Do You Feel Lucky?

(and feel free to comment! My older posts are certainly no less relevant to the burning concerns of the day.)

Friday, May 22, 2015

Knock It Off #1: "The Conspiracy," Or, "KEEP THE FU*K CALM, and GROW THE *ELL UP!!"

Friday, May 22, 2015

Knock It Off #1: "The Conspiracy," Or, "KEEP THE FU*K CALM, and GROW THE *ELL UP!!"

Quit worrying about the conspiracy already. Grow up.

Yes. The world economy is on the brink of collapse.

It's because money doesn't exist, assho*e. Economists have been clued in about this disconcerting bit of ancient history since about James Bond III's original theatrical run for Christ's sake. GROW UP. As long as there's a picture on the money of a powerful enough Caesar, the separation of church and state will remain in place: every bit as strong as it was when it was originally ordained and invented by your ole buddy of old and mine, Thomas Jefferson, by Paine and/or Voltaire, depending, and by (originally) - the big man! The guy in the sky with a seat to the side, YOU know him! HE needs no intro, it's Mister Emmanuel "Manny" J. Christ himself!! So FUCK OFF already! Grow up. Money's worth exactly what it always was: pixel dust.

Now go clap for tinkerbell why don't you, and think wonderful thoughts, and while you're at it - why not enroll in one of those "power of prayer" medical studies? That's so hot right now! Free placebos, motherfupper. And why not? What's the upside to what ails you, anyway? Why not try the old home remedy? I bet you find a spoonful of sugar pills helps the absence of medicine go down delightfully.

And also: YES.

Certain rounds of ammunition DO KEEP running out of stock at your ye local gun shoppe - and, troublingly, it's a coordinated, wide-scale phenomenon. "You yourself" (i.e., your two to three gun nut paranoia addict acquaintances, each of whom has at different times observed and darkly speculated upon the sinister causes of this periodic minor fill-rate inconvenience, and who consequently are pissed and suspicious as hell!! Because they're such dipshits, they can't even manage their inventory on the most basic staples without a next-day in-stock supplier! Are you thinking of relying on these clowns come the revolution...? Because, if so, I sure hope so!) have seen hitting shops all over the State, simultaneously, every time it happens for a given unit of ammunition.

YES. IT REALLY HAS HAPPENED, and will continue to!




At least, whatever's available at the moment STOP

It's not a problem FULL STOP

Grow up.


What you piss your commando fatigues down to and into your combat-boot-clad socks over is called canny spec buying, and competent supply chain management. AND NOW SO CAN YOU! Try it! Place a huge cash-in-hand order for every unit of as-yet-unsold eggs available in stock for immediate next-day delivery to your holding company's warehouse (terms such as no backorder, no reorder, Purchase Offer contingent upon full receipt within 9 "business hours"), and see what kind of deal Cruelty Farms Industrial Might Combine LLC will be willing to cut you, on those fresh, delicious, farm-fresh, cage-free (we use the zap collars these days) and, most likely organic, eggs. It's called the barter system, moron.

The Barter System. We never stopped doing it. We just hired underlings to do the spec buying, according to whatever standard we set and insist upon, and to do the whip-cracking and contract-termination on the overlings we've hired to rock the supply chain logistics. Savvy?

Yes. Yes, it is. But don't blame me! I had nothing to do with it except to underscore a bit. You can't blame me for what humanity's already been doing since before anyone-now-legal-to-fuck's maternal grandparent was born.

We've been on this system forever. We won't be going back from that. Or at least, if we do go back: never, ever buy a brand new car for 2,000 dozen grade A brown-shelled hen eggs. The second you drive that baby off the lot it loses 8,000 eggs in value!

We're going to stick to the barter system, as we always have done, and as currently constituted, evolved, and intelligently designed. It's basically a social Darwin cum Saint Nicholas deal, only Santa drinks Gatorade now and his suit's a camo pastiche of dark, bright and forest green, with a big gray goodie bag of shells, bullets, musket balls and et cetera slung over that fat, privileged shoulder of his! The system works. We're going to stick to precisely this: how it has evolved. And whether you've noticed or not, that status quo works better than any alternative you have drafted, proposed, tested, or attempted to implement. "Qui Bono?"


But, because we're going to keep continuing on our steadfast course of sticking to the best system we've made or ever had, that means we're going to have to have some expectations. Accordingly. We'll have to expect we shall keep seeing these same familiar shocks, jolts and bumps in the road, as our freight-weight portfolio trails and screeches along behind us in broad-arc shifts of its huge, wide load. Nobody has to worry, if they think about it and about how things have been. All your rustlers and money runners are going to continue the mad dance of highway robbery and confidence fraud that they've been doing since, oh, about the time O. Henry was writing all those subliminal hetero rom-porn storybooks. You remember O. Henry? He's the guy where the wife cut all her hair off for a magic wallet or something, for the wife's husband. Sick stuff, man - read it, but don't take my word. They named a prominent prize after him. It's like, the O. Henry Short Storyist Author Award, or something.

Check it out!

The system works because the currency is always based on either an incomprehensible (but robust, and hard-to-crack) formula, or upon a common shared unit of whatever happens to be the easiest/best/most valuable, plentiful object in world-wide distribution at the moment. Today, it's an egg.

Tomorrow? Who knows. Human skulls with eldritch sigils hand-carved into them by officially-certified Malay war-widows of martyred jihadists?

Time will tell! And you, the consumer, will be consoled and lullabied to your daily rest, to sleep easy and soft as pillows on lilypad ponds just as soon as your preferred god-speaking authoritrator tells you what hot commodity you need to hop on next. What to buy up and sit smug on a pile of, just like the asshole moron you gullible capitalists always are - ! You will deeply and obediently abide in faith, in whatsoever the new almighty banzai of buckaroo is declared by acclaim to be. And you will clap for tinkerbell.

And you will think wonderful thoughts. Of mansions, swimming pools, movie stars, until (if there's any justice in the world) your next high-altitude low-opening extreme thrills jump will see you putting the wrong backback on, my dear Geronimo. Godspeed ye, shitbird.

You will clap for tinkerbell, as you and your kind have always done: and your money is as strong as it ever was, and it ever will be. As is ours.

It is because we - the people, and by our combined will, our servants (public) as well - are deep in preparation for the next economic paradigm shit. Fret not. We've got your back, you ignorant, cowering, moral retard!! You plebe of a philistine, you prole-loving, nye-culturny boo-jwah bitch. SURPRISE!!

Go ask Karl Marx, my brother. Inquire after him in heaven and, if you get Groucho'd instead (as usually happens), seek for brother Karl yourself, in the other place. Because economic progress is exactly as he said: foreordained, and implacable as all hell. The wheel of the dialectic turns. The scrapheap of history is reborn in hard and shining forms of plowshares and swords.

And just as we once passed without pause from standards gold to dross, through all manner of gross products national or domestic, so too will the current math that backs the value of our big ass U.S. dollar (which is an algorithm tied to Tony Romo's "quarterback rating," in inverse proportion to his paycheck that week, as adjusted and expressed in "Landry Standard" 1990 dollars) transition very easy, from our current Gross National America's Domestic Quarterback Fiscal Index Standard, to the new, easy, convenient faith and credit backer. The new unit! Dark heaviest gray is the new gold.

The pendulum swang, as it always did swoze, from liquid electric soft, back to the softest and heaviest hards. Once again, our currency will be tied to something real. Or rather, for "will be," sub "is."

Paper money? No problem! Electronic money? Bar code money? Tattoos and library cards, Monopoly money and Negotiable Sociocultural E-Credits?

No problem, because every unit people are willing to value in exchange will at bottom be tied to something hard. And this time, the denominations of hard currency will be a snap to evaluate in either/or: metric, avoirdupois, or even Klingon Halfelven T.R.U's!

(The Tolkein-Rodenberry Unit, folks. Keep up please)

Something we and all hale fellows can hail! Conservatives, libertarians, Republicans and economists alike will rejoice! Meanwhile, Libertarians, drug dealers, Democrats and other liberals will be fine with it, thanks to the cute marketing angles and the convenience aspect. Both the forms and the functions will be unspeakably cute, I assure you. Cute to the point of compelling. We're talking Madison Avenue meets Al "The Ol' Fed" Hamilton by way of the way Old Hickory shot the dumb motherfucker himself.

Mark. My word is this: by this time, ten years from now, anyone not already a certified, convicted, felonious psychopath will be able to carry their spare change (of significant weight! Of meaningful value!) in cute, convenient, hard plastic wallet blazoned with Hello Kitty. Or if you prefer, a spirit wolf, howling at some gay ass near-full moon, or an eagle or whatever. It'll be up to you pretty much. A fucking Transformers logo! Thundercats, pimps, hoes, the Playboy bunny - hell, etch a life-size dick picture of your own schlong onto the barrel if you like! Who's going to stop you?

And for you less-than-hipsters? Fear not, nothing could be cooler these days than that old-school noncomformist rebellious pose, and your easy and predictable lockstep demographic will be served and served WELL. You too will not be left out!

Folks, any real "meme craze" worth its celery salt can pander to the old dogs just as easily as the schoolboy's dream girls or the to the dirtiest tricks in your college alma mater's Greek League satirical party kama sutra manual. For you wide-hatted duster-wearing boot-clomping sons-of-the-bitch-that-you-are, the time-honored ornery habit of carrying a brace of long, elegant six-irons will be coming back in style faster than you can do the one eye squint-glare and spit "Dance!" in a hoarse, whispery staccato bark.

Rest easy, action fans and brand value enthusiasts. Clint Eastwood's estate will be making monthly-if-not-weekly millions off that trademark "guns akimbo" Outlaw Josey Wales poster pose of his. Picture that iconic cool squint etched into the stained woodgrain butt of your twin S & W forty-fours!? Or, supposing you're something of a noncomformist, such as we've seen and discussed, chuckling. In that case, maybe a quintet of .22 Glocks? Both armpits, hip weak, ankle strong and ass-side back pants-tuck), each with a full 22 round capacity fat mag clip. My money's on Wales, to be honest, but who knows? Maybe the whole thing will get bogged down in haggling and offers to trade!

No need to wait, on this one. Don't hold your breath for the headlines, not on the oldest news story since Adam got slapped for sticking his rib in a fake clay porn sculpture of himself that he'd made and hidden in a dark, leafy corner of the garden. Don't you read the news? Don't you check out the tabloids on the way to pay your grocery fees, your union dues?

