Lust!

Is it possible that there is a pheromone attack on Portland? It seems as though rutting season has come early. Everywhere I go I see signs of sexual desire. Some are directed at me, others are exchanges between other parties. The lust is so potent you can smell it in the aisles of the grocery store. A coworker professed falling in love with the barista serving him up a cup of coffee on his way to work. Even people close to me seem to be affected. While I don't mind the girls at work or restaurants checking me out, the young teenager and her mom giving me a ravenous gaze in the baking goods aisle at Safeway was a little disconcerting. Where did this all come from? I expect it in the spring, but not mid-November.

Of course me being who I am, I have assembled a hypothesis. I place the roots of this phenomenon in the election results. While politicians wield no real power over individuals (other than what people consent to) they do act as totems or talismans. Metaphorically, the conservatives have been booted from power. While I expect very little in terms of political policy change, the atmosphere has switched to one of liberalism. After six long years of a repressive and conservative talisman of power, the king has been castrated. There has been a whole hell of a lot of penned up energy released and it is manifesting as something akin to the divine whore. As a nation of practicing magicians we banished the demons of repression and paranoia posing as security and family values to conjure up demons of liberalism and lust with Clinton and Pelosi as Babylon. The nation is getting out of a rut and into the rut.

It's all in the mind, but the mind is a very powerful tool.

Yucky Stuff

"My computer is all jacked up dude. I got some kind of virus." Several
people said that to me this week. Not those exact words but along those
lines. First thing I told each of them was that I've got no such
problems with either of my Macs, and we're talking some major porno bandwidth. Since that doesn't help them out of the
situation at this very moment, I tell them about my PC. Three bits of
advice for cheap, ignorant bastards with PCs;

Firefox
AVG Free
Spybot

In other words, go to the free clinic and get that shit taken care of. It's gross and you're spreading it around.

Gypsy Punks

It's a Gogol Bordello day!

Sustainability

More NaNo.

So what really is the point of a counter-culture if they can never win? Why engage in a battle where there will never be a victory? If you tell anyone who has had combat training that it is their job to start a war and fight it forever, to train others to fight it when they are gone, and that the war must rage on forever, they’d lay down their gun and possibly give you a graphic description of what you can do with it. But that is the whole point of the counter-culture. It is a struggle engaged in for the purpose of struggle and continued struggle. The only goal is sustainable revolution.

Now THAT'S Comedy

Here's a joke I found.

UNSAFE AT ANY ALTITUDE reports that the TSA has fallen far short of expectations and is highly dysfunctional. The government itself reports that the TSA screening force is far worse at detecting threats – bombs, explosives and guns – than the private screening system it replaced. In tests, the private screeners uncovered 80-90% of weapons brought to checkpoints. The TSA screeners fail nearly 50% of the time. (Just this past month, twenty of twenty-two test weapons made it through security at Newark's Liberty International Airport.)

Come on people, laugh with me. This is funny, funny shit.

A Thought On Age

Growing up I was taught to respect my elders. It seemed like a good idea. They had been around quite a while, seen quite a bit, and cold share what they had learned.

The older I get, the dumber the whole notion seems. These folks really didn't have any secrets to existence that would make my life better. (Except for when my grandfather told me, "Some women don't like condoms." And when uncle Al told me, "Whiskey all night and polka til dawn!") Getting older really just means being clueless longer.

So instead of listening to our elders I suggest we listen to people in their teens and twenties. Their ideas will be just as stupid, but in whole new novel ways.

AWPC

Yeah, another one.

Mark: You're reading on your break? What a loser.
H: Hey, I like to read.
Mark: I'm just teasing you. Reading's cool.
Jake: Nah, reading is for chumps.
Mark: Unless you're this guy. Then you just write a ten million page book in one month.

50,000 words, actually.

AWPC

Intercom: Jesus, call 224 please. Jesus, 224.
Mark: Carlton's got their own Jesus.
Jake: Their own personal Jesus.
Mark: Reach out and touch faith.

AWPC

We're getting a new maintenance guy on our shift next week. He's a transfer from plant 1 and we talked to him a bit today.

Guy: I'm really excited to be coming to your shift. Everybody keeps telling me how great you two are as a team.
Mark: Everybody? Like who?
Guy: Like, every maintenance guy down there.

Plant 2 swing shift rocks! We're just hoping the new guy is into punk rock, motorcycles, old cars, surfing, and intimidating operators into turning their maintenance call lights off.

Chaos

I hope everyone reading my NaNo excerpts is as thoroughly confused as I am.

NaNoWriMo

There was the mechanical device I was controlling. A metal arm would move forward and then rotate slightly. The three pins at the end of it acted as stiff little fingers to latch onto an object. The arm would then move back to advance the object. The process would repeat. Intrigued by the process, I observed. Everything seemed to be working properly. There it went again, moving forward, rotating, cradling, back, rotate out, forward, rotate in, cradle, pull back.

The transition was subtle. The pins were sending sensory data back to me. The brain would receive that data and process the feel of the pick-up and stroke. All focus was now centered on this input. How amazing for this detached mechanism to be sharing in its experience of this process.

Where was the piece it was supposed to be picking up? The rigid part it had been picking up and moving was absent. The pattern had broken. Was it a flaw in the machine or a change in the material? Breaking the program, I instructed the fingers to seek out the part.

Wiggling here and there the fingers felt around for something to touch, something to wrap themselves around. Nothing was there. Try lower. Here there is something but it doesn’t feel the same as the parts we had been moving. It felt fleshy, soft, and warm. What was it?

The fingers explored the area. The touch sensory data was sent back to my brain for processing. Sampling several different areas over time, an image started to form. Accompanying the feel of a soft and gently yielding surface area was new data arriving. The surface had short, coarse hairs protruding from it. The fingers knew how to move rigid parts along a track. Having to manipulate this would require new data.

I transmitted a revised program to the fingers. First, their structure would have to change. Metal pins were fine for interaction with metal parts. To interact with this new condition would require flexability. The fingers adapted. Next, they would need to gently stroke across the surface. Don’t apply excessive pressure to any area. Travel through the hairs. Feel each one slip around and past. Do not snag, grab, or otherwise try to forcible tyr to move any of them. Just caress the surface lightly.

The brain and the hand of fingers had been operating together with no other data inputs or processors present for some time. The surface seemed to change over time. While the data set was less than perfect, there was evidence of minor swelling, perhaps some parting of two separate surfaces as well. There seemed to be a rhythm through the entity that was quickening.

Then the unexpected feed back occurred. Somehow the object being manipulated had gained access to a controlled device of its own. This manipulation device had found a sensory receptor to explore that was sending data back to my central processing unit. I now knew that my manipulation device with sensory feedback capabilities was operating independently from the major sensory receptor. Each was feeding data to the central processor. Each could perform its function separately. The central processor, as the link between the two, performed experiments to see if manipulations sent through one device would result in a change of sensory receptions at the other end. The data seemed to suggest that this was the case.

With that so it was quite probable that the area being explored by the manipulation device was itself a sensory receptor connected to a manipulation device through a central processor. Just speculation, of course. In the absence of further data, it was a good working model.

While the primary sensory receptor was sending back data in alarming quantities, the manipulation device had something new to report. It seemed that the area being explored had some sort of lubrication faculty. An area that had previously been hidden had changed in its characteristics. It was more maleable than it had been previously and was secereting the lubrication. As I sent the manipulation device a signal to further explore this area, my primary sensory receptor sent signals of increased manipulations under greater pressure. Was this a problem? No, it was all very interesting.

Further evidence of a central processor manifested. It seemed as though this other unit had an audio output that was releasing sound signals. Apparently my central processor was attached to some sort of sound input device. The unit’s sound output device may have been malfunctioning as the only output signals consisted of a single consanent and one vowel, primarily sounds a shua and something akin to an “m”.

Then it was all gone. My manipulation device was no longer in contact with what I had come to think of as a well lubricated sensory receptor. There was no longer a manipulation device sending signals via my primary sensory receptor. The audio input signal changed to something incomprehensible. There was a sense of despair. The exploration and experiment had ended.

A new signal surged through my primary sensory receptor. From the data collected by my manipulation device, it seemed that the lubricated sensory receptor was putting itself into direct contact with my primary sensory receptor. What a fantastic notion! The sound output device repaired itself and emitted a more complex signal. “God, you feel so good.”

