Call Me (Ish)Camel

First:

"In the fields the plowing is done with the most peculiar combinations of animals. The peasants either use a horse and a camel, a burro and a camel, a bull and a camel, or a bull and a horse. I am informed that they cannot use two camels because they fight each other. Any animal hooked up with a camel becomes disgusted and loses interest in life" (War As I Knew It, p. 19).

Maybe I'm hooked up to some invisible camel.

Second:

"Only the learned read old books and we have now so dealt with the learned that they are of all men the least likely to acquire wisdom by doing so. We have done this by inculcating the Historical Point of View. The Historical Point of View, put briefly, means that when a learned man is presented with any statement in an ancient author, the one question he never asks is whether it is true. He asks who influenced the ancient writer, and how far the statement is consistent with what he said in other books, and what phase in the writer's development, or in the general history of thought, it illustrates, and how it affected later writers, and how often it has been misunderstood (specially by the learned man's own colleagues) and what the general course of criticism on it has been for the last ten years, and what is the 'present state of the question.' To regard the ancient writer as a possible source of knowledge--to anticipate that what he said could possibly modify your thoughts or your behaviour--this would be rejected as unutterably simple-minded" (The Screwtape Letters, p. 150).

This relatively long passage came to my mind immediately this morning as I watched Banned from the Bible on the History Channel. The show dealt with questioning why many early Christian texts were not included in the New Testament. The issue of the validity of those texts was not raised. The Gospel according to Mary was not included because the Church would not accept a defiant female voice. Some of the other apocryphal books were too Gnostic. No one discussed, or even raised the possibility, that the apocryphal books were not included because they were not true. They looked at nearly every possible angle: the influences of the texts on early Christians; how the apocryphal books were consistent with the New Testament, and where they differed; how early or late the various books were composed, and their possible authors; how they were recently discovered; what motives the early Christians had for including and excluding certain books; everything except the question: "are these true or not?" It shocked me that such an obvious question was not raised at all.

I guess even a devil cannot lie all the time.

That's all I care to post for now. I'll try to get some pictures up.

Disarm

I'm coming home,
I'm not bound anymore
On the brink of nothing
I'm just starting something.

I am dog boy,
Overwhelmed,
Unemployed
An arsenal of outbursts,
But I'm just saying it first.
I don't want to lose
Everything that we grew.
I'm not cutting you down,
I'm just carrying the axe.

Knowing it's half bad,
Knowing its a little sad,
And there's blood on our hands;
I hate this.
No one at the wheel,
Everyone is here to feel.

I'm coming home.
We aren't sound anymore,
I can't build a purpose
In this falling structure.

I'm not tearing it down,
I just can't find the sound.
I'm disarming the bomb before it goes off.

Knowing it's half bad,
Knowing it's all smiling sad.
And the gun in my hand is empty.
I am Mr. Guilt;
Everyone is here to feel.
I thank you all so much for my next trick,
Next trip,
Drive home.

(What's happening)
(Let's go)

No hard feelings.

~Bad Astronaut

Does Anyone Read This Anymore?

I hope not. If no one has perceived by now how inferior my page is in the blogosphere (which may not be a "sphere" at all), then at least there is the realization that I do not update anymore: a cause to abandon reading this page altogether. I post anyway: to waste time, to avoid responsibilities.

Today, as most of us know, was election day. Who are what we were voting for, I have not a clue, probably like most Americans. I have a vague idea of what the elections are for: the House and the Senate and various other positions, but I do not know who was running, or what the candidates' political agendas were. I did not even read the news on who won. Ignorance is bliss, they say.

I usually feel guilty on election day for not voting. I do not vote for a multitude of reasons, ignorance being the primary one. If I am not at least aware of what the issues are, who is running, his or her stance, or even what the House and Senate really do (I have forgotten a lot of what I learned in AP Government), what gives me the right to put my opinion on a ballot and attempt to say who is supposed to run our country? An uninformed voter is dangerous. But the effort of keeping up with politics is taxing, especially when one could not care less what Kerry said about the soldiers in Iraq (or the Republican-run government), or could not care less about any other mudslinging that usually occurs--not only during elections, but throughout the year(s).

Everyone, however, is political to some degree, as Orwell points out (quite rightly). Even the statement: "I am not political," has political connotations: not being a member of a party or involving oneself in politics makes a statement about the party system and politics itself. So I confess that I, if reduced to confining myself to a party, lean heavily toward libertarianism (if the link to Lew Rockwell's website did not give you [O reader, should you exist] that indication). Naturally, the guilt that I felt today for not voting led me to see what on Lew Rockwell's website could justify my own ignorance, laziness, et cetera. I found Jeff Snyder's article, which, if you have the time, is good to read.

