Month: November 2002

  • Don’t buy the hype: today should not be heralded as the “single, biggest shopping day” of the year.  Yes, that it may be, but more notable still is that today is the “single, biggest toilet paper usage day of the year” .  Expect plumbers with their snakes to be backed up on emergency calls.


     


    I’ve mixed feelings about “Buy Nothing Day”, Nov. 29 (today).  Adbusters.org  describes it as casting a vote “against the global economy”.  Hrmm…I’ll bet Osama is tight with that sentiment, too.  And what’s this I see?…adbusters.org itself is providing “campaign materials and TV and radio spots that press the point.”  Well, it doesn’t sound like they themselves are exactly buying nothing now, does it?  And I’m sure the patronized media mentioned becomes ever more thrilled with adbusters’ prospects for a growing campaign.



     


     


    But I will rally against buying the Purple Pill.  I mean, wtf-kind of insidious, seductive message are the ‘Purple Pill People’ sending all of us, but especially our most impressionable younguns, by having mysterious commercials that only urge “Nexium—Find out if today’s Purple Pill is right for you” without ever mentioning its usage or properties?  Why not just leave it up to the prospective consumer’s/junkie’s imagination:  *“Nexium” –the ‘next yum’, the purple pill that solves all of your unspecified worries and problems* perhaps.  As it turns out (learned only by visiting the pill’s website—where the "purple pill" becomes a cursor's tail following you around—and not through the commercials), the “Purple Pill” is merely for acid reflux.  But the under-informing yet totally suborning pitch through the media leaves one, nonetheless, on the verge of an addict’s ever-more seeking wanderlust: Alice had her pills downunder the rabbit’s hole, and dammit, I do so purplely want mine!  Hey, maybe I'll just buy some and fill them with designer stock?








  • Alas!  Behold the forlorn lover: love of the heart never leaving the loins.  Though life has never been more real, to reach out and embrace just loneliness, or more precisely, just unjust loneliness, is a too friendless gesture, dejectedly employed.


     


    Just to dread: what makes life miserable-
    Wishing either to consummate love or drop dead.


     


    But instead, subliming dreamt nocturnes of rippling entwinement
    To involuntary writhings that mourn of matters queerly bereft.


     


    Enough.  Enough time and energy mislaid.  Perhaps the lover’s lover answers not because the disjoint of time has them cast them apart beyond the continuity of each other’s 'now': one living at this moment, the other a hundred years past or hence.  What strangeness is that?  How dare time, with such cruel invention, devise true love to wreck?


     


    But time, too, vanishes.  It only has so long to fuck around until its toys are mortally spent.  What rattles in the crib, yet quickens the pace to become the celebrated baton of a social relay race in the stride of life, still ends up rattling again as shifting bones in the grave. 


     


    And what know bones alone after desire has fled?


  • Tomorrow I plan to work all morning and into mid-afternoon.  Then I'll take a running tour of 'Dreamland'.  Thereafter, I'll grab my Thangs-giving meal, and subsequently may resume working depending on how much I've gotten done earlier.  Anyhow...may you all enjoy.  And keep the calories burning.

  • "There's glory for you!"
       "I don't know what you mean by 'glory,' " Alice said.
       Humpty Dumpty smiled contemptuously. "Of course you don't—till I tell you. I meant 'there's a nice knock-down argument for you!' "
       "But 'glory' doesn't mean 'a nice knock-down argument,' " Alice objected.
       "When I use a word," Humpty Dumpty said, in rather a scornful tone, "it means just what I choose it to mean—neither more nor less."
       "The question is, " said Alice, "whether you can make words mean so many different things."
       "The question is," said Humpty Dumpty. "which is to be master—that's all."



    Blog fluffer : a blogger who habitually bloats the blog with copied quotes and anecdotes from the internet with little or any value-added, i.e., a cut-n-blogster .

  • It's "too" quiet at work today.  *bursts some bubble wrap*  Too quiet.  Almost conspiratorial.  *chews on bubble wrap*  Almost as if everyone has whispered "Shhhh!", let's listen for the next sound that he makes.  *bangs head against bubble wrap laying on the table*  It seems like almost a parasitically-induced quietude sucking off of my energy-being.  *sits on bubble wrap and bounces up and down*  Waiting for me to expend myself in energetic blunder. *stands on buble wrap and shifts weight to induce a flurry of bursts* As if the workplace is now harboring vitality-vampires posturing to suck my activity-blood. *bursts bubble wrap right next to ear*  Oww!  That hurt.  And now my ear is ringing.  Where's the damn warning labels on these compression bombs? *silently begins piercing the remaining bubbles with a pin and subversively squeezes their air out*

  • I know my love is real
    Because my mind is calm,
    My heart is still,
    And yet I feel
    All there is to feel.

  • Scientist burns penis with hot laptop


    "Laptops have always been a hot item but a 50-year-old scientist didn't realize to what extent until he burned his penis.


    The previously healthy father of two remembered feeling a burning sensation after he had been writing a report at home for about an hour with the computer on his lap."