The central processing unit recognized this signal. While previously the system had been operating under extremely restricted modes, the brain decided to turn on everything. That’s right! I had an entire body with which to explore reality. And there was another body in direct contact with it.

Wow!

A Strange Turn of Events

It was a rough escape. Lisa, aka Britney Spears, was picked up first. As the search engine was scanning the data of the book and found Britney Spears, my wife simply disguised herself as that data, slipped into the search string, and was off. One second she was there, the next she wasn’t. I’m glad she got picked up first. Of course there was no doubt that she would be the first to go. If the world in which the server resided bore any resmeblance to the fictional land in which we had been raised, then there were millions of horn dog males out there trying to find nude pictures of shapely celebrities. All my wife needed to do was to become a temporary virus. Risky business. It was a good thing that anti-virus software as we understood it was meant to keep predefined known viruses off of a computer. Lisa/Britney would be a complete unkown. Once out of the book and in viral form, she would slip onto the search engine when the user hit the back key. On the search server she would quickly change her name to WillieMae Svetlana in an attempt to avoid getting tossed back out of the server on another search string.

With her gone from my world, I waited anxiously for my ticket out. Damn it, what was taking so long? Lisa/Britney (and now hopefully WillieMae) had been swept up in no time. Why was it taking so long for me? It was degrading enough having to pose as a pop icon I despised. My old ego and my new alter ego did not need the added degradation of sitting around waiting for a search that might take days, maybe even weeks or months, to occur. With all those guys out there looking for a starlette like Britney Spears, why was there no one out there looking for me?

The realization hit hard. The thought was ten times more revolting than the situation I currently found myself in. As I thought it through, it seemed the most logical course of action. Right then and there, I dropped my pants and started masturbating. Never before in all my life had I actually felt shame while performing the act. I knew what kind of computer was going to pick me up. I just hoped the user would click his back button before blowing a premature load and quitting out of the browser. And hopefully he was using protection while downloading all of this stuff. Fearing Anti-virus software was one thing. Having to deal with a drive full of viruses, spyware, and trojans was another thing all together. While I had no clue what any of this would be like, I did not particularly want to find out.

Sure enough, along came the search string and away I went. There I was, streaming as data across the ether. It was quite a rush being whisked away, one metaphorical hand latched onto the search string and the other firmly grasping myself. I popped up on a computer, quickly inserting myself into a cache of things unmentionable and possibly illegal in some states. Fortunately someone didn’t find the story quite as entertaining as they had hoped and the back button was punched. Seizing the opportunity, I dove for the opening and onto Google before he could try out another link. Now it was time for my name change. James Alexander Quitney, after a brief stint as Justin Timberlake masturbating, was now Gaylord Psalter.

While our new names offered us a slim level of security, my demon pal Bill was already hard at work with the second stage of our plan. “Yeth, yeth, yeth. Thith ith my thpethialty.” Bill, hidden under the search protection of one Gaylord Psalter, was busy setting up new fake identities for my wife and me.

First he created a bank account using my new assumed name. Into this he deposited a few thousand dollars. This would be plenty to survive for quite a while where we were headed. The idea was that once we slipped off of the search engine servers we would need a home that was more permenanent, less invasive, still connected, but with minimal volatility. Bill swore to me that he had it all figured out. Even the gods and goddesses insisted I just needed to trust him.

Trust a demon? Where had that money in the new bank account come from? Had he manifested it out of nothing? What should I care? I was a fictitious character on the run from a second rate e-book. If the deposit was fake, I was just as funny as the money. Can a fictional character steal money that never existed in the first place? But we were going to use those funds to purchase services that were normally purchased with some sort of real currency. If we did that, wouldn’t it be theft? But the funds would transfer out of our account and into whoever’s account in a supposedly real sum. If that entity wanted to, there would be nothing keeping them from withdrawing that sum from their bank as cash. The bank would see the transaction as legitimate and give them the money. This was all very puzzling.

While my little demon friend went about his business, I spent some time poking around the server, trying to get a grasp of the world in which it existed. With economics fresh on my mind, I started my research. What I found shocked and confused me. As near as I could tell there was no actual money. There was a currency, but it wasn’t backed by anything. The issuing agency would purchase assets equal to the value of the currency they wanted to create, but nobody was sure with what they were actually purchasing these assets. If there was currency to purchase such things, then there was no need for the agency to purchase anything because the currency already existed. If there was no currency, then there was nothing to purchase the assets with. Yet this agency would continue to issue currency for folks to use. People continued to use this currency despite it not really meaning anything. It was just an idea. Imagine someone walking up to you and offering to trade you the idea of a few dollars in exchange for a loaf of bread. You’d probably laugh at them, and rightfully so. Why not sell your loaf of bread for the idea of a million or even a billion dollars? It would mean the same thing. Yet folks continued to trade this stuff for goods and services while others insisted on receiving it in exchange for the same. Suddenly my few thousand in the bank didn’t bother me. Funny money in a funny account held by a funny character. All of it was worth exactly the same amount. I think the only reason Bill didn’t fill it with millions was because so many people seemed to take the whole charade seriously. You can’t flaunt the illegitimacy of a monetary system in front of a group of the faithful any more than you can tell a cleric his prophet was a dirty, smelly, hateful mysoginist. At least not if you’re trying to keep your head in the vicinity of your shoulders, even if they are somewhat metaphorical body parts at present. Now my life as Jaq made a bit more sense. If everything has a monetary value and the money itself has no value, why not accumulate everything you have ever desired?

Did the author understand that? If so, the world around him still did not. That could drive a sane man crazy. Perhaps it was he, and not me, who was going mad. But I was a creation of his, which in turn would be a manifestation of his madness. Of course I could not fully let go of the idea that he was just a two-bit hack writer grasping at straws in search of a story.

With that thought, I delved into researching elements of my life as Jaq. That rat bastard of an author was stealing story lines every chance he got. I found threads of my own story in several other books by more prolific and respected writers. He had stolen from Neil Gaiman, Robert Heinlein, Robert Anton Wilson, Terry Pratchett, and even Douglas Adams, just to name a few. There were also elements stolen from film and television. Nothing was sacred to this lunatic!

For my own sanity I was thankful when Bill came back and told me it was all ready. My wife and I could now move over to another server where we could start our new lives. If there was any truth in what I had been finding, living a virtual life would be a welcome escape from this madness.

More NaNo

“Jaq. I can help you, Jaq. I can get you out.” Bill, the little demon who had mysteriously taken up residence was trying to get my attention. “I can get all of uth out. I’ve found a way.”

While I had been hanging out with gods and goddesses for quite some time, I hadn’t really dealt with demons, or even angels for that matter. Naturally I was a bit skeptical. Demons have a bad reputation. Mythologically they are the ones that will lead a man into ruin through false promises and half truths. All of the other entities who had taken up residence didn’t seem to mind his presence, though. The least I could do was to listen to his plan. “What have you got?”

He jumped up and down with excitement. “We’re acthually quite lucky to be trapped in an e-book. That ith the way out. We dithguithe ourthelveth ath information, get picked up by a thearch engine, and then jump to a different hotht. I tried it. It workth. We can do it.”

Jump to a different host? “Wait a second. I’m not used to relying on a host. That may be well and good for gods and demons, but not for a man. A man needs to be free. Even if I am just a character, I’m a character who is a man and has the needs of a man. If I start to rely on a host, doesn’t that make me a vampire?”

“No, no, no. Not that kind of hotht. That would turn you into an egregore, hardly any different from my kind. I can’t live off of an egregore. That would mean my own death. No, no, no. I mean a different hotht therver.”

“So you mean we will venture out into the wilderness of the internet in search of a new homeland?”

“Yeth, yeth, yeth. Egthactly!”

“I’m not leaving without Lisa. Is that possible?"

“Yeth, yeth, yeth. Thertainly. I’ve already thought about that. Tho my plan involveth her ath well. Though I’m not thure you’ll like the plan. There ith an athpect of it that ith quite vile.”

Here it comes. This is why people don’t do business with demons, right? There is going to be some hideous snag that goes against every fiber of your moral being like ritual sacrifice of a black dog followed by beggaring it. Ugh! “What is it we have to do?”

“It’th only to athure thuctheth.”

“To assure what?”

“Thuctheth. Thuctheth. Yeth, yeth, yeth. You want to thuctheed, don’t you?”