Snyder brings up an interesting--and valid--point: voting does not change things. We have all been taught that it does; that our opinion matters. But does it? Snyder clearly thinks it does not:

"If the Republicans retain control of the Congress after the history of the last six years, they will conclude, rightly, that they can essentially get away with anything, confident that their base will never abandon them as long as the party leadership and its associated spokesmen in talk radio, newspapers and evangelical Christians can continue to successfully portray the Democrats as closer to Pure Evil in the lesser of two evils sweepstakes known as elections. If the Democrats gain control of Congress, or at least the House, there seems precious little cause for celebration. This is the party that, given a President who lied us into an unjust and illegal war, who admits violating statutes and the Constitution and arrogates to himself the right to exempt himself from laws, cannot even bring itself to promise that, if it obtains majority control, it will end the war as expeditiously as possible, repeal the Patriot Act and the Military Commissions Act, defund the President’s illegal activities or commence impeachment proceedings."

We, as a nation, are stuck in the mess we are in, with little (if any) hope of change despite the election today. This is some sort of game, Snyder posits, that we believe we can win. But even if the parties do change on election day, "it is a delusion to believe there are two parties which stand for different principles, when one party never repeals or revokes the acts made while the other party was in control, but leaves them standing while pursuing its own, new agenda." This statement rings true: I cannot remember a time when a change in the Executive, Legislative, or Judicial branches of government really changed anything for me. I hear things: once we had a surplus, now we are in (huge) debt; the economy was doing well, now it's doing poorly, et cetera, but daily life goes on. I went to work, or school, I did my daily activities, and though prices went up (like for gas) they never did go back down, making it hard to distinguish the cause between inflation, greedy business owners, or those running the country. Whether a Democrat or Republican is in office, the status quo appears to be in tact. Change really comes through action and not an affirmation of your opinion, as Snyder tells us. I agree with him.

Snyder does not want to dissuade anyone from voting, as he states in his second paragraph. If you (O reader, if you are still with me) did, all the more power to you. I remind you that I looked up the article to avoid feeling guilty, and found the argument interesting. You should really read the article, as Jeff Snyder is far more eloquent and brings up more points. I think I have spent enough time already.

It's Just Language...

I have neglected this for too long now, and even though I have a ton of stuff to do, and a ton of stuff to say about New Jersey, I will postpone those musings for now. In its stead, I will use the cheap bloggers link device in order to not neglect this thing, but not spend time posting something original. Cheesy, huh? At least I didn't misspell "bank" in Cyrillic.

The American Drive

Utah















Iowa





Illinois

Where I've Been, Where I'm Going

Ferry-Land









Monumental





I've Got An Ape Drape


The George Washington Bridge


Majestic


The Best Ad In NYC


It's Always Time for Hofstra


Benjamin Franklin


Thomas Jefferson


This Is Not a Building


That's nice...


But the Sculpture Sucks


Socrates or Bust





Celestial


Harold and Omer

Why Does Britney Shpears...?

I have pictures from the East Coast that I will post, an E. Coli scare that I possibly could mention, and probably fifteen points I could make on the state of the Middle East, but instead I will post this: Oops! She's done it again!

Enjoy!

Eddie Munster Eating Oatmeal And Drinking The Unrest Cure During The Third Reich, When Property Is Not Theft, Nor Man's Invention.

"The rise of the Quakers, with their studied rejection of secular authority and distinctions of social rank, was particularly ominous, and the Baptists, though in fact comparatively innocuous, were always associated with the excesses of the notorious Anabaptists of Munster a century before, while the Fifth Monarchists' belief in the imminent return of Christ to reign on earth for a thousand years with his saints had obvious and profoundly disturbing political implications. Economic depression and continued unemployment enhanced the general working-class unrest, and it was no coincidence that in April 1649, with food prices still rising, Gerrard Winstanley and his Diggers made their famous occupation of common land on St George's Hill, Surrey, denouncing property as 'a Norman invention'."

Stuart England, J.P. Kenyon, p. 180.

"You're Not Fun, You're Fat."

And this may be why.

Eroticaphile.

Because I usually forget the answers I provide in useless surveys that I take to make myself feel witty (I am by no means accusing you of such a thing!), here's the question and your answer that I am responding to:

"4. Believe in love:
Do people not believe in love? I wasnt aware of this lack of belief. That takes cynicism to a new depth. How does one argue against the belief in love? I want to know. Please send me a message if you know."

(Please note that I assumed you were not being sarcastic when you asked for someone to send you a message if they know, so I am not being weird.)

First of all, I had a big problem with "love" from my senior year of high school (it goes way back) until my sophomore year of college. The problem that I had with love lay in its definition. Most people, normal people, people that do not really think about defining words, would give me ostensive definitions, pointing to some action and saying, “That is love.” It was clear to me (being ever cynical) that those examples could be instances of spuriousness. Someone could be pretending that he or she was in love for some ulterior, selfish motive (free dinner?). While I admit that it is highly unlikely for all of those instances to be selfish, logically however, finding one selfish person acting as if he or she is in love is enough to discount the ostensive definition. Simply performing the actions that a person points to as love does not necessarily make one love.

