Confusing Continuity
Consisting of Convoluted Crossovers
Concerning Carnage and Clones
Wednesday, October 28, 2009
Saturday, October 24, 2009
3 Things I Wrote In My Head Today
Talya
Talya likes to ride on my shoulders. A few visits ago I told her that I would not let her if she had a dirty diaper because I didn't want a dirty diaper up on my neck. Reasonable, right? And she understood. Then somewhere along the way it turned into every time her diaper gets changed she runs up to me and says "Uncle Noelie, I want to ride on your neck! My diaper is clean!"
Me Against The World
I am only an outcast freak because in my mind I am still an outcast freak. Time and again the world has told me it is ready to accept me now, and time and time again I have told the world to go fuck itself. Tragic flaw or personal triumph? I'm not objective enough to say.
A Classic Rant
You know how they have those self-checkout lines at grocery stores? And how they break them down by quantity? Like twelve items or less, five items or less, and so forth? Here's an idea: self-checkout lanes for COMPETENT PEOPLE.
Talya likes to ride on my shoulders. A few visits ago I told her that I would not let her if she had a dirty diaper because I didn't want a dirty diaper up on my neck. Reasonable, right? And she understood. Then somewhere along the way it turned into every time her diaper gets changed she runs up to me and says "Uncle Noelie, I want to ride on your neck! My diaper is clean!"
Me Against The World
I am only an outcast freak because in my mind I am still an outcast freak. Time and again the world has told me it is ready to accept me now, and time and time again I have told the world to go fuck itself. Tragic flaw or personal triumph? I'm not objective enough to say.
A Classic Rant
You know how they have those self-checkout lines at grocery stores? And how they break them down by quantity? Like twelve items or less, five items or less, and so forth? Here's an idea: self-checkout lanes for COMPETENT PEOPLE.
Tuesday, October 20, 2009
The Dark Ages™
an excerpt from Panopticon Remix:
Picture it like this: You're born in a dank, smelly, dusty hut with a dirt floor. When you are old enough you are set to work in the fields for the Lord Of The Land™. If you don't provide enough the soldiers come. Perhaps you get drafted to fight in one of the dozens of small wars between this lord and that lord or between this king and that king or between the followers of this sect and the followers of that sect. Or perhaps you are drafted as a laborer for one of the great and grandiose projects your leader envisions; a big wall, a lavish palace, an ostentatious tomb. Better not complain. Maybe you even survive all of this, to come back to the home you do not own and work again. From the day you were born to the day you die your life is not your own. You cannot read, you know of no other life than a short and miserable one at service to people you have never even seen. Maybe if you're lucky you will not fall victim to any one of the thousands of illnesses they cannot cure yet. Maybe if you're lucky you won't be murdered outright in this era of lawlessness. Maybe you'll live to a ripe old age, to see your children felled by war and disease and overwork. Then die, then repeat. Continue this for a few thousand years.
Or maybe that's too depressing for you and you prefer to identify with the rulers. Who wouldn't? So how about this: You are born into more wealth and power than you rightly know what to do with. Your slightest whim is made into reality, you hold in your hands the lives and deaths of thousands of people. Dirty, smelly people -- barely even people at all. You bask in pleasure every waking moment of your life. This is the Divine Right Of Kings™. Then, one day, you get murdered by your own guards. Or by your brother. Or your son. Right before you die you think for a moment about how tenuous your "power" always was, or more likely you just think about how unfair this is. Or heck, maybe you live a long life and it's only after you die that your entire bloodline is brutally wiped out by the competition. It happens.
Either way, insert some Dark Ages™. Fast forward through the needless suffering, the ignorance, the filth. Or, if you’re one of those ren-faire type people, fast forward through an era of unheralded chivalry and honor. Either way, skip ahead a few thousand years.