Didn't you know?

We are already here. The economy is in full boom.

The Bullet Standard.

And yes.

The Franklin Mint will definitely be announcing its collector's-series die-cast silver & gold rounds (act now and receive a decorative, space-age fired-clay polymer porcelain China but-otherwise-authentic flintlock Revolutionary rifled musket! DISPLAY ONLY) for you all you grand romantics and goth-leaning war reenactors out there.

Not much to worry about. At least, not for the rich private citizen - as usual! And not much to worry about for the poor but civic-minded neighborhood-watch leaguer, also as usual. Or for either of their families. Not much to worry about for the beleaguered but honest and true civil servant! All of this, as usual. We have and continually are transitioning, into the age of Business As Usual. God's in Its heaven, all's right with the world, and peace on earth to all men of good will.

The women, of course, just want the money. But this time that's no problem, either! Because speaking generally, most of us men of good will are, by now, pretty much itchin' to give it to 'em! RIGHT WHERE IT COUNTS! Right in her little pink "oh, hello there!" kitty purse!

Or whatever. I guess if your woman is one of those butch deals and prefers the ol' denim-tucked ass-pocket brown wallet maneuver - hey, that's all you dude! Knock yourself out. Let me know if you need help.

Brother. Can you spare a shell? I need it to buy a round.

All I have in this world is one last sawed-off double ought sawbuck, and a few shiny nickel-plateds to scatter around. What will that and the price of coffee get me?! It'll get you up Federali River for one thing, for, ostensibly, bank robbery! ADVICE: PLEASE DON'T. So help me, you try to pull that off where they keep my money, and I'll laugh all the way to the Post Office, where they post things and where I will finger your nose. And if I'm still pissed at your despicably undermitigated gall, I may even add a gloss of new meaning to the term "spitting image."


What's in your wallet?




...and you know,

When I call SHOTGUN
........... SHOTGUN
...then you know I GOT ONE
When I call
...then you know I GOT ONE!
GOT ONE, she slips down
that ladder-rope
that I chucked up
to catch on sill,
she's cleaned out all
her chest of hope
she's bringing all the trouble
and the shells she's saved
she milled 'em all herself of her own free will

And you know I GOT ONE
GOT ONE, when I call

...then I really GOT ONE.

GOT ONE, and she bought the ammo,
I got the rod - and I don't intend to spare no one.
One barrel two barrel plus the stock -
in too-close quarters I'm ready to run
upside your head I'm the jack of clubs
a rock hard hickory buffed to gloss
she's at the wheel - she's the duchess of stunts
I'm in the death seat, aiming for boss

And you know I GOT ONE
GOT ONE, when I call

I snuck in fast
right through the fence
raising all alarms plus electrical bills
her old man's just over the hill
she got the wheel, she daisy dukes
just an all-pro hazard in a muscle car
it ain't no Lee, just a Patton tank
her man's at the hole, trying to call all cars

he shoulda known better than that
he taught her how to act
taught her how to shoot, but I will
he shoulda known better than that
she got the trigger in hand
it’s wrapped around a ring
hold still

I just aim.
And she calls shots
Like fish in a barrel like a deer in lights
bird shot buck shot double pump ought
to change your brain
let go your mind
you’re welcome at the church if you come on time
to give her away ‘cause old man she’s mine!

And you know I GOT ONE
GOT ONE, when I call

When I call SHOTGUN
........... SHOTGUN
...then you know I GOT ONE
When I call
...then you know I GOT ONE!

Truth Bundles #1: "Entrust"

Speak love first to an empty room.

Don't ask what you are supposed to do. Ask who is doing the supposing.

Trust is never given, never earned. Trust involves no judgment, no character, no decision. Trust simply settles, inevitably and finally, on whoever has truly been true.

Honesty is the only debt true friendship can incur.

Children's Book Pitch #2: TALES OF SECRET DOG

(artwork sample available upon request)

Secret Dog lived in a building that said: "No Pets Allowed"
(picture of a stern brownstone Apt building with a bold word balloon coming out of it as the building says: "No Pets Allowed.")
(picture of Secret Dog peering out from concealment in Marda's backpack, seeing a posted placard: NO PETS ALLOWED)

Secret Dog had lived there for as long as he could remember.
(picture of Secret Dog peering out from concealment under the futon)

Every day, Marda and Elos showered Secret Dog with quiet love and affection.
(tickle-scratches, everybody smiling but everybody also looking out of the corners of their eyes)

Secret Dog's dog dish was a regular bowl that would be set out at mealtimes.
(picture of dish)
It did not have his name on it.

Secret Dog did not know what his name was, because Marda and Elos were always careful never to call him.
(picture of Secret Dog looking up confusedly at Marda and Elos who are smiling down at him with love)

So Secret Dog just called himself Secret Dog!
(picture of Secret Dog looking dashing and mysterious)

-Secret Dog felt certain that somewhere, elsewhere in the building, there must be another pet like him.
(picture of cutaway of the building, all apts. darkened except Secret Dog's with him in it up top right, and another apt on the second floor down left side, with another dog in it hiding under a bed)

And maybe more!
(same picture, only with another dog popping out of a closet as the two previous dogs look wistfully in his direction)

But Secret Dog was not sure how to contact the other secret pets without blowing everyone's cover.
(picture of Secret Dog munching from his dish, furious look of concentration and planning)

Secret Dog was proud of the good job he was doing, keeping himself secret. He knew that Marda and Elos would not be thrown out on his account!
(Secret Dog, guard-duty pose in front of the futon as Marda and Elos sit watching tv, eating from a big bowl of snack mix. Secret Dog is chewing too)

Secret Dog never, ever barked.
(picture of boisterous young people walking by the apt. door in the hallway, talking loudly / split screen of Secret Dog plastered up against the door not barking but clearly VERY VIGILANT)

One time Secret Dog thought he heard an intruder trying to get in.
(picture of Secret Dog under the futon, perking up in the darkened living room, light coming under the apt. door with a shadow of INTRUDER)

What would he do?
(split picture montage of Secret Dog efficiently killing masked intruder, bagging the body and dragging it down the back stairwell - then a shot of the bag sticking out of the dumpster)

Luckily, it was only Elos and Marda.
(picture of Elos and Marda coming in late, Secret Dog cowering under the futon).

And they brought a KITTEN with them!
(Marda produces a startled kitten from her backpack)

And everyone was happy.
(picture of Marda and Elos on the futon as Secret Dog sprawls across them getting scratches from Elos. The kitten sleeps on the corner of the cushion)

But that was not The End.
(same picture, only everyone stopped what they're doing and are looking at us, trepidatiously)

The End

Wednesday, April 22, 2015

Important Disclaimers #7: Results May Be Simulated

Actually, no. That disclaimer isn't in the slightest bit important. It's too vague! What's it warning us of, even? And more importantly to (or than) some, arguably: is "even" a preposition? Because that seems a pretty cheap way to satisfy a stupid but persistently-(to the verge of heroically, really)niggled rule!

Full-on hypocrite disclosure: I enjoy niggling rules every now and then. Ain't nothing a shame about niggling a rule or two!

But there's no importancy at all to that disclaimer, as stated. It's too vague! Check it, you'll see what I mean. You can't tell what it means! It could mean any number of numbered statements:

1. The results here presented may or may not be simulations.

2. The results here presented may or may not be simulations.

3. It is true of all results, or it is true in general of results, that results may dah, dah, dah... insert any or more probably 3 is "all the above," pretty much. A bit much, but if you think about it suddenly,

Or you can take it the other way. Take it to say that it's characteristic of results that it may be possible to produce convincing simulations of them. Hard to argue that away. Did you see the last guy who tried?

He went thataway.

Folks, if you check the science on it you'll find a fine, drawn-out line between "a reproducible result" and "a successful simulation of a previously achieved result." Stick the most sensitive measuring instrument you can imagine up your ass and tell me: could you tell the difference? See the difference? Feel the difference?

A lot depends on the instrument. And your familiarity with it, and how rigorously you've prepared your mind and how determined you're prepared to be, when it comes to a good thorough job. This is more than just the old saw: "the right tool for the right job." An old saw like that shouldn't even be in your tool box.

Is that what they're calling it these days? Anyway, a more troubling question is whether we might need to get philosophical here, to determine the stance in terms of absolute truths. Is it is what it is? Or is it is what it seems?

Food for thought like that could be the reason they invented antacids whose guaranteed-potency standardized active ingredient(s) is or are capable of passing the blood/brain barrier. Because face it: that's one barrier you'd normally want a pretty hard core bouncer on the door for, as medicines go, trying to get in to that party. It's practically the only party in town for thinking persons, or those who think they'd like to be seen that way, or those who just love to be seen or love to people-watch metaphorical anthropomorphized drugs pretend to be sharp-dressed young, attractive, graceful but with a hint of being potentially athletic dancers. The party is in there.

You know where. Just beyond that festive rope-with-a-hook-on-it sits the seat of the human booty's (or body's) version of a super-exclusive, only-controlled-substances-on-the-strict-legit-list-permitted VIP dance party hangout: the brain.

The human brain.

But when it comes to the fucking mental indigestion involved in trying to bubble and soak anything nutritive out of THAT convoluted mash and penumbra of noxious emanations, hallucinogenic-class sophistries and clumps of puerile, poorly-chewed "look-at-me" swallowed-too-soon / shoulda-been-spit cud, bring on the sickly sweet and girlchild pinkly appealing chalky soothness of Brain Pepto, man, or their nearest literal, Western Medicine four-out-of-five dentists approved knockoff. I mean, am I right here? Did I read it wrong? You tell me, man.

For all you know...all of reality is a simulation of your ego problem. So go ahead. Make my day meaningfully. You tell me.

You know what? Drop it. There's no going back now, I can't remember the original correctly important version of today's disclaimer, the whole thing's gone past the point of a waste. Frankly, I'm getting a stomachache. Right in the worst possible least probable place: the brain.

Which if you tell me it's needless to say, I will say it bears repeating:

The human brain.