I want to suck what? “Oh… success. Yes I want to succeed. But what is it I have to do?”

“Yeth, yeth, yeth. Firtht you’ll have to convinthe Litha to change her name to Britney Thpearth.”

“What!?”

“She ith one of the number one thearcheth on Google, Yahoo, and Lycoth. I didn’t have time to try otherth. But if she changeth her name to Britney Thpearth, she should get picked up within twenty-four hourth.”

The thought was both frightening and amusing. If I could convince her to change her name, I’d soon be roaming the internet married to a pop icon. “Okay. Anything else?”

“Yeth, yeth, yeth. I hate to tell you thith. Are you ready?”

“Yes, I’m ready. What is it?”

“You will have to change your name to Juthtin Timberlake.”

German Industrialists

Back in 1980 a group of German musicians started to develop a new sound of underground rock music that would come to be known as Industrial. While Industrial would come to be known for the sound sampling styles of Nine Inch Nails, Ministry, and Skinny Puppy, bands like Einstürzende Neubauten would create novel new instruments for the sounds they wanted. Their experimentation has been curageous and beautiful.

Random?

Sometimes iTunes throws an interesting juxtaposition my way. Out of a playlist containing 3,003 songs, it just played I've Got You Under My Skin by Frank Sinatra followed immediately with UnderSkin by Billy Goat. No other two songs in the playlist contain both under and skin.

Sex, Drugs, and Rock-n-Roll

I'm not typically much of a partier. It's hard to get yourself excited about hanging out with a bunch of drunken bastards when you tend to not even like sober people. For some reason, I convinced myself last night that partying was a good idea. If you're not going to party often, when you break the fast, you need to break it good and hard.

It started innocently enough by playing pool and darts at the Pub at the End of the Universe. They have great tap selections there and I ended up downing two pints and a pitcher between getting off of work at 11:30 and bar close at 2:30. Then I was faced with the decision of either catching a ride home or continuing the party elsewhere. Like I said, good and hard.

Caught a ride to someone's house and slammed another beer before switching vehicles to head to the actual party. At the actual party I was greeted by several familiar young faces from work who quickly ushered me to the keg in the basement. Good thing they were on top of it. I had just enough time to slam another beer before we all got kicked out. I've never before been kicked out of a party without tire irons being involved. It was all so polite. Only yelling and threats of violence were used. Probably because there was no band or skinheads present. Kids these days. Then it was a ride to an apartment. The only alcohol that manifested there was a jug of Carlo Rossi. Shit, that brought back memories. You know it's the good shit because it has a handle so you can't drop it. After a few hits from the jug I taught some folks how to smoke a tobacco pipe. Yeah, tobacco. Rebel rebel. I got home before dawn and I'm only in a little bit of trouble. See, I had left a phone message from work saying I was going out for a few drinks. When I didn't show up shortly after bar close, someone happened to wake up and get worried that something really terrible had happened to me. Fair enough. So next time I feel like going out and making a public ass of myself with the young twenty-somethings, I know to check in so as not to cause unnecessary worry. Yeah! Punk Rock! Anarchy! Personal Responsibility! WOOT! (Ow, my head.)

So, after a totally wild evening I can look back and say that while I partied pretty damn hard, I had no sex, no drugs, and there wasn't even rock-n-roll involved. The juke box at the bar was playing Johnny Cash and Bob Dylan. Which reminds me, I need to learn how to walk in slow motion for the next time I'm at the Pub walking towards a pool table with Hurricane playing.

The traditional party formula is for amateurs.

The Pub at the End of the Universe

Writing for NaNoWriMo about a Portland bar with a name like The Pub at the End of the Universe is great. Every time I mention the place it gets me eight words closer to the 50,000 word goal.

Now I understand some of you don’t know the Pub at the End of the Universe. She’s a left-handed lesbian midget albino Eskimo. Wait, that’s Sarah Jane. I’m all messed up on cough syrup right now so just like never mind. The Pub at the End of the Universe was designed by a group of extremely nerdy hippy anglophiles, and this is a good thing. Besides being a tribute to the author of the ever-so-popular Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy, the interior seems to borrow architectural features from another pillar of British fiction, Terry Pratchett. In Pratchett’s Discworld novels, he describes the space and time bending properties of extremely large collections of books. Anybody who frequents old book shops can tell you that when you enter what looks like a tiny storefront of a crammed book shop, the browser is soon amazed to find how many rows of shelves the store actually has. They find new sections at every turn, short stairways that lead to floors that could not possibly be there, and find themselves wondering if they’ll ever get out again while questioning why they would want to. Pratchett calls this L-Space, for Library Space. It is expressed mathematically as books = knowledge = power = (mass x distance)/time. Similarly, a video shop in Portland has amassed such a huge collection of rare and bizarre films that it has created what might be one of the first examples of V-Space. Once I walked in there and after spending several hours searching through titles, walked out with two videos a couple of minutes later. On another occasion I popped in real quick for a couple of movies, and would swear I came out the next day. The idea is that the sheer magnitude of such collections can warp reality. The Pub at the End of the Universe has somehow picked up on these architectural anomalies and created Bar Space. I have to call it B-Space because if you were to refer to it as Pub Space people would get completely the wrong idea once hyphenated. Not that kind of place at all, at all. While many cities and small towns play host to such anomalous structures, Portland, Oregon seems to have naturally picked up on the notion. It might have to do with such a large quantity of exceptionally nerdy hippies collecting there and bringing their Head Space with.

Voting Recap

Politicians Sweep Midterm Elections

"It's a good night to be a politician," said Todd Akin, an officeholder from Missouri. "The American people have spoken, and they have unanimously declared: 'We want elected officials to lead this nation.'"

Actually, just as I predicted, nobody won. Here in Oregon less than a quarter of the voting age population voted. That means the governor got his job by getting less than an eighth of the population to vote for him.

Seriously, if a guy ran ten blocks in a marathon would you declare him a winner just because nobody else did better?

Givin' Her All She's Got

Picked up a little $4 device to lock the flywheel on the Bug in place so I could really lay into the breaker bar. Still can't get the damn flange nut off. Next step, long pipe for breaker bar. More leverage. After that, maybe a little dry ice or a torch. Change the temperature of the metal to try and break the threads loose. If that doesn't work we'll have to load the thing into the back of the truck, haul it to a shop, and have them take their big air powered impact driver to it.

Election Day Lemming

Since my friends are doing it, I thought I'd get in on commenting on this most holy of holy days for those who believe in Democracy.

I've got nothing against democracy. It is a very interesting belief system in which a few people get to decide which elite representatives will get jobs as ugly celebrities. But because they are ugly celebrities and nobody wants to be just like them when they grow up, they are given the priviledge of getting to TELL people how to act. That makes a hell of a lot more sense than the Baptists, Mormons, Scientologists, Muslims, and Hindus. Unfortunately, they tend to get a bit pushy about forcing their belief system on everyone else.

Heed the words of the prophet! I will tell you exactly what will happen in every single election. The clear majority will vote for nobody. The holy counsels known as the Board of Elections will instead give the race to somebody. In a few cases there will be other sects of democracy that get involved and the courts and judges will declare somebody a winner over nobody.

We're already a nation of (typically apathetic) Anarchists, but the government keeps pretending otherwise and forcing their rules down our throats or, more commonly, up the other end.

Devil May Care

Hail Eris!

All Hail Discordia!

The dwarf planet briefly nicknamed Xena is now officially known as Eris. 136199 Eris is the largest known dwarf planet in our solar system, larger than either Pluto or Ceres.

Go eat a hot dog!

NaNoFlow

Seems I have finally hit some rythm writing this weekend. The whole thing is going nicely now. My goal is to write something that is R instead of NC-17. Last year was X with just enough story to avoid XXX. I still hope to offend.

I Voted!

You have to hand it to the Conservative Christians. Their emotionally based pleas got this jaded anarchist to vote. After several phone messages from some mother telling us about her daughter's secret abortion leaving her precious child emotionally traumatized, and each time thinking the poor kid wouldn't have been so traumatized if her mom hadn't been such a conservative Christian cunt (or better yet, had put her on birth control before this all happened), I voted against their pet ballot measure. And since I was bothering to turn in a ballot, I took the time to write my own name in for every elected position since I am the only one I trust to make decisions for myself. If elected, I promise to take long naps at my desk when not surfing the internet for porn.