Those with whom I spoke who thought about it more would give me definitions of “sincere and ultimate devotion,” “thinking of another person or persons more than you think about yourself,” etc. These may be better definitions, but my cynical mind thought of instances of torture in which, as in Orwell’s 1984, someone puts himself before the person he or she supposedly loves. Can someone truly tell me that Winston did not love Julia simply because he caved in to his fear of rats? Even in not so extreme situations, is it possible to put oneself before the beloved? People can be fickle beings, and what they say they love at one point of time can change later on or under different circumstances.

What is more, “love” itself can refer to various kinds of relationships. There is the love between family members, between friends, between lovers, between people and objects, between people and animals, etc. The intensity of the emotion varies so much so that it is hard to see if the same term truly encompasses all of those relationships. The Greeks divided love into “philos” and “eros.” Philos was used to refer to the more amicable type of love, whereas eros referred to the intense—often physical—kind. This distinction does not exist in English as far as I know, and that makes love twice as confusing. For instance, when a girl tells me she loves me, she usually means it in the philetic (I know, I made up a word) sense, even though sometimes I ardently wish (and in some cases believe) she means it in the erotic sense. This gets even more confusing out of context, or in a context that can make the statement seem equivocal (as in an ending to a drunken phone call). People say all the time that they love others, and I believe many hardly know what they mean when they say it.

Given this problem of definition, it was much easier to avoid the whole question of love. And if one does not know what love is, then how can one believe in it?

I admit that the argument proffered is a weak one for many reasons, and that is part of the reason why I believe in love now. But, as one who did not believe in love for a time, that was the basis for my lack of belief.

Let Freedom Burn

For now, we can still burn flags. In a way, Rothbard lives.

Courtly Behavior

After two years of working for a lawyer, I finally went to court (Superior Court of the State of California, in and for the County of San Diego, North County Division) yesterday. I had to drop off a file to be picked up by an attorney who would continue (postpone) an afternoon hearing as a favor for our office. The judge had insisted that we appear to continue the hearing, and since my boss's associate went on vacation as of Friday, we needed to get another attorney to appear for us to continue that hearing.

After leaving the file with the bailiff, I decided to stick around for a few minutes and watch the proceeding. The Respondent was representing himself, and the Petitioner had an attorney representing her (apparently working for free, as he indicated to Judge Isackson). The issues before the court were property issues (the Petitioner's 401K, the community residence, attorney's fees paid from community funds, etc.), but the Respondent kept bringing up child custody issues. He kept telling the court that he had tapes (which were of course not submitted as evidence) wherein the Petitioner had indicated that she did not even want to have the children. That was the whole thrust of the Respondent's argument; he barely said anything in response to the issues before the court (the Respondent did show a lack of understanding of community property when he could not understand how paying attorney's fees from money earned during the marriage constituted community funds).

Some advice to those who choose to appear before the court in propria persona: please at least read the local rules for the particular county in which you will appear. If poring over a voluminous tome discussing the rules of court does not appeal to you, then get an attorney. While attorneys tend to be expensive (though the attorney for Petitioner was working "gratis," as he told the judge), it will save you the embarrassment of being off topic in the courtroom, and you will have a better chance of getting what you want.

The court took a fifteen minute recess to give the court reporter a break. The judge said she would give her rulings after the recess. I left then, partly because I had to get back to work, and partly because I did not really care whom would receive which property. It seemed really trivial. Plus, I now had a better idea of what my boss does in court. I, however, do not want to follow in my boss's footsteps.

Gradually Graduating in Gradations

(Note: All of these pictures were taken in Los Angeles, California. Weird, huh?)

Mine, Not Mine, All in Vain.

"The period between Passover and the festival of Shavuot is known as the period of the Omer. There are many customs and traditions attached to this period. There are many activities for this, such as 'Bringing the Omer,' 'Counting of the Omer,' and No weddings."

I guess that's enough.

Admit To Fraudulence.

Compare:

"He was invading my personal space, as I had learned in Psych. class, and I instinctively sunk back into the seat. That just made him move in closer. I was practically one with the leather at this point, and unless I hopped into the back seat, there was nowhere else for me to go" (McCafferty 213).

and

"He was definitely invading my personal space, as I had learned in Human Evolution class last summer, and I instinctively backed up till my legs hit the chair I had been sitting in. That just made him move in closer, until the grommets in the leather embossed the backs of my knees, and he finally tilted the book toward me" (Viswanathan 175).

Apparently Kaavya Viswanathan, one of the youngest published authors (she's 19) and a Harvard student, wrote a book (How Opal Mehta Got Kissed, Got Wild, and Got a Life [a miserable title, no?]) that bears certain similarities to Megan McCafferty's Sloppy Firsts (another miserable title, yes), published in 2001. It is currently under investigation according to the San Diego Union Tribune. (By the way, I got all this information from an article in the San Diego Union Tribune in the April 25, 2006 edition entitled "Similarities found between 2001 novel, 19-year-old's hit book" by Andrew Ryan of the Associated Press. I do not want to be another Indian accused of plagiarism.) Based on the passage, it seems too similar to be merely coincedence. Maybe it's just me and my jealousy.

Because I Have Nothing To Say:

Pong.


Dementia


Bare Knuckle!