    What a nerdy amateur.  As any veteran blogger knows, the key to not getting burned is maintaining a keen sense of non-literality and keeping the 'laptop' off one's lap.  As I here aptly demonstrate (and some may recall):


  • There’s practically nothing uglier and more hypocritically brutal than  violence midwived in the name of religious purity.  Already over 100 are dead as a result of the Nigerian Miss World riot frogspawned by rampaging Muslims (with ‘Christians’, in kind, reacting) in purported defense of the honor of their beloved Prophet, Mohammed, whom they claim was blasphemed in a newspaper article earlier this week.


     


    So what’s the beef?



    The riots began after an article in the Lagos-based daily newspaper This Day on Wednesday questioned Muslim groups that have condemned the Miss World pageant.


    The front-page article said: "What would (the prophet) Mohammad think? In all honesty, he would probably have chosen a wife from among them (the contestants)."  -CNN


    The newspaper, though offices were burnt, was forced to print three apologies.  The government is likely to severely punish it in days to come.  And the spokeswoman for the Miss World pageant has said:  "We regret these incidents, but this is not the fault of Miss World.   It is the result of irresponsible journalism."


     


    Yes, the journalism was irresponsible.  And the attribution of such unimaginable behavior to the Prophet was wrong, very wrong.  What should the newspaper have stated, in my opinion, instead?


     


     "What would (the prophet) Mohammad think? In all honesty, he would probably would have been a judge in the show.  And he probably would have screwed all the runner-ups and have given the nod to the best among them (the contestants)."


     


    Hey, Herman Hesse had Siddhartha Gautama, the historical Buddha, sleeping, living, and learning with concubines in his novel Siddhartha.  And Buddhism, for the most part today, is resultingly sublime.   Maybe if the Prophet, too, could have gotten his rocks off at a beauty contest, more Muslim fundamentalists today would, in turn, be making love, not terrorizing war.


     


    So right here, right now, I’m proclaiming to all of you I-am-a-wealthy-Nigerian-relative-of-a-persecuted-wealthy-Nigerian-billionaire-who-needs-you-to-take-control-of-all-of-our-funds-overseas  religious zealots:  the Prophet had the biggest dang dong in all of Koran-dom and surely would have delighted each and every one of the World’s missies if he would have ever happened to be the happy host.


     


    There, all you mayhem-Muslims and crotchety-Christians of Nigeria: This is a real man’s unapologetic blog.  The servers are conveniently headquartered in NYC.  Quit pussy-footing with your horrible, parochial, self-destructive riots, pick up the torch of Miss Liberty, and look up Xanga—maybe even ask john if you can take a tour.  Or even meet us for a Xanga MeetUp—I’ll try to arrange to have some girls available that would have met up to the Prophet’s preferences.


     

    Please note: any resemblance between the Prophet Mohammed and notforprophet is strictly, coincidentally, genetically-inbred.

  • This Week's Cataclysm Alert:  Killer Meteorites this week are being downgraded as potential sources for cataclysm, while Black Holes are ascending -->  <-- in the hierarchy of mass universal destruction. 


     


    This week alone we have been informed that there are two ‘Super’ black holes on a collision course at the center of our galaxy with the potential to “warp the fabric of space itself” and…and… that there is a vagrant ‘Runaway’ black hole headed directly towards a ravaging of our very own Mr. Rogers-type neighboring space (‘Runaway black hole headed our way’). 



    I guess since black holes really don’t hit things (except themselves as mentioned above) but rather ‘suck them in,’ that if we escape this ‘runaway’, it will be by a 'near-suck' rather than a 'near-hit'.  My own read on this is that, as the runaway gets closer, not only will civilization fire itself up with the fervor of ‘Last Days’ religiosity, but blow-jobs will become entirely taboo sexual acts for they will be considered black-magically sympathetic, if not actually synergistic, with the ‘Big Suck’.


     


    Meanwhile, the threat from ‘Killer Asteroids’



    has been reduced from ‘wear your hardhat, we're certain’ in the next few years to ‘tell your children to tell their children to kiss their asses goodbye’.  Now that’s a relief!  Of course, this ‘revision’ is based upon an extremely small number of observations in a short span of time that statisticians (such as myself) deem ridiculously unreliable.  But since when has a statistician’s stern admonishments ever stopped a ‘Thank-God-it-will-be-them-and-not-us’ party from erupting?


     


    I don’t know about all of you, but this week’s official cataclysmic flip-flopping is just a bit too much for me.  So my recourse and refuge after work today will be to follow the lead of our own drunken Sun (wherein photons bounce around aimlessly for millions of years) and allow the neuron firings in my brain to bounce around in grand aimless solar-emulation in my soon-to-be-drunken bar-hugging head.

  • Somebody somewhere once read this before...


    I ‘miss you’ in the nighttime when I first lay down to sleep,



    Then I ‘kiss you’ in my dreamland where conjoined our hearts take leap.



    But in the morning when I wake up, I find I even need you more



    Cause I’m still sailing passion’s ocean and you’re yet my unseen shore.

  • I'm down off my throne
    And I've left my body alone...