Picture it like this: You're born in a dank, smelly, dusty hut with a dirt floor. When you are old enough you are set to work in the fields for the Lord Of The Land™. If you don't provide enough the soldiers come. Perhaps you get drafted to fight in one of the dozens of small wars between this lord and that lord or between this king and that king or between the followers of this sect and the followers of that sect. Or perhaps you are drafted as a laborer for one of the great and grandiose projects your leader envisions; a big wall, a lavish palace, an ostentatious tomb. Better not complain. Maybe you even survive all of this, to come back to the home you do not own and work again. From the day you were born to the day you die your life is not your own. You cannot read, you know of no other life than a short and miserable one at service to people you have never even seen. Maybe if you're lucky you will not fall victim to any one of the thousands of illnesses they cannot cure yet. Maybe if you're lucky you won't be murdered outright in this era of lawlessness. Maybe you'll live to a ripe old age, to see your children felled by war and disease and overwork. Then die, then repeat. Continue this for a few thousand years.
Or maybe that's too depressing for you and you prefer to identify with the rulers. Who wouldn't? So how about this: You are born into more wealth and power than you rightly know what to do with. Your slightest whim is made into reality, you hold in your hands the lives and deaths of thousands of people. Dirty, smelly people -- barely even people at all. You bask in pleasure every waking moment of your life. This is the Divine Right Of Kings™. Then, one day, you get murdered by your own guards. Or by your brother. Or your son. Right before you die you think for a moment about how tenuous your "power" always was, or more likely you just think about how unfair this is. Or heck, maybe you live a long life and it's only after you die that your entire bloodline is brutally wiped out by the competition. It happens.
Either way, insert some Dark Ages™. Fast forward through the needless suffering, the ignorance, the filth. Or, if you’re one of those ren-faire type people, fast forward through an era of unheralded chivalry and honor. Either way, skip ahead a few thousand years.
Monday, October 5, 2009
The Chess Piece
In chess he is brutal. He tears apart the opponent's force, piece by piece, before finally backing the enemy king, frightened and alone, into the corner. Checkmate. He does this, not because he is malicious or vindictive, but because for him it is the only way. He does not see the quicker and more efficient lines of vulnerability, he is too cautious. Cautious yes, yet brutal. Against lesser and equal players he can hold his own; his brutality capably backed by his intelligence and his short-term planning. Against greater players he is destined to lose; while he is tearing into their defense they can trap his king with inventive combinations he is incapable of seeing, let alone guarding against.
Sunday, August 30, 2009
A Very Scientific Explanation Of Why Old People Suck
Remember when getting old was a sign of wisdom? When the elders of the tribe were the ones with the most experience and knowledge and respect? That was way before Toffler's Future Shock kicked in, when generations could pass by without a whole hell of a lot changing technologically or socially. In that environment an older person would be wiser, if for no other reason than they lived through more, they put in the time.
Now things change so fast that an old person, whose mind has become rigid and less adaptable to changes, is basically useless. Who cares how things were in the 1950s, you old fart? Quit driving so slow! Quit holding up the grocery line with your hundreds of coupons!
Now, it's not that I think that old people are worthless, per se -- just that I think that most people overall are worthless, and people in their 20s-30s are better looking and have more flexible minds than people in their 70s-80s, and they can walk faster too, so they are not quite as worthless as they will be given another 50 years.
Now things change so fast that an old person, whose mind has become rigid and less adaptable to changes, is basically useless. Who cares how things were in the 1950s, you old fart? Quit driving so slow! Quit holding up the grocery line with your hundreds of coupons!
Now, it's not that I think that old people are worthless, per se -- just that I think that most people overall are worthless, and people in their 20s-30s are better looking and have more flexible minds than people in their 70s-80s, and they can walk faster too, so they are not quite as worthless as they will be given another 50 years.
Wednesday, August 26, 2009
OBAMA PASSES LAW, BOGARTS KRETEKS
One thing that really gets me cheesed off is the Family Smoking Prevention and Tobacco Control Act, which was signed into law by President Obama on June 22, 2009. This law, designed to regulate the tobacco industry and make things safer for kids and soccer moms, is a bunch of crap. And why do I say this? Because now clove cigarettes, or kreteks, are outlawed.
Not just cloves, of course. All flavored cigarettes are outlawed. With the exception of menthol -- and just try to get the black president to outlaw menthol cigarettes. Some people are crying conspiracy, that Phillip Morris makes menthol cigarettes, that once again Big Tobacco has reared its ugly head.
