the tree-tops.  Not an exercise.   I crisply understood.  More than: something was up.  Something was down.  Bit the ground.  And those three choppers were lovingly on that trail like hounds of Hell on the stench of Satan.  I had just psychically gotten entwisted in a wastage of true, historic and epic proportions.  I knew it.  And though I didn’t yet know the precise details, I was soon, very soon, to find out….

Gen. Omar Torrijos Herrera, the charismatic leader of Panama, was dead.  His airship had "mysteriously" crashed into a mountain.  At the very moment I had stopped.  As I had sunk into the tomb.  And emerged to an awakening sense of powerless bliss.  It was just like being a kid when your parents would come home Saturday night totally-wasted passed-out drunk, and you realized amazingly that you were the only law in town. 

Synchronicity??  Call it what you will.  For this pattern, at yet another time, was repeated and repeated with clearer signs and darker stigmas still…

By the way, the weather here in Cleveland has just cleared.  It’s brilliant and summery once again.  It’s 6:12 PM, I wonder if they’ve locked the gates??

*drinks another beer and tours*

Nope!  haven’t locked the gates yet and it’s 7:13 PM!  I think they close in the summer at dusk…that's what a couple I encountered said: dusk!

What time is dusk??

It's now 7:40 PM.  The sun is orange through the trees in which the crickets are starting to chirp and the shadows of all that are about are preparing to creep.  I could just as well stay as leave, for a communion of souls most rarely yet alive or perpetually dead is a communion, nonetheless.

Afterthought (out the north gate):  Life is a paradise yet paradox of delight.

Art of artifact? 
Be not so hard on yourselves.
The waves still wash the sand.

All the talk of snuffing and killing and mixing it up here on Xanga (Crim, Deadeye, et. al.) has played on my mind.  To the point where I actually pondered—but for a moment this morning—carrying a concealed piece again.  Picture me sitting around the coffee shop (where I happen to exactly be hanging, and writing this, and from which I’m about to post this) actually looking at everybody who looks at me as if they’re thinking of beating me to the draw.  Oh yeah, what’s that point?  What’s the point to that, you ask??

Picture this:  a young man, living alone, no parents, no girlfriend,  just a job and a huge house filled with over 200 plants (spent 1 hour each day watering ½, then the next day the other half).  And seven weapons.  Assorted mix: rifles, handguns, shotguns, one semi-automatic.  Strategically positioned around the house.  And I practice.  In the dark.  Pitch black.  Rolling out of bed.  Rolling off the sofa.  Seizing the cache, loading, locking, in the bitch of the pitch of blackness that stares back at me without expression.  Never locked my doors.  Just hung a sign: “If a friend, come’on in; otherwise, think again.” 

Picture this: a classroom filled with 250 students, my classmates.  A funny Physics class where the  professor (Jearl Walker, used to write for Scientific American) popularizes his Flying Circus of Physics road show by graphically demonstrating all types of physical phenomena.  So one day he is laying on a bed of nails to prove God knows what and another day he is dousing his hand in water and then dipping it into molten lead to prove God knows what else.  Always something.  Always a twist, always some amazing unexpected or counter-intuitive outcome.  One day while he is discussing momentum and inertia and transference of kinetic energy, a distraught student rushes into class.  Obviously outraged about a grade, the borderline student starts berating the professor with threats and gesticulated insults.  And then he pulls a pistol.  And shoots the professor.  The professor flies backwards, hits the wall, and slumps to the ground.  All the girls are screaming, and I…I reach into my book bag and pull out my .38 special.  Oh yeah, I’m a 4.0 student who plays chess all day, renowned for the intellectuality of the conversations I fall into, never without a copy of the Tao Te Ching and the mystic Merton’s “No Man Is An Island” in my back pockets, able to amuse others by reciting arcane poetry in totality, and… I discretely carry a loaded piece.  *Who’s next?* I wonder.  And in self-answer I visualize a bullet penetrating the back of the assassin still looming over the fallen professor.  But wait…the professor moves—he’s alive.  What’s more, he hops to his feet!  Is he wearing a bullet-proof vest?  Is he Superman??  No—the “disgruntled student” was a teaching assistant who fired a blank to assist the professor in demonstrating that day’s lesson on mass, inertia, and momentum!  I take my finger off the trigger and slip the pistol quietly back into my book bag.

A buddy of mine who's uneducated beyond high school but is a street-smart mastermind, having mixed it up quite a bit with knives and guns, escaped deadly pursuit by popping manhole covers and fleeing underground, and has privately confessed to me to taking out somebody “who had it coming to him,” used to constantly harangue me with his belief that I had certainly killed someone sometime.  “Come on,” he would chide, “I see it in your eyes.  You have that look.  I know.”   So I finally told him: “that look” of involvement was  awareness by proxy:  Death as a psychic scream ripping a hole into this fabric called consciousness.