  • Of all sexual aberrations, chastity is the strangest.
    --Jacques Anatole Thibault


    Perhaps the strangest sexual aberration is being 'an authority' on sexual aberrations.  Trust me.  I know what I'm talking about.
    --nfp


    The only unnatural sex act is one which you cannot perform.
    --Alfred Kinsey


    Hence, there are no unnatural sex acts.  The box office opens at six.  The performance starts at seven.
    --nfp


    There is hardly anyone whose sexual life, if it were broadcast, would not fill the world at large with surprise and horror.
    --W. Somerset Maugham


    For this matter, the world's a small place.  I think the fabric of interstellar space itself would be warped by a play-by-play account of my antics.
    --nfp

  • Someone hands you an AK-47 and tells you to kill Osama bin Laden.
    But he looks like Osama himself.
    Think fast: What do you do? 

  • pounce upon my words.


    like a vulture would hot, putrid roadkill


    left mealy in the street.


     


    make gel of my whims.


    like invading bacillus would exposed agar in a petrie dish,


    like an earthquake turning a hill of clay to squish.


     


    plan to dance upon my grave.


    but don’t dance well—


    flagellate as if the heat of my soul flaming


    is burning your tender tapping soles.


     


    cover your face and laugh.


    knowing that a veil of non-emotion


    chars my heart much more


    than a snicker in the open.


     


    take a shit.
    and flush my memory


    down the drain


    with the excrement.


     


    but first, face me.


    and give me one last kiss.

  • i’ve concluded in this America


    (missed America?)


    that the women don’t care
    whether I’m fucking or not.
    and guys only care if


    i’m still a true shot
    but don’t give a shit


    whether it’s Jack Daniel’s
    or a bullet


    to the fucking enemy’s brain.

  • i’m lost on Passion’s Ocean
    lost and adrift once again.
    and if the trend holds


    true, the world


    shall make itself over


    and become strange


    to my eyes


    an unrecognizable orb


    of surprise


    before fate chances


    another fall of land.

  • It's dubbed "the helper's high."

    Researchers say the satisfaction people get from volunteering can cause a rush of euphoria, followed by a longer period of calm...This "feel-good sensation" should aid health by reducing stress with the release of endorphins, the body's natural painkillers.


    The initial rush is followed by a longer-lasting period of improved emotional well being, which volunteers believed to be vital to health improvements they experienced.

      —Carmela Fragomeni, "Today's fitness tip: Become a volunteer," The Hamilton Spectator, April 24, 2002


    Do you ever get 'high' helping others?  Well, if you need some assistance in doing so, I can help you: Help Me!

  • Some of the many other faces of xanga...



    This (above) is SantaHis mom is Xanga.  Just look at how she dresses him: She's a bitch.



    Here's a guy named Linga Xanga who sells giraffes.  Damn, he's as tall as they are.


    -->Here's a school syllabus that makes Xanga a class assignment (if you don't blog, you fail!)<--


    You may recall my most fortuitous finding from a previous blog :


    I have found the actual lost kingdom of Xanga (<--no shit) at last!!!



    I hereby declare it our Mecca!  All true Xangaroos are hereby instructed to travel thereto sometime during their lifetime.


    Whoever gets there first, please blog back and inform if the accomodations are suitable to my needs for kingly comfort! wahahaha


    (p.s., the link to the kingdom of Xanga above doesn't always seem to be available--too funny!  If not, begin your journey here.)


    (p.p.s., Nyree observed that Fucole--she laughs because she imagines as I imagine that it's pronounced *fuck-all*--is near Xanga!  Well, Gole and Candua are near Xanga and Fucole, too!  So...if my Gole is to Fucole Xanga, I suppose it's something we Candua!!! Mwuhauhauaua   )


     



     


    Here's a boat named xangaJohn, xanga-CEO type, in his blog today apparently thinks that xanga is  a boat.  Well, guess what, he's right!


     


    Want to join a tribe named xanga?  Too late--we've all been exterminated! :


    The Chinese write in this regard, to the Northwest it has as border, the river Yalo, and the rest is surrounded by the sea. This is the district, which the emperor Uúus, founder of the tribe Cheva, to Kicius, kinsman of the emperor of the tribe Xanga, gave the same on loan around the year AD eleven hundred and twenty-one, when the tribe Xanga was exterminated and eradicated, and this by the death of the malicious emperor Kisus, who, conquered by Uúus, burned himself alive, together with the beautiful palace he has made, certainly a suitable death for his lechery, since he has lived scandalous, Under the tribe Cina, it has also had the name Leotung.   -- here


     


    Now don't forget the dessert :


    Xangas Cheesecake deep-fried inside a flour tortilla rolled in cinamon and sugar served with Vanilla Ice Cream
    £3.25    ...from the amigosrestaurant menu


  • The real warrior is always ready to embrace true peace.  In these rough times, it seems to me, there's a lot of embracing that remains yet undone.

  • I’ve worked—how many?—30 or 40 days straight now.  At a 60 to 70 hour clip a week.


     


    Here’s how my time (hours) breaks down:


     


    60 to 70   work


    35 to 50  sleep


    10 to 20 writing/reading


    10 to 20 online (all activities)


    15 driving


    10 social


    5 to 7  running


    3.5  bathing/bath


    2  eating


     


    On the other hand, I incur time savings by watching virtually no TV, utilizing no measurable minutes for engagable sex (geez…it sounds almost timelessly spontaneous?), devoting no time to boredom, and surrendering no time to non-productive depression (I keep my depressive moments productive, in other words). 


