Chronicles of an Isolated Essence

Half-Blood Princicisms

2009-09-20T00:22:00.001-07:00

Seeing as the sixth book is the awesomest, and I saw the movie twice on its opening weekend, this beckons some hardcore nerdlery thanks to my obsessive-compulsive-anal-retentive-attention-to-detail.

[All references refer to the hardback American version of the books, published by “Arthur A. Levine Books, an Imprint of Scholastic, Inc.”]

Pros:

Cons:

Die Hard

Bottom Line:
Steve Kloves (screenwriter for all HP movies) and David Yates (director of #’s 5 & 6) have disgraced the past two HP films from the depth & brilliance of Rowling’s nuanced writing style. If we voted, the audience would elect Alfonso Cuaron (director of #3) to wrap it all up. Or I could also settle for a Steven Spielberg/George Lucas combo (Voldemort builds a Death Star).

On the other hand, Rowling appeared lost as to how to conclude her epic saga in Deathly Hallows (let’s go camping for a year). Ergo, chapters 7a and 7b of the HP films may be a melee of action-packed nonsense, enabling Hollywood to sell more theater tickets. This could end up like The Matrix III - no depth, just action (again, Voldemort builds a Death Star).

And for the love of Merlin, let’s get back to a PG-13 rating. How will David Yates be empowered to kill off so many characters under a wet PG blanket? Will we get a nod toward the homosexual shenanigans of Dumbledore & Grindelwald?

And most importantly, how will I bring myself to tears with a PG-rated death of Snape? “There was a terrible scream. Harry saw Snape’s face losing the little color it had left; it whitened as his black eyes widened, as the snake’s fangs pierced his neck… who fell sideways onto the floor, blood gushing from the wounds in his neck… a terrible rasping, gurgling noise issued from Snape’s throat… something in the depths of the dark pair seemed to vanish, leaving them fixed, blank, and empty. The hand holding Harry thudded to the floor, and Snape moved no more.” [Deathly Hallows, page 656-658]

wait’ll you see those Goddamned bats

2009-02-21T08:43:00.000-08:00

Top this, Klosterman:

2008’s “The Dark Knight” was more of an intellectual thriller than an action movie.

Is a misanthrope one who wants to watch the world burn? Is an anarchist a misanthrope without faith in the civility of mankind? There must be some sort of transfer function where you stir together one part misanthrope with one part severe lack of morality, and you get a terrorist! A la the Joker!

Is “The Dark Knight” as simple as order versus chaos? No! Batman is the embodiment of vigilante order while the Joker is just plain psychotic. Of course, for the laypeople, “order” is referred to as “good” in the film since modern storytelling is completely enthralled in the battle and eventual triumph of Good over Evil. So Batman represents order while the Joker represents chaos even though this scenario exhibits a skewed vigilante order (Batman) versus a relentless unrestrained terrorist (Joker). The Dark Knight may not embrace conventional processes of law enforcement, but he holds to his own creed (primarily: thou shalt not kill). On the other hand, the Joker adopts his creed of no compliance to any rules, whether it originate from civilization or from his own mind. The Joker seeks not personal gain, fame, or wealth; he just wants to watch the world burn via manipulation of average citizens.

Does the theme of the film boil down to civilization (Batman) versus Darwinism (Joker)? You remember the crux of Darwinism: survival of the fittest, kill or be killed. If your competition is superior, then you shall be destroyed. As long as the Joker continues to murder his competition, he remains the fittest. Furthermore, the Joker applies two strategies to devolve the citizens of Gotham City into blood-thirsty apes: [1] Darwinism and [2] infiltrating our psychological circles of loyalty.

Machines are driven by cold indifferent logic. Unfortunately, mankind is more animal than machine. Due to our animalistic vicissitude, we’re driven by emotion and instinct. These emotions overwhelm us within our concentric circles of loyalty: family first, then close friends, then provincial community, then city or state, then country, then major global civilization, then all humanity, then all mammals, then all land-based creatures, then multi-cellular life, then all life, then the entire Earth, then our solar system, and so on.

For examples: you would help a dying whale rather than a dying dung beetle because, since you are a mammal, you are more loyal to the mammalian family of animals. If you’re a Christian, you would rather aid a fellow Christian before any Muslim, Buddhist, or Taoist. To carry the theme, you would rather kill a stranger than allow a family member to perish in an exploding hospital. This is because the family member is in your tightest circle of loyalty, so family always takes priority over those people you don’t know and don’t really care about in the context of your personal life. The Joker simply plays these instincts programmed into us all, thereby turning Gotham’s innocent bystanders into mindless swine.

Now, most predictably, we enter Theme of Balance: creating more “good” results in automatic creation of more “evil” elsewhere so that the net sum (all good + all evil) remains zero. This balance compliments fundamental physics such the Laws of Conservation of Mass and Conservation of Energy. This also reinforces the theory that we live in a universe with equivalent quantities of matter and antimatter (sorry, I just read Dan Brown’s “Angels & Demons”). Despite mankind’s finest engineering efforts to maintain order, time eventually crumbles then recycles absolutely all of existence. Or as the Joker quaintly stated, “everything burns”.

Keeping this balance in mind, all rules, laws, or attempts to control humanity get automatically undermined by subconscious firmware embedded in each of our brains. The Joker admits “it’s fear” that devolves us into Beasts, thereby ridding ourselves of the pain of being Men.

In turn, the Joker reveals that Batman himself served as the Joker’s inspiration to throw conformity in the dumpster. The creation of a hero automatically spawned a villain, keeping the net sum of order and chaos equal to zero. However, somebody threw a greasy monkey wrench into this theory: like the Joker, Batman is also an existential individual. They both break the rules established by civilization! They’re like two valence electrons speeding along a molecule’s outer rim: one trying to keep its resident molecule, Gotham, inert while the other tries to blast all of Creation with Photons of Bedlam.

Anyways, poor Batman’s dilemma as the protagonist is when “an unstoppable force meets an immovable object”. The Joker admits these perceived polar opposites are “destined to do this forever”. Order and chaos will negate each other forever, amen. Also notice neither our hero nor villain get annihilated at the film’s conclusion, hence maintaining the balance. Or, more likely, it was a setup for a sequel. And this is totally tragic given Heath’s finest career performance followed immediately by his death.

rally 'round the family with a pocket full of pitbulls

2008-12-26T23:43:00.000-08:00

In his stand-up acts, everything Chris Rock states is exactly correct. In one of his shows, he admitted that the most racist people in the world are “old black men”.

With that, the taxi driver was an elderly and curious black man. As we were on a ten-mile ride to Dolphin Stadium decked out in Virginia Tech gear, he took the opportunity to pry into the notorious school shooting, which at the time occurred one-and-a-half years prior.

He asked what we thought was wrong with Cho, the shooter. Aside from other unidentified disorders, Cho was partially autistic; we didn’t see strong evidence that he suffered abuse from family, friends, or roommates.

Our driver seemed particularly interested in what appeared to be a shortage of outrage. Just after the shooting, confusion spurred from lack of a clear scapegoat:

(a) Some blamed VT’s administration for not reacting after the first incident. If the second incident were prevented, thirty lives along with dozens of casualties would have been spared.

(b) Some blamed VT’s counseling services. There are only about a dozen school psychologists, and the student population continues to expand toward the 30,000 milestone. You gotta be damn near suicide to receive any attention from the counseling center.

(c) Some blamed the Commonwealth of Virginia’s loose firearm regulations. The Liberal Media was quick to point out Virginia has the most slack gun laws. However, each state has a cornucopia of firearms statutes, leaving state side-by-side comparison an impossibility. Hey, it’s a Red State (or it was before November 2008) with a hearty deer population and plenty of woodlands. What else besides hunting will occupy the hillbillies before sunrise on Saturday mornings?

(d) Nobody had the balls to pin the blame on the meek Korean community.

(e) If no one could blame the Koreans, nobody would dare blame autism. It’s difficult enough inserting an autistic character in a movie without political backlash from hypersensitive mothers.

Anyways, our dubious driver was quick to point out the massive outrage and embarrassment of the Michael Vick Dog-Fighting fiasco. All across the nation, animal rights activists, professional athletes, celebrities, Saturday Night Live, etcetera spared no expense biting into Southeast Virginia’s thuggery (pun intended).

So our driver hinted that Virginia Tech’s reputation was scarred more by the Vick dog-fighting scandal than the most fatal school shooting in the history of American education. Did the Korean community get off too easy? Is it too easy to expect Black Americans to engage in violent crime? Leave it to the mental filter of an “old black man” to make such observations: Koreans are the polite, soft-spoken clerks who cut your hair and dry-clean your delicates; young black men are the disenfranchised standing behind you at the ATM, ready to pounce on your cash.

With a bit of luck, this mentality and cultural paradigm of racial grudge is slowly bleeding to death. Now, in the grand scheme of American history, we’re still in recovery mode from Segregation. Some rivalry between Whites and Blacks (W&Bs) may continue for decades or centuries to come seeing as W&Bs are the “core citizens” of America. W&Bs have been toiling American soil since the 17^th Century while everybody else hopped on the coat-tails of our prosperity. Furthermore, it would be plain impolite not to mention the American Indians at this point; they continue to remain a footnote at the bottom of American history as victims of Anglo-Saxon Small Pox.

On the other hand, Obama’s election serves as a swift jab in the jawbone of America’s ubiquitous racial awkwardness. Even though Barack is half-white/half-Kenyan, he is celebrated as America’s First Black President. As socio-political economic issues kick his once-ambitious ass around the White House, his reign should instigate a massive paradigm shift in American pop culture. So what exactly is the outcome of this ancillary “change we can believe in”? We’ll just have to wait and see.

Back Door Beauty?

2008-12-13T22:51:00.000-08:00

(Unfortunately, Wikipedia is one step ahead of me on this one.)

Towards the end of Led Zeppelin's "Whole Lotta Love", Robert Plant shouts, "I wanna be your back door man!" I had always assumed this was a blatant reference to anal sex. Then one November evening as I was enjoying a juvenile cover band (Vintage), I realized I was completely wrong.

The "back door man" is an notorious character in blues music. His presence dates back to the blues of Blind Willie McTell and Lightin' Hopkins. Lyrics paraphrased on the order of "when I walk in that front door, I hear that back door slam" are ubiquitous throughout the blues. This back door theme is so common that a recently-established blues-rock band dubbed themselves "Back Door Slam".

Now, the tale of the "back door man" is usually told from the husband's point of view. He steps in through the front door of his abode after a strenuous day on the job, only to hear his back door slam and find his wife's face flushed from sexual activity. The wife is an adulterer, and the accomplice of this affair just made his escape out the rear of the residence. As this is told in the context of the Blues, the husband either indifferently ignores the situation due to extreme depression or straight up kills his wife in cold blood. The reaction is based solely on our songwriter's temperament.

So Bob Plant's request to become the "back door man" is an unexpected twist in the grand scheme of blues folklore. This "back door man" is seems perceived as a nuisance on the order of a cockroach infestation. So who would aspire to become such a pest facing dire consequences as heavy as murder? A rock star, that's who! It just took a jam from a few teenagers to make me realize Robert Plant isn't an open sodomite.

One Doomed Election

2008-10-19T17:24:00.001-07:00

Well, the Weasels in Washington continue to spike our drinking water with isopropyl alcohol. Who does Corporate American Media tell us to vote for? Your choices are the Green African or the Gimpy Veteran; both of these dubious bourgeois appear to have no iota how to lead the Free World.

Obamalama Ding Dong’s theme is “change”. Whatever happened to “reform”? You know, the political term for “change”? Is he reaching out to connect with middle-America’s idiocy? He recognizes we’ll choose a one-syllabled word over a two-syllabled when texting to our BFFs. That son of a preacher man has us snared in a digital noose.

In hindsight, Hillary would have made a righteous candidate. The Clintons could replace the Kennedys as America’s Royal Family, complete with Britney Spears in a birthday cake for Slick Willy’s entertainment.