And I’m relating all of this, all of this, to clear the road for my next blog.  Which will be brutally honest.  And to many, unbelievable.

Caught up in the cosmic stream

Where children’s imaginations play

And comic book characters dream

And visions converge into curvatures

To begin each day anew.

Here Dorothy soars high over her rainbow

And E.T. flies straight through the moon

And the sun rises each day as an alien orb

While the dish elopes with the spoon.

And the baby cries cause the spoon’s gone

And finds succor in sucking instead

As mommy-genius devotes her entire life

perfecting Mr. Potato’s head.

And the Green Lantern meets up with Diogenes

As he’s looking for one honest man.

And Tinkerbell teases poor Capt. Hook

by acting like a slut who is damned.

And sailors wafting aimless on oddyseys

Are taken captive by Sirens at sea.

And Lost Worlds are adrift beyond remorse

As they’re embraced by eternity.

Here I lay my head down gently

Upon a sacrificial stone in a ruin

And see virgins led to deflowering beds

For the Hero who will join the gods soon.

And the raised sword lusters brightly in sunlight

Just before the swift strike on that stone.

And the virgins deflowered and laying in bed

Have finally learned how to moan.

And the little dog laughs to see such a sight!

the lust is lost, the urge is gone
which at core had taken hold so strong.
not indulged but neither repressed:
subtly sublimated?  given a rest?
like  a hunger fast began
with starvation’s accompanying torture,
but beyond  a sufferance of days
evolving into  desireless forfeiture,
so the ache for sex surceases,
and in a forest of otherwise dark desires
seems but a bright haze burning…
then burnt-off by an inner solar fire.
tis no loss: the fairest appear
even more vibrant now and
unabashed with splendor abounding.
all beyond that urge
that was huddling darkly,
and confounding.

Life is bored with me.  This evening was open to endless possibilities...appearances, scenes, adventures--I think.   But just because I was being pulled every which way, I decided to just go home and sit instead.  And ponder it.  It being my chair, my feet, the stillness of the air.  The light is on--that's incidental.  The crickets chirp beyond the back door--that's incidental.  My cat lays on the floor nearby--okay, he's high, too.  Many of you reading this may think that what I describe is so blaise, but I tell you for me this is so curious because it is something that anymore I almost never do.

Sit.  Wait.  Wonder.

Missorted Xanga logistics:

1)  It can't be, can it?  Yes!  In some shape, juxtaposition, or incarnation, Bianca survives:

From destini's site (she joined today):

destini's Xanga Site Hey, welcome to my site.  I just started it so if it sucks, I'm sorry.  I just heard about using weblogs from this girl named Bianca who e-mailed me saying she liked my my Doors tribute page.  And she said that she was noticing my writing style and that the weblog format might work really well for me.  So.....here I am!!!!  Well, I guess that's it for now. 

2)  I just finished an informal survey for gender of 75 random blogs published today.  47 female, 23 male, 5 ambiguous or unstated.  So nearly 2:1 female to male. Nearly a half year ago, when Xanga still provided the search opportunity (see #3 below), I was able to conduct a more extensive survery that provided essentially the same demographic breakout: 233 female, 116 male--essentially 2:1 .  I'm not sure what this means, except it may be corroboration of Don Juan's claim (in the Carlos Castaneda books) that although the genders seem balanced upon earth, throughout most of the rest of the universe, entities were decidely and pervasively, for the most part, feminine.  Don Juan considered malehood to be some kind of freak status vis-a-vis the universe.  Mwahahahaha!!

3) Somewhere along the way, the "Find Members Like You!" search engine got hammered.  It can still find the "first 25" members by whatever filter (e.g., "gender", "age", etc.), but the "Next 25" hyperlink just returns an "Oops!"  I guess the "Oops!" is supposed to be cute enough to dissuade me from being pissed.  I mean, I would really like to know more than just the first 25 (most recent published) Xangaroos from my state.  And I wrote the XangaTeam on this--and never got a reply!  But who the hell am I anyway??!!  (Hint: think *hacker* , XangaTeam, believe that I'm deranged enough to start thinking like a *hacker*).

4) In the Premium tools, there is this non-functional tool called "Edit Time Stamp" which proclaims "This feature is coming soon!"  What feature?  What is it supposed to do?  Allow you to change all the dates and times of submission?  To what end?  I really don't see a point to it--but since it is there, I want it!  More tools!  More toys! More features!