Rockin' Out


Feel Like Getting Shammed?


India, Undefined.


India, Redefined.

Vendetta! Vendetta! Vendetta!

I finally saw V for Vendetta on April 1, 2006 (a fool I was for waiting so long to see it). Of course, I liked it. The movie was loaded with many a good quote (often Shakespeare, from plays I have not read, sadly), and brought up many artistic, philosophical, and political issues. An in depth review of it would be extremely long, and I neither have the capacity nor the patience to bring up all the things I would like, especially considering how out of practice I am in writing critiques.

The one thing that I would like to bring up is the line that Evey (Natalie Portman) said about half-way through the film, "artists tell lies to expose the truth, while politicians tell them to cover it up." (That is how I remember the line, it may or may not be totally accurate.) This quote is exemplified in the use of masks throughout the film. Both V (Hugo Weaving) and the (fictional) British government make use of masks in the film: V of course has his Guy Fawkes mask, which, unlike Spiderman or Batman, he never removes; and the government has those "black bag" masks which they put on people they want to "erase." Naturally, both masks are meant to hide the faces of the respective people behind them. V wants to cover the horrible disfigurement he underwent at Lark Hill, in effect lying to others about his true appearance (there is one scene when a police officer tries to punch V in the face, but the officer hurts his hand on the metal mask), but at the same time the Guy Fawkes mask is meant to expose the horrible truth (ironically, the same truth he conceals) behind the St. Mary’s and Three Waters epidemics. The black bags, however, are meant to cover up, in that they are put on anyone who dissents from the government in any form. So as far as the masks are concerned, this would make the government a composition of politicians, but would that also make V an artist?

It is clear from the movie that V loves art. In his "cave," he is surrounded by books, sculpture, music, and paintings (mostly pilfered from the government censor trucks). He plays Tchaikovsky as he blows up buildings, quotes literature as he kills government officials, and even has Evey act the part of a call girl before murdering a Bishop. And given that, by his lie, he exposes the horrible truth to the investigating officer (Mr. Finch, played by Stephen Rea) and to Evey, it seems that V could very well be an artist. However, his vendetta is personal, and, on a larger scale, political. The methods V sometimes uses are also similar to the chancellor’s strategies at keeping the "peace" (I do not want to give away too much of the movie by explaining how), and V is clearly starting a political revolution.

Maybe Evey’s quote is simply a wink by the Wachowski brothers (possibly David Lloyd?) to the audience about the movie itself, for I do not believe that V can be considered an artist, just a different kind of politician (maybe the right kind).

I Have Not Seen It Yet...

But I think maybe I should.

Oh Queso...

I should have posted this sooner, but, for some reason, I did not. I guess it was apathy and lethargy on my part. I got into Rutgers University (the campus in Newark, New Jersey). I was really excited when I got the e-mail, but that excitement has gone down considerably since I found out (it has been about a week)--not that anything happened...it is just...my routine has obliterated much of the excitement. I am, however, now anxious to hear back from the other schools to which I applied, namely, San Diego State University and the University of Chicago. I'm on the waiting list at the University of Chicago, and, when I called there earlier today, I found out that I will not hear from them until June. I cannot make hide nor hair of San Diego State's Web Portal (to check the status of my application), so I wonder if they will take me or not. Oh, and on top of that I still need to get the official packet in the mail from admissions from Rutgers as well. It is all a matter of waiting, really.

In light of all this, I have come to a realization: now that I actually have gotten into a school, I need to start practicing academic writing again. My reading has been going slow (as always), but it is extremely difficult to focus on a book when you are brain-dead from an entire day of performing either mindless tasks or wracking your brain trying to figure out how to get something done. Also, as this blog has evinced, I have not written anything academic in a very long time. All I have basically done was copy and paste other people's work without any in depth discussion. I have also failed in producing anything artistic in a while (a failed attempt at a story, a horrible poem that I would never post on here), and these next few months might be the last time I will have "free time" to produce something, anything.

Okay so--without promising anything--my fans (ha!) should expect to see a more serious, insightful, and enlightened Omer (ha!). Posts might be few and far between (as usual), but, hopefully, they will be somewhat academic, structured, clear, and succinct. I will try to avoid my rambling. I will try to write better. I will try.

The Soon-To-Be Graduate Student Is Sick

"Words, he realised, words, words, words. He had lived too much with words and not what the words stood for. James Joyce had been such another, with his deliberate choice of a sweetheart from a sweetshop, his refusal to correct a visitor who had called a painting a photograph, because 'photograph' was so lovely a word. But James Joyce at least had not told a gangster that he had done a tray on the moor just because he liked the sound of it. A world of words, thought Edwin, saying it aloud and liking the sound of it. 'A whirling world of words.' Apart from its accidents of sound, etymology and lexical definition, did he really know the meaning of any one word? Love, for instance. Interesting, that collocation of sounds: the clear allophone of the voiced divided phoneme gliding to that newest of all English vowels which Shakespeare, for instance, did not know, ending with the soft bite of the voiced labiodental. And its origin? Edwin saw the word tumble back to Anglo-Saxon and beyond, and its cognate Teutonic forms tumbling back too, so that all forms ultimately melted in the prehistoric primitive Germanic mother. Fascinating. But there was something about the word that should be even more fascinating, to the man if not to the philologist: its real significance when used in such a locution as 'Edwin loves Sheila'. And Edwin realised that he didn't find it fascinating. Let him loose in the real world, where words are glued to things, and see what he did: stole, swore, lied, committed acts of violence on things and people. He had never been sufficiently interested in words, that was the trouble."