Then arrives the overwhelming fuck-up of choosing their running mates. Joe Biden is Old School; the man started as a Republican for Christ’s sake! DC has jaded and faded his personality for three decades. Biden will discourage Obama’s “changes”. Obama wants to shift the Drug War’s paradigm from over-enthusiastic law enforcement into one of “education & awareness”. But Biden created the Goddamned Drug Czar back in 1985! We’ll see no reform on the Substance Control front. Will Biden be Obama’s puppetmaster just as Cheney suspended Dubya on invisible strings?

Anyways, Corporate American Media embraced the Democratic National Convention, perhaps nursing the celebratory momentum from the Chinese Olympics. A psyched Wolf Blitzer tap-danced on the Dem’s Denver stage. How can the GOP possibly outperform that mild, drug-free, fully-shirted HFStival?

McCain slithered in wait as the snake in the grass outside the stadium’s parking lot. The morning after, he undermined the entire DNC in one fell swoop while simultaneously Shocking & Awing this nation. He announced his running mate, an unknown charismatic middle-aged mother of five from Alaska. Leave it to those fascist Republicans to select an unqualified sassy pitbull beauty queen! There’s a leap toward breeding a superior, God-fearing, gun-toting, anti-progressive ethnicity. Did you check out that ho’s criminal record? Sarah Palin’s got drama and power abuse written all over her trademark eyeglasses and winks. Then arrived her momentous make-or-break introduction to the world at the Republican National Convention. This profound speech would float or sink the entire Traditional Family Values party.

But the question was not: Did she sway the people via her thoroughly-scrubbed rhetoric?

The true question was: Was her skirt long enough for Republican standards? I thought I saw some knee, tisk tisk.

Funny footnote: Ron Paul was denied permission to speak at the RNC, but at least they gave him a floor pass. Turning against the Conservatives, he held his own convention across the river in Minneapolis. Ten thousand farmers rolled in from all over the States to rally for Paul’s 19^th-Century ideologies. A couple weeks later, Paul hosted an independent candidates rally begging that We the People vote for anyone but those poor bastards who sold their souls to the corrupt Two Party System.

So we’ve got two rookie rock stars on opposing sides, and two crusty curmudgeons on a first-name basis with each of DC’s sewer rats. Way to cancel each other out! Shut up, Anderson! Nobody’s gonna “change the town”.

Then came the embarrassing brass tax of the Presidential Debates. In summary, they both oppose gay marriage. Oh, and neither of them has any idea how to mitigate the global economic slowdown while Ben Bernanke and Henry Paulson keep ineffectively tossing the market free juicy bones. The primary differences between Barack and Johnny are (a) the War on Terror strategy and (b) the American healthcare approach.

McCain: Iraq, Iraq, Iraq!

Obama: Afghanistan, Afghanistan, Afghanistan!

And then that austere Maverick wants to cut everyone a $5k check for healthcare? A Republican pushing healthcare welfare? No wonder Rush Limbaugh is puking on his microphone.

The second debate was McCain’s Last Stand, and he blew it. A disenfranchised Larry Kudlow didn’t receive his request of McCain’s need to wage a full-frontal assault of Obama’s cahoots with Fannie Mae’s former CEO, thereby placing Barack square in the crosshairs of the imploding financial sector. McCain ripped and moaned like a broken record about how many times he reached across the aisle to collaborate with the Donkeys, which in his condition appears pretty painful as Johnny winces whenever raising his right arm.

Then both weasels implied that they’ll follow Dubya’s footpath of flipping the United Nations a giant middle finger as American hummers roll on into whatever country the Commander in Chief whims. Did Dubya establish an unsettling and asinine new trend by invading Iraq without the UN’s blessing? Who would have predicted Dubya would leave such profound pus-oozing scar tissue in DC?

Alright everybody, let’s get used to enunciating “President Barack Hussein Obama”. That doesn’t have much of a ring to it. With a name like that, shit, foreigners are gonna think he’s the president of Kenya.

At least Dubya is keeping his nose out of McCain’s campaign. Dubya’s enjoying his twilight; nothing he does matters anymore except for maybe his reaction to Oliver Stone’s biographical film released while the git-r-done Texan still sleeps in the White House! Meanwhile, Cheney is bolted down in his Observatory with a gun to his head as the sun sets on his Global Empire. Actually, that soulless Rotarian will most likely continue gripping the world via the multi-national Evil Empire of Halliburton (within a volcano lair in Dubai).

So who is the lesser of two evils? Oh, fuck those greasy slimeballs! Who else is on my ballot? None of this bi-partisan nonsense matters. My absentee ballot was already mailed, and my #2 pencil soared over the Big Two to land on the bottom of the page. Since the Two Party Duopoly treats this election as a joke, I shall also treat it as a joke. Go Nader! Or perhaps Congress is just ecstatic over Dubya’s departure, and placing any other warm body into the White House will rectify the nation’s reputation.

There was nothing in the atmosphere of the North Star to put me on my guard.

2008-05-25T03:23:00.000-07:00

Further up and further in… to trouble.

Jesus wearily opened the chrome-laden door of the road-side diner. His boots smeared mud across the linoleum floor as he trudged to the nearest stool at the bar. He slung off his dusty cloak, draping it over the stool before taking his seat. Fluorescent lighting flickered above him. He ordered a twenty-ounce stout and a bacon cheeseburger with spiced fries from the young brunette waitress with sparkling silver eye shadow. Jesus thought she must still be in high school to wear makeup that tacky.

While waiting for his food, Jesus pulled out his yellowed hand-written memo. This wrinkled old paper documented, in red ink, the two prophecies - his life’s mission. Each time he read it, he pleaded with himself that it would finally make sense. Perhaps something that happened earlier in the day would add the last piece of the puzzle, thereby answering his existence. Maybe something as simple as the bright smile of a child would finalize his purpose. Or maybe an offer of a toke off a jay from a gypsy band of hippies. This thought made him smirk.

The bar maid lay his dinner in front of him, and Jesus gorged it down like a starving Ethiopian. He chugged his pilsner as if it were loaded in a beer bong, wiped the foam from his chapped lips, and ordered another drink. Jesus was looking forward to the reliable wave of content that arrives shortly after a greasy meal. Instead, the jukebox distracted him. It was playing a lo-fi record of the White Stripes. Jack White sang, “I got your phone number written in the back of my bible.”

Jesus rolled his eyes and muttered under his breath, “Where does that Jack get so much faith?”

“He chooses his faith,” replied a raspy voice to Jesus’ right. Jesus jumped, almost falling off his stool. He didn’t realize someone was sitting in the adjacent stool. Fifteen seconds ago, he was alone at the bar. Now he found himself accompanied by a pale skinny ghost of a man wearing a gray suit with a gray tie. The stranger sported dark bags under his eyes, sharp facial features, and long black oily hair slicked straight back to his shoulders. Sitting on the bar in front of this shadowy specter was a martini glass full of bright green liquid, like one of those artificial juice boxes the kids suck on at lunchtime. The stranger continued, “He may be a victim of his circumstances, being raised Catholic, but he voluntarily chose to never question his denomination throughout his adult life.”

Jesus curiously eyed the stranger’s fluorescent glowing drink. The stranger took notice and replied, “Oh, they don’t serve absinthe in a road house like this. I bring my own.”

The staff continued serving the tabled patrons without acknowledging the stranger’s presence. Jesus decided not to further question the individual’s eccentric entrance.

“So what brings you to this little town in America’s heartland?” asked the stranger.

“I’m on a tour,” Jesus replied. His own voice seemed weak, contained more within his head than in the air.

“Such as a band on tour?” the stranger asked.

“No, I’m a domestic missionary spreading the Word of God.”

“Oh, an entrepreneur in bible sales?” the stranger inquired with a straight face.

“On the contrary, I’m telling the people of this nation not to interpret the bible in the literal sense, but to recall God’s message of peace and love.”

The stranger snickered, snorting some of his absinthe onto the counter. “And from where did you hear this message?”

“It’s the theme of the New Testament. Are you not familiar with the Holy Bible?” Jesus retorted.

The shadowy being shrugged as his voice grew smug, “I’m all too familiar with the Holy Word of Man. It was authored eighteen centuries ago, then passed down from one generation to the next, slowing spreading across Western Civilization until modern rock stars such as Jack White openly believe that the words written by his ancient ancestors are divine. It all seems pretty asinine, doesn’t it?”

Jesus sighed. His voice waned to a whisper, “The common response to that accusation is that the authors of the bible were inspired by God to write.”

The gray stranger lifted his eyebrows. “Oh? And has God ever told you to write anything? Have you sat face to face with him as he outlined the next chapter of the testament? Has he ever given you a direct order, or are you just doing as you are told by other men?” The dark figure coughed into his jacket sleeve. He pulled out a pack of cigarettes from inside his suit jacket, plucked a cigarette from the pack, flicked open a zippo, and lit it.

Jesus took a sip of his beer and contemplated his next move. He had endured countless debates with atheists, ending in stalemates. This stranger seemed to be another one of those hopeless souls who would never accept Christianity into is life.

The stranger cut his eyes over to Jesus for a glance and said, “Don’t worry about me. I have complete control over my fate. But what about yourself? To whence will you send your soul?”

Jesus was taken aback. Is this guy just a jerk? He seems like the sort of jackass who would aggravate an unsuspecting victim for his own amusement. Jesus decided to turn the other cheek and humor the cruel figure in gray, just as God would want him to.

“I’m Jesus by the way. What did you say your name was?”

“I didn’t. Not that it’s of any consequence, but it’s Sven Raupesse.” He took another drag from his cigarette, looked at Jesus, and passed him a cigarette.

“Thanks, man.” Jesus lit the cigarette with his own Bic lighter as Sven grinned over his glowing cocktail.

“You from around here?” Jesus asked.

“No, I’m from all over. I’m a nomad such as yourself,” Sven replied. Jesus nodded; he had found a fellow road warrior. They could share travel anecdotes to ease the tension. But Jesus wouldn’t let Sven’s contemptuous urging linger in the air.

“To get back to your question,” Jesus said, “No, I’ve never had a direct conversation with God or any of his angels.” Sven coughed, choking on the smoke in his lungs. “It may sound subjective, but God speaks to us through his Creation. He may inspire us through a chirping bird, a lone tree on a grassy hill, or a sunset over the Pacific Ocean. We don’t hear his words, but we certainly hear, see, feel, taste, and smell his beautiful work of art that is this world and our home.”

Sven nodded, “You’ve got a point that subjective content cannot be objectively debated. So you go on believing what you rationalize to be true; it’s no sweat off my brow.”

The waitress flipped on the milkshake mixer, whirring up a motorized disruption. Sven stared straight forward into nothing. When the mixer halted, a moment of silence blanketed the diner. The lights overhead flickered.

In a calmer voice, Sven asked, “So where did you acquire such a firm foothold in your mission? Did other men tell you this was your fate?”

“Actually, that was exactly what happened when I was young. Everyone I knew told me that I would become something important to the entire world. Then I received these prophecies from an oracle and then a close friend. They gave me a purpose, and that purpose gives me something to live for. But I’ve been carrying this purpose through my adult life for so long, no one tells me what to do anymore. Actually, it seems our roles have been reversed, and I’m the one encouraging people how to live.” Sven cracked a one-sided smirk.

“And if those people who delegated your destiny when you were a child were to come back to you today and tell you they were wrong, what would you do?”

“You mean the two – ?”

“I mean everyone you knew!” Sven interrupted. “How would you react if all your adolescent companions and role models told you to cease and desist? How would you take it if they deleted your mission or purpose or fate or whatever you think it is?”

“I…” Jesus felt the heat of embarrassment encompassing his head. His voice felt weaker, “I would tell them it’s a test from God. God often throws obstacles at us to challenge our faith.”

Sven’s fist squeezed his zippo; his knuckles glared white. He growled, “Aren’t those the same words they put in your head as a child? Don’t you get tired of spitting out those packaged answers?” Sven took a long drag off his cigarette. He exhaled a wisp of smoke that hung in front of him, silent and motionless.