%) *lights out* ... *lights back on* I just closed my eyes at work and dreamed for five minutes of eternity.  It's funny how blessings perforate even the most dreadful of routines.

the wind’s in my ears
and it’s all that i hear
now the voice of love
has departed.

swoooooooooshing white
                fressshhhly venting
                      sussurant, sustaining
                                    soft whistling
                                        sea breezing
                                               zephyr

its incessant near-sensuous suspiration
supplants the sweet nothings of yesterday.

some say you can find the ocean
held hostage
in a conch’s murmur.

yet it is
in the wind’s whisper
i now find you
unheld.

I want to *pout*.

Everyone else gets to, but they never give me a turn.

But how does one do that-- *pout* ?

Okay, until I find out, I'm going back to the drawing board and stare at it.

I went to a garden party get-together of Merry Pranksters last night.  I played horshoes and volleyball and just had a blast.  An old friend of mine, John Petrus, who had the nickname of "Johnny Nikon" showed up with a portfolio of his imagery.  From the archives of yesteryear, the following spectres appeared:

...a young dog on the verge of growing fuzz!

and...

a back-to-nature Prankster convocation!

Now: onward to more merriment!!!

Dreamland

...a 1st place, prize-winning photo by a friend of mine, John Petrus.  I'm the guy on the right....

Heres a Slice of my Matrix...

We all use computers ('tis a profound observation, no?!) and thus in a world of Luddites or Mormons (oops, I meant: Amish!) or Future World Anti-technologists could be considered keyboard misdemeanants.  But I here confess a darker secret: I'm a cyberfelon. I also contribute to the empire of networking, the lebensraum of internetting, the eventuality of the Matrix.

It's a beautiful Saturday outside.  But I'm supposed to paint (oh yes, an attic of enarmoring fumes awaits my continuing handywork)!  So what do I do?  Blow that off and connect instead with a dentist who has visions of Young Turkdom in the Tooth-Pulling World and enlist as a mercenary to bash against the cyberenvelope that has become for some too comfortably numb.

Here's the log (routine for the most part, except #14 was a TRIP: locked out by a forgotten password from the local adminstrator account, and DOOMED, DOOMED except for an apparently unregulated and undocumented Windows 2000 backdoor: *creak* *I'm in!* !)

1) Determined that Time Wolf time logging software upgrade was not installable due to lack of correct password, but also determined that the old installation could be copied to Server prior to upgrade.  Indication: call support for proper password.
2) Fixed batch file on OFFICE PC so that Softdent (Dental manaement software) for DOS loads forms and runs from a single batch file the first time.
3) Fixed drive mapping on Computer2 to map F: to \server2000cdr
4) Determined that the McAfee antivirus on OFFICE PC was too old and couldn't be updated without paid subscription, so uninstalled.
5) Installed Norton Antivirus 6.0 on OFFICE PC and updated program and virus signatures over internet.
6) Ran full scan of Norton Antivirus with updates on drive C:
7) Installed Norton Personal Firewall 2001 on OFFICE PC and updated signatures over internet; configured for use.
8) Added IPX/SPX-Netbios support and TCP/IP support (static IP and DNS) to each workstation to make networking more robust in preparation for Active Directory Services (2000 Server); pinged all workstations successfully.
9) Added the Client Services for Active Directory Services (2000 Server) to each workstation.
10)  Updated NT Server from Service Pack 3 to Service Pack 6a (for Active Directory Services (2000 Server)).
11)  Updated NT Server from Internet Explorer 2.0 to 4.01 Service Pack 1 (Active Directory Services (2000 Server)).
12)  Added NT Client for Active Directory Services (2000 Server) to NT Server.
13)  Renamed CDSERVER to OFFICE3 and renamed path on each PC to match; tested printing from all PCs to the Epson printer.
14)  Reclaimed Administrator rights on local account of 2000 Server!!!
15)  Updated Server2000 from Service Pack 1 to Service Pack 2.
16)  Troubleshot inability of Windows 98 PCs to log into the NT domain after NT Server Service Pack 6a update; determined that the OFFICE PC networking had to be completely removed and reinstalled in order to see the domain.
17)  Tested printing from all PCs to OKIPAGE printer.
18)  Troubleshot slow network access on OFFICE3 PC-redid all networking, but issue is probable bad network card and/or cable; will purchase ASAP and install.
19) Tested the digital radiography software by taking a digital xray of my keys!!!
20)  All preparations now complete for Server 2000 assumption of Domain responsibilities and demotion of NT Server from network.

All of this: 9 hours baby!  I had planned on only 3 and then going painting....

But now it's partytime: a reunion of Merry Pranksters there is to be this evening at a home of a friend with whom I've been too long out of touch.  I bet you never would have suspected that I was ever one of them! 

So now I'm leaving this behemoth I've just erected...

Dive!  Dive!  Dive!