I am just mad that I can't get cloves anymore.
I am mad because I voted for the guy that signed them out of law.
I am mad because instead of legalizing more and cooler things to smoke, the pendulum has swung in the opposite direction.
I should have known that this would happen when the Democrats took power. Goddamn liberals trying to legislate self-destruction out of existence. I like to self-destruct! I like to smoke cloves. The crackling sound they make as they burn (hence the onomatopoetic term "kretek"). The pleasant numbing sensation in the roof of the mouth. Menthol cigarettes are like smoking a damn cough drop – utter crap in comparison.
Now the first Democrat president since the one that tried to outlaw Internet porn (with the Communications Decency Act of 1996 for all you young heads out there) has come in to outlaw clove cigarettes.
Good job, Obama.
At least under the Republicans all we had to worry about was people getting tortured and phones being tapped and shit.
A thought: Does this mean some enterprising soul is going to start selling black market Djarum Blacks? I mean, just because a commodity is outlawed doesn’t mean it’s unavailable – Lord no – it just means it’s more expensive and when you get ripped off you can’t complain to the Better Business Bureau.
Let me go back to my earlier point. It is 2009. Instead of outlawing clove cigarettes and fruity flavored cigarettes and whatever other flavors Phillip Morris doesn’t sell, why not legalize every cool drug and even some of the weirdo degenerate ones your black sheep uncle is out in his car doing during awkward family get-togethers? I mean, if health is the issue, we could try making a better health care system. That way, people who get weird illnesses from smoking cloves or salvia or doing lines of ketamine on the men’s room floor could be treated, and go back to enjoying their alternative lifestyles. Isn’t that what America’s all about? Rugged individualism? A nation of men, not laws? So instead of banning things that are fun to do but may be harmful to the health of the individual that uses them, reform health care.
What’s that? You say they already are, and it’s a big controversy? Shows how little I get out. I don’t really pay attention to the news anymore. We are so far away from mankind’s actual destiny that by the time we get there everything happening now will be wholly irrelevant.
So why can’t I just have my damn cloves?
Not just cloves, of course. All flavored cigarettes are outlawed. With the exception of menthol -- and just try to get the black president to outlaw menthol cigarettes. Some people are crying conspiracy, that Phillip Morris makes menthol cigarettes, that once again Big Tobacco has reared its ugly head.
I am just mad that I can't get cloves anymore.
I am mad because I voted for the guy that signed them out of law.
I am mad because instead of legalizing more and cooler things to smoke, the pendulum has swung in the opposite direction.
I should have known that this would happen when the Democrats took power. Goddamn liberals trying to legislate self-destruction out of existence. I like to self-destruct! I like to smoke cloves. The crackling sound they make as they burn (hence the onomatopoetic term "kretek"). The pleasant numbing sensation in the roof of the mouth. Menthol cigarettes are like smoking a damn cough drop – utter crap in comparison.
Now the first Democrat president since the one that tried to outlaw Internet porn (with the Communications Decency Act of 1996 for all you young heads out there) has come in to outlaw clove cigarettes.
Good job, Obama.
At least under the Republicans all we had to worry about was people getting tortured and phones being tapped and shit.
A thought: Does this mean some enterprising soul is going to start selling black market Djarum Blacks? I mean, just because a commodity is outlawed doesn’t mean it’s unavailable – Lord no – it just means it’s more expensive and when you get ripped off you can’t complain to the Better Business Bureau.
Let me go back to my earlier point. It is 2009. Instead of outlawing clove cigarettes and fruity flavored cigarettes and whatever other flavors Phillip Morris doesn’t sell, why not legalize every cool drug and even some of the weirdo degenerate ones your black sheep uncle is out in his car doing during awkward family get-togethers? I mean, if health is the issue, we could try making a better health care system. That way, people who get weird illnesses from smoking cloves or salvia or doing lines of ketamine on the men’s room floor could be treated, and go back to enjoying their alternative lifestyles. Isn’t that what America’s all about? Rugged individualism? A nation of men, not laws? So instead of banning things that are fun to do but may be harmful to the health of the individual that uses them, reform health care.