“But my faith has driven my life for so many years. I can’t quit it. I cannot just give up and…” Jesus swallowed. “And I don’t what I could do…” His voiced fizzled away. He sat on his stool clutching his beer mug, wondering why he must constantly be challenged. Sven sipped his absinthe. No sale was ever an easy sell, and Jesus wasn’t trying to sell his thesis to this defiant stranger this evening. This was supposed to be his downtime for the day. Jesus looked over his shoulder to his Harley parked outside in a cloud of brown dust. Wind rattled the diner’s windows, whistling through unseen cracks.

Sven cut his eyes over to Jesus again. “Why must existence be cursed with overtones of absurdity?” Sven asked as he jabbed his cigarette into an ashtray. “Well, I believe I’ve heard enough, and I can tell when I’m no longer welcome.”

“No, you shouldn’t think you’re not welcome. I just don’t understand why… why you insist on impeding in my life...” But how many bystanders had Jesus impeded upon? Was this some sort of poetic justice?

They sat on their stools for a moment, listening to the other patrons clinking their silverware on porcelain plates. Jesus always found this noise soothing.

“Allow me to give you a piece of advice, kid,” said Sven. “Although it doesn’t hurt to spread the notion of peace and love, it’s absurd to use God as leverage. He doesn’t care about human survival. In fact, I doubt that He’s aware of your existence. If I were you, I would concentrate my life’s efforts into sustaining mankind before you consume all of Earth’s natural resources and starve yourselves like a bloody virus.” Sven stood up, put a gray fedora on his oily head, and gave Jesus a pat on the shoulder. Before Jesus could respond, the shadowy stranger walked out of the diner without a sound, leaving his martini glass on the counter.

Jesus felt the familiar pang of anxiety swelling in his chest. He took the last drag on his cigarette. Sweat broke out on his forehead. He pulled out his yellow piece of paper, quickly scanning his prophecies in an effort to rejuvenate his motivation. A drop of perspiration ran down his nose. The drop fell off the tip of his nose, splattering onto his life’s mission.

Jack White sang, “Good Lord, Good Lord, send me an angel down.”

heed these four words: You Shall Never Return

2008-05-03T15:44:00.000-07:00

I reckon I’m transmetamorphosizin’ into a Dean Moriarty:

Day 1. Fly from Orlando to San Jose (with layover in Dallas). Rent a Dodge Magnum (despite my request for a Charger). Drive in a Southeasterly direction until near-collapse. Shack up for the night in Firebaugh, which is a small farm town outside of Fresno.

Day 2. Continue the odyssey down Interstate-5, make a left at Bakersfield, and proceed up Interstate-15 through Bat Country (Barstow, Baker, & Primm) to Las Vegas (see footnote).

Day 3. Attend a concert at the Hard Rock Hotel & Casino.

Day 4. Burn a ludicrously maniacal streak back to San Jose from Vegas, then swap rental cars (again) so that I can…

Day 5. Show up to another exciting day on the job at 0800, red-eyed and soggy-tailed.

Footnote: When I rolled into Vegas, the Magnum was coughing, sputtering, wheezing, whining, and flapping. I think the timing belt had loosened and the fuel injector was deuced up. Way to raise those quality standards, General Motors. So I traded it in, and they gave me a Hyundai Sonata. Actually, the Sonata had a sunroof, better visibility, decent stereo sound quality, and handled much tighter (like a Honda J). I should review compact cars for Motor Trend.

So why put myself through this arduous flight of fancy, you ask?
Because I must see Jack. I must get my annual fix of Jack White in concert. He must shred my eardrums with his signature muff and whammy cacophony. In this profound ordeal we call Life, I’m not certain about hardly anything. But I am certain that the sight and sound of Jack White fills a hole in my soul.

Would you drive eleven hundred miles for a concert?

We had a problem with her in the elevator a few hours earlier.

2008-04-28T21:51:00.000-07:00

So I’m standing in a cleared parking lot on a breezy November evening grooving to one of the local amateur blues bands. Standing by myself as usual, toward the back of the crowd like a vagrant ready to flee at any spark of confrontation.

“Pretty sweet band huh?” she asks me. I turn my head to my left and there she, A McK, the fleeting angel. She was a hottie: thin, short brunette hair, petite figure, milky complexion, and one of those adorable little nose piercings the size of a small mole. This chic is looking directly at me. Holy shit! That question was directed at me!

“Pretty sweet indeed” as I respond with renewed enthusiasm.

“Hi, I’m Anthea.” And she extends the right hand for the customary physical salutation. I begrudgingly shrug my shoulder as my whole right arm slides up and down in one smooth sinusoidal movement like a Johnson rod off a flywheel.

The internal dialogue of doubt immediately fires up, ‘Oh great. She openly approached me with a smile and sudden introduction. She’s a young attractive lady approaching a young white male: the perfect setup to snatch some ignorant myrmidon with an easily-excitable phallus by his little toe like a bear trap under the asphalt. Here she goes. Here comes the pitch. She thinks she can wind out the heater and sink this poor superficial bastard like a fish in a barrel (to mix metaphors). Oh am I still inner monologuing? I should better get back to the action before she thinks I’m some eccentric loner freak.’

“Mike,” I respond with the usual bland etiquette directed at strangers.

“Hi, Mike. Are you from around here?” asks Anthea. Her tone sounded genuinely casual.

“Actually, I just moved down from DC a couple of weeks ago.”

“Oh, okay! So you haven’t realized how gut-wrenchingly boring this stupid little town can be,” she retorts with still more enthusiasm. She’s a local? She ain’t no salesman! She has a fucking drink in her hand, moron! She’s at a social function, and she explicitly walked over to my dark corner exploiting brass balls. There ain’t no uniform on that lithe little body of hers. She’s in for the kill! Or at least to innocently feed off new stimulus.

“Hey, living on the beach ain’t a bad deal.”

“Yeah, I just moved back to the area myself.”

“So where are you staying?” Yes, naive curiosity is key.

“Oh… uh… I’m switching off between my dad’s place in town and my mom’s place on Merritt Island until I get settled in.” She stuttered to answer that simple question. Did she just lie to me? Did she just manifest a ruse to convince me that she’s a frolicking single? And what’s this business about divorced parents? Shall I judge her now? I am, after all, an INTJ, and that constitutes an ability – nay, almost a superpower – of instant judgment. No, let’s give this nubile young lady an opportunity. And for Christ’s sake, maintain eye contact despite her black low-cut blouse!

So we continue for twenty minutes chatting over a variety of deeply meaningful topics such as religion, music, and surfing. She claims to have been drinking, but Anthea carries an energetic conversation like the average non-sorostitute college coed. This led to a situation where she would spontaneously blurt out a question or statement:

1. “I’m not into that whole organized religion thing. I don’t think there’s some all-powerful force watching over us.”

2. “I’m not into hip-hop. I’m more of an indie rock person.”

3. “Do you surf?”

4. “How about you go up there and cut some rug on the dance floor?” “No need. I’m doing an adequate job of making you laugh right here, my dear.”

5. “Are you a sarcastic person?” “Indeed, I keep it cynical.” “That’s good, because I consider myself an asshole.”

Not two days later I launched into a state of hysteria upon realizing this girl submerged to the proper level of depth to ignite a meaningful relationship. In fact, that was by leagues of gentlemen the most interesting introduction with someone of the opposite sex I have ever encountered. This magnanimous girl shared with me, and I shared back. We was like peas and carrots, Jenny and Forrest. I’ll hypothesize this is what speed dating feels like (multiplied by twenty women).

Finally she concludes this blissful interaction. “Well, I have to go to the bathroom now, and then rejoin my friends. You’re welcome to join us. We’ll be in the back across the street.”

“Sounds great.” I make no promises.

“It was great to meet you. I would hate to walk away and never see you again.” She’s prying; you better jump in on that before she thinks you’re socially autistic.

“Do you have a number I can reach you at?”

“Quickly! Get that phone out of the pocket. Expedite! Expedite! Okay, 321-xyz-ijkl.” She walks out of my life and into a port-o-john.

The fleeting angel never called back.

There he goes, one of God's own prototypes

2008-02-14T03:32:00.000-08:00

“There he goes, one of God’s own prototypes. A high-powered mutant of some kind never even considered for mass production. Too weird to live, but too rare to die.”

Ah yes, blogging at thirty-five thousand feet above sea level. This laptop is far too large for the average Airbus A319.

Do you zone out if too much is going on? Yes.
Are you energized by spending time alone? Yes.
In meetings, do you need to be asked for your opinions and ideas? Yes.
Is your ideal celebration a small get-together rather than a big party? Yes.
Do you fear being the center of attention? Yes.
Do you have difficulty decoding social cues? No such cues exist. What is there to read?
Do you often feel like a tortoise surrounded by stampeding gazelle? You can bet your candy ass.
It’s alright, you’re not a freak of nature, you just have an introverted temperament. Holy shit! What does that mean?
You’re a loner.

My eyes have been opened after reading about introverted loners and why we are not openly accepted nor understood by the contemporary public. I was planning on posting a blog persecuting Western Society of excessive superficiality. The fact of the matter is that the majority of the population is extroverted. Extroverts feed off of social energy. Social interaction refreshes them. This explains modern society’s underlying infrastructure. Extroverts are ‘social butterflies’; they value social breadth over deeply personal relationships. They use metrics such as quantities of friends to evaluate their social lives. The more friends they have, the more successful they are. They are the bumblebees floating from flower to flower while we introverted loners are the worms who burrow when we find a soft patch of soil. The brain-digging worms often appear aloof, awkward, timid, misunderstood, rude, or grouchy in communal circumstances.

This uncoils why I’ve always felt like a gasping beached whale slashed up by outboard motors. This explains the purpose behind, well, just about all recreational activities: overcrowded bars, mosh pits, sporting events, relentless dating, and chaotic keg parties all cater to the extroverts’ mandate for constant socializing.

Organized religions are just fraternities.

Did you notice how quickly the herd rallied after the VT campus shootings? Within two days, the majority of my friends had removed their faces from Facebook. They replaced their individual identities with a message of mourning, concern, recovery, and conformity.

Psychologically, I reside upon the opposite end of the spectrum. I tell people that all I need are three close friends and a girlfriend to constitute a fulfilling social life. And yet, the idea of chaining ourselves to a singular someone or a group (chain gang?) is terrorizing.

Marriage? Children? A loner craves not. The loner is content listening to his preferred singers lament over the joys and tribulations of love as opposed to proactively grabbing that slippery idealistic urban myth known as True Love.

Just because we’ve spent a couple of nights hanging at a bar does not categorize us as ‘friends’; this makes us mere acquaintances. Just as I won’t claim to be an expert in a field until I feel I’ve learned all lore available, I won’t label us as friends until I feel I know where you stand politically, economically, psychologically, artistically, technically, philosophically, and spiritually. To quote Otto Kroeger and Janet Thuesen, “With introverts, what you see is only a portion of their personality. The richest and most trusted parts of an introvert’s personality are not necessarily shared with the outside world. It takes time, trust, and special circumstances for them to open up.”

This results in a paradox where I don’t have the time to develop deep relations with every person I meet. A typical introduction usually includes the basics:
“Where do you work?”
“Where do you live?”
“Where did you go to school?”

This conversation is a chore and provides me with little to nothing about your personality, so I am then incapable of deciding to invest the time to dive deep to find your true self, no sense trying to personally reach any of you (so read a blog instead). Paradoxically, I don’t care for learning names in the social setting. I dive straight into conversation until the recipient stops me to ask my name. Perhaps I exclude the proper introduction since this person’s name is unimportant unless I routinely encounter that individual. Then, I’ll learn their name through repetition.

On the other hand, I met this guy at a party once. In no conversational context whatsoever, he casually asked me the deepest question one can ask, “What are your thoughts?” I was taken aback. No one has ever openly and sincerely asked me that before. It was an honor, a Goddamned dignified fucking honor to receive that question. This simple query put me in control of the conversation; I could steer it into whatever direction I felt. And to put it in perspective, I threw out my thesis that all people are inherently lazy and selfish, then rambled about how George Dubya invaded Iraq not to save the oppressed citizens from Saddam’s dictatorship. We invaded for us, the US, for the oil. Dubya charged forth with guns blazing to finish what his father started, to bring pride to the Bush family. What a fuckup.