Here's a disclaimer, if you like. Far better to be specific, then to end up with poisoned livestock or better yet, pets, because some idiot's trying to cure gastrocerebral ailments of sheep, cows and god forbid pigs, cats and dogs by forcing a human-approved only medicament through the skull! In the mistaken (and incorrect) assumption, no doubt, that that is the barrier we need to savvy our way through.

Safe first. Then sorry.

That's a disclaimer, if you like. But only if you like.

Verbatim Reply to a Friend Who Unwittingly Used the Word "Emporer" Correctly in a Sentence

Um - WHAT!? BAH!


First off, the office of Emperor itself hey wait - just a sec, cute girl alert.



Think about it seriously, Mister. You know it makes sense. A share of Empire? A revel in a mutually-held responsibility to put down rebellion and take up civilization? That's a call we can all take seriously. Or even if we missed it - in our modern age, we have a safety net. It's called "voice mail," and I am an answering machine in the eyes of some. It's because I'm so answerable. Got slack?

I always pick up.

But! It's not just me who says that!

There's considerable precedent for it, in terms of proven, workable governance models! All we need to be is willing to take a step back from Caesar and be Consuls. In lieu of some potential tyrant, in lieu of a Chief Executive lording it over, demanding in the name of Christ that everybody render all this shit unto him on account of no greater justification than "I'm on the money!" - we check that, balance it, cancel it, strike it so hard it slips right back into reverse and then call off the picket, in favor of a true coalition solution: two chiefs, equal in cahoots by the authority vested in them on our about the waist and torso. A three-piece suit, basically, consisting of waistcoat, vest, and TO-GA! TO-GA! TO-GA! Take these two cochiefs, a randy and rambunctious non-ornamental Senate and a fucking vast and enthusiastic native noncitizen slightly-privilege-challenged worker class of proud-eyed, red-blooded, sweat-browed, peace-loving controllers of the means of production (if you get the dialectic?)! Take them, please. It will be very hard for anybody to fuck that up. The setup alone is far too self-evidently "tight."

Think it through, man, though because in any Empire where they start overthinking of an Emperor, they ought to think again. They have it coming, otherwise - and the history books will show they asked for it. They were BEGGING for it: who wears two vests and three togas, calls it a three-piece suit and parades around in state like that unless they're begging for it? It's basically, their fault: and we should persistently and continuously victimize them on account of that, because they basically brought it on themselves and let's face facts at this point. They deserved every word of the aforementioned sentence. So take heed from that one, pal. Hearken back a bit, take a deep breath, because - "it's been done." Your so called "bold" suggestion, called for in bold tones intoning milk-mild words for the sake of an absolute authority that was corrupt the first time we opened the milk carton and saw, to our horror, the picture on the back was ours? You think something's sweetened that big sour swig in the interim? Or are you just a real big fan of impromptu, untested unQC'd and experimentally laissez fairly made cheese? Because if that's what's coming for dinner, count me in for the beer. But an amusing caveat to that might be: I made it myself, my friend. Now pick me up an ear or two on the way home and spend one, lend one, shuck it to a boil and cut all kernels off lengthwise - or better yet, why not let it hear for itself, and judge for all of us? There's a name for a jackpot like that and it's called, "SUCCOTASH." You got some in your mustache, man - let me get that for you. The beauty of a setup like that is that when it judges for all of us, this jumbled up hot steamy side dish ALWAYS judges in strict accordance with the greatest good it has ever even imagined: its own beauty of the truth of the greater good. Which, as the beholden, it is pretty much bound by sworn and implied duty to keep an eye on, from time to time.

Check it.

Here's how it happened, and I suspect that the second it sinks in you'll be all, "Here here!, or hear hear? Which did we decide again, and why?" How did it happen? For details, sea hear:

The Emperor came saw and conquered and what did it get him? What was his inheritance, for that?

You can pretty much guess.

I bet you can.

But on the other hand, how about my proposal? We've already heard far too much of yours, and IT! STINKS!

My modest proposal, which was in fact the working model for the Empire for quite a considerable storied traditional age-old live-long and glory-filled day, is as proven as it is flexible. It's a much more Republican-style solution to the pervasive, irritating problem of Empire - which is sure to appeal to Cynics and Epicureans alike, so natural and tasteless is its non-selective target demographic. What on earth could be more Democratic than a well-targeted demographic? You see what I'm aiming at, here. TAKE THE SHOT!

And as you do, take heed: and a big pinch of fair warning, while your at it. While you sit, overthinking in your Rodan-inspired thinker's pose, taking a king-of-the-monster's-best-buddy-sized shit as it comes (or goes, as the case may hopefully be): TAKE HEED AND GO EASY. Because history has this to say about it, loser. Your tired ass shit has been tried, convicted, confined, released and all debts settled, in one sharp shiv with a point to it that we, even today, would almost have to be fools to ignore.

It was tried before. The traditionalists, averse to change as usual, settled that dude's hash for him and some say, rightly so. You really wanna go there? I heartily suggest that you have been behooved by better things.

Think on it.

He came, he saw, he crossed the Rubicon, solved the Cube cut the knot that held the oh-so-fabled Damoclean katana from puncturing his ever-so-surpassingly swollen HEAD, and what did it get him?


It didn't go over well! So much so in fact, that I believe at one point, the top wop (or is it dago?) who more-or-less presumed to sole chief executorship of the people's will (without, I might add, a shred of their testament! - and no, post-facto acclaim is no substitute for consent, my friend! NO BODY fucks that well! Nobody EVER fucked the people better than my man Jules, tryna be the shepherd as usual, getting the words confused and result: stabbing match honorable mention. Nobody EVER fucked the people as much or as hard or as deep as Caesar number one. And I tell you son, they loved him for it but it stank so high to heaven that even now, the biological residue from that way-too-much-more-and-yet-less-than-sexual congress STILL SMELLS) in defiance of tradition and all manner of etiquette and protocol (which tends to rub a proud people the wrong way, my man! CONSIDER YOUR AUDIENCE! Give the people what they want! Pepperidge Farm, Barnum and Baileys, if you get my increasingly belabored references!), tried it and got killed in a stabbing match over it, for his troubles. And ours, as it turned out. As anyone could have told him! As he surely saw for himself, because let me tell you: you don't declare absolute monarch with contagious-via-sexual-reproduction-vector assigned divine right to it! You just don't! On the face of it: bad idea! Assholes have kids too, you know, and I don't care if you think the sun shines out of yours, your kids will be assholes if you can convince them of a thing like that. "Hey junior, yeah, all this is yours. Because ummmmm...well, let me explain it to you in terms that will fuck you up for life plus the entire dominion under you, if you so much as fucking swallow 'em..."

You know? Think about it a second first, and before you know it it won't make sense to anyone anymore. You don't declare a comprehensively evidenceless thing like that. That kind of a king thing dealy? Wait a second, pause, consider. OK?


At least give it a second. It works conceptually and not at all. Have you thought about it yet? Give it at least a SECOND, dude? Even in later ages, duels always took at least a second and customarily, usually, cruelly, two or more. You don't pull the trigger on a thing like divine right sole rulership in less, unless you can back it up with one hell of a two-step. Step one, be a great ruler, the kind later generations will still measure themselves by, and a damn good judge of character besides. Step two: ensure that there are no later generations. There are two ways to do this conceptually, and both are easy. One way? Destroy the universe, or any less overcompensatory measure that deletes the living specimens of the species. The other way is probably far more ideal, yet in practice, it's the way they actually went:

Never die. Simple.

Nice odds on pulling it off.

And let me tell you something you don't want to know, but will find hard to argue seriously against. Stabbing matches? Don't be so quick to condemn. You might find yourself on the business end of the modern equivalent of one of those, which are albeit, far less lethal - but also no where near so authentic and hip-feeling. It's because of all the preservatives and process (which to be fair, is only their due) but I digress.

If you can imagine such a thing, I do. I do digress. We were talking about a stabbing match, and let me tell you those hot, cismediterranean blood types, you know. Always with the knives, them.

We must be tolerant, and presume not to a cultural chauvinism or anything tantamount to it. For heed me my ever accepting and conscious, enlightened, children: to those who don't know about it, who weren't there or haven't heard, let me lay the skinny on you speaking as one who is a member of the abovemaligned belowdefined race, and can therefore joke freely about such things, without let or hindrance throughout all the realm and territory of Christendom, or one better. These "stabbing matches" that you so assiduously reference, these "stabbing matches" that then as now, our friends, the post-, pseudo-, or practicing ethnically-Catholics, their forbears, their cousins of slightly goldier locks, and the combined inheritors of that thrice-accursed heritage and blessed liberally with a huge posterior, secured unto itself by the seat of its pants to a degree somewhat unto, like, I don't know, let me count. WHOA! The results are in! These accursed autumnal blessings of ours keep counting for the length of the game, plus overtime (if in the event, it happens). That amounts to a sizeable portion, assessed at up to a seven times seven generations' gap's worth, at least! And when you look into THAT gap, mind the crease. The abyss has eyes for you.

I believe you people know EXACTLY what I'm getting at, and are merely attempting heckle me with your silence. Well guess what, or better yet: GOOD NEWS! I got the headline for you and it says KNOCK KNOCK! This represents (for you) an almost insurmountable opportunity if you know what it says in the bible. WORDS, MAN, WORDS! And one of them born, if you can believe such a thing and/or are an old school rap fan. Can I get a witness, can a get an A, men? Is word born, or what?

"Word Is Born," my friend, and that's good news for anyone with a current events nostalgia-fetish, as well as for retro music enthusiasts everywhere, in every place and from age to age. Why is it such good news? It's because you will not fucking believe it. So therefore, judge not. That's pretty much the rational caboose to that train of thought, choo choo fans. And if you think I can get up over this NEXT hill - thanks for your faith! I think I can. I think, therefore, I do not judge. And these so-called "stabbing matches" of yours, which you so condescendingly stoop to disparage, did and do in fact constitute a bulwark, to these people. Did you stop to think how much that means? Or should mean - to us? Now?

For them it was a trademark, if you will. A beacon. A benchmark, a hallmark, a reference point - it augered well, for them, and who are we to declare it ominous? Futures is as futures does, I say - but when a fortune teller stands up behind the counter to cash you out, and you're all "THAT'S IT?? TEN CENTS?"

Some fortune!

We must rely on greater, shared, metaphorical riches, as these dudes did. If we're going to survive with a smile on our face and upon the faces of our babies (in-between bouts of squalling, of course - those lusty babes must squall!), we're going to need a little more than a piece of paper with a promise on it "pay ya later! We're good for it! You swear!"

