Someone wondered if my boeing 'ad' wasn't too left-leaning. I can certainly see the point -- these are issues and icons (starving children in africa, the military-industrial complex) that have been hammered upon ad nauseum.
The things protesters continue to protest are still going on. The reason 'liberals' repeat themselves endlessly is that a policy hasn't changed in the face of dissent; the same issue continues to be perceived, and then confronted. Lefties scream about the rainforest, everyone gets sick of hearing 'save the rainforest!', and their screams are thereby reduced to something of a parody. In the meantime, the rainforest keeps getting chopped down.
Maybe the left is not creative enough to conceive of new means of delivery. The dance goes on, but people are tired of seeing the same steps over and over. The message of opposition and protest is still as crucial as it ever was, but it's being drowned out by itself; a new vocabulary is sorely needed.
Flying two passenger jets into the world trade center certainly captured people's attention.
Yes, we know: save the environment. Yes, we know: children are starving. But in a way, we've forgotten, because progressives keep saying these things over and over, and in the same smug tone that more than implies their own superiority. If you walk by a pounding jackhammer, you tend to cover your ears as you pass.
There's a danger in confusing the culture of the left (pansies in tree shirts sipping lattes and screaming about the world bank in knee-jerk unison) with the issues of the left, which, if taken in a global as opposed to american context, aren't really 'left' at all, but are merely concerned with long-term caring for the earth and it's population, instead of a corporate-style grab-bag for america.
I think I have a new hobby. Stay tuned. I am the minister of propaganda.
The more I hear about kucinich, the more I like him. But, he's not going to beat bush, so my plan is to do my part to get bush out of office by voting for kerry, and then leave the country.
I think I heard what was almost an argument for opposing gay marriage -- that it's 'not what americans want.' this very well maybe be true; I don't know what the polls say (obviously an online poll isn't a good place to look for representative national results). But if an american doesn't want it, then s/he's pefectly welcome not to marry a homosexual. I'm not sure I understand how gay people marrying each others undermines the marital bliss of other heterosexual couples. But hey -- if americans don't want it, then I guess we have to follow democratic mandate.
That's the problem with a democracy. What if your country is made up of idiots?
Big day today. I biked to the bike shop to get my bent rear axle fixed, and hung around the festival shopping center, touring it on foot for an hour (i looked for a break in the highway fence through which I might climb on some later date, but found none) before checking in on the mechanic's progress. His name was 'scott.' scott told me that my axle was so badly bent that he couldn't pry it out of its housing, and that he could either give me a new wheel or continue to hammer away at it while I made another tour of the festival center. I let him have another go rather than spend the money for a new wheel (which in fact I couldn't afford). I wandered around for another hour or so, and returned to hear scott relay some poignant new information: there was a bike in the shop that had belonged to a security company. It hadn't been picked up in months even after repeated prompting, and now legally belonged to the shop. Scott offered to replace my back wheel with the abandoned bike's. While he did this, I wandered around, both outside and in the bike shop, looking at bikes and finding a bench by the foot-ware. First I sat on it, and later lay down. When the new wheel was on, I test-rode my bike and found that the chain skipped horribly. I took it back inside, and scott fiddled with it some more. I took it out again, and the chain still skipped horribly. Scott fiddled with it, and took it for a test ride himself. He reported that the chain still skipped horribly. Scott fiddled with it again. I test rode it again -- it was better, but it still skipped. Scott fiddled s'more. On the the subsequent test-ride, it became clear that this most recent fiddling had born fruit, and my bike was, suddenly and miraculously, perfectly functional. I was charged $20 for labor, which I was glad to pay, and nothing for the pilfered wheel. All's well that ends well.
Also, for some reason I told scott I wanted my old bike tire, which I wore draped across my shoulder like a sash as I rode back home. It's now in the basement, where it will remain indefinitely. I'm not totally immune to pack-rat syndrome, contrary to what I might espouse, convey or imply.