And as I write this there is yet another political message being left on the machine. This one is inviting me to attend a get out to vote rally in Little Rock, Arkansas being hosted by a gubernatorial candidate in that state. Why they are calling me in Portland, Oregon I don't know. But I'm sure a campaign intelligent enough to call folks who have never even set foot in their state, let alone registered to vote there, is fit to rule over its population with an iron fist in a latex glove. Or was that velvet? Yes, a velvet fist in a latex glove.

Emo

While writing today I am listening to some old Jesus and Mary Chain.

It's the best emo every produced, and they did it 20 years before there was such a thing as Emo. As any whore will tell you, it doesn't pay to be premature.

What a Beautiful Morning

Laying around my warm bedroom while it was raining outside. Overly lazy as I try to figure out if those two bottles of wine were going to make my day a bit of a struggle. Thoughts wander here and there to movies, music, video games, books. Suddenly I think, "I'm alive! I am wonderfully humanly alive!" I'm up and running in seconds.

Doesn't that just make you want to puke?

Machining for Dummies

What kind of a college class is this? I am handed a three page assignment that I have two weeks to complete. The first page consists of 12 pictures of micrometers and I'm supposed to write down what the reading shown is to the nearest .001". The second page is much the same but with depth micrometers. The third page is the answers to the first two pages. Shit, am I on the football team?

My House

I have class today, but I've got a starter paragraph for some novel writin' when I'm done. Just gotta get me a couple of 40's to do it proper!

Dreams about houses drive me crazy. It is so obvious that they represent the internal mechanizations of the self. Realizing this means I will spend days trying to analyze any house dream as if unraveling its secrets will allow me access into the inner sanctums of my consciousness. But what the fuck does it mean when I can make the stairs swing up and away from the floor by rolling my feet forward on each step?

Community College

Is it cheating if I complete my homework without actually reading the assigned material?

Summons

A special thank you to the Multnomah County Circuit Court for tonight's NaNoWriMo inspiration.

Dear Sir or Madame,

I have received your information pertaining to my Jury Summons and have completed the information as requested. I am including this letter in the interest of expediting matters, saving both you and me a great deal of time and trouble.

As an armchair aficionado of quantum physics and brain mechanics I am of the decided opinion that I cannot trust the information that my own brain receives from the sensory organs wired into it, let alone those provided to me second hand as ‘evidence’ in a court of law. For example, once while driving in the middle of the night I brought my car to an abrupt halt when I saw a brontosaurus walking across the interstate. After waiting for the supposedly extinct dinosaur to cross the road (which I am certain he did aeons before any chicken ever attempted such a feat) I resumed travel, swerving only once to miss the giant manta ray that swooped down upon my car. The logical part of my brain tells me that such things could not have possibly happened. Yet that is exactly what I saw and reacted to in a very rational manner considering the circumstances. I have a far easier time dismissing the giant M&M that waved good morning to me from across the mountains. Even that is not completely out of the realm of possibility. If asked under oath to describe what I saw that morning, I would have to say that I saw a giant M&M candy rising over the mountains and waving at me. Is the Sun a nuclear furnace or a host of angels singing Glory Glory Hallelujah? Are you asking an astronomer or a prophet?

You see, the brain acts as a filter for information, trying to make sense of the information that it receives from the senses. It is far from impartial. While many individuals seem content to force the pentagonal pegs of their perceptions into the circular holes of the accepted consensus reality, I refuse to perpetrate such a gross crime upon my consciousness. Maybe I really did see a UFO. Maybe I really did see the spirits of dead Native Americans walking through that corn field. Maybe I really did see a couple of airplanes fly directly into the World Trade Center towers. Or maybe I didn’t. If forced to make a decision ‘beyond a reasonable doubt’ based on what others tell me of a situation, the best I could do would be to answer with a resounding ‘MAYBE!’

In addition, I am an unrepentant anarchist who feels my receiving of this jury summons could have been prevented if governments weren’t so intent on making so many damn laws. While I can appreciate the benefits of a jury system, history has shown time and again that it is a rare occasion when a person finds himself in front of a jury of his peers. If I were charged with a crime could I be so blessed as to find myself in front of a group of men and women who understood that the Universe consists of probabilities, not actualities? The electrons, protons, and neutrons that make up all matter exist only as fields of probability and have no substance until examined. Upon examination, it is the observer who decides what form they take. While an understanding of these quantum principles makes me a uniquely qualified jury candidate, our antiquated legal system is looking for people of a far more Newtonian mindset. This I cannot be.

If, after reading this, you feel I should still appear for my jury summons, I will oblige. Let it be known that I will do so knowing full well that I will be found unfit to serve and I am certain to be rather cranky about the whole affair.

Please forward copies of this letter to the Federal Bureau of Investigation and Department of Homeland Security so they can add it to my dossier of ‘Un-American’ activities.

Yours Sincerely,
James Alexander Quitney

The Bar

It was a co-worker's last night at the factory, she having been accepted to become an apprentice electrician. So we all went out to the bar for a drink after work to celebrate her upward mobility and the fact that she will no longer be bothering maintenance with petty problems.

Why do I hate normal, run of the mill bars? Because they play the same music you hear at all the strip clubs but there are no naked women jiggling their boobs in your face to distract you from it.

Porky Peace

The usual english spelling of the Muslim prophet's name is Muhammad. While looking at it today, I discovered a possible source of Islam's violence. Mu is the chinese word for Nothing. Ham is a pork product so Muslims can't eat it. Mad can be either insane or angry or both.

So perhaps No Pork makes them Crazy. Consider that their number one enemy, the Jews, also are instructed not to eat pork. Meanwhile, the Lutherans I grew up around enjoy ham salad, pork ribs, and will even put bacon in their green beans and they haven't attacked anyone for over a century. Scandanavians love their pork and haven't been all too aggresive since the Viking Age. Dudes, give pork a chance.

NaNoWriMo

It's November! That means it is National Novel Writing Month. This is where I puke 50,000 words worth of my insanity out. I know I had mentioned possibly writing about my experiences of spending part of every day in October doing nothing, but it really wasn't that mind blowing.

What is it with midgets? Terry Gilliam has used midgets in films from Time Bandits to Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas. Robert Anton Wilson made a midget one of the central characters to his Schröedinger’s Cat trilogy. Midget wrestling. Midget porn. Twin Peaks. The Oompa Loompas. The Munchkins. Something about the prescence of midgets slips the brain over into a fantasy realm. Or maybe it just has to do with unknown midgets. My friend Stan is a midget. Somehow there is nothing surreal about seeing him pull up and get out of his specially modified Porsche with booster seat and pedal extensions. Never mind that every other Porsche owner I have met can see over his own car when standing.

But a French-Canadian midget with a handle bar mustache was a bit over the top. Especially when he is the coordiantor of a satelite control center constantly monitoring cultural movements around the world. Was his name really Guy? Too much. Do we really need to know where the largest pockets of klezmer afficianados reside? Way too much.

Up in the main control room, overlooking the spherical room below, he turned and looked me in the eyes. It was the most serious and urgent and joyful look I could imagine a man having. Nothing funny. Nothing scary. He just turned to me and said in that thick French-Canadian accent of his, “Jaq, the world is yours. The world is yours, Jaq!”

Great. But do I want it?

No Restraint

How could I not share this article?

How the Web Prevents Rape. A researcher studying increases in internet usage side-by-side with crime data on a state-by-state basis has discovered that a 10% increase in internet access nets a 7.3% decrease in rape. The theory? A person liable to commit rape can't do so while shacked up at home whacking off to internet porn.

...psychologists have found that male subjects, immediately after watching pornography, are more likely to express misogynistic attitudes. But as professor Kendall points out, we need to be clear on what those experiments are testing: They are testing the effects of watching pornography in a controlled laboratory setting under the eyes of a researcher. The experience of viewing porn on the Internet, in the privacy of one's own room, typically culminates in a slightly messier but far more satisfying experience—an experience that could plausibly tamp down some of the same aggressions that the pornus interruptus of the laboratory tends to stir up.

And yet conservatives try to create a friendlier world by blocking access to porn at schools and libraries. What they really need are booths with locking doors.

Wrong Questions

Some guy thinks he is a hot shot and can tell us why ghosts don't exist.

