New Link

I d0 not know how long this was going on, but Julia apparently has a Xanga. I've linked to it here, here, there, and here. And it's on the side-bar.

Just discovering this, and 100 other small things that transpired yesterday in a heat conducive to perspiration, adds up to making me feel like an idiot. Not just an "idiot" but an idiot (with all the connotations and intonations of Napoleon Dynamite).

Today, it's 10:15 am and it's 102 degrees Fahrenheit outside.

Happy Birthday To Me

It's my birthday and I'll do what I want to
Fuck you, it's my birthday.
A special holiday only for me,
So do what I say.

It's my party, I'll make you cry if I want to...
Or leave.
Fuck you, it's not your birthday,
So do what I say.

For 24 hours you're wishing me well,
364 days I'm in hell,
Oh well.
Happy birthday to me

Alone, on my birthday,
I'm going to Denny's 10 times today.
No tip! It's my birthday,
So do what I say.

Thanks mom you didn't have an abortion,
Or my birthday wouldn't be today.
But I guess it's my good fortune,
My birthday's today, OK.

For 24 hours you're wishing me well
364 days I'm in hell
Oh well.
Happy birthday to me.
Happy birthday to me.

(Spank me.)

Oh well, happy birthday to me.
I can't believe you forgot my birthday.
It's my birthday and you're wrecking it.
Now it's just like any other day:
You didn't do what I say.

How could you forget my birthday?
That's really immature.
Fuck you for forgetting my birthday
You didn't do what I say.

24 hours no wishing well,
Now 365 days I'm in hell,
Oh well.
Happy birthday to me.

~The Vandals

You Can Try to Save My Soul

Though written poorly, the latest post on my sister's Live Journal brings up an interesting topic. The comments are especially worth noting because a nascent argument arises between me and my sister, the idealist. (Note: if you cannot tell from my blog heading, "Exspectamus Pessima" means "Always Expect the Worst.")

Pot-Pour-ee

I've started reading The Intuitionist because I needed a book to read, and another Burgess book might have been over-kill. Sometimes one needs to torture oneself. I thought of posting quotes to prove why I do not like the book, but I'll gather it together later when I've read more and have a better understanding of the book. See? I'm open-minded (whatever that means).

I've just finished watching Napoleon Dynamite, which is a very interesting movie. Devoid of drama, it takes a rather typical high school movie (albeit with very interesting characters) and makes it original. I don't think I've seen a movie quite like it. In a way, it was kind of like an episode of Seinfeld, except in high school, and with more bizarre characters (believe it or not). A definite must see, even if it's out of curiousity.

I also saw The 40 Year Old Virgin, but that's not really worth a comment.

And this guy was about how old I am. Death can come at any time (in case you weren't aware of that before).

I haven't done any real editing to my story yet, but it will eventually be posted on Ochius! So if you want to read it in its entirety and don't feel like searching through blog posts, then head there soon and it will be up. I just don't know how soon.

And that's all I really feel like posting.

Anything is Better Than Nothing

http://www.cnn.com/2003/SHOWBIZ/Music/10/22/obit.elliott.smith.ap/

Girls suck.

Fin

****

The two opponents had turned over their cards. The client had two jacks in his hand—a four of a kind. Only one hand could beat a four of a kind. Darius sheepishly showed his four card flush, hoping, praying, knowing that it would turn into a royal flush. The client was laughing. The client thought he had Damien beat.

"How did you get in the club anyway?"

"Yeah, you don’t belong here."

Maybe it was the incessant harping of both of the professors that brought it about. Maybe it was the ad hominems and complete lack of academic discussion. Maybe it was because they were right. Damien didn’t know. But at the concurrent moment that the card flipped over, revealing that beautiful queen of hearts, the absolute best hand in poker, the sign that he had finally won—finally triumphed over the client, Darius got up, grabbed a poker violently, and yelled, "I’ll show you Wittgenstein!"