Furthermore, I participated at a workshop at the office on the topic of synergistic planning. The purpose of the workshop was to prove that people are more successful when they work in groups as opposed to solitude. However, my personal score outranked the team’s score. Group work makes me less productive, which is why I only occasionally joined study groups at school. The other students just slowed me down, and I didn’t need Group Think or their encouragement to keep me focused.

Many extroverts live under the belief that all experiences are worthless if you don’t have someone to share them with. Incorrect, my most profound adventures were executed in solitude; tethering myself to someone else would have either slowed me down or inhibited me from entirely drinking in a spiritual revelation. I spent twelve long days driving in solitude averaging eighty miles per hour across the country from DC to Seattle, down to Los Angeles, up to Vegas, and back across the country to DC. Those were twelve of the most exhilarating days of my life, yet accompaniment would have shrouded my meditative condition with social preoccupation. Sure, I spent some time on the cell with friends, but moreso for swanking my accomplishment.

I’m gonna take trips like that more often: just passing through, no time to stop at any tourist trap, gotta keep moving, keep the landscape flying by, keep running from life, look at Gaia’s green earth.

“I’m more comfortable by myself.”
“Is that the case, or are you uncomfortable when around others?” What’s the difference?

It’s not that loners hate other people; we just favor the company of… ourselves. British therapist Doctor Raj Persuad has concluded “the capacity to enjoy your own company is a sign of personal maturity and perhaps the acid test of mental health. Practically all creative people, and certainly most geniuses, have preferred to be alone for long periods, especially when producing their best work.” Georgia O’Keefe, Isaac Newton, Emily Dickinson, Andy Warhol, Franz Kafka, Michelangelo, Margaret Mead, John Lennon, Paul Westerburg, Curt Cobain, Nick Drake, Syd Barrett; the list of reclusive artists goes on and on. Loner characters have played a major role in pop culture as well: Batman, Hyde in That 70’s Show, the Marlboro Man, Doctor Cox in Scrubs, Willy Wonka; the list rambles infinitely. On the other hand, it would make sense to keep the protagonist a loner to minimize character development. The more characters, the more development is needed.

Underneath the dreadlocks and eyeliner, Captain Jack Sparrow is the epitome of a loner. He cares not for his crew, friends, family, nor romance (although he occasionally lusts similar to any horny male). The Sparrow character is not portrayed as a homicidal monster like the other pirates. Within that intimate scene in the first chapter, Jack drunkenly confesses that a ship is freedom. “My first and only love is the sea.” His sole purpose is sailing the Earth, running from humanity, for eternity.
Any depressed detective or trailblazing cowboy is highly respected on the screen or in the ink, but the paradox lies in reality when we meet that character in person: That guy’s a weird freak, and I don’t trust him.

Doctor Marti Olsen Laney states that extroverts tend to burn out at middle age. There’s something to look forward to: sitting upon chilled aluminum bleachers before the quarter-mile track of Life, watching you all sprint headfirst into a brick wall of fatigue.

Courageous loners are the trendsetters. These passionate free spirits are the iconoclastic pioneers of fresh fads in art, music, fashion, and general innovation. Proudly strut your stuff, the flopping myrmidons will conform and follow us.

After studying eccentric individualists, Doctor David Weeks discovered a trait amongst his interviewees. Most of them were either an only child or the eldest sibling raised by strict parents. BWA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA! That settles that. I am a rock. I am an island. I am the walrus, goo goo g’joob.

Cassady drives the bus

2008-01-12T14:26:00.000-08:00

As I reached my third beer of Yuengling, mind you, I broke through waves of euphoria to a general compassion for humanity. I realized how fragile we are, and how beautiful that makes each and every one of us. Or perhaps it’s not an individual beauty, but a beauty of the species. It all can be as simple as that.

Gotta keep movin, gotta keep on movin. Grown so ugly, don’t even know myself. I’ve fallen in love, in love with the pentatonic scale. She greets me after a long day under the flickering fluorescence light. They depersonalize me; they put me in a dentist’s chair.

‘What are you doing this evening?’ Those six words ruined my evening; now I stumble downstairs to the sushi bar to fill meself up with saki. Goddamned extroverted automatons. The batteries are beginning to recharge. Feel the freedom of the Black Pearl. You’re inside the Pearl now. She protects you.

Why cantcha be nicer to me? Do I emit an icy glare? Am I not approachable? I suppose it requires brass balls to approach me. The blues slick depression. Are there any decent blues bars in Paso Robles? Do Mexicans take a liking to the pentatonic blues?

That’s just what they want. Put us in a steel box and drop us into the basement. Moan ‘good times’. I know not good times, only A to D riffs, two chord masterpieces. Moan. Whine. Let it out. When’s the last time I smiled in front of a friend? When’s the last time I laughed? The worst part of my nightmares is the awakening.

Warm up, warm up those strings. Seven notes including the top of the scale, that makes six. Six notes encompass coolness. But those notes need pity, depression, angst, and passion for reinforcement. Sell the riff. It doesn’t need to be complicated. Jackie White will appreciate your simplicity.

Grown so ugly. My brain continues to shrink. There’s a fucking hurricane of thought in here. Stout gusts steal my traction. Has anyone ever been in this position? Caught in a miserable episode after a relatively easy and successful week; sitting in a hotel room madly pecking at a keyboard with a saki buzz? No, you’re all too busy living life, consuming. Millions consuming the works of a handful.

My calices have healed; I’m no musician. I don’t feel the subtleties of tossing in a minor chord. This is because I cannot play by ear. Tis my character flaw.

The drillfield has a magnetic pull to it. I could feel some force ahead of me, pulling me onward. It is the perfect place to get messed up and chill upon, equivalent to the hill back home.

There is an extra connection to nature. One tree I walked by was particularly large and I found myself deeply humbled as it is so much older and wiser than I. It must be at least four times older than me and witnessed a lot of crazy stuff happen. It holds stories of many men before me and will see many to come. I could almost see its knowledge bursting from the bark. It is just a shame that it has no way to communicate with us humans. We could learn so much from the wise old trees.

The adult trees have a motherly caring for their younger plant brothers. Notice as they reach out to shelter their fellow adolescent blades of grass.

I’ve got a Snake Plant. I’ve got thirteen points on my driver’s license. I’ve got a room in my name. And I’m not paying any attention to Craig Ferguson’s monologue whatsoever.

Scotch scotch scotch scocth scotchy scocht scotch. Lemme grab some Walking Man… which is more difficult than you would expect… melting into floor… blobbing into a bolb… Look at my productivity! That’s, like, eight years of diligent divine cosmic research! I’ve sacrificed millions of brain cells for the sake of your education! Somebody get that kid off the escalator and that blob bolb off the carpet before it soaks in!

It’s a shame I can’t record the goofy clownesque tone of voice in my head. And mindreading in TV and movies always annoys me since people don’t articulate thought in complete sentences as they do when orally communicating. Another mind can’t unclog the shower of thought buckshot projected from the foreign mind of the possessed. His eyes will be covered by teashades, and his knuckles will be white from inner tension.

You see, this here laptop’s sound quality is far from perfect. You can hear those little five volt zaps firing out of their racehorse gates at c (where c = speed of light, the Universe’s ultimate velocity circumscription). This has got to be the fastest I’ve ever typed in all my history of histories! It’s because I’ve been practicing my writing lately both at the office where we herd the Bombs and at home where I unleash my creative side through creative blogging, thereby scaring the shiznit out of some guy in Portland named Joe. He messaged me asking if I was real or make believe, since my self-eloquence is so fucking eccentric he couldn’t fathom that a creature should even exist. Too weird for mass production, yet too rare to extinguish. Loners will keep breeding and populating until we destroy ourselves due to our per capita lack of empathy. Ha ha aha aha ha!

Anyways, I continuously and successively and successfully continue to digress. So the five volt zaps shoot out their racehorse gates like crickets on a vinyl LP. Seriously, I can hear all that silicon in me laptop chirping away. Welcome, my son, why didn’t you take the Blue Pill? I just heard electrostatic discharges through the headphones.

So the Man has put me on this 2300 to 0600 work schedule this week, I’ve never operated on this kind of sleep pattern before. I don’t know what day it is, what time it is, or if I’m awake. “Everything’s a copy of a copy of a copy.”

I got off a little early this morning so I drove around the Potomac banks area for a while. It’s awesome to see the world asleep at 0300. Only other vehicles on the road are Krispy Kreme delivery trucks.

So I sat on the front porch and watched the sunrise. It was fantastic to observe the infinitely powerful all-natural sunlight slowly beat away the synthetic radiatingly disgusting orange glow from the miracle of electricity pumping and bleeding out of Suburbia.

Verse is to day as chorus is to night. And it’s that contrast in the transition from one to other that’s makes a good song. And that is why lyrics about sunrises and sets are so common.

But I digress. So I’m sitting on the porch at 0630 with a smile, a beer in one hand, and a wave in the other directed at the neighbors beginning their commute to a freshly new day on the job. I don’t think any of them noticed me; they looked half awake.

Guess I’ll take a nightcap and sleep for many hours. Goodnight, children.

the mind recoils in horror

2007-12-11T23:10:00.000-08:00

Kandi is making love to Marshall. He’s soaking up all that ecstasy like bread through a bowl of clam chowder. Reveling in life’s finest moment, he grabs her ass with both hands as the climax builds. The tectonic plates have been grinding for millions of millennia contained within one moment; the smoking volcano nearing eruption.
Every muscle flexed; every nerve tingling; every hair standing erect; every pore seeping sweat; each breath rattling like it was his last. Marshall loses himself within that spiritual conflation with the Goddess. Time halts…

Not inconsequentially, a bubble of torrential humor squeaks into existence within the bottom of his mind. Thoughts expand within this bubble: “Here you are, m’boy! This is the apex of life! You’ve got a hot naked chic straddling you and humping your cock! What else, in the carnal sense, could a man ask for?

You’ve spent hours, days, weeks, months yearning and fantasizing of this moment! How about all those lonely nights where the closest you reached to sex is puffing on a churchill cigar while feeling raunchy from Madame Cuervo?

You’ve invested an eternity of small talk, deep talk, casual touching, dating, dancing, dining, formals, proms, bowling, wining, beering, tailgating, gifting, and composing cheesy love letters all for this lustful dearth! All those narcissistically drunken evenings of strategizing with the opposite of the opposite sex focused to this final climax!

How about all those excruciating hours you spent carving your body to contribute to your attractiveness? Hours upon compulsive hours of pushups, sit-ups, and curls! Marathons of marathons sprinting over asphalt, mud, and dead grass! Spoonfuls of gag-inducing protein powder!

Our Creator blessed you with this body! That Cosmic Being was fortuitous enough to grant you a fleshy protuberance! This sacred phallus remains as useless as your appendix for pretty much your entire life, except now! Now is the overly anticipated moment where that podgy shaft is put to use, pleasuring both you and Kandi! Work that surly bulge! Make her squirm and moan and scream for Eden’s Nirvana!

You spend most of your life either in lethargic malaise or panically pumped with adrenaline! You’re obsessed with wrestling the imaginary lion in your cubicle! But now, now you feel ALIVE! You couldn’t be more awake! This is ultimate transcendent stimulation, the finest drug known to human consciousness!

This is the apex of life! All your organic trivialities boil down to this venerable event! All those hours, days, weeks, months invested! But now you’re cashing in! Three Jackpots in a row! A straight flush! Blackjack! Ludicrously better than expected earnings! The moment has arrived to receive your just reward! You can’t lose because you’re playing with the House’s money! This next Johnny-Black-and-ginger-ale is courtesy of Life!”

As Marshall reaches his climax, the bubble bursts in his mind. Its suds scatter through his brain punching every endorphin within reach. He releases a guttural bed-shattering maniacal laugh: cracking and cumming all over. The laughter drowns the intensity of the orgasm; the explosion diminishes to a couple mild pumps. Marshall collapses on the bed, still giggling, drooling on his pillow.

Kandi sits upright, still straddling him, with a quizzical look on her face.
“And what was that all that about?” she asks.
Marshall beams, “M’lady, I couldn’t explain it if I knew.”

is the Blues a doomed genre?