     


    What keeps me going?  A dream of a better tomorrow.  And the running.


     


    Yesterday, I snuck a half hour run in just before the cemetery closed.  I actually quit the job I was on “early” so that I could get that sliver of a half hour in.  Now in all my experiences in the cemetery, I’ve never been ‘spooked’ or really frightened. But if I were ever to be, yesterday would have been a prime time for it. For it was a chilling slippage I encountered—mid-30s, damp, drizzly with intermittent blasts of frozen rain,  and eerily darkening through twilight into night.  And fallen leaves were rustling everywhere about as a result of the whistling wind whipping them up.  And nary another soul beyond myself was much to sight.  But the dark towers and grand mausoleums all about seemed to me, nevertheless, commotive with lifeless motion, restless with the lack of life.  And I started imagining spirits rising up from the shadowy unseens to challenge me.  And I even envisioned a 2-ton bronze angel ornament on one headstone that I passed breaking away into animated flight and sweeping down to whisk me away.  And I thought to myself: “If any of what the better part of my imagination is strangely and unusually tendering were to really happen, what would be my response?”  And I assured myself that I would stand and fight.  Ha!  I would fight death itself and dare to win—and what a battle that would be! 


     


    But no attack was forthcoming.  I think the ghosts fear me.  I really sense that I frighten them.

  • Yesterday I got carded while buying a six-pack of beer.  LOL


    But instead of producing my license, I pulled out my Passport, very-official U.S.-type.  The cashier was like..."ok..."  Ha...I kinda look like a grungy Chuck Norris in the photo.


    Why a passport?  I'm getting ready for an overseas trip at the end of the year to encompass the Holiday season and I'm 'gearing up', so to speak, by assembling and utilizing the accoutrements.  I figure if I can go about life here for a month or so carrying my passport around without losing it, my chances of losing it there will be greatly reduced since I'll be used to handling/keeping track of it.


    Oh, by the way, me voy a Panama.  Not the capital city much, but mostly the interior. To places where few tourists are found: pristine beaches, small towns, and jungle.


    Yes. I'm returning to my warrior-stomping grounds where I used to run as a wild man under three-layered canopy.


    And this morning, as I showered, I had a vision.  I visualized, as I usually do, myself running--again, it's part of the process of 'gearing up' for me to visualize a run start-to-finish, that is, to 'see myself through' to completion.  But in this vision this morning in the shower, while I disappeared running into the Panamanian interior, I didn't see myself re-emerge.  That leaves me still running--I think.  I hate when visions do that: leave you in the middle of something.  So I'm hoping for a Running Vision 2--the Sequel, soon.  Or am I being subtly informed that I need to submit myself once again to the wilderness before I can envsion my way out?

  • When I'm high and I have no desire, I then know that when I'm not high but 'desirous', I know really nothing of true desire.

  • On behalf of all Medievaldom, I am suing the Magic Kingdom.

    I always felt there was something dizzy about Disney.  And sure enough, Mickey Mouse has just been uncovered as a big rip-off!

    Take a look at the character in this 700-year-old Austrian church fresco:





    Now, study Mickey’s 'uncanny' similarity to it:



    Disney is litigatively doomed!  Even though Walt tried a quick one by reversing the colors (Medieval Mickey was red and the background black), by superimposing these images I have clearly obtained court-compelling evidence of cultural profiteering:





    Learn more about this breaking news here.

    And now that I’m fired up, I’m going to start perusing great tomes of Medieval art work for the source inspiration for all the rest of the cloned Disney klan.  You’re on notice Donald Duck!

    And riled as I am, I have also advised worm to sue Xanga for copyright infringement on the design of the eProp’s artwork.  Just check out worm’s eProp:



    It’s clearly an eProp…but it’s a copyright ©, too!  All hail worm, future xanga-awardee, Xangod, and guardian of propping!

  • Did you all know that toreibjo is back? (Well, as back as any of us be!)  And he's writing about death (no, not seanmeister's sweetie).


    In his book, Good Faeries, Bad Faeries, Brian Froud depicts Death as 'just another' faerie, unpreferred, amongst a torrent that frolic in and haunt our world.


    I see Death as natural as having sex. (Which I haven't had for a remarkable spell, so maybe Death will leave me alone, too?)


    Do posts on blogs die as they get swept into the past?  Here's one from a year ago:


    There’s not an enemy that can do me harm:
    I alone enable, empower, ennoble
    (or drag myself salaciously down). 
    So it’s always been—shall it always be?
    Or have I missed the subtle signs
    of an ominous, incorporate malignancy?


    Why is it I always surge
    beyond the restrictions I find erected?
    Never yielding to merely hold and protect
    that which clearly’s found as mine—
    Bounding instead headstrong against time
    again and again and again?


    Countless are the secrets of my youth interred
    in a haze of non-consciousness
    —as if time capsules waiting to be exhumed.
    If only now I can again trick the trickster Death
    and dance down that rejuvenating gauntlet of doom.


    Oh yes, it is a good day to die.  But a much better day to live.  So live.  So love.

  • Is xanga getting senile? 