We need a tradition.

An ordeal, if you will - but one that these so-called day-glo bearing trail-blazing pathfinders of ours, the cradle-robbers of civilization so to speak (LITERALLY!) - they, in their so called "savage," "maligned," "benighted" way - WHICH WE MUST PRETTY MUCH NOW CONCEDE TO BE A-OK BY VIRTUE OF THE POWER VESTED IN THEM BY THEIR OWN DANG D.N.A., or the cultural equivalent thereover (and thereunder: as above, just so you know) inheritance or the equivalent in postmortem reparations to the estate, considered these stabbing matches to be, in their eyes, to be truly beautiful. What you call brutal, they retort, "Eh? This is a much-bruited tribute to the honor of man, man! Let me see that ear of yours for a second," and such requests, while unreasonable and dangerous, are not objectively wrong.

You can't call a thing wrong just because they culturally love to do it, even to the point that people who wish to be in-the-know-and/or-appear-so begin to concoct widespread habits into the intrinsically objectionable form of exobiologically-false-sibling-dichotomy-derived contact-plus-safeword-triggered powers in the style of, "FORM OF: STEREOTYPE!" - well, that doesn't make it objectively wrong. Just a little sick, when you pause to think what those taupe-skinned freaky fetii were up to together in that alien womb of theirs - but again, that's a bit of an anthropomorpobe move in the first place. Don't do it. It is NOT objectively wrong, and what the hell is these days, anyway? Who can say? Not this guy!


Anyway, what I'm saying here, [ MY FRIEND ], is it really did work for them for a very long time, and it can work for us. It didn't fail out of failure! It failed out of their failure to appreciate the baroque beauty of the status quo, which let's face it: worked. It worked OK. Nothing succeeds like successes succeed! And these guys, instead of going all cult of personality hero worship on us just because somebody thought his laurels looked kind of too regal to rest on, well, let's just say a word to the wise is sufficient, but a word to wiser would be needless to say. They weren't wiser. Wise is as wise delves, and they'd have been far wiser to take a good fucking look at things, before they chucked that status quo vadis on the scrap-heap of history and started yelling about hideous corpses or some equally garbled, barbarous phrase.

I say we try it! I say we try my idea. It's the perfect compromise, if you think about it like I do. Share and share alike, my brother deep in all counsels and equally chief in executions! Because even if sadly, Caesar the First got martyred to the point that a later generation's Bard practically had to make play of words on it, or tried to, it did work before that deadly precedent got set in cement. As the story goes, the precedent was pretty much set the moment that dude's blood hit the flags 'n' cobbles, and the next guy up was president-elect, in effect - or very much so. Why? Just 'cause. He took office later that same fall, or shortly therefore: it was a cold day in Augusta, that's for sure.

Monday, April 20, 2015

You think you know your self, but others know better.

You might say your potential is part of you. But it is a very specific part: your potential is the part of you that doesn't exist.

What others see is what you've shown. They believe what they've seen. They do well to. That is who you are. And it is what you are capable of.

You exist in a constant and evolving state, different parts visible to different beholders, but everything they've seen is real. You stand right now having been the best person you are or have ever been, many times, and in every way and where you have shown yourself capable. That's the self you create. You have created it, and you are right now. You are all of that, and the scary part is: you are capable of better.

I don't mean you need to go out and break your personal bench press record. Your personal bench press record is a part of you already. Pursue a new one if it amuses you, and if your wrists and elbows can still take it. Mine can't, but one time in the garage in front of two miffed witnesses I weighed one hundred and fifty five pounds. Then I bench pressed two sixty five. That still deeply amuses me! It was ultimately worth the tendon damage, because my wrists don't hurt unless I bench press anyway. Why bother? Whatever the point of bench pressing is, that point was proved to my satisfaction. I'm not particularly interested in impressing the East Ukrainian judge.

Your personal best is yours. Your personal best is you. It's already you. It has been and continues to be: you, part of the self you created. You aren't in competition with it. What I mean is that whatever you've ever done, whatever has struck anyone's eyes amazed, whatever little thing or touch or word you put in, something that in somebody's mind or heart made them realize they know you, or love you, or trust you, and think highly of you - a hundred things, maybe, different things for anyone you know! Every personal best you've ever pulled, deliberately or not, calculated or not! Determined or not. I'm saying it wasn't faked. Any of it. It was just you. You are the act you put on, and the choice you make, and the word you state. It was just the self that you made that day.

And sure, you may have had some performance goal in mind, to impress someone, to win some thing, but that doesn't matter. Ulterior is not false. We all of us, sometimes at least, want to come off as our best, especially in front of specific someones. But too many of us don't realize that after we've pulled it off - no, it wasn't a trick. It was something you actually did, and can do! You are that person, who can do things like that. And if your word, your choice, your act may have served some additional purpose in their eyes, that's fine too. But first and foremost, that word, that choice, that act spoke for itself: in an act of creation. Concrete. It has passed from the potential through the possible, and into the actual. No matter how improbable it might have looked to oddsmakers before it happened, there was a game-breaking play you made that cannot now be unmade. Your act has passed from imagination into fact. It's always doing that. It has made you you, and it continues to.

You change who you are forever, when you pull something off like that. For whoever has seen or believed it, you will forever be the kind of person who could do something like that. Who did.

No matter who knows how many people benefit in how many different ways from your great act that goes over so well, that act is not just some fake show that was put on or put over. Even if you wish to insist your act had some measure of duplicity to it, some heroic con, the fact is: you pulled it off. What you pulled off was not a trick, but a curtain. You pulled away the cover, and the show was who you are. What you're capable of. You can grin and think there was some trick involved in the act you made, but don't kid yourself that anyone else was fooled. They saw you. And what you did, for whatever reason you want to put to it now, was simply what you could do. The best of how anyone has ever seen you, is you. Really, now. And the best you are is a thing you could be in any given moment.

And you don't even have to try hard! And you don't have to worry about it. You don't have to hit a single mark. You just have to enjoy being that person. You know the one! Your favorite you. The one who surprises you, let alone other people! The you who you kind of secretly have a crush on, a little bit - the vain yet somehow selfless hero of your little secret autobiography that you've been plotting out in your spare time, and composing every moment. Whatever ways you may have impressed yourself in the past, you are already that person: the one who can do even better than that, pretty much at the drop of a hat. Whenever the chance happens to present itself.

Of course chance does come into it, or better yet, chances do. Opportunity comes into it. We don't at every waking moment run into the chance to do something that stamps a revelation on ourselves or another's forehead. A chance to just utterly fucking make who we are, and what we are capable of. Opportunity is deeply involved in it, but to nowhere near the degree that motive and opportunity are involved. Because as you walk around, if the best you are is who you really kind of actually secretly want to be, then any given moment suddenly threatens to present these great little opportunities. Great and small. And increasingly - on purpose, even! - you seize them. You walk right into them, impromptu, as you create your me.

You can be a little smug about it! It's okay. You're not perfect by any means. Everybody knows you know that. And who cares for perfect, anyway? The best you can be has nothing to do with the worst flails and failures and accidental catastrophes, the disgraceful, very bad deliberate decisions you've sprawled and will sprawl across the eyewitness of others as you go. The best you are is a person who includes the worst you've done, alas. The best that you can possibly be is still a human being. The best you have ever been is always someone who gets to fuck up. It's allowed. You can even be forgiven for it. Who needs to forgive you? An even better question might be: who do you want to be?

Motive, opportunity, potential - potential is some part of it, too. You are also the fact that you can do better, in addition to being who you are, in addition to being what you have proved capable of. But as was said: your potential is the part of you that doesn't exist. Your potential is the part of you that may never exist. You don't even have to worry about it. Though you may have a pretty good idea, or you may have a very bad idea, really you have no idea what your potential is. You don't have to live up to it. Your potential pales into mists and dreams, next to the best you've ever been. The best you are.

You could do better.

Handjob Karaoke: My Final Revised Stance Pt.3

OK, I've revised my opinion on this and now I will definitively say: GROSS. The whole thing's just gross!

I happened to be doing Karaoke on Saturday Night, and halfway through U2's song "So Cruel" it just hit me what a horror, what a violation that setup is of everybody involved. Plus anyone watching. That's entertainment?! That's human contact? It's like... it's like... as an American I can't stand for it. Look, the Japanese gave us karaoke, so maybe I'm out of my depth here on what I've got any right to speak on, but I'm pretty sure Americans invented handjobs so, you know what, they got their chocolate in our peanut butter on this one.

Handjob Karaoke critique: final verdict, gross. PRET-TY GROSS.

The above is not in any way a critique of what people do freely with and to each other. To me it reduces to the all-too-pervasive power of life as entertainment, increasingly: of voyeurism as performance art, which in my view cheapens and degrades what should be a human and uplifting ritual where one person - any one person - can get up in front of everyone watching and murder the work of somebody famous (or at least famouser). And expect to get cheered for it. To hold their head up high, afterwards - and go back to their seat without having left something essential of themselves on the stage they vacate.

So, whatever, what I'm saying is I'm not trying to knock anybody's kink or combination theirof. Anyone who has a taste for exhibitionism, sexual OR musical, I just feel like such things should either not be combined, or else be done as a guerrilla act, an act of civil disobedience and if the cops catch you at it, NO: you did not have a permit for that. You'll both get a stern talking-to, and you'll be getting your picture taken and have some fucking paperwork to do. Which to me is just how it should be: you take a risk, it increases the high, right? Society doesn't have to condone that shit and you don't want them to. Right?

It's not the combination of manual gratification and singing to a canned track I condemn, it's the idea of making it something any pussy can do because they're drunk and somebody dared them. You know? And later, how do they feel about that spectacle? CHEAPENED? DEGRADED? VIOLATED POSSIBLY? Well, whoever got involved it's their own fault. And responsibility is theirs for what they done, but I don't think we should put our stamp on it. It should take a hero (and I guess, an accomplice - although which one's which or who is the sidekick in that situation I leave to the comic book fans) to bust out in front of people and pull some shit like that! And the people should feel surprised, shocked, indignant - an act like that should have power. It's the cheapening I object to, principally.