 More Joint Semi-Posthumous Reflections

(previous installment found here)

Reflection #6

The life of the senses is not worth a jot more than the life of the spirit, or conversely.  To embrace a woman or to write a poem amounts to the same thing.  ...But to embrace a woman and write a poem simultaneously, while chugging a beer and watching the World Series...now there's a thought!

Reflection #7

The world outside the lunatic asylums is no less weird than the world inside.   ...my head!

Reflection #8

The world has often been condemned as evil because someone has slept badly or eaten too much.  The world has often been glorified because someone has just kissed a girl.  ...Quick, someone give Morganna, the Kissing Bandit, the Nobel Peace Prize (and my address)!

Reflection #9

Magic is this: to exchange inside and outside, not under compulsion, not passively...but freely, of your own volition.  Summon up the past, summon up the future: they are both within you.  Up until now you have been the slave of what is inside you.  Learn to master it.  That is magic.  …*waves wand*...shazzam...*poof*, yikes!  Where'd I go?  Magically I'm gone!   The most amazing thing: there is no damn wand.

Reflection #10

There can be no noble, no higher life without the knowledge of the devils and demons and without a constant struggle against them.   Hint: attending a Devils and Demons (D&D) party is the best way of getting to know them!

Hermann Hesse, notforprophet

On the way home, I decided to stop at a bar and just socialize a bit.   I was sitting awhile by myself when some woman comes running up, grabs a bar stool and scoots intimately up next to me, and then starts pouring out her tale of distress about some guy on the other side of the bar (not visible from where I was sitting) claiming to be a cop and harassing her, sexual intimidation, improper touching, etc.  I think Jesus, is this woman for real?   I ask her what’s this *cop* look like and she says he’s young, has black hair with a black mustache.  And she’s says that he’s also bothering three other young girls sitting over there near him.  So I say OK, I am going to have a look, and she says NO, NO, don’t confront him,  but I say I am only going to check it out cause there is nothing worse than a renegade cop.  So I get up and casually wander to the front of the bar and gaze over in the direction where she says he is sitting and, sure enough, there is some stocky guy matching her description at the corner of the bar watching me.  So I figure OK, that’s him, wander back to my beer, and she says did you see him? And I confirm, but just then one of the three other young girls walks by on her way to the restroom and this distressed woman who sat down next to me starts asking her Did he grope you? and the young cute one says Yeah but assures her that I've already told the bartender.  So now I’m kinda really upset so I say I’m going to wander around and the woman says NO, NO,  but I do not share her timidity so I get up and sure enough there is the stocky *cop* guy just standing there talking to some other girl and I walk up and say HEY DUDE HOW’s LIFE?! and he is kinda taken aback and I say YOU KNOW WHAT’s COOL—JUST GETTING TO KNOW AND RESPECT PEOPLE.  And he asks BUT WHY ME?  OUT OF EVERYBODY IN THE BAR, WHY ARE YOU TALKING TO ME?  and I say that Well, I got to start somewhere and then I start talking to the girl he was talking to and he again asks HEY DUDE, WHY ME? And I say because I want to meet everybody in the bar and so then I start talking to the next guy down the bar, an old guy who turned out to be a 2nd World War vet shot down 5 times on missions, but I am keeping my eye on this other stocky *cop* guy who has now moved away from the bar and taken a seat with some buddy in a booth.  So I spend some time talking to the old vet and then notice that the guy next to him also has black hair and a mustache.  And I’m thinking—hell—this is probably the real *cop* guy maybe and not that other stocky *cop* guy who really looks more like a *mafia* guy.  So at that point, not knowing what I might have gotten into, I start telling real loud courageous death-taunting and death-defying  Col. North Contra stories to the old vet and I’m acting like Rambo hoping to be able to fight like Steven Segal if the situation gets critical.  So this other more potential *cop* whom I haven’t spoken to yet, turns to me and asks me What are ya drinking? cause he wants to buy me a drink cause he really likes the dark, blood-curdling jungle stories I’m telling.  So I take a beer and then ask him What the hell do YOU do? and he says YOU KNOW and I say No, I don’t—what do you do? and he repeats YOU KNOW and points to an emblem emblazoned on his jacket declaring CLEVELAND POLICE.  But, on closer inspection, I notice this guy is fat and wasted and the old vet says hey, His name is Tony and he’s allright, he’s not a bad guy and so somewhat emboldened I turn back to this tony-cop and check out his tee-shirt under his jacket which has the three little pigs on it and I start laughing and pull back his jacket and, pointing at his tee,  I’m laughing, saying I wonder what the hell this means?!! and I ask the vet what he thinks the pigs symbolize and he says Oh, I don't know. So I turn back to tony-cop and say Hey, tony what year did you graduate the Police Academy because my brother was the bitch-ass instructor who probably made your life hell, so what year tony? And he replies 34. and I say What?  And he repeats 34. and then I’m sure this guy is just so pitiful, just a sham, and now so drunk as to be almost harmless and nobody else seems to be too upset about him and the old vet says Tony’s ok—he doesn’t mean any harm.  So I don’t kick his ass no way but just wander away and back to where I left the nearly hysterical distressed molested woman, but she’s gone.  Gone!  So I just sit down feeling like an under-challenged samurai and finish the beer I left there a half hour earlier. 