Using science and math, Efthimiou explains why it is ghosts can't walk among us while also gliding through walls, like Patrick Swayze in the movie "Ghost." That violates Newton's law of action and reaction. If ghosts walk, their feet apply force to the floor, but if they go through walls they are without substance, the professor says.

But seeing as how even the most solid of walls actually consists of more space than matter I always find myself wondering why I can't walk through walls. There is plenty of speculation on the material nature of matter with great leanings towards the idea that it does not exist, per se, but is just represented by probability fields. As for walking, it's probably just an old habit. How long has it been since I biologically needed to suck on a boob? Hasn't stopped me from trying at every opportunity. So how do we explain this paradox of a universe consisting of nothing much at all that can really hurt when you run head first into it? I know it has to do with repulsive fields, but I shower every day.

Newton's 'laws' are theories and have their limits. CSICON!

Demonology/Headology

For those looking to conjure some demons this Halloween (it is traditional), here's a good primer.

Something Scary

I wanted to post something on the scary side of things for Halloween. This was the scariest thing I could think of (outside of the obvious realms of religion and politics).

Year of the Penguin

How succesful was The March of the Penguins?







I'm glad the big studio folks have a lot of imagination.

AWPC: Keeping Up Appearances

One of the machinists was commenting on my appearance.

Machinist: Do you ever get tired of all the old folks staring at you in shock and horror?

Jake: Nope. In fact, it keeps getting better the older I get. I'm past the stage where it's just a phase I'm going through and old enough to know better.

Killer Idea

Modern day remake of Easy Rider but starring myself and Marilyn Manson. Gives it a bit of a Priscilla, Queen of the Desert feel. He'd be a great Wyatt and I can play Billy, out there in the wilderness fighting cowboys and indians at every side. Maybe Christopher Walken as George Hansen, the alcoholic ACLU lawyer.

Closer

Looks like we're getting closer to my idea for quantum teleportation machining. Scientists teleport two different objects.

"Creating entanglement is a very important step, but there are two more steps at least to perform teleportation. We have succeeded in making all three steps -- that is entanglement, quantum measurement and quantum feedback."

Marilyn Manson

When I see a bunch of Christian rock kids singing, "Marilyn Manson Ate My Girlfriend," I have two thoughts;

1. Probably because you wouldn't.
2. I'm sure she enjoyed it.

I like Marilyn Manson. He just seems so much more human than most rock stars I haven't met.

Entertain Me!

Since my friends have been doing a piss poor job of entertaining me as of late (I can't be expected to do nothing ALL of the time), here's a news story about sexsomnia.

Researchers are struggling to understand a rare medical condition where sufferers unknowingly demand, or actually have, sex while asleep...

As yet there is no cure for the condition,

Her: Before we spend the night together, you should know that I'm a sexsomniac.

Him: Okay. I'm just an insatiably horny bastard.

Audio Consciousness Control

Haven't driven the truck in a while. I've been too busy proving my status as a hard core chopper fiend by getting an ice cold lap full of water on my way to work. But I needed to pick up dog food today, and those 50 lb. bags don't strap down to the chop very well.

The radio had been left on Air America. I tried to listen for amusement's sake. Within 1 minute I hadn't heard anything that resembled information. Not that I disagreed with Big Ed, he was just hurling cliches left and right. I know that's what most people need. They don't hear words, just sound bites. Why is that? Don't know, don't care right now. My head couldn't handle it anymore, so I punched the button to switch over to FM. Portland's alternative station. Having surface in the late 80's to early 90's, the alternative scene is in its teens. Worse yet, it is a whiny, clueless, suburbanite teen. No wonder I forgo commercial radio. What kind of culture are they trying to cram down our necks? Or are they clutching at straws to maintain some sort of relevance? Regardless, I am far happier scouring the web for obscure media that doesn't make my brain hemorrhage. Punch in the tape!

Ministry : Land of Rape and Honey

Heinlein

I don't feel like thinking for myself right now.

From Robert Heinlein's Friday;

"...It is a bad sign when the people of a country stop identifying themselves with the country and start identifying with a group. A racial group. Or a religion. Or a language. Anything, as long as it isn't the whole population."

"A very bad sign. Particularism. It was once considered a Spanish vice but any country can fall sick with it."

...

"So far as I have listened, before a revolution can take place, the population must lose faith in both the police and the courts."

"Elementary. Go on."

"Well . . . high taxation is important and so is inflation of the currency and the ratio of the productive to those on the public payroll. But that's old hat; everybody knows that a country is on the skids when its income and outgo get out of balance and stay that way, even though there are always endless attempts to wish it away by legislation... Boss, laws to sweep back the tide never do work... I want to mention one of the obvious symptoms: Violence. Muggings. Sniping. Arson. Bombing. Terrorism of any sort. Riots of course, but I suspect that little incidents of violence, pecking away at people day after day, damage a culture even more than riots that flare up and then die down. I guess that's all for now. Oh, conscription and slavery and arbitrary compulsion of all sorts and imprisonment without bail and without speedy trial, but those things are obvious; all the histories list them."

"Friday, I think you have missed the most alarming symptom of all.

"I have? Are you going to tell me? Or am I going to have to grope around in the dark for it?"

"Mmm. This once I shall tell you. But go back and search for it. Examine it. Sick cultures show a complex of symptoms such as you have named... but a dying culture invariably exhibits personal rudeness. Bad manners. Lack of consideration for others in minor matters. A loss of politeness, of gentle manners, is more significant than is a riot."

"Really?"

"Pfui. I should have forced you to dig it out for yourself; then you would know it. This symptom is especially serious in that an individual displaying it never thinks of it as a sign of ill health but as proof of his/her strength."

Still Not Voting

I looked over my voter guide and almost decided to vote due to one particular measure. Some puritanical pukes are trying to get a measure passed that requires a doctor to give 48 hours notice to the parents of an unemancipated minor before performing an abortion. Looking over the language I noticed that in no way did it stop the procedure. So even if the damn piece of shit measure passes, it just means that approximately 6 girls a year will have to get enough spine to fess up to their folks. If pops whacks her across face, she needs to get enough spine to either leave and file for emancipation or press charges for assault. But the measure almost got me to vote. All the other measures, if read in full, were meaningless.

While the people offering their arguments against this measure are using the same old annoying gimmicks, the folks arguing in favor of it are so much worse. Page after page of 'personal testimonials' about how having an abortion ruined their lives. Nobody who chose not to have one can say that. Once you've got the kid you are suddenly obligated to love and cherish them no matter what kind of a little shit they become. One of the things I hate about the 'personal testimonial' approach regarding the abortion issue is all the lying.

Let me tell you about a young girl who had an abortion. Blah blah blah. Blood, trauma, regret, abandonment, etc. That girl was me. Boo hoo.

The great majority of the individuals who profess to have had an abortion that destroyed their lives are really poor creative writers who somehow think that their Lord God Jehovah will overlook their lies since they are lying to save a fetus. They pulled a similar tactic on me once. Phone calls telling me to reconsider my position on the issue, someone close to me, blah blah blah. LIES!

I've got a personal testimonial for y'all. Let me tell you about an individual who minded his own business and didn't try to force people to live their lives as he saw fit. He didn't end up with my foot in his ass.

Chaos Magick

As many of you know, one of my interests is magick.


Don't believe anything Grant Morrison says. He is a doper, a comic book writer, and Scottish. In this video he explains a simple system of chaos magick using sigils. Don't believe it. Only 5 out of my 6 attempts at his style of sigil magick have been successful. That is only 5x more successful and 23x easier than other systems of magick I have dabbled with. Don't believe anything Grant Morrison says. But watch the 45 minute video. He has a great voice and beautiful skull.

And don't bother reading anything by Peter Carroll. He is just another simpleton hack like Grant Morrison.

Space/Time

I woke up five minutes before the alarm told me I needed to get up if I didn't want to be late to class. My dreams had been really funky all night, but nothing that eluded to the thought that was now lodged in my head.

It is theorized that sub-atomic particles exist as fields of probability that not only can ignore traditional spatial travel but can also ignore time as we conceive it. For instance, in some circles it is not considered too far fetched to suggest that an electron can leave here and be on the other side of the galaxy before it left. A bit much for your head at 6:40 AM on Saturday before heading off to a community college class on machine tools practices? What about those experiments with light where they were able to get light to appear at the other end of an optic connection before it left the source? Yes, it is all very strange but hints that the concept of time travel is not a total pipe dream.