2007-10-20T15:04:00.000-07:00

The Blues first off, I think it is incredible that an entire genre of music, one which the majority of musicians respect, is based on a single chord progression: I, I, I, I, IV, IV, I, I, V, IV, I, and then take it around town. That's all there is to it. We all know this progression, even if you can't discretely spell it out. When you listen to the blues, I'll bet you can hum the next chord regardless if you know anything about chord progressions. As a side note, the most common keys played in are E, A, G, and D roughly in that order of popularity. Clapton and Page love the key of A, and Jack White is hooked on E.

There's a universal relation to the blues. People from all walks of life feel it; it unites Caucasians and Negroes. Metaphorically speaking, it reaches deep into your soul, massaging your spirit. When you're lonely and depressed, it sooths you. The whine of the harmonica or the weep of the guitar carries away your emotional baggage. This cosmic relation to the blues includes two basic needs of music: rhythm and improvisation. If we reverse music evolution, the blues would be a combination of hip-hop and free-formed jazz.

Like alcohol, it's adaptable to a variety of environments; varying degrees of intensity, tempo, and instrumentation. A mid-to-high tempo makes for an excellent driving soundtrack. There's also a what I'll call marching band John Philip Souza- blues: heavily syncopated at a walking pace.

Basic blues starts with a single voice and either an acoustic guitar or a harmonica. Every thoroughbred blues musician appreciates this style from Son House to George Thorogood. This is your mellow and relaxing blues. At the other end of the spectrum, you've got groups that almost feel like funk. I think the premise behind funk is to make the performance feel like an onstage party. Get as many people on stage at once: vocalists, backing vocalists, axe grinders, pianists, percussionists, and the wind-based players (typically trumpets, saxophones, and trombones). This accumulates about two hundred people performing on stage. This is the style of big BB King shows; they sound like the Rat Pack hooked up with Blood, Sweat, and Tears, except they're all black and they grew up together in Chicago.

Now let's turn this one-dimensional tonal spectrum into a triangle. On the third leg of the triangle sits nasty filthy electric blues, full of fuzz and feedback. The instrumentational need sits in the middle; you need drums, guitars, and buttloads of effects pedals. This third leg is the apex of intensity. I once read a magazine review that described Jack White's soloing as analogous to a blowtorch'. Yes, this is blowtorch blues. This is delinquent angst-ridden blues, the kind Curt Cobain would play had he taken an interest in this genre. This is the style where guitar novices, much like myself, put themselves on a quest to sound like their elitist guitar idols. However, they lack the raw skill, and in their frustration end up cranking the gain and stomping down a cascade of distortion pedals to the point where your output is a pure square-wave with absolutely no tone; it's a pissed-off Hungarian Horntail screaming out your amp. That's another trick of the trade, more distortion covers the guitarists' mistakes, but I digress. Point being, blowtorch blues is the kind you'll crank up in your car to the point where the subwoofer cracks your windshield and you don't give a shit if "some hearing loss may occur".

Is the Thrill gone, or is It due for a comeback? As of today, I'm afraid those of Generations X and Y don't appreciate the blues. I frequent blues bars, lounges, and festivals; I'm the youngest guy in the shack. I'm afraid this genre is eligible for retirement. Or, as hope jumps in the way, my peers will inevitably develop an appreciation for this mature genre. Those of us who presently listen to pop will fly the way of adult contemporary. But you musicians out there will, with a bit of luck, accept the blues as you reach middle-age by making an emotional connection with it. I see four options:

1. The blues continues to lose momentum and is eventually snuffed along with the Baby Boomers.

2. Our generation develops an appreciation of the blues as we age. It remains a sideshow within local bars but never takes off to the status of pop.

3. The record companies draw it back to mainstream pop culture. In 1983, Stevie Ray Vaughn successfully initiated a blues revival. His singles were all over pop radio, and still get plenty of airplay today on terrestrial classic rock stations. We, the laypeople, have no say in this decision; we are but pawns of Corporate America. The decision-making authority lies with Columbia, Sony BMG, Warner, EMI, etcetera. I can only hope that some cigar-smoking executive enters a nostalgic mood thereby inspiring him to bring the blues back to the mainstream. He would then pick off the street a youthful, relatively attractive blues musician. Then the record company would promote the shit out of his music by paying off Clear Channel and Fuse to relentlessly play his single over and over until the song gets stuck in your head. Entertainment media successfully brainwashes you, and you call your local radio to request more.

4. A pre-established band whom already has their foot into the pop limelight (dare I say John Mayer?) turns into a thoroughbred blues band. All the young ladies would show up to a Mayer concert, expecting to hear that sappy acoustic pantymelter melodrama, and the band proceeds to play a streak of Robert Johnson and Muddy Waters covers. This would turn heads.

Even if the blues fizzles out over the next two decades, we still have rock, and the blues is a cornerstone of rock. Without the blues, we wouldn't have the pentatonic scale. This scale is used in 99% of all rock songs. The exception being those art rock' groups who pave their own paths like Tool and the Mars Volta. Since rock was built on a blues foundation, there will always be a whisper of The Man Who Sold His Soul at the Crossroads in every song you hear on HFS, DC101, 98-Rock, or The End.

if anything’s worth doing, it’s worth doing right

2007-10-18T15:31:00.000-07:00

Now let me finish, Lizzo Rizzo.
I don't believe a true loner and a social butterfly can coexist in a fulfilling relationship, for this gives us the following expository scenario: Let's say for some dubious reason an introverted loner and extroverted socialite find themselves attempting to exist as a serious couple. The loner is content with a monogamous vicissitude, and thrives in this exclusivity shared only between the two of them; he or she focuses on deepening the romance and strengthening the bond. However, at some point the socialite is overcome with the magnanimous urge to, naturally, socialize. He or she eventually feels the loner's prized intimacy disenfranchises the socialite's lifestyle. So the extrovert goes out, parties, mingles, and zealously acquaints his or herself with as many people as possible. Meanwhile the loner does what the loner does best: writing, reading, surfing the web, cruising down the interstate, smoking on the balcony, walking the streets in the dead of night, etcetera. Up springs the quagmire where the socialite has suddenly sampled dozens of new faces while the introvert has met no one. Statistically speaking, the extrovert is due to meet someone he or she finds more attractive (physically, intellectually, emotionally, comically, romantically, or what have you) than the now-seemingly creepy loner. Ergo, the socialite who now rationalizes that this freakish couple was lacking loyalty to begin with ceases the relationship and resumes his or her life of flirt and spontaneity with the other extroverts.

The butterfly flutters away with the other butterflies. The loner is left alone, which may be serendipity seeing solidarity is what the recluse craves.

Bottom line: the socialite is destined to find someone else because extroverts involuntarily market themselves while loners don't.

So there.

Facebook versus MySpace

2007-10-15T18:50:00.000-07:00

Facebook focuses on your network; Myspace focuses on the individual. Their respective domain names accurately reflect their underlying themes: Facebook is indeed nothing but a book of faces. You don't bother to read your new friend's profile. Your eyes are immediately drawn to Who They Know, the network. This is my deck of cards, deck of faces, does it hold more hit points than yours?

Facebook only scratches the surface of your personality; MySpace dives into a deeper level of disposition if the user chooses so. If a MySpace user pours some effort into personalizing their page, you can get a feel for their individual persona after thirty seconds of skimming their profile. The other side of the blade being some folks excessively customize to the point where the page is unreadable. Some of you people have the fugliest backgrounds. Anyways, MySpace encourages you to reveal your true self; go buck wild since you have the option of keeping your profile as intimate or anonymous as a user desires.

Facebook continues to pressure socializing by remaining a closed network. There's been scruff lately about Facebook not remaining closed to college communities. BUT, spectators remain locked out. You have to play the game; you must instigate requests to access your distant acquaintances' profiles. Note this level of privacy is also another customizable feature available on MySpace.

Is anyone else uncomfortable using our birth names on Facebook? Facebook breeds a hidden paranoia. My girlfriend warns me, you never know. You could cross paths with your own faculty, co-workers, or potential employees.' If that's the case, we are forced to project the most conservative identity to prevent scaring off our conservative colleagues. How else am I supposed to integrate social groups from high school, college, and the office without exposing bygone closeted skeletons?

As for the page layout, MySpace slams you with the basic facts upfront. From left to right, MySpace provides us your alias, profile picture, last logon date (Facebook lacks this useful factoid), geographic location, and the blogs. No scrolling required! You have to extrapolate a Facebooker's online activity based on the user's recent shenanigans.

Where are Facebook's blogs? Granted, Facebook has buttloads of photos, but I want a glimpse inside the minds of my peers. Pictures document the posterior, and blogs document the interior. What's going on behind those shaded eyes? The public blog is a literary weapon of mass destruction. None of us need a degree in journalism to blog, no experience necessary. If something is perturbing you, post an angry blog. Tell the world to F-Off and Die. Facebook lacks this feature due to its closed network.

Granted, MySpace is overly commercialized while Facebook remains as clean as Google's opening page. But after X years of surfing the Net, most of us intuitively weave through the hailstorm of pop-ups and flashy sirens determined to waste our time. Facebook will eventually welcome advertisers in order to generate revenue to climb the cyber-ladder as a worthy competitor against MySpace.

Look at the class partition! The bourgeoisie dwell on Facebook; the proletariat thrive on Myspace. Facebook is all ivy-league college-educated cigar-smoking yacht-driving golf-club-swinging Abercrombie-wearing Beltway-jamming white-collared yuppie snobs. Granted, Facebook is presently in a transitional period of opening up to the public from a legacy state of collegiate exclusivity. However, I suspect it may rival MySpace in popularity in a couple of years. Anyways, Myspace hosts the working class; these people vacuum your cubicles, change your tires, tear your movie tickets, and serve your drinks. Myspace is jam-packed with self-promoting models, exotic dancers, struggling artists, and unsigned bands.

Again I rub against the grain since nine out of ten posted comparisons favor Facebook. This is due to my craving of intellectual depth over broad acquaintance. While Facebook feels like a resumae, Myspace feels like a playground.
If I had to choose, I choose Myspace (as long as Rupert Murdoch doesn't charge me a subscription).

the message was actually from Thompson, not to him

2007-10-15T17:57:00.001-07:00

Once again my anal retentiveness may have tainted the satisfaction of a couple good books...

A particular gangbang scene stuck in my head due to its graphic nature, and then I came across it again in another book by another author. Is this a case of disdainful Tom Wolfe plagiarizing the vanguard Hunter Thompson?

Let us assume Thompson's version is the original seeing he was there in person, and his account is more detailed. Wolfe had to piece his book together from interviews, recordings, and other media. In his epilogue, Wolfe throws in a long-winded disclaimer stating, "All the events, details and dialogue I have recorded are either what I saw and heard myself or were told to me by people who were there themselves or were recorded on tapes or film or in writing." Then three paragraphs later, "Hunter Thompson made available to me several tapes he had made while working on his book, Hell's Angels, and parts of the book itself dealing with the Pranksters and the Angels were also helpful." Let's assume Wolfe read the gangbang scene from Thompson's manuscript, and it thrilled Wolfe to the point where he decided he must absolutely adapt it for additional exposure of the Angels' animosity to the intellectually liberal slice of America (his audience).

This is a controversy of novelty… the novelty of nonfiction novels. Even if the stories are not verbatim, not direct plagiarism, and this is legal in all matters of copyright, Wolfe loses some credibility by snatching Thompson's anecdote and claiming it as his own. Granted, both writers were journalists, and we know journalists simply report the facts (usually second-hand accounts or facts from other media sources desperate for expeditious reporting), so perhaps Wolfe or both authors were drawing from their primitive instincts.

"You sneaky motherfuckers! What the fuck's wrong with you? Come on over here and see what you get … goddamn your shit-filled souls anyway! Don't fuck with me, you sons of shitlovers. Come on over. You'll get every fucking thing you deserve."
As journalists, Neal Cassady's trenchant screaming at the cops across the street is explicitly reported word-for-word in both books: Thompson's Hell's Angels on page 232 and Wolf's Acid Test on page 174. The only nuance being Thompson withholds Cassady's name, referring to him as "the worldly inspiration for the protagonist of several recent novels". That's a damn strong hint.