MIA
(missing in attic)

fumes.
lesbian psychologist hot attic paint fumes
are assaulting
taunting
numbing
and washing my brain.
sex, the desire,
is fading away.
almost as if i'd rather suck
lesbian psychologist hot attic paint fumes
than taste the passionate lips of a seething, sultry nymph
or go spelunking into a virgin's bloom.
hot paint or hot pussy: what a choice.
but I got to breathe, got to breathe,
and this fresh chiffon lemon satin
devotchka-damning enamel
on the subtle curves of the woodwork
is looking, is just looking.... 

 The Temple

An entrance view of the Temple which nurtures the greatest myth of our age, Money.

If you pass up the stairs to the left, you will immediately encounter a series of original prints of Andy Warhol:

Once deep into the womb of the Virtual Vault, expect anything. 

From a poster in an employee's office:

Crime is a logical extension of the sort of behavior that is often considered perfectly repectable in legitimate business.

From a handbook for managers, High-Velocity Culture Change , that I found laying  as reading material in the men's restroom:

If it does so happen that you hang on to all of your people, it's either a near miracle or a sure sign of bad management.

and

Ultimately culture change lives or dies by dollar signs.  It's a language everyone understands.

and

...you can develop a reputation as public enemy #1 and still prevail if you have a good supporting cast.

and

Start out fast and keep trying to pick up speed.  Leave skid marks.

and

You need radicals. Rebels. Revolutionaries.  People who howl at the moon.

From a Economic Commentary by Jerry Jordan, president of the Federal Reserve Bank of Cleveland:

From a historical perspective, the age of capitalism is now at most a teenager, and it is already evident that the power of unfettered markets to generate wealth is building momentum.

and

 Uncertain and unforeseeable events affect both workers and businesses. There is no escape.

and

...the role of the state is to nurture an economic garden—cultivating the soil to allow growth to take root, warding off pests that seek to feed off the budding crop, and keeping weeds from suffocating the plant before it achieves its potential.

I am moved. Inspired. And so lend my voice devotionally to...

The Dollar Prayer

Should have known long ago
That Economic Man
Would prove the rest of "high culture"
To be only a sham.

So let the money tree grow! 
Though capitalism's a punk,
Let's howl at the moon
and on hops of dollars get drunk. 

Let's squeal our tires
And leave skid marks of cash
As we race to tomorrow
To avoid today's crash.

Though our method is madness,
(And though crime still doesn't pay)
May the Guardians of the Big Buck
Lead and show us the way...

Time to nurture the cash crop--water it
With blood, sweat, and tears,
And may we munch on legal tender
For the rest of our years!

Fervant earthshaking wonderments that besieged me during this morning's shower:

If a microprocessor is in the process of processing macros, has it become merely a normal nondescript processor?

If we are no longer in the Stone Age, why are there so many stones still around?

If what's good for the goose (female) is good for the gander (male), does this mean that ganders ought to enjoy homosexual relations?

Matter of factly, my morning shower often foreshadows the tone of my day.  ...It looks like it's going to be a long, long day....

Yep, looks like I'm thinking out loud on the blog.  I don't think it's dangerous.  It's just unusual fo me.  Usually, I first wait  for an inspirational moment to arise, then infuse it with whatever armada (!) of creativity I can muster. 

But not tonight.  I'm not even going to try.  Let bygones be bloggones. It's all suffering succotash  !

I'm baked!

I wrote the last entry as is, except initially I had included a smiley ( ) at the very end.  After submitting it, and viewing it, I decided I didn't like the smiley.  It wasn't "me." It looked like a lizard, like a Raptor! So I deleted it. 

Can I get any more trite?  If so, please instruct.  I'm on a roll.

Well, I decided to just head home, warm up some leftovers and scout about.

*The life of a repo man is always intense.*

Thank God I'm not a repo man.

Did I get drunk last night?  Or was it only the 14-hours of work that hungover on me this morning? 

And today, not better by much: 10 hours so far and still sitting at this very moment in a closed dental office waiting for Dell technical support to take my report on a failed network backup device. 

I didn't run this weekend; I can't remember eating a good meal this weekend; I haven't even seen a friend this weekend.  Yet it was a great weekend for getting good work done.  The transformation of the attic of the *woman issues* psychologist continues with all the walls and ceilings now prepped, primed, and painted.  Next, the woodwork, already prepped, will get painted.  Then it's a matter of painting the stairwell in the hall going up to the attic and refinishing the main wood floor in the attic itself.