What’s that? You say they already are, and it’s a big controversy? Shows how little I get out. I don’t really pay attention to the news anymore. We are so far away from mankind’s actual destiny that by the time we get there everything happening now will be wholly irrelevant.
So why can’t I just have my damn cloves?
Tuesday, August 18, 2009
Liberals Saved My Life
I definitely had a Columbine in me. Here's a secret I don't think I ever told anyone: I sat in the back of the crowd at my high school graduation, watching the proceedings and seeing all the different ways I could be killing these people. Later in life I would joke that I was just too apathetic, but the fact is that being raised in a post-hippie liberal household saved my life, prevented me from making these idle daydreams into a reality.
Had I been raised in a conservative gun-nut household, I would have had easy access to weapons. And without the liberal touchy-feely huggy-huggy feelings-are-real and everyone's-are-valid mindset, I would not have had the only value structure that would prevent me from using said weapons willy-nilly. And while it could be argued that in the long-view that was a mistake, that I passed up a real and direct chance to clean up the gene pool and do a favor for future generations, it is also true that it would not have ended well for me personally. So, in a very real sense, liberals saved my life.
Had I been raised in a conservative gun-nut household, I would have had easy access to weapons. And without the liberal touchy-feely huggy-huggy feelings-are-real and everyone's-are-valid mindset, I would not have had the only value structure that would prevent me from using said weapons willy-nilly. And while it could be argued that in the long-view that was a mistake, that I passed up a real and direct chance to clean up the gene pool and do a favor for future generations, it is also true that it would not have ended well for me personally. So, in a very real sense, liberals saved my life.
Sunday, August 16, 2009
The Hate Files
There is a calm clarity to my hatred that is missing in me at all other times. In love I am awkward and unsure. In indifference I am scattered, apathetic. But in hatred -- not red-hot rage, not white-hot fury, but cold and calculating hate -- there is a kind of purity, a peace, at my center. The proverbial eye of the storm. An understanding.
Saturday, July 25, 2009
a brief anecdote from today at the park
Sarah and I are sitting at a picnic table overlooking the Hudson, eating our BLTs (with too much mayonnaise for my liking) and strawberry Twinkies (just as vile as they sound). Making conversation, Sarah says, "Seventh grade is going to suck. We have to take health class!"
"Do tell," I say noncommittally, wiping excess mayonnaise from the sandwich.
"They're making us take health class instead of art class. Isn't that stupid? Wouldn't you choose art over health?"
I take a sip of sugar water and reply, "I did."
"Do tell," I say noncommittally, wiping excess mayonnaise from the sandwich.
"They're making us take health class instead of art class. Isn't that stupid? Wouldn't you choose art over health?"
I take a sip of sugar water and reply, "I did."
Tuesday, July 14, 2009
Study Hall With Booze (An Almost True Story)
One weekend Doug called me up and said "I think we should go to the quiet party."
"The what?" Everything was buzzing very badly and I was sure I had misheard him. More high paranoia.
"The quiet party," he repeated. "It's this thing, it's in some hotel in Manhattan, and you can't talk."
"I beg your pardon?" This time I had heard him perfectly.
"No, really, everything you want to say gets written on index cards instead. Like at a monastery or something. Oh, and there's drinks too."
"I dunno. It sounds lame."
"You say that about everything. It'll be a novelty."
So we traveled by subway from the Bronx to Manhattan and began our exploration into the seamy world of silence. At the door we each had to pony up five dollars, then on the inside a cheery woman told us "There's a two-drink minimum. Fifteen dollars, please." Everywhere you go there's someone trying to shake you down. I coughed up another three fives and my hand got stamped. Inside the place looked like any bar or club might, except that it was almost entirely silent. Excluding at the actual bar, where talking was still permitted -- bizarre social experiments apparently only go so far.
"So far this seems like the lame art snob version of a frat party," I muttered to Doug as we entered the room.