Anthony Burgess, The Doctor Is Sick (pp. 152-3).

Can you relate to Edwin? Well, Kenya?

I Think I Would Rather Keep The Money...

This is an e-mail I got today from someone (something?) I do not know. I think it's hilarious.

"Subject: AMERICANS CAN STOP THIS WAR ON TERRORISM! PLEASE READ AND PASS IT ON!

I was watching one of those talk shows last night on this damn war in Iraq and the other countries we are fighting in. I can't remember who made the comment, but he said...'Someone should UP the reward on Bin Laden and let's just see how fast we bring him to Justice!'

That's when I thought to myself, 'that's it!!!' We the people can stop this war and do something that has never in history been done. With our personal money we can stop this war! Look at all the money we give to churches, peace causes and donations for righteous causes.... and for unnecessary items also. We the people could be a bigger voice than our Government and show true freedom and what this country is all about! We need to do this to show the rest of the world that this country was made for the people and we have the right and freedom to control our Government. Not our Government controlling the people. If we, the public, pooled our money together and made a reward for Bin Laden and all the other supposedly bad guys we're after. Some force of nature will take care of this problem for the USA. We the people can show the rest of the world that we are a benign entity as a whole. We the people can show the rest of the world that Democracy is the only way to stamp out injustice. We the people can control our destiny as a nation and show the world what our fore fathers had truly meant by the 'Melting Pot'.

I believe this is the way to stop the war.

All you Huge lottery winners. All you people with lots of money. And all you people who have money, who can spare to help this cause. Show your true voice!! Let's make a reward so irresistible that only the most noble of great women and men step forth to claim such a victory in American history. And let those who do try to claim such a victory, be honest, benign and true. Let's actually make this world a place we can all live in. With peace and tranquility. If money is truly power, than we the people have the power to stop this war!!! Never in history has this been done. WE CAN DO THIS WITH OUR MONEY! Let us put the rest of the world in awe by doing this! Let's show the world we truly want peace and not let our government speak for us!! We will make a monument of all the names who give money for this cause. The monument will have to be a website, since the probability of millions of names could be on it. A website of true American History. Let not only Americans donate for such a cause but those throughout the world who believe in world peace. Competition should be put aside. Working together to build a better future for all of mankind should be the main objective for us as humans.

We the people could stop this war. We could stop any war for that matter. No more innocent people dead.

I love my family and my country. I love people in general and want the best for all. I believe the majority of the world wants peace. It's only money and we can always make more. Address below:"

Of course, no address followed. It seems like it would cost more money to find Osama Bin Laden than the reward would be if every American donated to the cause. I also highly doubt that finding Osama Bin Laden will stop this war, or "any war." The naivete and child-like hope the e-mail engenders is laughable. This might have been written by a child for all I know: the syntax is certainly child-like. And to find someone greedy enough to risk life and limb to find Osama Bin Laden for money seems highly improbable too. This e-mail is just too ridiculous to be taken seriously. The things people expect people to believe... I think I would rather keep the money than give it to some ridiculous kid with a messianic complex.

A Pun, A Pun, My Kingdom For A Pun!

I posted this very thing on my Myspace. I have come to the realization that recycled material is good for all environments. If you give me all of the correct band names in this piece, you'll get a prize! It should be pretty easy for anyone that knows me well.

I use Green Rifles to shoot Red Robots on Green Days when I'm accused of being john Dillinger Four times; my real name is Elliott Smith, and I have achieved Nirvana so many times in my life that I am as high as a Bad Astronaut who just purchased a Wagon that Lags from Something that I understood to be as Corporate. I have Descended from the same source as ALL people, viz., Adam and Eve, who must have had the entire human genome coded in their DNA, unless you think some evolution occurred between now and then. In which case I might be wrong. That's what I've heard on the Radio that's in my Head. I live in Creeper Lagoon, a new town with Newfound Glory, a Bad Religion, and No Effects. I can produce no Offspring because of my wife's Swingin' Udders (which makes her known as a Violent Femme fatale), and that only makes me feel Less Than Jake does. That, in turn, makes me as Mad as a Caddy for Jimmy Carter and his Peace Mission (which involves Eating the World). I work in alkali flats with three guys, which makes us an Alkaline Trio; we're Diggers, too, so since all we do is destroy the already barren flats, I guess that would make us Vandals as well. When I'm finished with work, I look, feel, and smell Rancid. I usually read Matthew until I'm Good again and can join my Band of workers. One of them always calls me sam, and he forces me to respond with, "Sam I Am." It seems everyone calls me different things, so I have No Use For A Name. I would really like to Rise Against that notion, but it seems like I'm stuck with the Swindle of having more than one name. It makes me as crazy as a Goo Goo Doll. Agent 51, who works on Operation: Ivy, told me I'm stuck this way forever, but I know that's only Propaganda from Gandhi. I'm so much Weaker Than him. Just once, though, if I could be the one that Saves The Day, then I wouldn't cry like a Screeching Weasel. I just want to walk up to the mirror, look at myself, Face To Face, and tell myself to stop acting like such a Pinhead while stuffing Gunpowder in my 17th century musket. Of course, gunpowder would be everywhere, which will only make me a Weezer. I would like to someday have 88 Fingers just like Louie; that is the Confessional I told my Dashboard. Some people say louie has a Ten Foot Pole, but that's only a Social Distortion. Anyway, this is longer than it needs to be: I'm losing connection with The Network.