    It seems lately as I tour around xangaland that interactions are quite depressed, that is, props and comments are everywhere relatively scarce.  xanga’s seeming less like a ferocious, revolutionary forge for brazing blogs and more like a warming oven for keeping muffin posts slightly above room temperature.  What’s up with us? 


     


    Is xanga still birthing or stillbirthing?


     


    I’m beginning to believe that after an initial period of enhancing vigor when a blog comes to bloom, that there sets in a ‘half-live’ dynamic to continuing active blog production—let’s call it a ‘blog-life’ (no, not a 'dog's life'—I'll get down to that a little later below).  And that as the blog-life is expended, the disorder of entropy ensues: posts become irregular, and, in some cases, stop altogether, comments returned grow leaner in numbers, and what once seemed like notable popularity nudges onwards towards an extinguishing oblivion. 


     


    So how long is a ‘blog-life’ and when does it ‘kick-in’ ?  My impression is that most new blogs are fresh and blooming with enthusiasm and novelness for about 8 to 12 months on the average and then become subject to a ‘blog-life’ senility effect of a ‘halving’ reduction every subsequent six months or so. 


     


    Or is it more sociologically a situation where the absolute magnitudes of luminous posts reached a maximum limit with a smaller, friendlier-sized community (xanga, let's say a year or so ago) and that they are now actually decrementing amidst the more anonymous, indefinable environs of a garganutally-growing blogdom?  Such a situation would suggest kinship with the idyllic notion of moving into a small ‘friendly town' or small ‘friendly neighborhood' and discovering a big turnout for a ‘house-warming’ but, on a different hand, finding the process of effecting a change of address by relocating to a sprawling neighborhood of a large city a practically unheralded one anymore.


     


    Is there, possibly, something comparable to the Main Sequence evolution of stars that might explain the persistence and life of a blog in the blogosphere?  Stars can start out at different sizes {O-type (60 solar masses), G-type (1 solar mass—like the Sun), or M-type (0.1 solar masses)}, and they all start out burning hydrogen at their cores, but their cores eventually fill with helium ‘ash’.  Blogs can start-up with different popularity-appeal (based on content and quality and visibility) but they all tend to start with some enthusiasm, i.e., ‘fire in the belly’ at their core.   With helium filling the star’s core, core energy production ceases and the hydrogen fusion process progresses outwards into a shell around the core.  The core addiction to blogging is, in time, reduced and blog-production becomes a more peripheral activity.   Eventually due to equilibrium considerations, stars tend to turn into giants or super-giants of themselves and in so doing become brighter but cooler.  Blogs accumulate heaps of total comments (and eProps)—to a point—and though they’ve gained prominence in the community, they seem to begin to loose their ‘fire in the belly’.   Eventually, the giant stars may collapse into denser masses (white dwarfs or black dwarfs)—or the super-giants collapse and then explode dramatically into supernovas.  Blogs can fade toward an eventual contracted, puttering oblivion or self-destruct dramatically through post-deletion.


     


    *looks up at the last paragraph*   Well, the analogy isn’t precise, but it’s a start at understanding blogosphere dynamics.


     


    And the xanga MeetUps—what happened with them?  Not even john or monsur or marc or dan (all xanga official-types) had even one single thing to say about the largest one—the NYC MeetUp which some of them were promising to attend.  The Cleveland gig here for me was cancelled for lack of interest.  Did they all turn into embarrassing busts, too disjointed to bring to blogmention?


     


    Maybe the problem is that the MeetUps didn’t GetDown?!


     


    So next month I’m sponsoring a xanga GetDown: you show up and we’ll get-down.  And if we really get-down, like diamond dogs, I might even turn my blog’s mobile damncam on (on the left over there, but not satellite-mobile right now)  for all the blogosphere in realtime to behold.  So that’s my new take on blogging: GetDown (carbon fusion) and get bold.  Then cry havoc and let loose the dogs of blogs.

  • Sunlight is drunk!’


    That was my realization last night after chatting with a friend.  We had briefly chatted about phenomena that are observed to follow a statistical pattern called a ‘random’ or ‘drunken walk’ .  When something takes a ‘drunken walk’ it bounds all over the place with no apparent preferred direction, if and until—and this is critical—it hits a ‘wall’.  Thereupon, though innately no direction is yet preferred, there is no direction to go—except away from that wall. 


    Picture somebody totally blasted in a bar and staggering around without a clue.  Two steps forwards, one more step forwards, one step backwards, three more steps backwards, one more step backwards, three steps forwards—got the picture?  (I’m keeping the ‘staggering’ front and backwards to keep the example simple.)   You’re wondering, well, if this person does somehow manage to stumble out of the open bar door whether or not they’ll end up the twelve steps further in the street’s gutter.  Everyone else in the bar is cocksure if the person gets out the door that he’ll soon take the gutter dive, but you’re not so convinced. 


    Eventually the drunk provides you the opportunity to observe.  Out the door he goes, stumbles about, and then into the bar re-emerges to stumble some more.  In and out, in and out, almost like a kid playing in a revolving door, but with episodic stumblings about of various durations in between going back and forth. 


    Everyone who had made a bet with you that once the drunk walked out the door that he’d soon  end up in the gutter probably would end up paying up.  Why?  Because the drunk’s ‘drunken walk’ has no preferred direction—and twelve steps outside the bar directly to the gutter is a long, long way to go for someone inclined to change direction every step or two or three…(with more consecutive steps there is a significantly decreasing probability of a continuing occurrence).