So what if we end up only harnessing the power to send light or sub-atomic particles backwards and forwards in time? That means we can send information back in time. A very powerful tool. Most banking transactions consist of information. You swipe a debit card and it withdraws funds from your account and deposits them into the vendor's account. Imagine at the height of your earning potential sending funds to yourself just out of high school so you could pay for your education with cash instead of loans that have interest. Or a retro-fund purchase of your dream home so you can buy it when the market is most favorable without having to take out a mortgage. It would destroy our current economic system. But say you could only send information back a few minutes. You could still make a killing on the stock market. At least until once again the practice devastated our linear time dependent market system. You can't have people quintupling their money every few minutes as casual day traders. It's just not sustainable.

Suddenly my idea for matter transmission machining seemed like child's play. But it was time for me to take off for class to learn how to use the old fashioned mills, lathes, and surface grinders to make components for use in old fashioned linear time forward machines; machines that make saw chain that cuts down trees that produce pulp for paper for printing out parts specifications for a space elevator that will take supplies into low orbit for building an array of orbital space colonies that will not only shield the Earth from the Sun, reducing the risk of global warming, but will house researchers performing experiments that will lead to the ability to send information backwards in time thus facilitating the collapse of the current economic and political paradigms. I love my job.

AWPC: A Compliment

I was giving a 21 year old hottie a hard time about going out clubbing. She is a petite Asian gal who in my eyes would have a hard time passing for 18.

Jake: If I were a bouncer I'd be asking, "Don't you have school in the morning, little girl?"
N: Even when I had a fake ID they wouldn't card me. It's all in how you dress and present yourself.
Jake: Then why am I still getting carded at my age?
N: Because you're so cute and nice.

Why do people keep insisting I'm nice?

Space Elevator

A space elevator would be cool.

Arthur C. Clarke once predicted that it would be twenty years after people started taking the idea seriously that we would finally have a space elevator. Three years ago scientists started taking the idea seriously.

I wonder if the Brits would call it a space lift?

New Maintenance Policy

We thought for certain he was joking, but he wasn't. They actually want us to start our shift each day by going around to all of the operators, saying hello, and finding out how they are doing. So of course we went full tilt.

Hi!

How are you today?

That's just super!

Isn't it great to be here?

Can I get you anything? Maybe a cup of coffee or some tea?

No, I can't look at the problem with your machine right now. I have to say hello to all the other operators first. Company policy. But as soon as I'm done doing that you can be certain that I will work on your machine in the order in which we prioritize it.

I'm really glad we had this little chat.

Hey, you have a super day.

Then later the maintenance light would come on and we would go check it out.

I saw your light on and said to myself, "Oh no! (Name) is having a less than super day." Is there anything I can do to make it better?

That's just terrible! Why would a machine be that mean to you?

Do you need a cup of tea or maybe a group hug?

We'll get things back to being super for you.

Within a couple of days the operators are going to be begging their supervisor to make us stop.

Accuracy

After work I stepped outside to a subsiding rain. Of course the roads were still wet and I got soaked with cold water all the way home on the chopper.

The weather report said it wasn't supposed to rain today. Then the connection was made. The rest of the news is about as accurate as that. Strange how everybody views the weather report with suspicion but sucks up the rest of the news as gospel.

Short Term Memory Is Over-Rated

While short term memory is over-rated, Marijuana-like compound may fight Alzheimer's.

Marijuana has strong anti-inflammatory effects. "This is why I believe that people who used marijuana a few decades ago are much less likely to develop any disease, such as Alzheimer's, that relies upon the slow development of brain inflammation," Wenk told Reuters Health.

So while your short term memory may get a little fried, those bits that do stick won't slip away later in life. Besides, short term memory is over-rated.

Now if the Alzheimer's patients could only remember where they hid their stash. But I hear short term memory is over-rated.

Synchronicity?

So I happen upon this goth band called The 69 Eyes out of Finland. Shortly thereafter they announce the release of a new album called Route 69.

Just so happens that I grew up at the Northern most end of U.S. Route 69. I was the town's token punk and one of my few friends was a Fin.

Synchronicity seems inevitable in the information glut of the electronic age.

Naughtoberfest

Some days I find myself doing nothing for extended periods of time. Other days I have to set aside time to do nothing. The former is relaxing, happily sedate. The latter exciting, often revelationary.

Hot Pocket

With Google buying out YouTube, I figured it would be worthwhile to take a look at other video hosting services. Not that I don't like Google, I just hate to place all of my online activities into the hands of one provider.

Boob Tube: a PSA

Television can make your kid retarded. I mean, TV Really Might Cause Autism.

Today, Cornell University researchers are reporting what appears to be a statistically significant relationship between autism rates and television watching by children under the age of 3.

Thus explaining why Americans love to wave flags while chanting political slogans. But then they go and spoil my fun.

If television viewing by toddlers is a factor in autism, the parents of afflicted children should not reproach themselves, as there was no warning of this risk. Now there is: The American Academy of Pediatrics currently recommends against any TV for children under the age of 2. Waldman thinks that until more is known about what triggers autism, families with children under the age of 3 should get them away from the television and keep them away.

Bah! No warning? Elderly kooks were warning you young whipper snappers since before the TV was invented. Even I knew that TV made kids into sissy drones. Who was ever beat up by the kid with his own TV and cable box? Did the kid with the highest score on Super Mario Brothers front the math or debate teams? Saying nobody knew about this is like claiming nobody knew they would get fat eating at McDonalds all the time. Of course there is an obvious flaw in the whole study. Only stupid parents would shove their kids in front of the TV for long periods at such a young age. So it might just be genetic.

Underground

The home of underground rock, CBGB, is no more.

Just after 1 on Monday morning, the last notes of live music rang from the stage of CBGB & OMFUG

The bar opened just a couple months after my birth in 1973. How strange for it to close on my birthday 33 years later. For me, it has always been THE punk rock bar. I visited in July of 2000, purchased a t-shirt that is now falling apart, and was heart broken when I saw the same shirt for sale at Hot Topic last year. But I shed no tears for the place. The venue long out-lived its eventual purpose as flagship of American punk rock. Perhaps with CBGB gone all those weird, disenfranchised kids can stop humping the rebellion of the past and create something new, harder, and weirder.

Vow of Celibacy

Ze Frank forgets to mention that this is one date where you're guaranteed to get screwed when the night is over.



the show with zefrank

Too Much Balance

After my insane attempts to conquer the water element, I spent Sunday evening battling with the fire element. Went to Salvador Molly's to take the Great Balls of Fire challenge. It consists of having to eat five of their havanero cheese fritters with all of the havanero dipping sauce.

Every time a restaurant has warned me about spicy food, I've been disappointed. Nobody has come close to presenting my stomach with a real challenge. The Great Balls of Fire did not scare me.

I now know the melting point of an iron constitution. I was barely able to complete the challenge. After the first one my mouth was on fire. Two more and I was sweating and turning red. I managed to smile when they took my picture for the Wall of Flame.

Then I got home and it all settled into my stomach. The only thing that kept me from puking up the lot was thinking about how bad it would burn coming back up. Last night was a nightmare of being able to feel where it was as it traveled through my digestive system. Even after a glass of milk I had to sleep sitting upright. At this time, the oils are finally starting to be removed from my stomach lining while the main mass has made its first two attempts at bodily exit. The saving grace is that while my sphincter may never forgive me, my urinary tract has been spared.

Hardcore Surfing

Woke up early and headed to the beach. All the way there it was raining. As we got to the coast, the rain picked up as did the wind. So we had 20mph winds out of the west with rain and about 50F. But that didn't stop me from trying to surf. We were already soaked by the time we walked the half mile from the parking lot to the beach. The wind kept biting my long board and once managed to rip it from my hands. But that didn't stop me from trying to surf. The waves were small to begin with and fairly well blown out by the wind. My hands went numb in a matter of minutes. But that didn't stop me from trying to surf. When one beach wasn't working out, we moved on to another, looking for waves. Then on to another. Even after noon when the sun finally came out, it was still cold and the waves slow and weak. I ended up catching one real good belly ride and a decent knee ride. Of the three other people we saw out, nobody caught anything better.

What a great day!

12,053 Days

Writing it that way, I should have had a party in August.