Completely Wrong...Totally Wrong

You Are Bart Simpson

Very misunderstood, most people just dismiss you as "trouble." Little do they know that you're wise and well accomplished beyond your years. You will be remembered for: starring in your own TV show and saving the town from a comet Your life philosophy: "I don't know why I did it, I don't know why I enjoyed it, and I don't know why I'll do it again!"

The Simpsons Personality Test

Since I Was "Tagged."

4 Jobs You Have Had In Your Life:
1. Merchandising Sales Clerk - Zoological Society of San Diego.
2. Legal Assistant - The Law Offices of Peter J. Mueller
3. Child
4. Adult

4 Movies You Could Watch Over and Over:
1. Fight Club
2. Fight Club
3. Shawshank Redemption
4. Team America: World Police

4 Places You Have Lived:
1. Montclair, California
2. San Diego, California
3. Irvine, California
4. The dark side of the moon.

4 TV Shows You Love To Watch:
1. The Simpsons
2. Family Guy
3. American Dad
4. World Series of Poker

4 Places You Have Been On Vacation:
1. Cambridge, England
2. Hyderabad, India
3. Karachi, Pakistan
4. Houston, Texas

4 Websites You Visit Daily:
1. Hotmail
2. Myspace
3. AOL.com
4. The Unrest Cure

4 Of Your Favorite Foods:
1. Anything my mother makes
2. Anything Prego's serves
3. (Shepherd's) Bread
4. Cheese

4 Places You Would Rather Be Right Now:
1. Irvine, California
2. Redding, California
3. Cambridge, England
4. Prego's

I'm not tagging anyone else. This ends with me.

He's Even More Punk Than Me...

So I'm in Ithaca, New York at a keg party in the summer of '88, and this kid says that I gotta hear this Operation Ivy 7". I say whatever, and he puts it on. It sounded weird and not very good, then this kid turns the record player from 33 to 45 and starts it over. "Yellin In My Ear" came on and it was about the best song I ever heard. A couple months later, I was at Ruthies Inn in Berkeley seeing Op Ivy play. I had never seen them before. They sounded wierd and not very good, but it was an awesome show. I introduced myself to Lint after the show. He was wasted and slurred at me that I had just witnessed the worst Op Ivy show ever. I told him I would come to the next and decide for myself.

So I'm in Maui at a fish taco stand talking to Shawn and Mark Stern about how the surf was too big, and they ask me if I wanna do a split record on their label, BYO. I said yeah, but I kinda meant not really. They suggested we do the split with Lag Wagon or Pennywise. I told them that we were too similar to those bands and that it would make a boring record. So they said, "why don't you think of a FUCKING band then tough guy. I told them politely that I would think about it and get back to them.

So I saw Op Ivy a bunch more, and Lint was right, that first show was the worst, but then they broke up. Bummer. Then Lint calls me one day and tells me I should check out his new band that he started with Matt called Generator. So I go to their rehearsal and they were like hardcore or something. But this doesn't matter, cuz they brok up real quick and started Rancid.

So back on the mainland, I tell the Stern brothers, how about Rancid? If you guys can get Rancid to do the split, then I'll do it. But I was really thinking, they'll never get Rancid to do it, and I wont have to do this stupid thing. Then they call me and tell me that Rancid said they would do it. Shit.... I tell myself. Cool I tell the Sterns. Then they say that Tim (who used to be known as Lint) thinks that it would be cool if we covered each others songs. Hey, this sounded pretty cool. I hadn't thought of that. This whole thing was starting to sound bitchin. I ask them if this meant that I had to play all of Matt's bass riffs and they told me I could do whatever the fuck I wanted to. So I tell myself.. cool, and I tell the Sterns.. cool.

-Fatty

The Adversary

By Omer Kazmi

He heard a whispering outside of his open window. It was more than the wind, less than a human voice. It sounded like a ghost trapped between this world and the next, and when he cocked his lupine ears in the void-like darkness, he could have sworn it was saying his name.