It happened so fast. A swing at the jocular professor, which he dodged dextrously, and the point made contact with Damien’s skull. Damien did not feel a thing except warm, viscous liquid running down his cheeks and neck. He became blinded by white; his ears were ringing. He began to feel that he was falling, and even when he hit the ground, he still felt he was falling. Pretty Mary K. began crying now somewhere in the white which began to fade. Her crying went above the ringing, and made sounds discordant. He called out to pretty Mary K., a call which sounded like a gurgle to the five men (the dealer too stood in shock) who had gathered around him. Damien’s sight faded to black. The ringing stopped, but he heard not the desperate cry, "someone call an ambulance!" The last, dream-like image that passed through his mind (did Damien "see" it?) was rosy-fingered dawn exploding into fire and brimstone, and Mephistopheles, coming forth from the eruption, smiling—forever smiling—and crushing a heart-shaped locket.

Nine: For the Lost Cause

I forgot about posting the story. I was just so relieved to have the damn thing finished, that I thought there was nothing else to be done. I apologize to those who waited anxiously, wondering what was to become of our dear friend Damien. This is page nine, and page ten will finish the story tomorrow. Thanks for reading.

****
The loss of the player did not stop the discussion, which was slowly growing into a debate: Darius’s constant attempts to join the conversation were soon rewarded. The professors began to pay attention.

"I think Popper sufficiently shut down the Vienna Circle," Darius licked his lips in anticipation, "because Wittgenstein’s theories had no basis in reality, in science." He stressed the last word with the air of academia. The two professors balked. They had never heard such blasphemy.

"Popper was a megalomaniac, he just wanted to take credit for bringing down the Vienna Circle. Anyone with any background in analytical philosophy could have saw through some of the faulty theories of the Vienna Circle." This was probably the professor who told the Hume joke; he was bald, stocky, with bushy eye-brows and circular spectacles. He was something of a spectacle himself.

Damien started to lose interest in the card game, but he could not follow the discussion. Damien was also sufficiently up in chips, having just taken out the kid and having three of the players just continually blinded off. Darius would occasionally play a hand or two, but he would back out at any bet. Darius’s client would basically give the affect of listening, but he too was bored, and he was significantly down in chips. Damien thought it was time to take him out. After a few more hands, the discussion turned to the debate that had occurred on October 25, 1946.

"It’s clear that Wittgenstein won the debate. He was the better man: he walked out."

"The only reason Wittgenstein left is because he couldn’t take being proven wrong." Darius was smiling. The other professor was shaking his head.

Damien quietly asked the dealer the time. It was two thirty in the morning. At this point Damien really wanted to leave. The client was yawning, and the card game was almost ignored by the three philosophers. When the cards were dealt yet again, Damien peeked to find an ace and king of hearts. He raised $50,000. Only the client called. Damien watched for the flop intently.

"You know, you’re just like Popper, you can’t accept genius." The other professor, a smaller, skinnier man, said.

"Wittgenstein was a crock. He only wrote one real book. Everything else was junk published posthumously."

"Popper might have been a prolific writer, but he hardly had any impact on philosophy."

"He does have an impact on philosophy. Wittgenstein is only famous because it’s chic to drop his name. Hardly anyone that talks about Wittgenstein knows anything about his philosophy."
Darius was always smiling. Smiling always with teeth gritted tightly.

The flop came out as a jack of hearts, a ten of hearts, and a jack of spades. The client bet $60,000. Damien thought for a moment.

"What are your credentials, by the way?" The Hume-comedian asked.

Darius was caught off guard. He realized he was in the hand and he folded.

"I—I—I didn’t..."

"You never went to school." The other professor smiled wide.

Damien called. The turn showed a six of clubs. Damien knew he needed one card to take out the client for good. Damien also knew that any heart would give him a flush, and that might beat him.

"You have just wasted our time debating something you have no expertise in."

"Do you even know what we’re talking about?"

"Yes, I do." Darius wasn’t smiling. "I’ve read the same book. I’ve read the Tractatus. I’ve also read The Open Society."

"So? I’ve read Jane Eyre. It doesn’t mean I could deconstruct the text with Derrida."

The client went all in. It was a good move if he was bluffing. Damien saw pretty Mary K. naked on the grass and called.

"You should not get into discourses of which you are unfamiliar."

"You’ll only prove yourself to be an idiot."

Darius was flushed. Damien looked up at him and realized he had never seen him so angry. His face was distorted horribly since his mouth was so used to the upward curve. Frowning was unfamiliar and ugly. Darius was also dangerously silent.