About Time

It's kind of creepy when you're sitting there doing nothing and then you look up at the clock on your computer and it reads something like 1:11:11 as you shake your head back into this odd consensus reality.

I'm playing evil influence this weekend. We're taking care of a friend's kid. I let him into my Lego stash and showed him how I prefer my Spaghettios, cold and eaten out of the can. He still wanted his cooked. You'd think he was the Prince of Wales or some such. Some people's kids...

Something Different

This post doesn't have video, images, or links associated with it.

Getting Stoked

Surf reports for Sunday are varying from 2-7 feet. Screw it. Don't care. Going surfing. I'm stoked.

For those of you who don't get the pleasure of surfing this weekend, watch this instead. I would love to someday ride a wave like that. But the truth is, that was a once in a lifetime wave (estimated at about 70-80 feet) ridden by one of the world's best. At my skill level I bet a 10 footer would feel about that awesome.

CoSM

When I look at the art of Alex Grey a connection occurs. I look and say, "I've been there. I've experienced that." He calls it spirit. I don't presume to know what it is, but I guess that's as good a label as any.

Naughtoberfest

The world dissolves into nothingness. The shell disappears, the vehicle is gone, and all that remains is self beyond self. So fleeting, but worth every second.

Surf's Up!

Looks like waves are moving in for Sunday. Awesome!

AWPC: Why I'm So Good At What I Do

The assembly lead (who kind of reminds me of a muppet) came to me with a very serious problem.

D: Veronica's thingy that keeps the parts up is broken.
J: The thingy?
D: You know, the bucket thingy.
J: You mean the rack thingy?
D: Yeah, the thinga-ma-jig.
J: The whatchamacallit.
D: The do-hickey.
J: The gizmo.
D: Yeah. So if you get a chance could you look at her thingy?
J: I'll see what we can do about her thinga-ma-bob.

I fixed her thingy in less than five minutes.

Surf's Not Up

Surfing conditions are looking at best average for this weekend. That still won't stop me from some birthday surfing on Sunday. Wish I was going out tomorrow.

Stop the Bloodshed

Self-assembling gel stops bleeding in seconds.

Swab a clear liquid onto a gaping wound and watch the bleeding stop in seconds. An international team of researchers has accomplished just that in animals, using a solution of protein molecules that self-organise on the nanoscale into a biodegradable gel that stops bleeding.

Last night I cut myself at work, immediately dumped some super glue on my finger, and the bleeding stopped in seconds. I'm not sure if it is biodegradable or works on the nanoscale, but the end result is the same.

For gaping wounds, rinse with listerine first. When screaming stops, apply super glue.

Lazy Satanist

Audio from The Onion Radio News.

White Stripes - Fell In Love With a Girl

I like Punk and Legos.

Space Migration

From the archives! Made back in the spring of 2001, this was my final presentation for my Astronomy class. Very little information has changed. The three biggest things would be the shuttle breaking apart upon re-entry, SpaceshipOne claiming the X Prize, and the introduction of space tourism with Dennis Tito. Still a very relevant short film.

G. W. Bush, Crowned and Conquering Child

A while back I posted a humorous little video about The Book of the Law, Aleister Crowley, 9/11 conspiracy, prophecy, and folding money. Now I present for your consideration that Barbara Bush, mother of George W. Bush, might have been sired by "The Beast" Aleister Crowley.

But who was Barbara's father? The chronology indicates that it could have been Crowley, but it could just as easily have been Marvin Pierce. The truth regarding Crowlean sexual rituals is disclosed only to the highest initiates of the OTO, in a document misleadingly titled "Emblems and Modes of Use."

Is Aleister Crowley the father of Barbara Bush? Even she may not know for certain; indeed, I have no way of knowing whether she has ever been told that this possibility exists. However, more than one person has noted the resemblance -- and this resemblance is not just physical.

Read for yourself at flux64. Is President Bush Horus, the Crowned and Conquering Child? Am I using too many links?

Because He Asked

Jewbacca asked if people would be willing to share their results on the Political Compass. So here it is with some modern political thinkers over-laid for reference. (Hmm, modern political thinkers are over-laid? Career change?)



Yep, that plain red dot (the one without the black circle around it) represents me, hangin' out with the Dalai Lama.

Who writes this crap? Primarily, where was the don't give a shit option? And there were other questions I had absolutely no way of answering truthfully in multiple choice format. For example:

Abstract art that doesn't represent anything shouldn't be considered art at all.

Well, yes, I agree. Problem is everything both is something and represents something. Dog shit on the sidewalk is dog shit on the sidewalk. It also can represent a pet owner who is too lazy to pick up after his pet, or maybe a feral hound, or maybe someone too distracted to take notice of what their dog was up to, or maybe it represents some lifestyle nazi trying to dictate how others should care for their pets. So how am I supposed to answer a poorly asked question?

Then there was this one:

Because corporations cannot be trusted to voluntarily protect the environment, they require regulation.

My initial reaction to this is to strongly disagree. Corporations can be trusted to voluntarily protect the environment if consumers give up the crusade for low cost and instead only purchase goods produced with a minimal environmental footprint. Living in an urban area means consuming goods and consuming the biproducts from the manufacture of those goods. Unless we outsource the polluting end of things to China.

Let's throw a Z-axis on this damn thing and have it measure political apathy. Then you'll see me wallowing in the sewer while G-dub soars in the clouds. I figure I'm on the opposite end of the chart for the others, I'm probably on the opposite end for that one, too.

Sri Syadasti. All things are true in some sense, false in some sense, meaningless in some sense...

Back to School

Started machining classes today. It is both very fun and very frustrating. Fun because using machine tools like mills and lathes rocks. Frustrating because this is an accelerated course put together specifically for employees of the company I work for. The course is normally taught half days 5 days a week over three months. Our class consists of 8 full day sessions every other Saturday. Frustrating because it is not moving fast enough for me. So I've fallen into my old school habit of jumping from machine to machine seeing how the others are doing. The faster they move, the faster the class can move.

I did learn something today. Old folks and soccer moms are far scarier behind the wheel than a drunk driver. Drunks I can spot from a half mile back. The former do stupid shit for no obvious reason and without warning. They'll be driving along all normal, suddenly slam on their brakes, change lanes, hit the gas, and then fly back across two lanes of traffic to make a turn. Drunks know where they are going and while they may not be holding their lane, they hold the course for fear of looking like they are drunk in front of a cop. You can steer clear of a drunk. How do you steer clear of a mid-lane crisis of intent?

Not Dead Yet

Robert Anton Wilson is in the process of dieing for the second time. He did it once before back in 1994. The news reports of his death were so convincing even he had to admit that there was a possibility that he really had died and was replaced with a robot. This time around there is a little less mystery surrounding the event.

What surprised me the most is that the guy is broke. Writers may not make a lot but RAW is not just an ordinary author. I have 20 of his books on my shelf. I have lost four others. I have purchased copies as gifts for friends and family. When I have seen the success of things like The Davinci Code and What the Bleep, I am reminded that Bob covered that territory quite well back in the 70's and 80's. Psychology is still having one hell of a time just catching up to where this guy started. This man's literature has transformed my existence. I have told everyone I know time and again what a great and genius writer this guy is and to go out and buy his books. Well obviously some of you didn't do that because the guy is dead broke and was about to be kicked out of his apartment while on his death bed. Do you really want to be reincarnated as a VoteJake refrigerator magnet? Of course not, because nobody even buys those things. Luckily he has lots of loving fans who came to his rescue.

Robert Anton Wilson is a GOD. He is also a Pope and a Tsar.

Absolutely, Positively Insane Surf

The wave looks decent, between 4-6 feet. That's bigger than a lot of California waves. That's about what we get most decent summer days in Oregon. Then winter hits and the Oregon coast gets epic. Scary big. Like 10-20 feet crash down pile drive your head into the sand bar big. So what makes the little wave pictured so absolutely, positively insane? This is a shot of Minnesota's North Shore, icy cold Lake Superior. All those years I could have been surfing...

Next time I go back to Minnesota, I'm bringin' a board. Just so I can surf in my home state. Bet the waves aren't crowded either.

Space News

Wide Range of Rocket Tech for Civilian Spaceflight.

By filling in niches, such as orbital and sub-orbital flight, once occupied by NASA, private space companies will free up the agency's resources for other missions.