On the way back home, I stopped at madras palace and got the indian buffet lunch for $6.95. The host eyed me suspiciously while I ate. I don't think I'm going to feel like eating again today -- I really put away the indian food this afternoon. I got two big plates full of vegetables, rice and bread, and then I was mysteriously served a big fried tube of bread containing some pulverized veggies, yellow with saffron. I didn't quite understand this, and was in no position to seek clarification since there was a communication problem between the host and me, and I didn't want to risk upsetting him any more than I already had. I did three things, I believe, that upset him. 1) I was big and scary and came in wearing a bike tire around my shoulder. 2) I chose my seat extremely far way from the nexus of the restaurant, which impeded efficiency (i was the only person there). 3) I ate very fast, and threatened to damage the buffet profit margin. I think this might have been why the host tried to fill me up with the big fried bread tube, but of course I'm not sure. It was sort of surreal, in a way. The madras palace is one of those hardcore indian places, frequented by actual indians, and I guess there's not much necessity for the host to speak english very well. I think this communication barrier caused some friction or at least nervousness, as well as contributed to the surreal atmosphere.
I sat alone, in my booth in the back corner of the restaurant, shoveling piles of unidentified, delicious mashed-up vegetables into my mouth, all the while being peered at by the host from 30 feet away. Every once and a while, I shot him a smile, or a wave, or a 'nummy-nummy' gesture of belly-rubbing. When I left, I told him the food was delicious and thanked him, and he said something like 'ah yes...of course,' as if this were a fait accomplis. I guess you're allowed to be snobby if your food is that good. They can be as snobby as they want, at the madras palace, as long as they keep serving buffet lunches for $6.95.
The exit-bowl of betel nuts is always in one of two states: 1) intermixed with tiny, colored, tic-tac-like licorice candies, or 2) just plain ol' betel nuts. The betel nuts were intermixed this time, as I prefer them to be, and I heavily partook. I like to fantasize that betel nuts have some kind of folk-medicine digestive properties, but they probably just taste good.
If I dressed more normally and lost some weight, people would probably stop looking at me like I'm an escaped madman when I make a rare venture out into polite society.
Ok, fuck it all. I recant any optimism. I was trying to inflate my rear tire so I could go out around the lake on this probable last cold, sunny day, but of course reality didn't do what the fuck I wanted it to do. I have this little portable air pump, and I can't figure out how to use it. And I fucking dare youm youy ugkykdsjaojdjklsguoxcsdkldkmjsdghlkjxzjsdglhasljksldgakmgak askljfksudaughadsljgasxg ;liuahsx.jxabvuiazs80ygs`;98hg fuck. I'm mad. The pump has a reversible nozzle for dealing with both narrow and wide tire valves. I've gotten it to work with my front tire, but now that I have this new back tire, it has a different kind of valve. Fuck you. I cant get it to work. Ok, I tried it again. It still didnt work, and im sure im doing it the way im supposed to be doing it YOU ASSHOLE I FUCKING HATE YOU I HOPE YOU FUCKING DIE FUCK YOU. Fuck you. I fucking hate you. I wish I had bought a regular pump instead of this thing. By the way, I hate you.
It's not fair that some people are capable of dealing with the mechanics of reality and using logic and all that manly bullshit, and I just CAN'T, no matter how hard I try. But I one thing that I can do: I can tear the fucking flesh from your face, human. Don't come near me, fuckshit.
So I guess I'll be making another trip to the bike shop, this time via car, to get my rear tire inflated, and I'll ask them how to use my blackburn airstick. What a piece of shit. It's not fair. I am the least competent person in the universe, and all of the same rules of existence apply to me as they do people who can actually deal with reality. I'm not in control of my mind or my body, and everything just hurts me and enrages me. I can't wait to get my hands on a human, and just sink my teeth into it's face.
The worst part is that I read online about people gushing over their blackburn airsticks. It's won awards. It's wonderful. So, the problem is clearly not the fuckburn shitstick, but me. I can't work anything. And it's true, too -- I can't mechanically fix anything. I'm the worst, ever, at it. I should kill myself.