He himself was trapped between this world and the world of illogic, the dream-world. Furthermore, he was trapped between the sheets of his bed, and he dared not venture out in the cold January night to verify, empirically, what he had heard. To be sure, he was uncertain whether he was awake or dreaming, and this Cartesian doubt was preventing him from any form of rest. There it was again, a cold shudder in a silent night, a vibration running at 220 cycles per second (if his ears did not deceive him), a honey-sweet tremor, a near comforting sound. He could have sworn it was saying Nathaniel. He could have...

This was not the first night that the whisper had plagued his sojourn between worlds. It began on his twenty-third birthday, but since he was trapped between the worlds of sobriety and drunkenness, he imagined that he had imagined it. He eventually had fallen asleep, a sort of blissful sleep that could only lead to a nightmare. Lying in his bed now, suffocating under his comforter and sheets, he remembered vividly the dream he had that night.

He was looking at himself from above himself, omniscient and confused at the same time. He wore a starched brown jacket, starched brown pants that were knee high in length and ended where pure white stockings began, and the stockings ran down to plain black shoes with a silver buckle. He had atop his head a black hat with a small brim, and a silver buckle encompassing the barrel of the hat. Though his jacket was buttoned, he knew that he was wearing a pure white shirt underneath, for the cuffs of the shirt billowed out from the sleeves of his jacket. He knew, in his omniscience, that both the shirt and stockings were cotton, that the hat and shoes were leather, the buckles silver, and the pants and jacket were suede. Everything he was adorned with was simple and pure, and he knew, in his omniscience, that he was a puritan.

He was also within a cabin which was safe and warm, a fire in the hearth warding him from a cold winter night. But Nathaniel was summoned out immediately by a whispering of his name, and why he chose to follow the whisper—even his omniscience did not know. The murmur had led him to the edge of the town where the road led into a forest, and from which he received an ill-feeling. His omniscience (now his conscience?) instructed him not to go in, but ever-transgressing, he did not listen. He stepped into the forest, a world trapped between the mystical and the material, and though regretting his decision immediately, he could not ignore the summons of the whisper.

After following the sound, he came upon a clearing with a fire in the center, but a noticeably different fire than the one that blazed at his hearth—though, in his omniscience, he knew that the fire in his hearth had burned out. This fire, this new fire, was of a bluish tinge, and, as in deference to its color, was colder than the fire he missed now. Nymphs were dancing around it, and it threw a blue tinge on them, and wolves yipped and barked and pranced around it as well. Some satyrs were also about, playing strange wind instruments that gave the dance a modicum of festivity, but a strange, alien festivity that seemed to send chills down Nathaniel’s spine (whether in joy or in fear, he was not sure which). The festival seemed to reach a feverish pitch as Nathaniel approached the fire and stared into it. He began to sweat as he got near, but in his wonder he did not notice the radical change in temperature. When he was an arms length away from the fire, he thought he saw himself laughing and singing within the fire, but it was so blurry that he felt he needed to come closer. Then he felt the push, and he felt himself dissolving in a passionate burn, and the pain was unbearable and real. He saw the satyr that had pushed him in, and the satyr was laughing for a seeming infinite amount of time.

That’s where the dream ended. Nathaniel thought back on the dream, now, hearing the whispering susurrate through the open window. After that bizarre night, he did not hear the whispering again for a long while. Maybe a month or two. He could not remember. It returned on a sober night, and it brought back the vivid memory of the dream. Nathaniel had thought it to be only the wind, and even though he kept hearing through the night, he eventually fell asleep believing thus. Then it would come and go, like women talking of Michelangelo. He began to hear the whisper of what he believed to be his name on more and more nights, and just this past week he heard it every night. He was convinced that it was really something, and not merely the wind. Last night he did not fall asleep because of the sound, incessant, dissonant and yet harmonious, a hypocrisy of trembling. He knew it was someone, and yet...

He got up and shut the window.

It was strange how the simplest solutions never seemed to occur to him. It was as if he was cut by Occam’s Razor and wanted to forget the pain. The whispering was silenced, and he soon found himself asleep.

He also found himself trapped between the sixth and the seventh level of hell. There was screaming and burning, and what he imagined would be the sound of the sun had space the ability to carry sound. Through the blue, white, orange, and red—which could not seriously be called fire, but some kind of smoldering mist—he saw Virgil’s face and a seemingly detached arm, palm outstretched, fingers grasping at nothing, at him, a plea to follow. Virgil, whom he only knew in his omniscience, was speaking, his mouth formulating words in mimicry of a bass reeled in, a slow coughing at a ubiquitous and destructive oxygen. It looked as if he was saying, "Rome wasn’t built in a day," but Nathaniel was not sure. Nathaniel could hear not but the boiling and broiling, and understood not but the feeling of torture. Virgil’s face faded away, and that’s when Nathaniel escaped.

The next morning Nathaniel got up, got to the telephone, and dialed work. A female voice answered, somewhat hushed. He could hear the office buzzing in the background, he must have awoken late. Nathaniel was very attracted to the female voice and the woman behind the voice, one of the secretaries in charge of some project that he knew very little about. He did not know what really happened in the office that he worked; what he even did there. He just knew he got up, went, killed time, and came back to his home to either fall asleep or listen to his name being whispered outside his window. He did not even remember the secretary’s name (Leanne? Stephanie?). He did know he was attracted to her.