Also, I setup and tested a pcAnywhere (remote control) host/remote between two other dental offices to provide the remote office access to the main office's patient database.  They had a previous setup, but it was much too slow and I believe my configuration enhancements will provide them with the the additional access speed they seek to make the arrangement practical to them from a business vantage.

Well, the Dell guy finally picked my call out of the queue and told me what I didn't want to hear: reload Windows on the PC.  It's too late for that tonight!  Going...going...gone.  Finally!  I get to leave work behind and enjoy the rest of the weekend!  With two hours of Sunday remaining, I wonder what I'm going to do?

Any suggestions??

So romanceless does the expanse of this day seem.

And the world remains indifferent.

I imagine making camp after sunset somewhere in lost mountains and playfully teasing a campfire past flame to orange glowingness which I will then bash with my impromptu walking stick, sending hot embers like fireflies as messengers starward.  *I’m alive!*   *I’m alive!”, they would scream heavenwards. * Come, friend, sit by my fire and share with me a heart-to-heart and we’ll watch the stars spin round, spin round.*

Or I imagine even sharing a cup of coffee in a coffeeshop this morn, chatting this, chatting that, watching many somebodies come and go, with a Xangeroo—who? You!  Which you?  Any you, with an open heart, keen mind, and sense of voyage will do!

I could sit and imagine the day away, leaving lonliness itself dreamily bereft.  Too busy to do anything while seemingly doing nothing, I could sit and imagine so hard you would laugh!

But Trickster Time fills my day with a legion of laborious tasks.   I could detail you of the work I have in the attic, the fix-the-computer this, the enhance-the-communications that,  the grade-and-submit of all of it. But if I could descriptively portray it all, story-it all,  with you by my side, it would probably evolve into some great otherwise--a morphing adventure probing unforeseen mystery, wringing soft pleasurable doom out of stolid routine.

How my heart’s hopes do survive on so many *ifs*.  How my imagination does befriend me during this expanse sans romance.

little life (loving the details?):
I am so without big plans.

Shawna and notforprophet: Bonnie and Clyde??

She was a runaway.  Had to be.  About 12 years old, dressed in pajamas, late at night, in the bad part of town, a block away from the orphanage, and running in the direction away from the orphanage.  I just caught a brief glimpse of her while passing from the other direction in my car, but there was no doubt in my mind—a runaway for sure.  But what a fleet-footed waif she was with thighs pumping and feet barely touching the ground!  She sent chills up my spine as I beheld her vibrancy, her energy engaged in her quest for freedom and  wilderness.  And then she turned the corner and was gone.

A little further down the street, as I continued driving in the direction I was initially going, I encountered the frantic social workers.  They were running, too, but already worn out and no match for the wildering waif.  As they saw me approach, they flagged me down.  *Oh hell*, I thought, *this is always how I get involved….*

Sure enough, they, confirmed her status as a break-away.  And pleaded, pleaded for assistance as the police had not yet arrived and they feared that that girl with her phenomenal speed would be long gone with no trace by time the cops showed up.

 “Okay,” I said to one of them, “get in.”  I then did a  180 and bee-lined back to the corner where I’d last seen her.  But she was  already gone.  Up and down the adjoining streets and alleys there was no sign of her—no body in flight.  All that was left unexplored was a dark, dead-end alley that culminated in  a brace of barb wire fence erected to threateningly detach the corridor provided for the train tracks.  As I drove up to the fence I was thinking “no way she could have gotten over that,”  but I was wrong!  There she was on the other side, already 50 yards down the track—a fleeting spectre of unbridled vigor.

The social worker got out of my truck and stood at the fence screaming for her to come back.  Already in motion halfway up the fence, I stopped to the ask the social worker one question: “What’s her name?”  “Shawna,” was the reply.  Then I was up on the wire.  Seat of my pants ripped but… up, over, and…down on one foot.  And running before the other foot even landed.  Yeah, running like a paratrooper on a night jump as I hit the ground.  Poor Shawna!  Now stalked  by a running fool with automaton feet, she had no chance to get away…except… whenever I “run for the money,” my mind always drifts.  And so I started thinking about how as a child I never ran away but always dreamed about it.  And a voice inside whispered “It’s not too late.”  I would catch her—no doubt about that.  But what if I just reached out, took her hand, and continued to run?  Would she run with me?  Of course, she would!  Two runaways!!  How joyously my adrenalin-heightened imagination was playing with that notion.  And then a deadening realization brought me back to ground: one runaway and one kidnapper!  Ha!  it was too late for me.  And, soon, too, for her as the distance between us had closed to 20 feet.  “Shawna, hon, I love to run.  And you’re fast, but I’m faster and I’ll be right there,” I forewarned.