Basically, it only took this one fucking cheapjack Japanese nil-budget stunt game show to turn me into a fucking prude. I've crossed the line now. So much for mister libertarian. Now I'm the guy all "We As A Society Should Not Condone!" LUCKILY, GOOD NEWS #1: Who the fuck am I? Why does my say go? IT DOESN'T. My say don't go, would be good news #2 I guess, or #1a.

Good news #2, 3 or 1b should be at the very least: I may not have say here, but I think I make a powerful argument and I bet society at large in the various civilized, media-degenerating cutting edge consumer-driven marketplaces of ideas will agree with me on this one: Handjob Karaoke crosses the line.

Big frown, guys. I give it a big frown on this one. Seriously. I mean, the above is pretty much my straight-up, considered and settled retrospect on this. My opinion on this one feels like home to me. I don't think I'll be acquiring the taste for this sort of tasteless display. It's fucking degrading to all of us, if we permit this sort of filth on our aetherwaves.

But I'm interested in other perspectives though! What do you guys think? I can never tell sometimes when I've stuck the landing and hit home exactly where I ought to have, or if I'm in that moment's suspense at rest at the end of a swing too far, pendulum-wise.

I say it's handjob karaoke that has swung too far. Have you guys heard about this? It was in the news last week and I for one was appalled, or if I wasn't then I am now. Last week it seemed kind of tastelessly charming and even amusing even. Not now. Sorry. Handjob Karaoke represents the absolute pinnacle of the slippery slope as far as I've so far seen, and we better wake up before we all end up in the audience witness to something we really didn't want to accompany our evening out. People need to speak out at this point - otherwise, where's the moral compass?!

I've done my part. The next is up to you.

Wednesday, April 01, 2015

The Strong Agnostic Proposition: Slightly Reformulated

I believe I've cut it a bit finer on this one. The strong agnostic formulation should be:

"Proof of the supernatural can not exist."

Not "does not." Can not!

Thursday, March 26, 2015

Screw, Marry, Murder? Piece of Cake.

Are you folks familiar with this setup? They call it a large number of different things, such as "Bed, Wed, Dead" or "Fuck, Marry, Kill" or "Date, Mate, Annihilate," or "Crush Kill Destroy" - no wait. That last one's not one of them. Unless you could use "crush" as in "have a crush on"? The idea maybe being something less formal than mawwage, twoo wove...? But no, that doesn't work because the moral dilemma aspect really calls for each of these to be pushed to the extreme limit: actual life-and-death stuff. Literally sex, or literally taking that death do us part leap, or literally death. Literally hypothetically, I mean! Literal in the hypothetical universe, where your interlocutor just put you. Literally in that world of pain where only you can choose - and where you have to.

Hm. Except if we use "crush" for sex, then "destroy" has to be marry. Hm.

I don't know. It could fit! But there are better fits, so let's leave C,K,D out of it, for clarity's sake.

Anyhow, the idea is: somebody names 3 people, or fictional characters or whatever, and you have to pick between them: hypothetically, you have to pick one to have sex with, another to marry, and another to kill. There's no rule that you can't kill the one you marry! I mean - I'm not your lawyer and I can't advise you, there probably are rules that say you can't do that, but the rules of the question don't prohibit it. Ditto there's nothing to say you can't have sex with the one you marry, either - there's really nothing in the rule that says you can't do ALL THREE to the person you pick to have sex with! But the point is, the additional two acts are totally non-compulsory. If that's how you roll, that's on you!

What's compulsory, under the scenario, is you have to pick one who you DEFINITELY have sex with, and pick a different one to definitely marry, which leaves the third one, who you have chosen to kill.

You see here how this so-called "innocent game" becomes in fact a moral dilemma in dead earnest. These are some issues here we're dealing with, potentially!

Folks, it's a hypothetical. Grow up. It's meant to be a moral dilemma, to test your ability to make a hard call when the chips that could never actually be down suddenly GET DOWN. If you're not up to it, if you're some kind of moral coward or intellectual overthinky objectioner, grow up - there's nothing really at stake here and no harm in pondering these quandaries.

I'll give you an example, because I bet I could do any number of these pretty easy!

Mark David Chapman, Peppermint Patty, Zooey Deschanel.


I'd screw Zooey Deschanel, marry Peppermint Patty and murder Mark David Chapman.

How about another example? Drawn from Scooby Doo characters:

Velma, Shaggy, Scrappy Doo.

Now here you see where it really can force some hard choices! You have to work your way through it. For the sake of this answer, I'd like to mention I'm assuming that for each of my choices I get to do each as much as I like. There's nothing in the setup of the question to limit that, any more than there is to exclude you from adding on voluntary actions to the mandatory one you're forced to pick. There's just nothing in the scenario that forces the limitation (except, of course, the consent of any partner you haven't explicitly chosen to murder. That goes without saying, I hope).


Velma, Shaggy, Scrappy Doo.

Screw Velma, marry Shaggy, murder Scrappy Doo. Easy!

Poor Shaggy in that case, though. I hate to lead a dude on, but #1 I was forced to choose, so lesser of several wrongs, sorry my man! It don't make a right, but when somebody holds a hypothetical gun to your head, what do you do? What do you do? #2, Shaggy strikes me as a pretty conscious dude. Pretty open-minded, and I bet he would want to help "strike a blow" for equal marriage rights, you know? Me and him could do that. #3 I do not support interspecies marriage or bestiality whatsoever. And #4, what the hey, as long as he's OK with me sex-partnering Velma whilst restricting myself to a more "platonic" bond with him, I guess could slip him a "scooby snack" every now and then. Strictly hypothetically, here.

And I want to be able to kill Scrappy Doo every god-damned time the mood strikes me.

Point is: it's a thought exercise. It's a test of character. It's a way to raise and explore greater issues, using some trumped up never-gonna-happen moral dilemma. Because how will you know? How will you know unless you ask yourself, what you'd really do in a difficult situation? How well do you know your self? How well do you want to know yourself - and do you really want to know the answer to that question? Some people don't, but I do.

So yeah, go ahead and pose me a trichotomy or few in the comments, if you want! I can knock these out bang bang bang like eating popcorn. How did I get so good at hypotheticals, at moral dilemmas?

Practice, practice, practice.

Foolproof Contingency Plan #1: In Case of Elephant.

This is a contingency plan to cover the possibility of huge, unspoken elephants.

1. Establish whether there is or isn't a huge, unspoken elephant in the room, or even circling the room.

--->If elephant = NO then END

--->If elephant = YES then 2

2. Determine from the tone (and, if any, wit) of any pit-pat back-forth zip of pithy remarks concerning the possibility of said (or rather, unsaid) elephant whether said unsaid elephant is a good elephant, such as might be fun to continue to unmentionally waltz near, around, or towards; a good elephant such as could be great fun to acknowledge openly and/or parade around with/on; or a bad elephant, such as should never have been brought to the dance and/or could prove ruinous to provoke or arouse.

3. Elephant!

Wednesday, March 18, 2015

Light and Color: Dismissal of Assorted Theories

I am unreasonable in ways, such as I love you.

I walk through life arrogant. You people have seen. I've always sort of enjoyed that about me - I know, it's an ugly word to some! But I balance it with specific virtues, SUCH AS: I love that word! I love the sound of it. Arrogant.

This more than balances out that it's an ugly word to some.

Yet in my less self-possessed moments, this pose of arrogance - sincere as it is, it's definitely a bit of a pose. Like, a superhero pose, leaping to take flight, or like a rock star, one foot on the amp throwing shapes in the spotlight? You know the kinds of poses I mean! Those are just arrogant. You know? And sure, maybe the rock star is only playing - excused. And maybe the superhero's only playing into that role, that he or she and the world as well pretty much do see him in and love it, or her in of course.

Yet in my less self-possessed moments, when I stop looking to see; when everything blurs - or not blurs, really, since much of the detail is actually sharpened - but when I stop looking. My recognition blurs, at least, and the picture that's lit before me (generally, this occurs on or about the same spot of West Cliff Drive in Santa Cruz CA, looking out over Monterey Bay towards the mists and mountains of Big Sur - what a nice walk!), I don't really see objects. So much as shapes, patterns made and joined, of color in hard-to-exactly-name arrays, in a beautiful and bewildering composition of dims and rich hues, hung in tapestry under an invincible blue, with brilliant brights dancing upon deep darks. Blinded by Monet, maybe. And it doesn't even matter what things actually are. Let alone how. It's beautiful.

In those better, mind-free moments, I can't see how any other response can be appropriate to life, except: gratitude. Gratitude and humility. Humility, because I didn't deserve to be here. Because nothing I've done, and nothing I am, entitled me to this. No virtue, no strength, no talent, no skill, no achievement even, nothing solid or valid or true you could cite, except perhaps: birthright.

But I know I didn't deserve to be born. And for that reason: gratitude. Thanks mom! And dad. And "Our Father who Art In Heaven," too, if you're up there. Whether you are or you aren't doing art in heaven, you definitely do down here. You Art down here. So thank you!

I thank God now, just in case I don't get the chance later.

And people are just the same way. And some days, even to a far greater degree than landscapes, even the prettiest ones you could look for, with their seascapes breaking in and over and upon them. People are just the same way, and some days even moreso. They are a play of light upon a fantastic canvas. You can see it in them, and where to look. They say there is only one light [ who says? citation ], but to see the light of life dancing...! - oh, you atheists can be coy about it, if you choose - and rightly so, but you see it too. You just attribute it to a different place. Yours, too is a great good place. You attribute it to a wonderful place: to us. To humanity itself. You consider humanity itself to be a vessel of such light. To give such light, to cause such light. And so be it, may be! I can't see causes and sources in a thing like this, and I don't care to. There's the light to look at, and to see by, and it's lovely and evident, ain't it? Who needs to know how filaments work when you run currents through them. Who needs to know how hydrogen's heart grows heavy in the meeting with its mate hydrogen, bringing forth helium and illumination in an explosion of light. You see the light.

I mean, things such as electricity, and electromagnetism, and thermonuclear fusion and everything else you could know about a given sharp shard of light, its provenances and origins - they are beautiful to wonder about and wonderful to know, aren't they? But the light is self-evident, and more than sufficient. It is more beautiful and far more wonderful than however it happened to work.