But back to the gangbang scene, it's presented in both books as an original first-hand account. It's told through the artistic filters of our case writers, but the details and storyboard don't vary. Thompson doesn't admit the exact location of the party, but determinedly separates the setting from any typical motorcycle gang turf. Wolfe places the scene directly in Ken Kesey's backyard. Wolfe doesn't recognize this sketch's source, for he puts no quotes around it. The reader is mislead to believe this is Wolfe-originado.

This would be like stealing an anecdote from a friend, claiming it was you who turned into a misanthropic soccer-hooligan gorilla and destroyed a saloon by chucking garbage cans until every glass, mug, and tumbler was shattered. And when you heard that story from its originator, would you not feel cheated?

After this realization, Wolfe's book loses its flavor. This explains the changes in tone throughout Wolf's work. How many authentic accomplishments of psychedelic originality did he steal from how many hippies?

So without further ado and my dry whining, here's the gangbang scene quoted from both books:

Hunter S Thompson's Hell's Angels, a Strange and Terrible Saga (first copyrighted in 1966), Ballantine Books 1996 paperback edition, starting on page 191:

It was not an Angel party, but they had been invited, and twenty or so showed up for what turned into a two-day bash. Almost immediately several of the outlaws located a girl, the ex-wife of another guest, who agreed to make the beast with two backs in a small building set apart form the main house. Which she did, and happily so, with the chosen trio. But word quickly spread of the "new mamma" and soon she was surrounded by a large group of onlookers … drinking, laughing, and taking a quick turn whenever some vacancy occurred.

I keep a crumpled yellow note from that night; not all of the writing is decipherable, but some of it reads like this: "Pretty girl about twenty-five lying on wooden floor, two or three on her all the time, one kneeling between her legs, one sitting on her face and somebody else holding her feet … teeth and tongues and pubic hair, dim light in a wooden shack, sweat and semen gleaming on her thighs and stomach, red and white dress pushed up around her chest … people standing around yelling, wearing no pants, waiting first, second or third turns … girl jerking and moaning, not fighting, clinging, seems drunk, incoherent, not knowing, drowning …"

It was not a particularly sexual scene. The impression I had at the time was one of vengeance. The atmosphere in the room was harsh and brittle, almost hysterical. Most people took a single turn, then either watched or wandered back to the party. But a hard core of eight or ten kept at her for several hours. In all, she was penetrated in various ways no less than fifty times, and probably more. At one point, when the action slowed down, some of the Angels went out and got the girl's ex-husband, who was stumbling drunk. They led him into the shack and insisted he take his own turn. The room got nervous, for only a few of the outlaws were anxious to carry things that far. But the sight of her former old man brought the girl out of her daze just enough to break the silent tension. She leaned forward, resting on her elbows, and asked him to kiss her. He did, and then groggily took his turn while the others cheered.

Tom Wolfe's The Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test (first copyrighted in 1968), Bantam Books 1999 paperback edition, page 176:

Go with the flow - and what a flow – these cats, these Pranksters – at big routs like this the Angels often had a second feature going entitled Who Gets Fucked? – and it hadn't even gotten to that when before some blonde from out of town, one of the guests from way out there, just one nice soft honey hormone squash, she made it clear to three Angels that she was ready to go, so they all trooped out to the back house and had a happy round out there. Pretty soon all the Angels knew about the "new momma" out in the backhouse and a lot of them piled in there, hooking down beers, laughing, taking their turns, making various critiques. The girl had her red and white dress pushed up around her chest, and two or three would be on her at once, between her legs, sitting on her face in the sick ochre light of the shack with much lapping and leering and bubbling and gulping through furzes of pubic hair while sweat and semen glistened on the highlights of her belly and thighs and she twitched and moaned, not in protest, however, in a kind of drunken bout of God knew what and men with no pants on were standing around, cheering, chiding, waiting for their turn, or their second turn, or the third until she had been fenestrated in various places at least fifty times. Some of the Angels went out and got her ex-husband. He was weaving and veering around, bombed, they led him in there under glare and leer and lust musk suffocate the rut hut they told him to go to it. All silent – shit, this is going too far – but the girl rises up in a blear and asks him to kiss her, which he does, glistening secretions, then he lurches and mounts her and slides it in, and the Angels cheer Haw Haw –"

We may also question if the adverse girl is from out of town, how does her divorcee happen to be partying in the same remote beatnik backwoods town of La Honda, California? Perhaps they agreed to remain 'friends'.

chasing amy

2007-09-26T00:08:00.000-07:00

Miss [Jimmy] Page,
I'm going to be me. And being my stoic elusive self includes that I most adequately express myself through the keyboard.

Homosapiens are considered herding animals; they're uncomfortable without company. There is, however, a minority of people who do not seek constant companionship and are most comfortable in solitude. Remember I told you I'm not a social creature? I meet a lot of people every week, but most of them fail to interest me, which is why I don't bother to seek them out ever again. I suppose I'm more like a wolf with binoculars on a grassy knoll, eyeing the herd of sheep, seeking his prey (I'm not implying I intend to eat you (unless in a sexual manner (heh ha))).

So I let most people slip by in a single night or mutually vice versa. You, on the other hand, made the cut. This is because, aside from obvious physical attraction, you embody the demographic that I've been seeking to befriend lately: artists, writers, musicians, and chill hippies. But my quagmire is I do so under the presumption that artists are inherently reclusive. They tend to be dark, brooding, socially inept, and sitting on the edge of lunacy. My pursuit of you is stymied by the observation that your temperament places you toward the extroverted extreme rather than the expected quiet and contemplating introvert. As narcissistic as it sounds, my concern is I will or already have been diluted within your crowded social life. Given our age difference and physical distance between us, our connection can be easily severed.

Our age difference does not concern me. Age is just a poor half-assed indicator of maturity.

The physical distance between us doesn't concern me either. I savor the journey but not necessarily the destination; an hour-long drive down an interstate is most therapeutic.

However, there is the mystery of your sexual orientation. Many gays immediately ejaculate the argument that nobody is 100% gay nor straight, but rather we all lie on a spectrum between hetero and homo. Even the stockiest, sweatiest, hairiest, dip-chewing, pick-up driving cowboy in Oklahoma is at least 2% gay. Anyways, based on everything I've seen and heard, I'll infer that you are 80% gay and 20% straight. Not that I'm prejudiced against gays. I've learned to appreciate the company of gays as that persistent blanket of sexual tension gets annihilated, plus they offer alternative points of view.

Well, fuck, I'm not sure how to conclude this. And I have no idea what sort of reaction I'll receive, if any. I guess I just wanted to unleash some thought out of my psilocybin-tattered mind. Nevertheless, I'd love to see you again.

"Artists hear what no one else hears. They see what no one else sees. They say what no one else says. They must. And to do this, they traffic in the slippery yield of their own souls. They bring to earth the wrack and lode of depths that only they can reach and still come back alive.Art breeds loners. Loners breed art." – Anneli Rufus

that stuff makes pure mescaline seem like ginger beer, man

2007-09-25T23:46:00.001-07:00

So you've chewed on some shrooms and now think you're on an equivalent shamanic level of expertise as Terrence McKenna? You think you've tripped? You ain't tripped until you've drowned yourself in Salvinorin A. This is the kind of trippin where you must chain yourself to a bed in a pitch-black room. Here's a compilation of Salvia trip experiences over my years:

(1) Perhaps if I had seen it, it could have winked at me and I would have known it was all good. Instead, the sensation of the night has been fear. My psychoactive energy awoke an entity and it proceeded to scare the shit out of me in the basement. It caused two loud crashes. I recall apologizing to the forest spirit for being human whilst in my dreamlike state. Maybe I created the spirit in my mind and it proceeded to incarnate itself in the universe of reality.
One crash and I wouldn't have thought much, but two crashes within fifteen minutes is terrifying.

Next time, someone must be with me. Maybe to comfort me or maybe to spot that forest spirit, and take a picture of it. I bet that would be worth something to Dan Seibert.

If I switched to an MAOI, I'd probably be travelling the universe right now. Goddamn modern medicine. Seven droppers of Emerald Essence tonight, and nothing for proof but fear and a few dream images: standing at a train station and adults, possibly parents, preparing for a trip and motioning for me to come along. Machines and roads and grassy hills, a theme of travel?

I was inspired to take the second trip on the hill or in some forest, to repent to the forest spirit I suppose. Communication with other life forms could be revolutionary. Goodnight, Gaia. I guess I cannot stop you from watching me. I mean no harm when I'm under the influence of a psychedelic. Was that last night's lesson?

(2) 'And you thought you were making this up' was the common theme of last night's salvia trip.

It was the most visual experience to date, mainly because it was ninety percent closed-eye visuals. I was holding the essence with my hand over my mouth for the last five of the fifteen-minute absorption period. Shapes and colors became more prominent than usual. Stunning. An inner nurse was telling me it'll be okay. She cared for me.

I swallowed it all after eighteen minutes. I lay back in my bed and closed my eyes. All the patterns were orange. There was a traveling theme again, flying about orange striped walls, hills, columns, pillars, branches with orange buds, and etcetera. All these shapes smoothly morphed into each other, unrestrainedly flowing.

I wasn't sure if I were consciously manifesting this journey. My theory is I would consciously think of something and my subconscious, or salvia, would immediately integrate that thought into the journey. Perhaps it was feeding off my mind. I would picture something, and it would simultaneously morph or sprout into a new shape. As I was debating this internally, voices were chanting, 'And you thought you were making this up.' These voices were also constantly chanting one-word phrases, and of course I can't recall any particular word. I believe the audio hallucinations originated from my breathing and the box fan in my room. Note that both of these are rhythmic patterns that would lead to rhythmic chanting.

Then I thought, 'where are the elves?' I saw one or two hiding behind the morphing trees, but I wasn't sure if those were the real elves. Then it crossed my mind that the elves were behind the scenes. They are the spirit of any hallucinogen, using my manifestations to produce more visuals to stimulate more of my own conscious. I perceived them outside the cube that is my perception working little machines attached to the walls of the box. Perhaps they were doing all the chanting.

This would all be very exciting were I to determine that it wasn't all within my own mind. And they were trying to convince me otherwise. Was the phrase also within my mind? That is the question.

During the second half of the journey, the sensation of slowly going insane returned to me. 'I'm ready for this to end. It's not stopping. If it keeps going at this rate, I'll go insane.' That more or less sums it up for both trips. It got a little frustrating. But why would I want my 'escape from reality' to end? Because it clashes with reality.

It took me a while to fall asleep. My breathing was causing too much visual stimulation. Orange wisps flowing in and out with every breath. Absolutely beautiful.

Progress leads to conflict. Conflict leads to progress. What an incredible night.

(3) I have found something to incapacitate myself to the point of an incapability to type. So I must recap the Divine Sage trip the morning after it happened. I took about ten droppers of the Emerald Essence.

Last night was similar to the previous shroom-salvia supertrip, yet it had its own personality. I very much enjoyed the onset. It started to kick in about four minutes into the absorption period. This quickly hindered my ability to continue reading Lord of the Rings.

So I was coming up, right? Drawing trails with my fingers, staring at the glare of my bedlight off the paint on the bathroom door, and seeing the sheets on my bed as a vast landscape. I finished the absorption, swallowed the Essence, turned off the light, and entered the Land of Dreams.

The next roughly forty minutes was a race through hundreds of short dreams. Each of these lasted maybe five seconds to a full minute. Last trip, I described the images seamlessly and continuously morphing from one to the next. The dreams had this same flowing quality.

I've been trying to remember as many as I can, but you know how most dreams immediately slip from memory. For the first clearly defined one, I was basically a molecule on the bottom of a metallic rake swinging over a green lawn. Some motherly character was tending the garden. I turned onto my side, and this metal beam kept pushing my head to the left. I realized this beam was the pillow.

I became more separated from my physical body. My eyes were half closed. The dreams were streaming through the top half of my vision, the closed eye field, and reality was sitting there in a dark and blurred background along the bottom of the visual spectrum.