My frustration with the blackburn airstick continues. I made this:
I drove to the bike shop after my mom got home, and scott, who was still there, filled my rear tire that the blackburn airstick had so efficiently deflated. Then, I was given a lesson on use of the blackburn airstick, but I don't think it's going to help me. Apparently, I was using it the right way. I don't know what the problem was -- one of life's mysteries. Scott's airstick demo was to pump up an old inner-tube. It filled with air, but scott had a lot of difficulty. He told me that he's had trouble with blackburn airsticks for years, and doesn't like them. I felt vindicated. I suspect that all of the pro-airstick disinformation online and buzzing around bike shops is the result of an incredibly sophisticated propaganda blitz by blackburn, inc; they've achieved a mass-hypnosis of riders, who all have been made to believe the flood of lies about the blackburn airstick.
I had to post a picture of my hashbrowns, just because they're so beautiful:
I've been burning my hashbrowns lately, so today I decided to carefully observe and time their cooking, so that I might establish a standard. Today's hashbrowns were perfect. So, the recipe is:
Getting back to my secret plan for escaping. Ok, so I need $2,880. Let's call it $3,000. What are the ways to acquire $3,000?
Perhaps some combination of methods would be best. At a job, let's say earning $10 an hour, it will take me 300 hours, or 7.5 weeks working 'full time.' I forgot taxes -- shave 30% off my earnings. And also, expenses and food during that time. So, 120961298672 weeks.
Nevermind.
Maybe more drastic measures are in order. Here's a revised budget for escaping:
But fuck it all -- I'm going. Let me look into medical studies at NIH.
Depression is incredibly debilitating. And not just debilitating, it actually makes life unlivable. If someone becomes a quadriplegic in an accident, then there's always the chance that they'll 'find god' or that their disability will instill in them a newfound appreciation for life.
But depression takes everything from you. The universe is shrouded in a sticky black tarp, and suddenly life has nothing to offer. If I really wanted revenge on someone, I wouldn't kill them, because then they'd be dead and would no longer experience suffering. I wouldn't blow their legs off with a shotgun, because there's always that chance that overcompensation for lost quality of life will result in happiness. I wouldn't kill their loved ones, because they might become stronger through the loss.
The cruelest, most atrocious thing one might do to another human being is to infect him or her with depression. The mind can overcome any pain, can create or find a reality within suffering that is joyful. But if the mind and those mechanisms for experiencing joy themselves are damaged or taken away, then there is no hope. Depression is the worst thing.
Depression ruins more than the sufferer's life. It's really hard to be with someone who's just sad all the time. And not just sad, but rather a kind of psychotic, adversarial, mean-spirited depression in which the depressed person seems to be making an active effort to be contagious.
I've been guilty of making a conscious effort to spread my depression to others; misery really does love company. At the very least, I don't make enough of a proactive effort to make sure my depression is contained, that it doesn't attack anyone else. And, I think in the effort of controlling and containing one's depression so that it is not a danger to anyone else, one's depression becomes less of a danger to one's self.
I don't think I'm depressed right now, by the way; these are just some observations.
Peter and I had a conversation on the phone, and he was telling me that the fundamental problem with america is that its leaders approach governing with a corporate mindset. They doesn't plan for the future, but are only concerned with the bottom line in the here and now. For example: drilling for oil in alaska.
Not only is our economic system capitalistic, but now our government is moving that way too; get all you can while the getting is good.
Peter was also telling me that the iraq war has created a massive surge in other countries' military budgets, as they prepare themselves for the possibility that the u.s. Will start lashing out at random.
America vs. the world -- it's begun.
I can't take it here anymore. It's time to start making emergency plans, before I get too much older.
Here is my budget:
Nevermind.
Mine is the best blog there is. There are none better. Well, maybe esr's, but he doesn't update enough. There are none better.
I feel like I've expounded upon every theory that I possibly can, and the fact is that I don't actually do much that would make for good storytelling. Today the plan is to go to michael's (made famous by the malvo/mohamed sniper shootings) and buy a frame, in which I will put katy's dried up flowers, her cards, and a few photographs. Then, I'll maybe add a picture of the framed mementos to her website.