All I care to see is so self-evident to me that I can't stop seeing. Each pair of eyes your eyes chance to meet, as you talk or you laugh, and as you make, and then break, and then remake contact - shyly smiling maybe! Or narrowing. Suspicious! Or leaning coyly forward - each pair of eyes has the same light dancing behind it. And yet not: for all the colors and tones are changed, in the brightness that comes shifting and shading in each, so that each light - is its own. Or maybe, is owned. Is made its own. In a choice to shine or to throw shutters, or maybe just to flick the dimmer a bit - mood lighting! It is the same light that dances, but the dance does not belong to the light. A dance does not belong to the music. It belongs to the dancer; it is made by the dancer, a gift: and it is given in celebration of the music. It is because the soul, I think - with the eyes, famously windows. Really, though - I say "eyes," but it is the whole face that lights up, as far as I've seen. And when it does.

Although we are bright, lit from within, each person, each face, each soul is also lit by what each looks out on - always and always and always from its own unique point, from none other. Each point unique, of view and of you. Each its own perfect center of an infinite circle, each circle an infinite universe that you haven't seen. Because how could you? You can't have, you have never seen the first of it, and can't possibly know it - can you? But here it is in front of you. And it much like you know. Like you do know, or can. Or are going to.

For right now, for this time, the time being, the moment. You get to explore, and tour through to your heart's content - and maybe tear through your heart in the process! Maybe tear your heart's content in half, as part of the price of admission. So worth it. Admit yourself. Go ahead, tear yourself in half: that's the ticket. For as long as the other cares to offer their generosity, or honor your curiosity with their company and consent, so worth it to go in! Get comfortable, and let the lights come up. Or if only to converse! This will be a face-to-face encounter with that which you've never known: or whom, would be better. Will be better. In whom you will find a mystery worth an awe far beyond the unknowable, as you find yourself face to face with the knowable.

I am unreasonable in this. Or maybe, because of this. It seems unreasonable to me, the things we get to see in a place we have not deserved to be. It staggers reason, and for that reason I plead drunkenness.

No, not right now as I type this. I am sober as stones, but my stone's in the sun, and I do declare! As I live and breathe, I feel a warm glow coming on.

Unwanted thought of the day, Pt.2

That ended up being more "Unwanted thoughts of the day," or at the very least "Unwanted thought(s) of the day." I wonder if I should go back and change it.

Unwanted thought of the day

I don't do things unwantedly. At least, if I do I'm pissed because I didn't want to!

I am not wonted to be unwanted, nor to do the unwanted. It's kind of a thing with me. Albeit, nobody's fucking perfect as they say. I don't even want to be perfect! Who would want that. Insane.

The difference between perfection and insanity is perspective. Which is the last thing I want.

How about you? What do you want, eh?

Friday, February 27, 2015

"Library Card"

I think books in libraries are happier than a lot of other books. They have a secure, hopeful sort of life. And while the stacks and shelves of bookstore books anxiously flaunt their covers and thrust their spines at the public, hoping to be browsed and bought, the books at the library can rest easy. "This is my home. I am so glad I have a home! So happy to be stamped 'Property Of' and fitted with my inside vest pocket for the date-card. Oh, it's empty now, we've all got bar codes - but it's a snazzy accessory nonetheless!

"If someone picks me up to borrow and read, I'll be happy! I like to visit, and for people to get to know me - but I love knowing that here is where I belong and will always return. Back to my same happy spot on the shelf, favored by the afternoon sun. Ready to be read by any and all, but happy and content. Just where I am!"

The bookstore book, on the other hand, has a certain forced-cheerful near-desperate look to it sometimes. "Hi! Hi! Hello! A lot of people love me, I could be found very interesting if you give me a chance. I won the prestigious Geathers Book Award! In 2006. Oh, dear."

I try to rescue as many of those as possible.

Then once I've read through, if it's one I can live without keeping on my shelf - I'll donate it to the library! Where it can be happy and secure, be content and be read. Sometimes I'll even bump into one of my books again, at the library.

Which can be a little bit awkward, though.

Wednesday, February 25, 2015

Me, Defender of Language: That Would Be I

I have hard words, here, for certain honorable and good-hearted, right-thinking individuals, but I cannot apologize any more than I can dissemble. My words here are directed at those who decry what they call a travesty, a sin of degeneracy, an attack on the purity of language: the acceptance of "literally" when used in a figurative way.

There is no legitimate reason to object to this use of "literally."

It is nothing more than an exaggeration for dramatic effect - albeit, one that has largely passed into idiom. Haven't you people heard of hyperbole? "Literally" for "figuratively" is a clear instance.

I love to spring that one on a stickler! But I do it with a heavy heart, because my sympathies in many ways lie with such sticklers.

The worst is, it's perfectly true. Hyperbole is hyperbole. It's a rhetorical device. The word "figurative" may be an antonym of the word "literal" when considering their denotative values, but we know that figurative speech does not create a conflict or difficulty, here. When you speak figuratively, typically you say something that "ain't so." Generally, it's very clear that it ain't so. It doesn't matter that it ain't so.

The fact that it ain't so is not beside the point, it is the point. The exaggeration of "literally" for "figuratively" is in no way worse than the exaggeration of "absolutely" used in a case that is not definite, comprehensive, absolute. This perfectly legitimate rhetorical use. You use hyperbole to convey your excess of feeling in the matter.

Oh, you can call me absolutely wrong, here. But you know full well that if you do - you're literally an ass.

Dating Advice Masterclass #2: DON'Ts.

So we've got the "do"s taken care of - how about some DON'Ts? Depending on timing, these could end up being even more important:

DON'T show up with a reality tv crew in tow. Be a bit classier than that! Show up with a documentary crew, helmed by Werner Herzog.

DON'T narrate the various events of the date out loud as they unfold. Werner will take care of that himself in post-production. The only point to hiring professionals is to let them do their job.

DON'T wear one of those shirts with the padded pectorals. If things do go well, there's going to be no good way to soften the letdown.

DON'T go on and on about how large your dick is. Same reason.

DON'T listen to the advice of others. Trust your mind.

Most Importantly!!


Dang. Ran out. Can't think of another don't. See is, the thing is, I've only made a few mistakes on dates ever. I just don't have many don'ts to share!

Anyway, I feel like a lot of you folks have a real good handle on these things. Trust in your confidence, here. Take a leap of belief in yourself, and be open to surprises! Now we're getting more back into "do" territory, I realize - but in the big scheme that's probably the plan, right?

Thursday, February 19, 2015

My Geeky Pal, Discussions #2, Physical Limits: The Final Frontier

I was just talking about this with a friend the other day: teleportation, also, faster-than-light travel - and which of the various means proposed in fiction were more plausible to less plausible. The actual course of the conversation is too circuitous and discursive to reproduce, but I thought I'd share some of the conclusions and upshots, for the sake of any who may share an interest.

We both agreed that a Star Trek style transporter would kill you. Little consolation to be had from the sudden existence of an exact duplicate of you, even if the duplicate is so close a copy that God, probably, couldn't point out any material difference. Still this would be a new person, a consciousness instantly beginning its life in the middle of your previous uncompleted thought, stepping blithely out of the other transporter chamber with every one of your same connections recreated and hence, all your memories, your personality. Not with them "intact," but rather, with them reproduced. But the you who you were would fade to black. Show's over. No after-credits sequence.

(We also discussed the likelihood of various scenarios in a given sci-fi universe where God exists, and superintends a more-or-less traditional God-style setup. Imagine the plethora of Captain Kirks rubbing elbows in the afterlife, each with a full memory of everything up to their incarnation's first transporter trip! This would include all of that incarnation's memories brought along from all earlier Kirk's trips - indistinguishable from its own brief life's memories! For some people, a heaven indeed. That's not even counting all the Rikers.)

Now, my friend hadn't seen The Prestige, so I couldn't bring in that comparison - and by the way, if you haven't seen The Prestige, spoiler alert! Skip to the following paragraph! It's same principle at play, except 1) the original is not automatically destroyed, and 2) where Star Trek leaves it unspoken, glossed over, in The Prestige the implications of being erased here and remade there take center stage: the you who you really are always falls through the trapdoor and dies. The you who you never were (and never will be) always appears, an instantaneous, new creation, blinking into brand-new being at some remove of distance.

Such borderline metaphysical considerations aside, it's hard to really say how soon or whether the actual transporter hardware can be realized, not without reference to some proposed method. Just how is a beam of energy to build such a complex structure? It's not gone into. Unsurprisingly, most depictions of teleportation don't really get into the mechanics of what happens. Whether turning matter into a signal to beam to a distant location, tunneling through tesseracts or wormholes, or routing one's self instantaneously through adjacent, overlapping dimensions, even when they get into the "how," the how is rarely presented as anything our understanding of reality could call plausible. Naturally, that doesn't mean we won't get there! But we can see in each case what the challenges will be: here we need some exotic element of matter that, as yet, appears nowhere in the periodic chart. There, we need some novel form of energy or force which doesn't appear to be part of our baseline reality at all - or a way to make our known forces behave in novel ways. Such limits are hardly trivial, and we must accept the possibility we may not overcome them if the materials and means for a given method to work simply aren't part of what reality's operating parameters support.

But then again, maybe we'll teleport back from a future where the problem was solved, and lay the secret bare to our previous ignorant selves! As clear as transparent aluminum.

For the record, out of Star Trek tech mainstays transporters, warp drive, deflector shields and...some fourth thing, I forget what...deflector shields seemed (or were agreed to be at least) the least likely to be realized, or realizable, within the limits of known physics - at least as depicted. But given the distances involved in space combat, we both agreed that if space-warping technology could be made to work, it could be adapted to serve the purpose. If you could project a decent-sized defensive warp bubble out to a fair range beyond the ship's hull, one that increases the angle of any incoming light or high-velocity matter, that would do the job neatly. A refractor shield, as it were.

But of course, whether for purposes of travel or defense, creating the warp bubble itself is a bit problematic - a problem shared with other proposed methods of FTL travel. Exotic materials that don't exist, or amounts of energy in excess of the total sum of all energy and matter in the universe, are required.

A tricky nut to crack!

Wednesday, February 18, 2015

Eternal Questions #3: How Much Wood, Precisely...?

How would one go about designing a wood-chucking contest for woodchucks? How would one entice the woodchucks to compete? Should it be for distance, or just volume of chucked wood? The question after all is not "How hard and far could a woodchuck chuck wood if a woodchuck were to be so inclined as to chuck wood hard and far?" In the classic quandary, it's purely a question of quantity - and more dauntingly, motivation.