"Ssssshhhh!!!" someone said, louder than I'd been speaking. Then someone else shushed that shusher, even louder. I imagined everyone shushing everyone else, louder and louder, but it stopped there. We sat at an empty taple. On it were a whole slew of index cards, and those short pencils you get on standardized tests. Someone came and took our drink orders. Then we sat in silence, watching everyone trying to maintain the atmosphere of the quiet party. People were shuffling around, passing each other notes. Every once in a while there's be another outburst of "Sssshhhh!!!" in clusters. It was all quite silly: "Someone violated the code of silence so I will reprimand them even louder!" I wanted to laugh but I didn't want to get shushed again. So I wrote HA on an index card and crumpled it up. It wasn't the same.
Doug passed me a card. "SO."
"SO WHAT?" I scribbled back.
"SO WHAT DO YOU THINK OF THE QUIET PARTY?"
"SO LAME."
"SO TRUE." He took the card back and added "CIGARETTE?"
Outside it was noisy the way the city is supposed to be. Doug lit a cigarette and handed it to me, lit another for himself. It was chilly, and we basked in the loud and the dissonant.
"Okay," he said finally. "So the quiet party is lame. It could have been interesting. It still could be. Maybe in the fourth quarter someone goes nuts. It could still get good."
"Please. It's study hall with booze."
Then, more smoking in silence. Traffic sounds. People talking -- to other people, to cell phones, to themselves -- as they walked by. Sirens in the distance. Then the cigarettes were done and we returned inside.
"Oh, you're just in time," the cheery woman said after checking our stamped hands. "They're about to begin the silent poetry reading." Me and Doug exchanged glances, wordlessly turned an about face and left.
"The what?" Everything was buzzing very badly and I was sure I had misheard him. More high paranoia.
"The quiet party," he repeated. "It's this thing, it's in some hotel in Manhattan, and you can't talk."
"I beg your pardon?" This time I had heard him perfectly.
"No, really, everything you want to say gets written on index cards instead. Like at a monastery or something. Oh, and there's drinks too."
"I dunno. It sounds lame."
"You say that about everything. It'll be a novelty."
So we traveled by subway from the Bronx to Manhattan and began our exploration into the seamy world of silence. At the door we each had to pony up five dollars, then on the inside a cheery woman told us "There's a two-drink minimum. Fifteen dollars, please." Everywhere you go there's someone trying to shake you down. I coughed up another three fives and my hand got stamped. Inside the place looked like any bar or club might, except that it was almost entirely silent. Excluding at the actual bar, where talking was still permitted -- bizarre social experiments apparently only go so far.
"So far this seems like the lame art snob version of a frat party," I muttered to Doug as we entered the room.
"Ssssshhhh!!!" someone said, louder than I'd been speaking. Then someone else shushed that shusher, even louder. I imagined everyone shushing everyone else, louder and louder, but it stopped there. We sat at an empty taple. On it were a whole slew of index cards, and those short pencils you get on standardized tests. Someone came and took our drink orders. Then we sat in silence, watching everyone trying to maintain the atmosphere of the quiet party. People were shuffling around, passing each other notes. Every once in a while there's be another outburst of "Sssshhhh!!!" in clusters. It was all quite silly: "Someone violated the code of silence so I will reprimand them even louder!" I wanted to laugh but I didn't want to get shushed again. So I wrote HA on an index card and crumpled it up. It wasn't the same.
Doug passed me a card. "SO."
"SO WHAT?" I scribbled back.
"SO WHAT DO YOU THINK OF THE QUIET PARTY?"
"SO LAME."
"SO TRUE." He took the card back and added "CIGARETTE?"
Outside it was noisy the way the city is supposed to be. Doug lit a cigarette and handed it to me, lit another for himself. It was chilly, and we basked in the loud and the dissonant.
"Okay," he said finally. "So the quiet party is lame. It could have been interesting. It still could be. Maybe in the fourth quarter someone goes nuts. It could still get good."
"Please. It's study hall with booze."
Then, more smoking in silence. Traffic sounds. People talking -- to other people, to cell phones, to themselves -- as they walked by. Sirens in the distance. Then the cigarettes were done and we returned inside.
"Oh, you're just in time," the cheery woman said after checking our stamped hands. "They're about to begin the silent poetry reading." Me and Doug exchanged glances, wordlessly turned an about face and left.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