    But, if once outside, the door is locked so that the drunk can’t stumble back in, the likelihood of him ending up in the gutter are much, much  greater.  Why?  Because his random meanderings are now constrained  and the ‘wall’ will have the effect of eventually skewing his staggering gutterwards.  There is, in the long-term , no other way to go.


    So what does this have to do with sunlight?


    I’ve mused quite often before about sunlight—it’s forever transcendent qualities:


    Where is the darkness in daylight?  I can't see it!


    But I know that it is there, so near.  It can't be seen yet is a mystery, hidden-ness... cosmically, comically touching and massaging me.


    Need I beam more radiance to expose it?  Magnify sunlight?  Burn a flare?  Declare it an Appolonian affair--worthy of skywriting on a cloudless day?


    Or should I simply slow time to a crawl and watch the photons intermittently pulse with packets of darkness dispersed in between?  And see the dark promise of fulfilled desire in your smile's gleam?  10/20/2001


    Yet forever bathed (macro-metaphorically) in sunlight
    I find the world restored.
    This planet is now my lover.
    I won’t treat her like a whore  (no more). 
    3/17/2002


    Sunning, I suspect, is truly occult, in the sense that its more profound effects are hidden and unseen.  Whether one just innocuously lays on a rock to grab a simple ray or partakes in an elaborate ritualistic outlay tantamount to sun-worshipping, surrendering to sunlight may actually be the lightest and brightest occult activity humanly possible. 


    So what is it that’s hidden, what’s unseen?  If one were to observe a girl topless and laying facedown on the beach sunning with just barely a thing called a thong on, one might come to the conclusion that the only things unseen are the other side of the cloth of that thong and her two breasts rubbing a towel into the sand. 


    Ahem— that’s a —er— natural  outsider’s perspective.  But what really is transpiring in her psyche as the sun flares its intensity down upon her?  What transformation of the spirit visits?  What healing repairs occur by this intermediation of solar incandescence?   7/8/2002


    But what I never realized until after my chat last night is that sunlight, too, takes a random, drunken walk after it’s creation in the sun’s core.  (For a technical explanation, read the physics here . )  And the implication of this is that the sunlight that bathes you and me is a mix of variously-aged photons—some perhaps just hours or days in journey, but many perhaps years, even thousands, even millions of years upon a sojourn to bring us light!  Yes, the sun is drunk!   And some of the sunlight that might warm your cheek or tan your hide may have been birthed even before the advent of mankind.  Sunlight is our energetic connectivity with times immemorial: an elixired blast from the prehistoric Mesozoic, perchance. 

    So if you ever find yourself in the gutter someday, waking up with the sun in your face after having been tossed the previous night out of the bar,  take heart that some of the  photons that caress your mug have ended up in the same gutter with you after a similarly-destined drunken journey that began... 



                 ...One Million Years B.C.

  • If you found all prospects for physical intimacy cast far over the horizon, and distancing even as you reflect, would you:


     


    1)      writhe periodically in sexual ecstasy just thinking about that someone,


     


    2)      suck it up decisively like Chuck Norris, Texas Ranger, spit out ‘enough’ and go out kicking-ass sans whatever and all-tough,


     


    3)      harness the tornado of one’s emotions into a sublimate of tender poetry and affectionate prose, or


     


    4)      love the drug your with ?


  • Join the Mission--only 4 days left! 


    I figure I'll get to Mars, claim blogging rights to the planet, and then just wait for the colonization to reap me cagillions of dollars in blogging fees.


    You think that's foolish?  Well, here's one 'visionary' who bought up gob-loads of cable rights dirt cheap in Mexico years ago before anyone could even imagine the usefulness of cable technology:


    interviewer: A few days ago, (Howard) Stern said that you had made billions by buying rights to every cable line under the Atlantic Ocean. He couldn't believe your business savvy. Is it true?


    Dick Clark: No, Howard had it wrong. I do have some television concessions in Mexico, and if they blossom, wow, I'll be something wealthy. It's really booming there, all areas of communication. But every cable line? No.


    'some' but not 'every' ??


    Las Americas Broadband plans to build and operate a fiber-optic network for providing high-speed Internet, telephony, data and multi-channel cable TV services. Company chairman Dick Clark (known by generations for his American Bandstand show) controls 61% of Las Americas Broadband.


    All I can say, if you want to make it big, is that you got to get to where you're going before they put up the signs giving directions!


    Now how the hell do I get to the NASA launchpad?

  • RUE, an acronym for ‘Resist the Urge to Explain’.


     


    I’ve been mulling for little while now over a plot for a book and have had a pretty good idea where I would like to go with it, but until I read this article, I was choking on page 0 without really knowing how to start off. My problem was that I had been succumbing to the urge to explain—and getting nowhere.