She never stopped running until I snatched her hand like someone overreaching for the baton in a relay race.  And then she started crying, “I want to go home.  Please let me go home.”  Blabbering, balling her eyes out.  And I thought, ah man, what if I let her go?  No—in this neighborhood she’d likely be killed and/or raped before the end of the night.  And even if she got home, if there was still a home, might that not, too, be a dreadful fate?  No—even though I hated playing “authority”, I knew too little and it was too late.   I led her back to the arms of the social worker who brushed her hair back caringly, gave her a big hug, and said, “Shawna, doll, it will be alright.”

Class last night was everything that nobody expected, including me.

Well, the surprise for the students was just as I here previously revealed to you.  Except that I teased them (in a half-serious manner so as to allow them some comic relief) by spoofing that the go-around oral quizzing was actually a “class oral final test component in which everyone will share the class grade.”  Here is the quiz.  They collectively scored 80% on it—a “B”.  And I left it hanging, again half-seriously, whether or not I would “curve” the grade.

At mention that I had decided upon an oral presentation of the projects, I encountered a near revolt!  I had to carefully watch hands to assure that none were slipping into purses to draw out a little derringer or .22 short pistol.  So I backed off—just a bit.  I told them that I would read the projects aloud and orally challenge them on any “issues or concerns” that I might raise.  There were actually just two projects since they were group projects ( 2 groups of four students each), and while the first one was fairly typical (statistically dry), the second one caught me by surprise:

(Note: students were told to make up a “little background story” for their research—the students mentioned below are the actual students conducting the research)

The Real Story About Hooch and Smarts

On a balmy July 23, 2001 at 3:21 a.m., Joann, Ali, Juli and Gene were sitting in Joann’s basement discussing their educational smarts, while smoking hooch (dude).  Gene had been hogging the hooch all night; Ali and Juli had been to the kitchen, making a batch of “magic brownies”, and Joann was sucking on a bottle of Ripple.  Once Gene finally stopped making odd bodily sounds, a discussion arose.  The discussion was about whether or not hooch, otherwise known as marijuana, should be legalized.

Gene, the ninth grade dropout, with no smarts at all, was all for the legalization of marijuana because, “It feels good, dude.”  Juli, the high school graduate, was against the legalization of marijuana because “Hooch should only be legalized for medical reasons.”  Ali, the college graduate, was also for the legalization of marijuana because “Everyone does it man, so why not just make it legal.”  Suddenly, Joann, the one with the masters degree, slammed her bottle of Ripple (careful not to spill any on her leather couch) and yelled, “If hooch *hiccup* was legalized, then people would smoke it all the time and our economy would fail due to the lack of productivity and absenteeism, man.”  Then, Joann puked all over her precious leather couch.  Gene applauded the projectile display and yelled, “Hey, watch out for the hooch, dude!”, and Juli and Ali continued munching on their brownies unfazed.

The next day, the quartet resumed their discussion about the legalization of marijuana and concluded:

Research Question:

The team took a random sample of 35 individuals and gathered data pertaining to their level of education and their opinion of the legalization of marijuana.  Is there a relationship between smarts (independent variable) and hooch (dependent variable)? …

Both projects had flaws, but this one…I do believe that they were all too high sailing for their own academic good.  I laughed uncontrollably at the story, but tore heavily and ruthlessly into their flawed methodology (i.e., “You chose the wrong test—t-test instead of chi square—for the levels of measurement—nominal/ordinal—you have selected.”  and “If this project were a boat, it would be sinking as a vessel of research.” ) 

Poor sweet Juli looked like she was about to cry!  I almost could have (((hugged))) her—but, hold on, I’m the Prof—can’t have that!  These are my students!  This is my class! OMG, how have I failed them??!!

Maybe that’s the problem: I didn’t fail them (understatement).  Nobody took the option to take the final test, instead opting to double-up on their midterm grade (*A*).  As dreadpirate might comment, they all seized the breeze and “Sailed on, sailed on” , relieved to have passed the course, looking forward to some remaining weeks of vacation before the Fall semester, and most probably (ah yes, that’s a statistical hedge) never looking back.

In the 13th and 14th centuries, the Inquisition ran amok in Europe seeking out “heretics” and stamping out “heresy”.    But little emphasized is that the prima facie rationale for the Inquisition’s interrogations, tortures, and frequent sentences of death was to save the heretic through admission and confession from eternal damnation.  Interrogation with its attendant tortures was actually considered a sacrament of the Church!  And the interrogating priests were empowered to administer almost any tortuous treatment to save the poor soul from eternal damnation—  But…they were not permitted to kill a person during the interrogation/torture phase.  That punishment, if deemed appropriate, was supposed to occur only after official sentencing.  Nevertheless, many unfortunates did die during torture—and the strange thing is that it was even then considered murder.  The priest administering the torture was guilty of murder!  That’s why Pope Alexander IV instructed that interrogation and torture was always to be conducted by two priests, one to immediately absolve the other of murder should a tortured heretic die during interrogation.