I wonder if part of the reason I've been feeling so generally shitty lately might not have a lot to do with katy's recent death. I was talking to ana yesterday, and she told me that she still hasn't gotten over pepper, her cat who died a few years ago. Last night, I pretended I was letting katy back in from the backyard after seeing her standing by the window, tail wagging and emitting barks of 'let me in!' maybe this is what a ghost is -- the emotional and psychological residue left over once a loved one dies. I still often trace my eyes around an imaginary path on the carpet in the living room, imagining that katy is there, running around.
My mom was telling me last night that katy could always cheer me up, that no matter how foul a mood I was in, I'd take one look at katy and become happy. It's hard not to, if there exists a furry little brown-eyed creature who derives ecstatic delight from your mere presence. I updated her website with a new sympathy card, a new picture of her ashes (which were picked up from the vet last Tuesday with no emotional incident), and a change to the site structure (one can now navigate fom picture to picture instead of having to go back to the photo index). Katy was my best friend.
My aunt ann wants to get us another dog, one that comes from the same genetic line as katy (and apparently shares a lot of her personality traits), but I've heard that this is not a good thing to do: to try and replace your lost dog with a dog that is deliberately similar. Also, the carpet is still permanently inundated with pee, and it would be literally impossible to convince a new resident dog not to pee there too.
I think, though, if and when I ever move out, that I will want a dog. I really hate this area. It's crawling with police, faceless and soul-less yuppies, and otherwise regimented soldiers of the machine. I get the sense that hierarchy is prevalent here as a state of mind, and that RULES are the way policy, and in fact culture, is determined. A lot of jobs around here, for instance, require drug testing. Montgomery county, and even washington dc, is a shithole -- you'll find no other place where both government and business are so powerful, interconnected, and pervasive in their influence over social structures, down to the most fundamental anthropological meme of behavior.
I want to move to the canadian west.
This was actually my plan, back when I first graduated from college and hadn't quite been defeated by society yet. If I didn't get a job at SIGGRAPH (a computer graphics conference that I attended as a student volunteer), my plan was to take my remaining student loan money and move out west. I had it carefully budgeted. But, I was convinced to do otherwise, to stick around here and get a job first, to save up thousands and thousands of dollars, and then cautiously fly out there and look for a job, only moving once employment was written in stone.
Some would like me to approach life with paperwork filled out in triplicate, taking out insurance policies and then insurance policies on the policies, until this planning, worrying and secretarial minutiae constitutes an increasingly significant percentage of my waking hours, and in fact becomes debilitating. Filling out the forms starts to become your life, and is counterproductive to the original goal -- to make life more livable. I wonder aloud if this isn't an american syndrome: making sure everything is locked up, spending huge cumulative sums on insurance, and rushing off to see a specialist whenever there's an ache or a pain; allowing preparation and planning to become important as a thing unto itself, a phenomenological entity, and allowing it to supplant actually living your life.
Getting a local job before moving probably would have been the best course of action for many people: conservative, planning, unspontaneous and frankly uncreative. But in my case, the best way to get out on my own would have been to seize an opportunity like that and simply leave. Once I was out there, my budget allowed for a month or so of modest rent while job-hunting. And I certainly would have been motivated to hunt for jobs, since I wouldn't have had a maternal nest to fall back into.
I feel that if it weren't for my following advice to refrain from moving to the canadian west, I would be out of my mother's house, out of gaithersburg by now, and would have started on my life -- maybe even have started on my student loan payments. The way that I needed to do this was to use uprooting myself out of my mother's house, with the help of a little bit of federal money, as a motive for me to join society -- to necessarily employ some survival instincts in the interest of independence. Now, it's sort of too late. I missed my opportunity, and it's all because I listened to conservatism which amounted to a very human, solipsistic interpretation of reality: what is best for me is more an interpretation of what would be best for the advisor in my position. So, I will ignore advice from now on. Simply put, people don't understand me, don't understand who I am, and are in no position to give me any sort of advice.