I Forget What Eight Was For

The story is just about done. I'm going to be emailing it later tonight to Nathan, just after I finish it up and look over errors. The rest of the story will be posted on here day by day (it's ten pages, so it will be done around Wednesday), but if you want a complete copy, leave me a comment with either your email address or some method of contacting you, and I'll send it to you.

Sadly, it does not look like Nathan has finished his story. We will hopefully meet up this weekend, and he might have his story done by then. I might post something about it, if it's interesting or productive or both.

Enjoy.

****

And thus, on this certain night it came to pass that the final table of Hold ‘em held six people. Darius. his client, Damien, two professors, and the kid sat at the table closest to the fire place. Darius was right next to the dealer, and to Darius’s right was his client, the kid, the two professors, and then Damien. Darius was seated closest to the fire place. A fire powered by gas was going—the night had become somewhat chilly. Damien noticed that the pokers standing on their rack were useless, only vestiges of a more difficult time that had passed. The fact that they were ornamental now seemed only to mock those times when they were necessary. He let it pass. They were just pokers.

Damien switched his attention to the players at the table. Although he had played well this evening, he found that he was easily distracted by the slightest things, and on the final table it was important to focus. Damien turned to watch the kid. Anyone could take this kid out quickly, because although he was good, he lacked focus. He missed obvious things. Darius’s client was more formidable, because if he kept getting lucky, then there was nothing to be done. Damien thought about Darius’s speech about the gambler’s fallacy; he figured the client could not be lucky all the time. Damien was not sure about Darius. He had played Darius before in Hold ‘em, and Darius could get unpredictable. Damien did not seem to mind if he lost to Darius. The professors seemed easy enough to beat. They were colleagues teaching philosophy at the local university. They had mostly talked all night about different aspects of philosophy (one of whom—Damien did not know which—made the joke about Hume), cracking esoteric jokes and discussing different methods and such. This talking served as a distraction, and could be used against them. They mostly talked among themselves, not expecting anyone to understand, but Darius felt the need to interject every once in a while. The professors tended to ignore him. Darius would just smile.

After an hour of playing the final table, the professors had moved on to the great "debate" (if it could so be called) between Dr. Karl Popper and Herr Ludwig Wittgenstein. It was clear that both the professors were of a Wittgensteinian leaning, just by the tone of voice they used when referring to Popper. Apparently one of them had read a book about the debate. Damien, as well as the kid and Darius’s client, were just focusing on the cards being played, and were lost in their own thoughts. Darius, however, was listening intently to the conversation, opening his mouth partly as if to say something, but letting no breath escape. The discourse was so riveting that Darius and the professors were blindly placing blinds, folding as soon as someone bet, and not even looking at the flop, the turn, or even the river.

This distraction was infectious, and Damien found himself finally pondering the events leading up to the present moment, though probably not causally leading up to the moment. Damien thought about Mary K. and their strange encounter. He found himself wondering whether, in all this spontaneous caprice, if that wasn’t planned. Darius was so insistent, and she acted so strangely... Damien just lost the hand. Top pair had taken him. It was the kid. Damien needed to focus. But Mary K. returned momentarily in his mind’s eye, dressed in the scarf and vestments of a Queen, the locket around her neck now enlarged and ruby-colored. She was holding her scepter and laughing. He could not be subjected to this. The flop came out and it was horrible.

The kid put in $20,000 as a bet. Damien folded: he could not lose again.
"In all honesty, Popper was just jealous of the genius that was Wittgenstein."
"I beg to differ," Darius said in a demanding tone.
"I think you’re right to some extent. Why would Popper turn down a lectureship in Cambridge unless he knew he would be outshone?"
"Yes, he belonged in New Zealand, out of the way."
"That’s unduly harsh, gentlemen." Darius spoke with a smile.

The kid went all in. Damien was staring at trip aces. What was this kid thinking? The kid looked to have the other ace. Something about his smile told him so. Damien called—sure enough, the kid had the last ace, and, since they were about even in chips prior to the call, the kid was knocked out of the final table. The kid got up and shook Damien’s hand, but he looked very tired. Damien thought he almost looked relieved to be out.