But surely in the interest of designing a more gripping contest for spectators, one needs more than merely a count or weigh-in of chucked wood per woodchuck. You need urgency: some kind of a time limit. And I think you need some way to make the achievement more measurable: distance and accuracy perhaps? What about arranging it as woodchuck combat? Each woodchuck stands at the appropriate distance where it's going to take some skill to score a hit, and they just CHUCK THE FUCK OUT OF THE AVAILABLE LUMBER! All kinds of strategies might be involved, dodges, blocks - no blocking with a piece of wood held "in-the-grasp"! One must chuck the wood to knock the incoming block of wood off-course.

There would be a line in front of each woodchuck which could not be crossed. Behind each woodchuck would be an equal supply of wood, in chuckworthy chunks of varying size and weight.

The playing field would be a wide, long elevated mound between two trenches - the trenches being considered "out of bounds." If a woodchuck falls into the trench, that's game. If a woodchuck is incapacitated by a piece of chucked wood - game. If either woodchuck runs out of wood - has successfully chucked their load - game. First woodchuck to chuck all their wood gets +10 points for that.

The winner would be determined by how many pieces of wood chucked "in-bounds," with 1 point for wood in the no-woodchucks zone (between the two front-lines) and 5 points for all wood behind the line. No points for beaning the other woodchuck! You try to so that, of course, but the goal there is purely to put him off (and perhaps out of) his game.

Also note: defensive wrinkle, one woodchuck's wood is painted yellow, the other blue (or suitable contrasting colors) so scoring is easy. But if you choose, you can pick up any of your opponent's wood and throw it back at him! Or throw it out of bounds, etc. - but no kicking of wood allowed. Once again, the wood must be chucked. If you kick a piece of wood out of your scoring area that's a penalty. You'll get 5 pieces of wood added to your stack.

Friday, February 13, 2015

Boring Boring Boring BO RING

I think I've forgotten to write about other crap lately. That used to be my métier! My forte, if you will. Although both those words are french, so probably I'm using one of them incorrectly.

That's neither here nor there. My blog posts lately have been boring me to death! Look at 'em! I used to talk almost exclusively about various crap, junk and stuff. But what I've been mostly talking about lately is, what...philosophy? And viewpoints - ways of looking at life? Where's the life in that!

I need to get back to basics. Talk about things, not relationships between things! Talk about - well, I can talk about the various connections and interrelations as they arise naturally, from talking about the thing itself, but hell! Talk about something first, and foremost, and then note the connections as they arise would be a better way to go about it. Less abstract!

So. Pliers. I'm going to start with pliers. I don't know where that came from, but pliers!

I like needle-nose pliers. It could be because those are the only ones I have in the house. "Write what you know"! But those things do occasionally come in handy! Some missing knob to something, it needs to be turned - but where's the knob? Don't sweat it! Needle-nose pliers to the rescue, just stick 'em down in there and grab the knob's innards, and gently twist it clockwise (probably, clockwise - but go easy just in case it's one of them widdershins deals).

I feel like needle-nose pliers are probably one of the hardest tools to put any sexual symbolism on. Pliers in general, you could probably look at as female, because basically there's an opening between two sides, and it tightens down on your hard knob or shaft, or whatever it is - a nut, maybe?. Doesn't matter - whatever it is you've got to grip or twist - or to coin a term, "wrench." But that sounds painful! Maybe something a bit more skillful: whatever you've got to ply. For that, pliers of course! Ever heard of a woman plying a man with a wrench?

Moving on, of course your hammer is always going to be a ready stand-in for the penis - despite that's not remotely how a penis is used! Come on! The screwdriver, need I say more? No. The wrench - well, this is more just a way to set up a pliers so it has one handle, instead of two. Same deal, it tightens down but you do it by diddling a ratchet-dial, instead of by squeezing the legs together. That's a minor difference at best, I'd say a wrench is roughly about as female as regular pliers. But needle-nose pliers? You can't even look at that as feminine! Sure, it encloses and grasps and squeezes, but not in any encircling way! It's pointy. It's like a long, pokey deal - except then it splits!

For this reason, it pretty much can't be either. And don't nominate it as symbolic of one of those nonstandard gendersexual setups, either - no sale! At no point does anybody's long pokey deal split and then come back together! Not as part of its functional duties during the (or any other) sex act. Ouch!

So arguably, to me, needle-nose pliers are somewhat more "tooly" than other tools, being as they're not susceptible to the rampant sexualization other tools so readily lend themselves to. Needle-nose pliers stand apart from that. They can't be pigeonholed that way.

Not that regular, non-needle-nose pliers are worthless, just because they're easier to sexualize! Nor are other tools any less valid. A tool's value is not in proportion to the degree that one can't use it to symbolize genitals. Point is: these other tools have their use, and they get their use, as needed! That's what a tool's for. It's not for this endless sexualization we see all around us, from which our friend the needle-nose pliers stands proudly pretty much aloof. But when it comes to using the right tool for the right job, regular pliers are no less useful as tools. Depending on the job, of course. In fact, as I perused Google to make sure I was using the right word for the right tool on wrenches, I realized I was wrong. I do in fact have several other pliers in the tool drawer after all, most of which I've used more than once! I guess I just always saw them as wrenches.

A lot of people are ignorant about these things, but I like to pass on the knowledge as I get it.

More About Me #4

It seems there's always more about me. And what have we today? Let's see!

Well, it's Friday. I could do a Fiction Friday, but that wouldn't be really about me though, would it. Still, been a while since the last Fiction Friday. And it's Friday the 13th! I don't believe we've ever had a Fiction Friday the 13th. Maybe Jason Vs. Gog-Bo the Dragon Murderer?

Actually, I have to give Jason the edge on that. It's too early in Gog-Bo's saga, at this point all we've seen him do is brood, farm, and practice with his accursed blade The Wicked Shimmy - an inheritance from his mysterious Aunt Mo! Or no, not "inheritance," as she's still alive. Would it be "bequest"? I like bequest - sounds like a quest could be involved at some point! Which would be good, as there don't appear to be any dragons in the vicinity of his uncle...'s farm. Man, I can't even remember Gog-Bo the Dragon Murderer's uncle's name at this point! But at any rate, I don't see him or any of the other Gog-Bo the Dragon Murderer cast regulars being able to take down Jason. Unless...has Jason ever been beheaded? Running him through the body just seems like a waste of time, but you could probably behead anybody with The Wicked Shimmy. That blade's a beast.

If beheading doesn't work on him, though, than Gog-Bo's probably out as a suitable Jason antagonist.

Guns, too - so the Stranger Lido is probably out as well. Maybe this idea is a non-starter. Also, it's really not "More About Me #4" at that point, so let's get back on topic.

What else about me?

In general, I like to talk about what interests others. Especially if I don't know the first thing about it! Then after, though, I tend to look it up to read deeper into what they clued me into. Sometimes in the process of that, I find out they either tricked me or just didn't know what they were talking about! No worries either way, we can have a good laugh on that later. I don't mind being tricked into a deeper understanding.

I don't think it's important to have a sense of humor so much as a sense of wonder. I don't think personality matters very much, because how can the whole universe somebody carries around behind their eyes be boring? It's a matter of interest, that's all. If a person's interested, they're going to be of interest - to me, at least. Others are into different things, such as I don't know - tits? I'm totally on board with that, myself. And yet when I say personality doesn't matter much, I'm only talking about talking to someone. But when it comes to love, personality matters all the way. Personality - their whole person in all its physical and emotional and intellectual specifics, in all of its virtues and what, specifically, you love about someone.

Love. Love is the thing I've learned the most about, and all of it inapplicable going forward. Which is cool!

That's about it for More About Me #4

Friday, February 06, 2015

My Bucket List Is:


It helps if you say it like the Beastie Boys!

Also, technically I guess that's the same as my everyday To Do List.

Thursday, February 05, 2015

Thought of the day: once again, perfection

The real reason perfection cannot be achieved in reality is that reality is what exists between us, for us all to piss on, objectify, riff off of - but perfection can never be anyone's ideal but our own. The other person's perfection is never quite right.

Wednesday, February 04, 2015

Introducing the Other. A Member of Them.

Some of this may not make sense, for reasons which will become murky.

Hi! I'm the Other.

My Otherness is nothing new. I've always been the Other. True, I'm pretty sure I wasn't consciously aware of it in those terms, originally. But the indications were always there. In any given Us versus Them I've generally been a Them-sympathizer. My particular sense of otherness and knee-jerk them-identification is also the source of my relentless and often infuriating (and effective!) devil's advocacy. But it's only been fairly recently that I've realized how small a them I'm really a part of. Or to be more accurate: the whole of. I just seem to be pretty much the only one I know who relates this way. A pity, because it's pretty awesome! If I had to guess I'd say it consists in my essential nonattachment to self, or a better word: disinterest. Not that I don't love self! I just don't find it interesting, as a subject or as a viewpoint. I'm completely alienated from that, to be honest. I don't relate to self at all. I'm not really sure how anyone does.

I'm well aware they do! It seems beyond dispute that they do. But why they do...that's the puzzler. Are they seeing something I'm not? If so, it's beyond me.

Don't get me wrong, I am unquestionably the unique individual. Of course I am! Who isn't? Just like anyone, I am the unique individual: the ego, who is and who acts. The "I" in reference to which all others undoubtedly stand in the relation of an other.

But that's kind of the point, isn't it? None of them ever seem to see themselves as an other. Let alone the Other. All of them seem to self-identify as...the Self. All of them.

This doesn't make a lick of sense to me. It's ludicrous on the face of it. To how many people do you stand in the relation of other?? All of them! Every single one! To how many people do you stand in a relation of self? Not a single one!

Unless you count yourself, and beg pardon but that's rather begging the question, isn't it? Yes.

To the whole wide world of individuals, I am at home and awake to my nature: unquestionably the Other. That's how everyone seems to see me, and frankly that's always about how it's always felt to me. It feels right. It feels like me, it's what I am comfortable with because I have always been. It fits! When I was a kid in a family of five, six, seven, eight, nine kids, I was pretty much always the Other, perfectly comfortable in that role. That's how everyone saw me and treated me - even mom and dad. Maybe especially mom and dad. But the point is: not a one treated me as the Self, that's for sure! From my earliest days I've always been the Other. My experience of life has always been the experience of the Other.