     


    But yesterday morning, an opening scene came to me which I developed in further detail while running later in the afternoon in the cemetery (yes, I do some of my best thinking—and sometimes even compose poetry when I run—doesn’t everyone?).  So there I was, making 7 miles of tracks around gravestones with a shadow character coming to life in my head.  This character was letting me know quite clearly that he has an irresistible urge to pound on a laptop, to make the story happen—by resisting the urge to explain.  And so after my 7 mile tour was complete and I had returned to my truck, he reached into my backpack in the backseat, grabbed a beer, and started sucking on it.  Just then, a tornado weather front started rolling wickedly in, north over Lake Erie.  So, still chilling with the beer, he positioned himself on the bottom ledge of an obelisk that’s upon a hill with an open view of the lake and watched the lightning flash and the clouds swirl.   Then, when the danger had passed, he reached into my backpack again, withdrew the laptop, and, in the dusk, began.

  • 'I love _____________ .'   Be honest.  The very first thing that comes to you.

  • Once upon a time, a long time ago, there was a ruler of the tahsil of Pandhurna in India that had heard many enticing tales about the exquisite beauty of the daughter of the Raja of Sawargaon, who lived on the other side of the river Jam, the river which separated these two tahsils.  So taken was the Raja of Pandhurna by this girl’s reputed loveliness that he made plans and commenced to abduct the young beauty by horseback from the palace of Sawargaon. 

    But the common people of Sawargaon soon became aware of this horrifying development, and chased the abductor as he fled back towards his own palace with the cherished princess in his grasp.  As the raving mob reached the shores of the river Jam, they found the Raja of Pandhurna plodding midstream onward, yonder, with his booty ( her  booty, literally).   Thereupon, the enraged throng started hurling rocks and stones at the fleeing ‘future fornicator’ (as their worst fears imagined him). 

    Now the peeps of Pandhurna themselves were not oblivious of their Raja’s plans and had gathered on the other side of the river to greet the babe-grabbing victor home.  But when the Pandhurna peeps saw their King being attacked, infuriated, they, too, began hurling stones back across the river Jam.  From amidst this chaotic hail of pellets, the Raja of Pandhurna emerged and galloped off, finally reaching his palace safely while still hugging the incensed vixen of his quest.  Thereupon, a night of wine-drinking, passionate exclamations, and great frolic ensued…


     


    Now back to the real world…


     


    The Got-maar (hitting with pellets) fair is held at Pandhurna (population of 34,000)  and falls on Bhadra Sudi, the day of the first full moon in September. Sponsored by the municipality, the fair is held only for a day, ending at sunset, and typically draws over 5000 people.


      


    This fair is a commemorative re-enactment of the historical abduction. A branch of a palas tree ( Butea frondosa) is positioned in the bed of the river Jam and the peeps from Pandhurna and Sawargaon try to abscond with branches and leaves of this tree while throwing shore rocks at one another. People who get hurt by the hurtling missiles proceed to the temple of the Goddess Chandi--for it is popularly believed that it was this Goddess who secretly assisted the absconding Raja during his curious odyssey.  Once at the temple, the wounded seek an application of Chandi's ‘sacred ash’ that is supposed to magically heal the wounds.


     


    Typically, anywhere from about 500-900 people get injured every year due to this stone-hitting fair. There are sometimes fatalities and sometimes injuries resulting in participants becoming handicapped for life.   Although lately the municipality has attempted to limit injuries by banning alcohol sales on fair-day and providing tens of thousands of rubber balls to throw instead of stones, the participants, nonetheless, show up notoriously drunk, do, indeed, hurl the rubber balls, but dutifully resort to hurling stones after all the rubber balls run out.


     


    Note: in September 2002, 550 fairgoers were injured


    (and to think that I thought the yearly 'Running With The Bulls' in Pamplona was the height of festive stupidity) !

  • Haha…I lost my Premium…I’m on *Trial Premium* now (How? Since I was like maybe the nth-first person to originally sign up, I never before had a trial. Until now… as my subscription just expired).  Trial, huh?  So, what will the verdict be?  So… I still get all the xTool Premium features, but no ranking in the Featured Content anymore.  I guess that’s how *Trial Premium* works.   But that’s beautiful.  You see: I’m now leading a meta-blogic life with many hidden deployments of potentially-effusable buzzchat .  And I abhor the possibility of chitwhat.  So I need to shun the publicity.  Bigtime.  “Ah—so why blog at all?”   Excellent question.  Next question, please.


     


    Of late, the bulky profusion of comments on my blogs has been subsiding.  This is no surprise to me at all since I have been scrutinizingly screening all my commenters (though I’d rather call you ‘kommenteers’, more akin to buccaneers).  Hell, yes.  I’ve ‘blocked’ over 3000 unsuspecting xangans already.  So if you can get through and leave a comment on my blog, consider yourself, if not a newbie, one of the very most select (and thus a tribute to you!)  LOL  Don’t ask me why I’ve done this.  It started with blocking spam from my email account.  Blocking spam is now, by far, my most favorite internet daily activity.  But I’ve blocked so much of my email (both real spam and otherwise) that new spam arrivals are becoming few and far between.  Hence, I’ve turned to blocking xangans for a surrogate fix.  But don’t you peeps go away or what will I have left to block?  Traffic by laying in the middle of the street?  My intestines, by swallowing marbles?  My bill payments by stopping/blocking payments on the checks?


    Oh yeah—I’ve already done that.  That’s why I lost Premium in the first place.