"NASA's budget is 16.8 billion dollars-six-tenths of one percent of the federal budget," said Chris Shank, special assistant to NASA chief, Michael Griffin. "For us to finish the International Space Station, go to the Moon and then on to Mars is going to require commercial and international investments. NASA can't do it by itself."

Shank says the agency plans to shift some of the workload involved in getting to space onto private businesses, freeing up the agency to focus on its federally mandated Moon, Mars & Beyond mission. This is happening already. For example, NASA recently awarded Space Exploration Technologies (SpaceX) and Rocketplane Kistler to deliver crew and cargo to the ISS.

Do you mean to say that when Bush spoke so boldly of return to the Moon that he was just paying lip service to space endeavors? Hurray for unfunded mandates!

Who is dumber; the man who speaks such bullshit or those who actually believe it?

Regardless, I'm still waiting for the floating tattooed boobies. My childhood dreams are crumbling each day that we aren't building a city in space.

Go Twins!

Naughtoberfest

I dived in a little deep tonight. Doing nothing while in a recliner or on a couch in a relatively sedate room seemed so simple. Tonight I challenged myself to do nothing while sitting in the studio. This is a room where I spend my time browsing the internet, reading e-mail, watching videos, listening to music, and generally always occupying myself.

The initial urges were all about things I could be looking up online. After a bit this gave way to the desire to take off my boots. Such a simple thing, but the urge to stop doing nothing and take off my boots was much stronger than I would have thought. My brain was also bombarding me with images and sound samples. Synapses were firing at hyper speed providing no end to the torrential deluge. It eventually gave way to me smiling while realizing that I was experimenting in time travel. Yes it was all still forward, but I seemed to be traveling through it much more slowly than when I occupy myself. As this realization hit, I was shocked out of my nothingness by my computer monitor inexplicably coming to life. About 45 minutes had passed.

I now have this strange urge to do stretches before doing nothing.

Minneapolis Old School

This is primarily for the Swede Transvestite, but I figured some other MSP escapees might enjoy this site of Minneapolis architectural history. It's hosted at the site of James Lileks who used to have a fantastic late night radio show called The Diner. While he never came close to the pure radio genious that is Mishke (who could commit the cardinal radio sin of intentionally allowing dead air and actually see his ratings go up) The Diner had its moments and I listened regularly. One moment sticks out where a very sincere caller, an older lady judging by the voice, made the comment that they should all remember that there is only one true God. Lileks' engineer immediately agreed saying, "Yes! And it is Pan! The Goat God!" Classic.

Where was I... oh yeah. So, uh, buildings, you betcha.

From the Garbage Heap

At work a friend and I were discussing hipsters. We both knew where to find them on a Friday night, where they lived, what they looked like, and how they tended to behave. Wikipedia's definition of a modern hipster seems to confirm our ideas.

Since the late 1990s, the word hipster has resurfaced as an often derisive label for individuals or stereotypes of individuals devoted to retro fashions, independent music and film, alternative comics, and other youthful forms of expression outside the mainstream. The term is sometimes used as a blanket derogatory descriptor for fans of indie rock music.

Some stereotypical accessories of the modern hipster include Vespa scooters, Buddy Holly-style glasses, white belts, indie-rock band membership, Converse style shoes, and vintage clothing. Neighborhoods such as Northeast, Minneapolis; Wicker Park, Chicago; Williamsburg, Brooklyn; The Mission District, San Francisco; Capitol Hill, Seattle; Hollywood, Los Angeles; Pearl District, Portland and other, smaller concentrations across the country have become popular living and recreational destinations for hipsters. Cheap, alcoholic beverages such as Pabst Blue Ribbon Beer are sometimes associated with hipster culture.

But that doesn't answer a question we both raised. Where did hipsters come from? What brought about the hipster as we know it?

My current working theory is three-fold.

1. Hipsters were quiet, somewhat geeky high school kids from predominantly suburban middle class homes. I am using the IRS definition of middle class which means a household income of at least $100,000 a year but less than $500,000. This of course can be adjusted to local economies since it really has to do with living with privilege without realizing you are privileged. These kids were sent off to college where they first started to think of themselves as individuals. There they hooked up with similar suburban refugees and they all became 'individuals' together. Being privileged, educated individuals they naturally felt a certain degree of superiority to those who did not display the obvious signs of individuality, meaning, did not act like them.
2. Factor into this the tech boom of the 1990's. Very young and geeky kids of privilege had access to home computers growing up. They were either stuck in the suburbs where parents feared the influences of an outside world or were turned off by the society around them based on their experiences in the public school system. So they started to tinker with the computer, learning not just how to use it, but how to make it do new and interesting things. In their 20's and early 30's they found themselves in important positions and with lots of disposable income. Being geek was chic.
   
3. The people who tend to really set subculture styles are the artists. They tend to do it without trying. Poor, willing to spend all their money on more art supplies or band equipment while hitting the Salvation Army for clothes. But they have an eye for aesthetics. So they make interesting outfits from the leftovers of previous fashion trends. With faded jeans and old flannels being sold for a premium because of the grunge scene, they move on to whatever else they can find. Knit knee length skirts. Polyester pants. Old suit coats and leather smoking jackets. They pieced it together into something interesting. The consumers of fringe culture ate it up, wanting to be individuals just like their favorite artists that nobody had ever heard of.

Overly simplistic of course. Full of sweeping generalities that certainly do not apply to all hipsters. Just trying to figure out the origins of this subculture. Because while most subcultures have some fairly obvious origins and at least some redeeming qualities, they seem to be missing amongst the modern hip. While I am certain there is a beauty to the irony and banality of the hipsters, it is lost on most people including myself. I'm fairly confident it is lost on most of them, too. But unlike me, they are too hip to care.

Beer

Fuck 40's. This is a 64! That's right, an entire 6 pack of beer shoved into a single jug with a thumb loop to help prevent accidents. Not only that, but it is real beer that actually tastes good.

Then there's this little number. Don't let the pint bottle trick you into thinking this is a safer bet. Always read the fine print. Yep, 10% alcohol level in a beer. You pop the bottle cap and the hops aroma gently wafts into your nose and proceeds to pick a fight with any other smell that happens by. You take a sip and wonder if the Brits could have held India had their troops had an IPA like this. Then you finish the bottle and realize they would have lost it a lot quicker.

Both of these are American beers done right. They are also both now empty. Products like this make it easy to support American businesses.

Naughtoberfest

Do nothing month is off to a great start. This morning I laid around for a couple of hours. This afternoon I sat in a chair for almost an hour. I was roused from my intentional zoning out by my dad's weekly phone call. Towards the end of the conversation I mentioned something about saving up my vacation time to cash out at the end of the year. We said our goodbyes, hung up, and that's when I had an epiphany!

When I cash out my vacation time I'll have enough to buy all the surf gear I need. What a great end of the year gift to myself. My dedication has at least some pay-off. And all next year I can surf and surf and surf!

Doing nothing is sweet.

Fried Chicken

First, an AWPC from Friday. This one comes from a black co-worker of mine on his dining experience at Dennys.

E: So I order up some fried chicken and I'm like what the hell is this? I look back in the kitchen and there's a brutha back there. What brutha doesn't know how to cook fried chicken?

Exactly. That is why when I craved some fried chicken today, I drove the extra distance to go to Popeyes on MLK. Every metropolitan area has an MLK and every MLK has a Popeyes. And when a white boy walks into the Popeyes on MLK, no matter what city it is in, the odds are that he is the only white boy in the place. And being that it is Sunday, this white boy in ripped Carharts and faded shirt found himself surrounded by folks in their Sunday best. Which always looks better than the white folks in their Sunday best who insist on using the drive-through. Women were in big, beautiful hats that matched their over-done dresses. Men had on neatly pressed stetsons with their immaculate pin-stripes. Even the minister at the register next to me had a shimmering baby blue silk shirt and shiny silver crucifix on a thick silver chain. The whole scene is rich, warm, and friendly and this is only a freakin' Popeyes! To top the whole thing off with some grand irony, the sound system was pumping some Dr. John,

I been in the right place but it must have been the wrong time
I'd of said the right thing but I must have used the wrong line
I been in the right trip but I must have used the wrong car
My head was in a bad place and I'm wondering what it's good for

My only regret is that I decided not to get a beverage. A grape soda would have really topped off my meal.