Now this is the really cool part, I was so pulled away from my body that I honestly forgot who I was, what I was, and that I even existed in this universe. I was so involved in this rush through the Land of Dreams that my identity was lost. As I was laying on my side, my heartbeat could be felt in my right ear. Did I realize it was my own heart? Certainly not. I noticed this interesting rhythmic tremor in the bare ground. There were three or four men, most likely excavators with shovels and other tools. We were all observing this pulse with a wonder like it were some phenomenon that we had not seen before. I was amazed this subterranean organ, tied to some greater network, could operate itself with such a steady natural tempo. Who or what was regulating it? Certainly not I. Note this description does not do justice to this spectre.

I exhaled through my mouth, but it felt more like some rusty old pipes releasing accumulated pressure of whatever gas was in the system. I hoped it wasn't toxic gas discharging into an ambient room.

Those are the specific dreams I can recall. There seemed to be many dreams where people were wisping me away to take care of something technical that needed to be done.

I guess I'm developing a mind of metal and wheels, as the Ents would say. The left-brain is becoming too dominant, for my interest for psychedelics is waning. I surely hope this is a temporary lull due to dispersed trips over the past half year. We'll see as the weather warms and the fat old sun lingers longer in the sky. Perhaps I've just listened to my Floyd albums so many times that my appreciation for psychedelic stimulation is diluting.

I thought I should draw something; try to capture some common image. Then I was convinced if I turned on the light, sat up, and sketched that I would end up drawing whatever was in my vision at that moment, simply because it looked so cool. This means I would have drawn my bedroom door and blankets on foot of bed. That and I didn't feel like disturbing the dreamflow.

Finally, I've been inspired to try a future trip with music. Last night was hideously silent in a black house. I think some music would act as a catalyst into an entirely different sort of trip. So I need a mellow song, a trippy song, a long song, a well-admired song. I need a song that will take me on a journey through a beautiful soundscape. You already know what I've chosen: Echoes, the epic masterpiece of the Meddle era. This is already exciting me.

(4) So I tried the Sage Essence with a little music and received an effect opposite from my expectation. It had a sobering effect, like playing video games when drunk. I'm so used to that time delay effect from ganja that a lack of it seemed to accelerate passage of time.

There were of course a few moments of getting wrapped up in the tune. I noticed previously unnoticed parts. Initially, the volume was relatively low since I thought any piercing high E string throb would give me a bad jolt. I turned it up at the start of the second section.

The song creates an aural void, as we all are aware. The Sage put more of a visual to this soundscape. Start with a cross floating above you as the song begins. Then sit next to a wall in a completely calm scene, no motion, in the second section. The third section, as always, was pretty creepy with monsters hanging their heads low as they passed by a doorway to look at you.
And I'm always amazed at the perceived depth of the albatross whales as they go flying by in the third section. All they did was mix the cawing in at different volumes to put the creatures at varying distances.

Voices bring you back to reality. The visions dry up. Instrumental sections allow your mind to wander.

Overall a pleasant experience but not as moving as I was expecting. Dosage size was large enough to do the job.

(5) Most intense trip to date last night! 100x extract on top of the Essence, just as planned.

Let us begin at the beginning: I'm sitting there in the absorption period, reading the bibliography of Nick Drake. That's so fucked up. Anyways, I probably shouldn't have been reading of this as I was coming up, but I was listening to him all day and it felt right.

The absorption is finished and I hit my bowl of extract, one small toke. As I hold the smoke in my lungs, reality is quickly slipping from my perception. I hold it in for about twenty-five seconds, then let it escape through my window into Gaia's atmosphere.

True open-eyed visuals, as I struggled to cut off my bedlight and plunge myself into the protective darkness. My only distinct memory was a frame about my vision, a frame made of pairs of naked legs.

Darkness blanketed myself as I lay in bed on my left side.

Listen up now, this is the profound part. The first three to five minutes was intense and chalk full of confusion, due to the inhaled extract which traveled straight to my mind. As I said, reality was hanging by a thread.

Where am I? What am I doing? What am I supposed to be doing? Am I lying up or standing down? Who is that in my left ear? Who's pushing me from the right? Am I falling? Am I about to fall? Why are these people so annoying?
The hallucination being I was leaning against a column of my left side. Someone was pushing me from the right while a voice from the left instructed me to move along. Apparently I was blocking the hallway and these authoritative figures were urging me to move. They almost succeeded, they were pretty convincing.
Way in the back of my head I was reminding myself that I didn't need to move. Last time I checked, I was lying in my own bed, the safest place in the universe. Moving from that spot would put me at risk.

…confusion.

Couldn't these people see I'm in my bed? They were really getting to me. I believe they sort of faded from characters to a pure urge to move. Got to fight it! I came really close to telling them off, telling them to shut up and leave me alone to my trip. I mean really yelling at them.

…confusion.

Here I am, observing the official breakdown of my mind and permanent loss of sanity. Just hold on a couple more minutes and I should return to baseline. Then a scary thought hit my mind: with all this internal conflict, how does the brain know to continue those involuntary functions, mainly breathing and beating the heart? This opens a whole new concern for me. I suppose the definitive overdose is the loss of those precious involuntary functions, leading to death. So I lie and distress over this for a little while, but this new fear replaced those damn authoritative figures, which could have been the incarnation of gravity. Deep stuff, man.

So there I was, enduring the most surreal experience to date. It/They seemed so real. These superimposed emotions felt genuine, but where had they come from?

I attempted to construct a sentence in my mind, to speak to myself as I do so often. It's like my own conversation I have with an imaginary entity, a practice session before I replace the entity with a real person capable of their own critical thought. But I couldn't form an entire sentence! I put about three words together before mental control slipped from my grasp. The Salvinorin firmly held my mind, the Essence was in control.

I experimented with this lack of control. I pictured [a young lady], and she was immediately pushed out of the shot by this giant pink oscillating sponge-like wall. Actually the mobile wall didn't seem nearly as sexual as that description just did. Then I reformed her image, lying on the couch in her living room. Immediately this large mechanically robotic arm picked her up by the head and removed her. It was the damnedest thing. So I had no choice but to lie there and observe the images broadcast through my own mental existence.

After a few minutes I noticed I was compiling full sentences. My control was returning! Hooray! The images were still going strong as I contentedly observed the flow. Most of them were mechanical of some sort, I guess the college establishment is doing a fine job of molding my mind. One cool visual was what appeared a large square aircraft carrier, with towers at each corner. Perhaps the earlier salvic experience was more nature-oriented because of my being still under the influence of psilocybin. So I'd rather think of cold hard threaded steel than a few warm-blooded trees, hmm?

The entire trip lasted about an hour, the first five minutes being the most intense followed by a slow descent to baseline with multitudes of morphing visuals, kinda like the Empty Spaces sequence in The Wall where all the shapes are morphing about. I'm glad I've found something in the real world to articulate the trip that you inexperienced folks can relate to: watch The Wall!

Ironically; possession, consumption, and distribution of this plant or any form of extract is perfectly legal in the United States (with some exceptions by certain state laws). This is because salvia is not categorized as a 'party drug', thereby deterring The Man from killing our buzz, but that's another story.

just another freak in the Freak Kingdom

2007-09-25T23:36:00.000-07:00

That title refers to me not you, unless you want it to ;)

The effectivity of myspace has been confirmed; the loop hath been closed; all yield to the might of the pen (or keyboard).

"The only chance now, I felt, was the possibility that we had gone to such excess that nobody in the position to bring the hammer down on us could possibly believe it."

So this completely random fellow American emails me. He hits me with five simple words: "How can you be you?"
I expeditiously respond: "In what sense? I don't handle vague questions well." Which is true, when asked a broad open-ended question like that my mind scatters in forty-two different directions.
His response is: "Are you real or make believe?"

Fantastic!
I failed to foresee this challenge, but it does serve as an alibi if I'm ever accused of… whatever I may be scheming.
Is my profile that extreme? Was this guy utterly offended? Was he so myopic that my profile was a smack across the face with a cinder block? People think I've slipped so far from this plane of reality that I must be a creature of gonzo creativity? I didn't plan to convert myself into Paul Kemp, or Raoul Duke, or a self-appointed doctor of creative writing. I may have driven through Death Valley, but I never picked up a hitchhiking Spiderman. Admitting that any aspect of this site is fictitious negates the authenticity of the entire profile and blogspace. I'm using MySpace to demonstrate that I do exist, and with some luck, reiki, and positive kharma I'll find kindred spirits.

To add to the irony, this wasn't some bible-thumping minister from Alabama; this is a Pacific Northwestern artist we're talking about. Excuse my stereotyping. On the skeptical side, he could be an incognito internal affairs agent keeping tabs on me. He could be a sleeper cell trying to employ an inside man. Or he could even be in cahoots with Her. See how paranoid working with the Guv has made me?

Back to the initial question, I'll hand out a vain prescription for how to blossom into an anomaly like me, but the show-stopping impediment is most of my lunacy is a gift/curse I was born with.
A twelve step program for "How to be me":

1. become miserably depressed, manically bi-polar, disassociatingly depersonalized, and isolate yourself from humanity to develop agoraphobia. Then develop an allergy to serotonergic agents that prevents you from ingesting 99% of all anti-depressant meds.
2. start smokin reefer at the age of 16, but remain too scared to drink until the age of 19, develop a lust for tequila, and come to believe you're a socially acceptable person only when you're drunk
3. be raised Catholic, but lose your faith at the age of 11. Wander the Earth pondering your purpose and searching for proof of a cosmic babysitter.
4. become an introverted obsessive-compulsive perfectionist, don't speak when in groups of five or more, just observe the social dynamics, remain terrorized of confrontation and competition
5. eat plenty of fruits and leafy green vegetables
6. jog at least ten miles per week
7. as an iconoclastic individualist, you can't never get no satisfaction
8. don't be a morning person, set your circadian rhythm to put you to sleep from 4am to 11am. When you wake up and don't have much to do, just lie in bed for an hour or two.
9. some people are left brain dominant, some people are right brain dominant, you need to set your halves to be equally balanced
10. when chasing muff, don't instigate. You're not programmed to tackle drunk bitches. Drunk bitches are programmed to tackle you.
11. hold more sentimental relationships with lifeless objects rather than people
12. fall in love with a girl, establish a myspace profile just to contact her, then grow your profile into the monstrosity it is today

What's amusing is I'm just getting warmed up, but don't expect every blog to be deeply introspective. My blogspace is a venerable variety show, a box of chocolates.

lots of people talkin, few of them know, soul of a Woman was created Below

2007-09-25T23:31:00.000-07:00

Belt it out, Robert: "You hurt and abuse tellin' all of your lies, run around sweet baby, Lord how they hypnotize."

Where did this geyser of hope come from? This is me we're talking about, for the five of you who know me. This is the cold guy who refused to tell his girlfriend of over three years that he Loved her. This is the black-hearted man who sympathizes with Voldemort since he never knew Love. This is the antisocial jackass who immediately despises every attractive girl he sees in a club because – well, he jumps to conclusions. This is completely uncharacteristic; this isn't the jerk you've seen moping around. This incident attempts to reaffirm concepts such as kharma or poetic justice, or perhaps I'm just lonely. Read with the caveat that I may have amplified, exaggerated, and cranked up the distortion in my head after all this time to the point where a clean acoustic now sounds like a Mesa Boogie Triple Rectifier:

Let's throw a thick brick on the Wall. I met this gorgeous girl about a month ago. I could imagine her singing for the Yeah Yeah Yeahs. Actually she approached me. At first I thought she would attempt to sell me something, then she engaged into run-of-the-mill getting-to-know-you banter. That included the usual inquisition into what my job entails J. She showed strong interest: a good deal of casual touching, a punch to the chest, excited dialogue, and I received a hug after making a crack at Catholicism. However, she also claimed to be drunk, and kept reminding me that I was not being exposed to the real her, her genuine personality being that of an 'asshole' – her word. But we continued to chatter and she said a couple of things that grabbed my interest, and she eventually hit a nerve. As I said before, I have trouble connecting with people. Most people bore me. The yuppie, the jock, the stoned burnout, the religious zealot, the officer & gentleman; I've met you all and you bore me. It takes a rare someone to draw me out of my shell, which she successfully pulled off. "Keep eye contact, make her laugh, and this should draw her in further", as I coach myself. Granted she was hyper due to the alcohol, but being around drunk people has played a funny role to me since high school. Even though I may be sober, I loosen up and let my guard down in the presence of drunks because I can then get away with shrewd acts in the probability that they'll only have a hazy recollection of whatever I did.