What a self-reifying system—buddies watching each other’s backs.  And although the purpose and techniques of the Inquisition were entirely abominable in my mind, this particular contrivance for self-regulation, the buddy system, seems to me to have some legitimate applications.  Children have been trained to use it while swimming, students are encouraged to use it while navigating about dark campuses late at night, and…I was thinking about using it here on Xanga.  How would that work, you ask??

Well, let’s say that I post a blog that is tortuously offensive, or hideously self-damning, or simply too stupid to save itself.  In the past, upon realizing my “mistake”, I could go “private”  (hide),  or post a subsequent blog making corrections and amends (awkward, unconnected, and untimely), or I could just ignore it (ignorant).  What never seemed like a viable option to me, because it seemed too unconvincingly self-recanting, was to post a comment by myself about myself on that very same blog attempting to rectify affairs.  I tried it once and it was pitiful: me on me—hell, that’s public masturbation, that’s heresy!!!

But what if…I had logged off, and logged back in as another persona, say, NFP.  Then returning to notforprophet’s troubled post with a fresh venue and outlook, and observing the golden rule of being a best-buddy, I could by comment immediately go about setting things right!   Such a scenario might look like this:

You Are Here: notforprophet

Thursday, August 02, 2001

I believe most girls believe what they say when they make a promise.  I just don’t trust them to do what they say in that promise.

Public Entry 12:22 pm - 2 eProps - 5 comments - edit it - email it

5 Comments

You are an evil person!

Posted 8/2/2001 at 12:49 pm by prettychica - delete

You’re going to go to hell.

Posted 8/2/2001 at 12:51 pm by nastybitch - delete

Let me explain.  notforprophet doesn’t really mean that this applies only to girls generally.  He believes it also applies generally to males.  However, in the past, when a guy has broken a solemn promise to him, he’s typically kicked the shit out of him.  Guys now know this and have modified their behavior for him accordingly, and so seem more trustworthy, though generally, in their behavior with others, they are  still as untrustable as girls.  notforprophet could never kick the shit out of a girl.  It’s inconceivable, except as a very last resort of self-defense.  The girls know this and their respondent behavior embraces this knowledge at some level, perhaps even subconsciously.  Hence, he observes more girls breaking promises to him than guys, but he didn’t mean to impute that girls are less trustworthy than guys—just more fortunate!

Posted 8/2/2001 at 12:54 pm by NFP - delete

You’re still an evil person!

Posted 8/2/2001 at 12:58 pm by prettychica - delete

You are both going to hell!

Posted 8/2/2001 at 12:59 pm by nastybitch - delete

See—buddy system!!  NFP absolving notforprophet, just like two grand Inquisitors!!!   Great idea, no??

Well, it's time to shake things up a little.

No, not here on Xanga--you all know I'm incapable of that.  

I'm talking about my graduate level Stats class which meets tomorrow night for the final time this semester. 

The students are expecting: 1) To get a final lecture on regression procedures, 2) Turn in their project, and 3) Get a final exam. 

Instead, I'm going to 1) Give them a summary in-class exercise on regression (students: *boo*) , 2) Make them present their projects impromptu instead of merely turning them in for grading (students:*hiss* and *double-boo*) , 3) Give them the "actual" final test as a spot token oral quiz (no or only minimal grade point impact) without telling them up front that it was to be the final test or that I'm weighing the quiz as a participation instrument only (students: *eyes of dagger-glare* *tears of disbelief* and *promises to hiss and boo on my grave*) , and as the coup de grace, 4) Give them all the option of taking an actual final or doubling up their midterm grade.  Tough one.  Seeing that all 8 of them got *A*'s on the midterm, that could be a real tough one to decide (students: *eyes of dagger-glare melt in plowshares of awakening affection*  *tears of disbelief are muted with heart murmurs of relief*) , and, of course, 5) Wish them all a happy remaining summer vacation and watch them dance out of class in merriment with the realization that they successfully survived the dreaded Stats requirement.

Am I revealing my hand here?  Could possibly some of my students be monitoring my blog?  And, if so, will this stated intent of mine let the students maneuver effortlessly to seize the day with ludicrous advantage? 

If so, I have two further questions for them to ponder: 1) How much confidence (statistical or otherwise) do you have in my predictability based on this blog? and 2) Do you feel lucky? (to be read with a Clint Eastwood/Dirty Harry intonation)