  • I want to *kiss* to *kiss* to *kiss*
    and writhe with passion in your embrace
    to *kiss* yet more and pull the cover of bliss
    eclipsingly over the cuddle of us


    so that we may incandesce imperiously in our own tenderness


    yet appear as no more than a wee far-cast twinkle


    to any gimlet searcher seeking out bursting novas


    as a divine sign of redemptive brilliance.



    I want to pulsate as a delving pulsar would


    Into your invoking, involving, inescapable imminence


    As if you were the black hole at the center of my universe


    (even though your are the very light that illuminates angels’ wings)

  • Believe this: shyness is only reincarnation's way of procrastinating.

    Do you want to live your life now--or wait for the next?

  • Are you ready for some real  Reality TV?  then...



    Next up: Masturbators

    Yes, furtively following you even into the privacy of your own bathroom, you shall be surprisingly revealed by those who are far sexually stronger than you and so morally fit as to not ever touch themselves 'there', as a self-flagellator. And those sitting at home masturabating as they watch others like you captured masturbating on this show shall be soon busted too. Promise.



    Yesterday, a metal door handle shattered (no, it did not merely 'come off', but actually tore metal from metal at the shaft) in my left hand.  I would have felt like Superman except the shorn metal cut into my flesh embedding years of darkened tarnish under my skin.  Yes, I was pulling hard.  No, I was not hyped up on coke.  No, I don't have a thing against door handles.  And, no, it was not a case of mistaken or sublimated masturbation.





    And, yes, damn it, I have the bruises and cuts to prove it.

  • I’ve got five minutes to write.  For the sake of simplicity, five thoughts:


    1) All one’s senses are bound by time.  Sound travels at Mach speed.  Touch requires the terminal, time-sucking conveyance of nerve stimulation to the brain.  Even sight is limited by the velocity of light.  Granted, in the case of light/sight, sight seems ‘immediate’ because the speed of light is so intensely great with reference to our consensualized perceptual framework arising from navigating in this world.  But in reference to the realm of intimacy, which requires  virtual immediacy, that is, the knowing-in and through the undeniable and unending loving moment, light and perceptualized vision fail to convey what needs to be shared entirely without delay.  Love, in distinction, is essentially shared timelessness, and hence, trans-sensual.  And though mediated through the senses, even through the cavort and frolic of utterly orgasmic ooo’s and ah’s, true love can never get ‘close enough’ in its rapturous fervor to expel space/time.  “Take me now…now…and forever.”


    2) What is a ‘serious date” ?  A deadline?  Or a celebration of a specific moment of time?  No!  Rather it’s trying to tease time into a marvelous quiescence so that the two of you can ‘relate’.  Just don't 'be-late'


    3) I love pre-election campaigns.  I take great delight in watching competing judges calling each other crooks and in knowing that all are telling the truth.


    4) (overheard on a radio show this weekend: )  California has a “three strikes” law which mandates 25 years to life for any third felony conviction, even a DUI, if the previous two were “serious or violent.”  Regardless of the merit of this law, imagine that the American game of baseball had originally had 4 “strikes” for an “out” instead of three—Califronia probably would have followed suit with a “four strikes” felony law instead, too.  Now how fair—or ridiculous—is that?


    5) Cats have over one hundred vocal sounds, but giraffes have no vocal chords—even.   Perhaps the cats have the giraffes’ tongues?


    Okay...so I stretch five minutes like a crafty pastry chef does paper-thin strudel dough.  Whatcha gonna do—wrap me in a vortex of apple filling?

  • It’s lightly snowing, in the mid-30s, and I’m sitting on the ground and leaning with my back against an unyielding obelisk.  I ran today for the first time since last Saturday and completed my ‘7-mile tour’.  Last Sunday I sprained my ankle badly as it turned entirely over as I was hopping over an obstacle and took a fall.  But it was good for the run today, and though still a bit swollen, it’s not hurting much at all.


    This past week, my energy-body took a few hits and minor setbacks as my resolve slightly weakened to dream better dreams a la the formulation of Carlos Castaneda in the Art of Dreaming.  But today  I salved my spirit back to wholeness and regained my unrelenting edge to press on with all matters energetic with a kingly spirit.   They say it’s good to be king—if you don’t weaken.  I have much to learn of such things, but surrender myself to the lesson with princely devotion.  Yes, I know, I’ve tossed too much royalty into a modern American blog.  But what the hell—sometimes life yearns for things strangely juxtaposed.  ‘Juxtaposed’ – killer word—and it’s been too  long since I’ve last used it. 


    *ten minutes of wordless silence transpires as I gaze absorbingly around*


    Impressionistic art is, by far, my favorite.  Monet, Renoir, Manet were all lucid masters of their airy moments.  I’m reminded just now of their particular outlook with its emphasis on the primacy and quality of ‘light’  since the shadows about me are thickening, darkening, reaching, stretching out towards me, almost orgasmic with the light’s eerie lessening.  Yes, the frigid encompassment of night is trying to absorb me.  I sense it’s fascination for my warm organics.  It’s fashioning that upon my soul it owns the birthright.  Please excuse me, I have to take a piss…(really)…


    *ducks behind a bush and whizzes in the deepening shadows*


    There.  That’s my response to overtures from the Dark Side.

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