And why not! I stand confident and secure exactly where you see me: I stand in the place of the Other, in relation to you. You and every other person. People are unanimous on that score - which I'd call a reality check, if I'd ever needed to check! If mine hadn't been the first ballot in the box, but it was. And I'm quite comfortable I do a very good job, representing the Other to all these selves, lost in a featureless sea of individuality, dragging around their definite articles like anchors, insisting on that unique thing of theirs (whatever it is they think it is). Let them have their self-identification. I'm fine! I'm good. I've got something else, and it works pretty well.

In whatever interaction happens, I've been the Other to whoever's asking. I've never had a feel for whatever self-based motive I'd be supposed to care about, to investigate or muster up. I haven't the slightest interest in or understanding of wants or motives - mine, at least. Who cares about that crap! It doesn't bother me when I get upset. It rolls right over me and then I forget. It's pretty easy and I've got no regrets. And people ask me what it is that I got? They try to tell me how I just can't be stopped - how come I always seem to get what I want?

I don't know what they're talking about! I don't care what I want.

I don't even give it any thought. It just feels good. It feels good, being the Other! Not just "an" other, either but the Other. Nice. Pleasurable. Not without distinction. After all, of the billions of others in the world, I seem to be pretty much the only one who identifies that way. Who owns the role, as it were. I can't claim any special credit! It's just natural to me. Preference, habit and inclination. It just goes very well with who I am, with my place in reality, with how I see it.

I'm a disinterested agent of my own fate, basically, and I'm always mystified how the other others have gotten so off-track on theirs. Why are all these other others so self-concerned?

I am always going to be the Other. The object. As far as I can tell, no one's in a position to object to that. The Other flies below the radar it seems: the inessential part of everyone else's self-absorbed day, and why not? Doesn't make my value any less, it just means I'm not an essential part of their purpose, for whatever object or goal they've got at the moment. Maybe I'm a small part of it! If so, I'm interested! I take an interest, I'm glad to help - tell me what I can be to you! What part can I play in whatever story you're the hero of today? What factor or catalyst do you need me to be, in whatever prophecy you're expecting to self-fulfill? I like to take an interest and do what I can! Which is weird, since I claim to take not much interest in my own wants or motives. But think about it, duh! Those wore themselves into my modus operandi by the time I was ten. They're uninteresting because there's nothing there to think about. Natural habit, preference and action - how self-involved would somebody have to be to take an interest in, I don't know, the fact that they like girls? You're not interested in that, you're interested in girls. What's to think about? I use "girls" as an example - I haven't been interested in those in years, I dig women.

Point is, the Other is not the antagonist, nor does the Other like to refer to himself in the third person - that was a one-time mess-up, there. Pray pardon. But while I'm not by any means an antagonist, I do like to react and respond. I've got no agenda of my own to push, but I'd like to understand what your purpose is, and how I fit into it! I make no promises, mind you. But I'll hear you out. And I'll decide if what you're after is something I'd care to do. To do it or not do it. To listen and to understand, to answer, and to move on.

So anyway, that's me! If we happen to meet, that's me: the Other. It's how I identify, and I don't expect you'll see me any differently yourself. I'd be surprised if you did, but then realistically, I'm always surprised that way more people don't see it like this. See it like I do. Identify as otherly. Can't they see how otherly they are, to just about everyone? Me, I try to honor their perspective and preference. I know they identify as the Self, and I try to honor their self-identification. If I'm able, I try to treat every single individual one of them as the Self they imagine themselves to be. But how ludicrous that they can't see for themselves who they are fooling with that nonsense. Sure, pal - you are the Self.

I mean, comfortable as I am with it I'd feel a little bit uneasy about my claim if I had billions of others claiming it.

Maybe we have a self-styled Self reading this right now? Let me ask you: how outnumbered are you as you go about your day, "Self"? Look at all the Others! How do you deal with being the Self, one lonely one adrift in a sea of otherness? Do you demonize the Other? If so, watch out! I don't take kindly to being demonized, and I don't believe any others do either. Do you group a bunch of others into an Us with you, so you can themify the remaining others? So secure in the strength of your intrinsic Us-ness you forget how many others you've let in the fold! Can you trust them? How do you maintain such precarious self-identification? Do you alienate the other from your self - or do you alienate yourself? Fuck. How could you even tell.

You know what? This all sounds like that "angst" crap to me. I've got zero interest in that, let me assure you. My interest in angst is nonexistential. Let's just you keep in mind who you are and who I am, and you'll be fine. I'm the Other.

If you care to dispute me for the title well you can just go fuck your self.

Tuesday, February 03, 2015










Don't let them lie to you: physics works great in a black hole. It's only our description of physics that breaks down. Or as they may say, physics "as we know it" - yet even this is not true! Physics as we know it includes a full and hearty grasp of the facts: and especially, that a fact can overturn even the most well-supported theory, at any time. Physics as we know it does not "break down" in the face of falsification and consequent refinement. Physics is not confounded by disproof. Science has no certainty in it. Certainly, it does not expect or proclaim certainty in or declare the perfection of its theories.

You may say science seeks to perfect its theories, but this is not ever true in any absolute sense where "perfect" is the goal to be achieved. Always science strives to make its theory "more perfect," and always with a certain expectation and acceptance: that within even our best descriptions of reality, there is always the chance we may find error, finer and finer error, which error opens a way to further refinement and a better, more useful theory. All based on the emergence of a new and unruly fact!

No cause for worry. Even the boldest skeptic may feel confident: the explanatory and predictive power of our best theories and descriptions of reality proves those theories useful. Not infallible! They are proved useful. There will always be the possibility of a finer tune to come along, as we ever more finely tune up our instruments and strike up the symphony in C:

Which is: see. And then swing away folks - cause this big band can DANCE.

The symphonic themes are some or all of these: Observe, Analyze, Theorize, Predict, Test, Repeat. Observe the observable, analyze that which is observed, theorize to account for observations and analyses, predict what new observations we can expect to see if theory is true, test for these: either confirm or falsify. Repeat. Experiments should be repeatable - at least, they should be if the experimenters wish us to be compelled and convinced by this demonstration of their theory in action. In theory, it should work just as well for us.

Inside a black hole is a tough place to mount an experiment! But it's still not beyond the reach of theory. Or the conditions within the first few seconds or less of the big bang - also out of reach for our current descriptions. The pressures involved are more enormous than all we've been able to calibrate for thus far, and the actual environs are not open to inspection. We have not much material for comparison and analysis, and science needs grist to grind: it needs new data that can falsify current theory, in order to refine.

Yet again, no worries at all! Not if quantum physics is on the right track - because the point (a point) of quantum physics is that reality is symmetrical throughout all spacetime. Super-symmetrical, in fact, throughout all the universe - and we have good reason for confidence there. While we need to go finer and deeper to express the furthest extremes, still the central tenets seem to apply from anywhen to everywhere, from a few seconds after the big bang, and all the way throughout the universe - with exception of a few places we can't yet see to reach. Places where things do indeed seem to go weird.

We expect and expected them to get weird. By far the greatest chance is that we simply need additional math to describe what happens to reality where conditions become (or became) super-fun! Remember: there didn't used to be four fundamental forces. There was only one, right at the bang and for a bit beyond. But as reality spread out in its lightspeed explosion, creating room to cool and stretch out through, and calm down a bit, that primal force separated out into the apparently distinct forces that we can see (or at least, that we can test and measure).

Strong nuclear, weak nuclear, electromagnetic, gravity. And even there, weak nuclear and electromagnetic are of course, the same exact force! We simply perceive them as distinct, as they operate at different scales.

There's nothing peculiar or unnatural about a force operating in one way at our luxurious macro scale, and getting jiggier down at the level of quanta. Just think of all those extra curled-up dimensions down at the quantum scale, to dig into and twist and anchor around down at that tiniest possible size! A force is gonna work its way into and work its way out, and you better believe it's going to be a different dance than the one it can do up here in the macroverse. Do si do and perfectly natural.

Just so in a black hole. At the extremes, towards a limit to how dense matter can be compressed, it only stands to reason there could be differences in the way ordinary forces interact - which is to say, in the way that reality behaves - compared to how they behave under more ordinary conditions. It stands to reason such behavior would only come out at or near the extreme limit. Whether we're talking size, speed, density - there are some stiff limits out there, and the surface they create is fun to play with and to dance upon!

We should never expect reality not to play.

Yet we should always keep our sense of proportion, and remember the great good cause we have for our confidence in science. For our confidence in the way it comes up with its descriptions of how reality does play: the process of theory and falsification. We have good cause for confidence that even the rules in operation at these extreme limits can be teased out by pushing the limits we can reach - say, with some superaccelerator action! We can push the limits creatively outside big bangs and black holes, to test aspects of the math we propose might govern the most extreme ways of physics. And too, as years go by we do find cleverer and cleverer ways to observe or infer the secret behavior inside black holes. There will come ways to test that we haven't even teased the edges of yet, and testing will falsify theory to its improvement. Or, verify it, I suppose - less good news, that. Nothing new learned there.

I for one am confident. Firstly, I suspect the descriptions we uncover approaching the limits of physics will prove to be an extension and a refinement of what we know. It would be strange indeed if they proved to be a contradiction!

But secondly, I'm confident because science is not scared of that, either. Not a bit. Contradiction by pesky and unforeseen fact? Physics as we know it is built on that.

Science proceeds by leaps and bounds by this means: the falsification of today's theory. Today's step-proved-false leaps us into a further and more useful grasp of tomorrow's path-laid-out. Today's theory - which, prior to falsification, was very valid! In the sense of very useful, fruitful and productive: the best theory available, the best tool to hand! - damn right we've used it, and well, for as long as it held.

But we rejoice to find now where it is wrong. It can then be refined - or discarded, in favor of some new and better one! This calls for a party! And not a single scientist in the gathering is liable to be shamed.

We are a shameless bunch, we who know science for what it actually does. We who know science not by its results, but in its method. Science does not call us to fear being wrong, but to shout: "Eureka!" when we see it! Our error laid bare is the yellow brick road - and lady, beast, gentleman and scarecrow?

We are off to be the wizard.