So three aspects combined to make an outstanding meeting: lack of inhibition between both of us, she instigating interest by approaching me (which boosts confidence tenfold), and then one-on-one conversation. I can't perform in front of groups, which is why I didn't seek her out as she invited me to join her friends after she left. My thought process being: I met her individually, I'm satisfied in meeting just her, I don't want to meet her tribe, I might then choke up and destroy the entire encounter. Her conclusion was very forward – paraphrased – "We should hang out, we can surf together, I'd hate to walk out on your life and never see you again." She eagerly gives me her number.

So I call her the next day to remind her of our meeting, of which she assured me she would remember despite the alcohol. I realize this goes against the Man Law stated in Swingers that you're supposed to wait three days, but this was an extenuating circumstance since she was under the influence that previous night. She calls back a few hours later and gives me this "let me figure out my work schedule and I'll call you later this week." I don't hear from her, so I call her the following Thursday and again on Saturday - no response. So given I have the information superhighway at my fingertips and she a distinct first name, I take a long shot at finding her on myspace. Voila! I think I got her with a new, quasi-anonymous profile and a headline which is an apology. In my momentary state of madness, I convince myself this apology is addressed to me. I write her what now reads back as an awkward love letter via email - no response. And later, thanks to the miraculous vice of myspace, I stumble across her old profile, her real profile, on which she has listed herself as "in a relationship", and her top friend is indeed her boyfriend. This makes zero sense to me. Why come on so strongly when she posts pictures of 'the Man she loves' on the net?

Damn my obsessive-compulsive behavior for dwelling on this, draining my cognitive energy, and preoccupying me at all times of the day. This chic drove me temporarily insane – well, insaner than usual. As I constantly over-analyze this situation, I refer back that alcohol is the Truth Serum. Were she truly committed to this guy she would not have approached me no matter how wasted. So is she now too inhibited to carry out with an affair? Was the relationship waning and this was her attempt to voluntarily do something foolish to break it off? Is she just a flirt who does this every weekend? Why, Ladies? Why? Am I too pretty for my own good?

That's it, the girl of my dreams slipped in and out of my life in a span of twenty minutes. I'd bagged a winner. She's a keeper. I had so much I wanted to discuss with her. Now she's off to make love to a tattoo artist. Of all the half-assed meaningless dating, accidental seductions, and missed signals I didn't have the courage to follow up on in high school nor college, I think I've found Her this time, but the situation implodes on me.

So this is what heartache feels like. After consulting with several friends and strangers on this scenario, their general consensus is 'just let her go'. I've held grudges for life; is it my turn to hold a crush for life? Does that contribute to my life's Balance? I'd like to drain my brain of all serontonin, dopamine, norepenephrine, testosterone, phenyethylamine, vasopressin, and oxytocin to escape all this nonsense.

I sound like a goddamned emo song. Somebody call Ben Gibbard and tell him I've got new material.

I don't wish her ill. Thanks for that moment, miss. I felt like a real person for a short while. I now have a face and name to attach to the Incarnation of Desire, the fleeting angel, a handful of smoke. My fear is I'll never meet someone of her caliber again.

"You think not tellin is the same as not lyin, don't you?" –Jack White

I was right in the middle of a fucking reptile zoo.

2007-09-25T23:25:00.000-07:00

We're diving deep tonight, kids. Exhale all air from your lungs, shut your eyes, and cover your ears…

I ought to post my thesis on Balance to properly set you up for this.

Most modern religions bank on the fact that we all have souls. After death, these souls are sent to some predetermined destination: heaven, hell, purgatory, limbo, or recycled back to Earth for another life. We're in denial that life is linear. Even wiccans believe in reincarnation since that complements their overarching theme of cycles; your soul cycles back to another human being, preferably reunited with loved ones from a previous life. As much as I hate to burst your bubble, but what about when the world ends? What happens when our sun grows into a red giant thereby changing the climate of our solar system, and the seas of Earth boil? Will Gaia herself cross over into some planetary afterlife? Will we all go with her since we are but cogs of her global ecosystem? Naturally, the primary hope is humanity has colonized other planets by then.

Don't ask questions. They only lead to more questions.

Unfortunately, I have read Catch-22 too many times and am a believer in Snowden's Secret: man is matter and nothing more. With that said, I'll spiral off into my whining of the impermanence of life…

Pantheism: nature worship – death is the end of the essence. We share molecules with our surroundings. Our cells are constantly swapping molecules with our envorinment: the air we breath, the food we eat, the carcinogens we smoke. That makes the mind a free-floating reservoir of information, a temporarily suspended central processor. Physically, we are one with all of the universe. Several years ago, I would have shrugged that statement off as bullshit that our parents or elders say to calm us down. That's similar to saying "God works in mysterious ways" when the clergy is asked a question that the bible is unable to answer.

But before I go off on that tangent again, death is simply being unaware of anything. Sleep is like temporary death. Are you aware that you're sleeping? Only when you are aware that you are in a dream, but how often does that happen? So in death we are unaware of pain, confusion, suffering, desire, depression, and anger. That is what you call totally comprehensive relief. Don't worry about it. I'm on the verge of another revelation. Still chasing that dream for complete wisdom, which is ultimately unattainable, but we all need hopes and dreams, right?

Now to what I disagree with the pantheists: since death is awareness of nothing, then it is no different than a person whom was never born. That's a load of crap. Or is it? Don't buy into the tangled web They weave. We are 'priveleged' to be sent on our merry paths of life to experience happiness, pleasure, awe, desire, depression, anger, and worst of all: fear. Only to have it all taken away? To have it wiped from our personally temporary universes? I feel smug when Isaac Brock accuses our Creator of 'indian giving'. Are we any better off after death than before birth? No, we just came full circle back to awareness of nothing. Does that benefit anyone?

Criticize the Maker. That lazy half-assed Divine Plan that Yossarian speaks of is like Roger Waters smacking a gong with all his strength. 'Intelligent Design' you claim? What about phlegm and tooth decay? How about cancer? How about living on the surface of Gaia, where we are constantly exposed to the sun's intense beams of photons, only to be 'blessed' with a weak epidermis incapable of shielding us from harmful UV rays leading to burns? And at the same time we are attracted to people with tan skin. They look healthy. Pale people appear sick. Quite the dichotomy, eh?

There's my balance. I need to satisfy the Rock Gods by maintaining a balance. Evangelists praise Jebus for the gift of life. Yes, it may be a gift during half your life, but it is a wretched burden during the other half. Therefore, in order to logically maintain a balance, we need to both celebrate life and despise it: I shall refer to this as Peak Ying-Yang. And I mean loathe the entire Universe: hate that freebird, detest that blade of grass, abhor the stars on a clear night. Despise the fact that they will all reach their own deaths as will the Universe itself.

It's funny how I'm not in a sour mood. I'm just telling it like it is.

[insert laugh track to ease tension]

did you see what God just did to us, man?

2007-09-25T23:23:00.000-07:00

Why can’t I be one of the millions of blissfully ignorant idiots in this country? They don’t care how refrigerators, air conditioners, credit reports, mortgages, stock markets, electricity, stereos, or magnetic pickups work. As long as they’re functioning, who gives a shit? They don’t care how an internal combustion engine works, they just want to make their cars more powerful, louder, and brag-worthy.

They go with the flow. They’re easily impressed. Their memories are short. They’ll pay to see the same movie with a different title again and again. They don’t care to see the big picture nor the nano picture. They don’t mind wearing other people’s names across their chests. They wear blinders and are kept unawares of international affairs; slaughters and poverty in West Africa, South America, what’s left of Yugoslavia; until the American media alerts them. That’s ‘realism’ for you political scientists. WE are the rich who continue to collect more wealth as the majority of the human race starves.

What choice, as a citizen of the US, have I? Peace Corps?

one toke, you poor fool?

2007-09-25T23:15:00.000-07:00

I sent this email to a 'virgin' friend of mine in late 2002. She was curious about the holy ganja since she heard it's less addictive than alcohol. However, she never tried it... it's her loss I suppose.

Hey Stef,
I think I'll take a study break and share my experiences with you. Plus I started drinking and my mind keeps wandering.

I don't really respect alcohol, it's like a temporary solution. Sure, if I drink enough I find myself in a state of euphoria, and I can't lose the smile on my face. But that doesn't happen too often, because you pay the price and feel like crap the next day. Note that gatorade will crush a hangover.

My primary point is that after the alcohol has burned off, you return to your normal mental state. On the other hand, the holy ganja leaves you with something special. Whilst stoned, you are offered a new perspective with which to see the world/reality. This perspective stays with you after the effects have worn off. I don't want it to sound like you remained tainted forever, but your mind retains the experience and this experience changes your mind. Damn, this is hard to put into words.

But it's even more difficult to describe the effects. Basically, your five senses become enhanced. Colors become brighter, depth perception is exaggerated, foods taste richer, and music sounds so amazingly sweet. Also, the mind speeds up. You become much more observant, thoughts flow clearly and quickly. I always get these personal 'revelations' about life and the universe. You can surprise yourself with your own insight.

I don't like to use it as a social drug. I think you get the most out of it with a small group or even by yourself. Every drug has certain lessons it wants to teach you, and an overly-social environment can distract you from these teachings.

Believe it or not, I use it for the spiritual experience. Becoming stoned is my form of attending a church service. You can receive sensations of connecting with the metaphysical dimension. And like previously mentioned, these feelings can return to you long after the effects wear off. It may conflict with your own religious beliefs, or it may strengthen them. I cannot predict that.

This message is partly a warning and partly a guide. Other users may not agree with what I have said, everyone's mind functions a little differently. I think you will find this helpful since we are both engineers and I believe our minds are pretty similar, except you're generally happy and I'm generally depressed.

Should you choose to give it a try, I highly recommend you do it in a safe and secure setting where there is no possibility of 'getting caught', or else the paranoia can set in. Stay relaxed, be with people you are comfortable with, have some ice cream or at least a cold drink available, and most definitely listen to music. Listen to something you are familiar with, because it may sound completely different while under the influence.

Chics with Swords

2007-09-25T23:13:00.000-07:00

To the Blog-a-rooney McPhatty, the Age of Information Technology is just getting warmed up; we thought we were making leaps and bounds with e-mail and Google. Look at us! International news at our fingertips! Stock quotes by the second! We haven’t registered accounts online; we’ve registered our personal lives. Many of us have fabricated alter-egos (Tyler Durdens); the life we’ve dreamed of is generated and posted. This alter-ego continues growing to the point that it has collected so much momentum, we live vicariously through the ideological entity we inadvertently birthed. Stop playing God, children! Your personal Tyler Durden may rebel like a disgruntled sixteen-year-old.

We haven’t time for parenting; who needs to procreate after we’ve procreated digital clones? OR, it’s only a matter of time until we upload our consciousness unto cyberspace. So much for the good old days of orgies in the temple .

Excuse me as I check my facebook profile.

Mile Marker Twenty-Five

2007-08-30T21:40:00.000-07:00

Attend a social gathering in a high-rise apartment;
A studio full of mid-twenties bohemian intellectual hipsters;
The women with high-heels on their feet;
The men wearing pinstriped button-down Ralph Lauren;
Red wine, white wine, martinis, home-brewed beer;
No Head sitting in a dark corner rolling blunts;
No yokels throwing garbage cans at each other;
No one steals the keg tap, for there is no tap to steal;
Just civilized conversation to the soundtrack of Arctic Monkeys and Arcade Fire;
Ken Kesey labeled them as the "Beautiful People", tomorrow's corporate leaders;

Christ, is this where Smokie belongs?
Is this his final resting place?
No, not for the Rogue Maverick, he's gotta keep movin;
After all, he has a Hellhound on his trail.