"I’m not going to make it in today." He did not at all feign any sort of physical illness.

"Who is this?" She was so pert. He imagined having sex with her in some bedroom in the middle of nowhere, nothing. He shook the momentary illusion.

"Nathaniel." He never went by Nathan.

"Oh, okay Nathan, I’ll let the boss know. Get better. We’ll miss you here."

"No, you won’t." And then he hung up.

He then picked up the receiver again and dialed his psychiatrist, immediately regretting the decision. He scheduled an appointment to meet with his doctor with the fat, decrepit secretary, whom he found himself staring at in the uncomfortably small lobby later on that afternoon. She did nothing, she rarely spoke, she only stared at the guests who were foolish enough to come too early. There were no magazines. Just a sofa, two chairs, and the secretary’s desk. Her name was Margaret.

Nathaniel tried to envision his dream clearly to relay to the quack that somehow got a doctorate degree in psychology. It never helped speaking with him, a Dr. Oshner or something, but he scheduled appointments regularly now because he was addicted. Dr. Oshner or whoever would prescribe various medications which he never took. The first thing that the doctor would ask was:

"So did you take your Thorazine?"

"No."

"Your problems will never be ameliorated unless you take your medication."

"I had another dream of hell." Nathaniel ignored that psychobabble.

"Look, if you just take—"

"Why didn’t you just tell me to shut the window, you prick?" He wanted to kill his psychiatrist right now. Unfortunately, nothing sharp was available, probably a lesson learned from a previous unstable patient that had to stare at Margaret for two hours.

"Because the voice is in your head." There was a pained expression on Dr. Oshner’s face, as if he himself was an inhabitant of Nathaniel’s dream.

"When I shut the window, it stopped. I fell asleep and I dreamed of hell."

Before an objection could be voiced, Nathaniel went into his dream in great detail, explaining Virgil known through omniscience, Rome not being built in a day, the outstretched arm, and then—for kicks—Nathaniel having sex with Stephanie. Dr. Oshner feigned interest poorly, and, instead of analyzing this dream, began writing on a pad of paper.

"It’s like I’m trapped between worlds, doctor—"

"Since you haven’t taken the Thorazine, maybe some Lithium will calm you down." Dr. Oshner handed Nathaniel a sheet of paper ripped from the pad with black chicken scratch on it. Nathaniel took this as his invitation to leave. He got up, saw Stephanie unzip her jumpsuit in his mind’s eye, and left. He threw the prescription in the waste basket next to Margaret.

That night, as he tried to fall asleep, this time with the window closed, he thought he still heard his name coming from outside. He double-checked the window, to make sure it was sealed. Surely, the voice was fainter—a whisper of a whisper, but he could still detect it, and it truly bothered him. As he lay trapped in his room underneath covers that provided no comfort, he stared at the ceiling blankly watching Margaret and Stephanie’s face meld together in the stucco. Then he saw movement in his peripheral vision, fast enough to be a thief, and Nathaniel jumped up. He thought he heard his door slam. He ran, brown pajamas billowing, to the front door. For a moment, silence. And then, the whisper, louder than in his room. Nathaniel opened the door, and stepped out into a cold January night. It was not until he reached the gate of his apartment complex that he heard the whisper again. He opened the gate, stepped out, and instinctively turned left. And there he was.

The man was standing about ten yards out. Even from that distance, Nathaniel noticed his eyes. They were a yellowish green, and they glowed like a cat’s. Nathaniel thought that it was just the reflection of the street light the man was underneath. Nathaniel approached him, believing that this man was in his apartment.

"What were you doing in my home?"

"I was not in your apartment. I have been waiting here patiently, ever so patiently, for you to come out and visit me."

Nathaniel was finally close enough to make out the features of this strange man. He was of average height, but somewhat skinny. He was clean shaven, with the exception of a goatee that made him satyr-like. His face was soft. The man was neatly dressed, in a fine Armani suit of various colors, which seemed to shimmer in the pale light of the street lamp. There were fine Italian loafers that cushioned his feet, and if Nathaniel did not know better, it appeared the man was not quite touching the ground. What struck Nathaniel the most about his dress was the red tie that seemed to bleed onto a black shirt. Upon closer inspection, the man’s eyes appeared to be those of a snake, a slit that acted as the diameter of yellow irises, and his eyes seemed to have a glow that was intrinsically their own—not merely a reflection of the dull light of city property. The man’s voice was comforting, though affected.

"Would you like to join me? I was just on my way for a stroll." Nathaniel began walking.

"Who are you?"

"You know me. You know me well. I am one of your friends."

Nathaniel could not remember the last friend with whom he had spoken. Nathaniel wondered if he even had any friends.

"Were you the one whispering to me all of those nights?"

"Yes." The s was lengthened to a soft hiss, an alien whisper. Nathaniel shuddered.

They walked in silence for a while. It was oppressive, and Nathaniel occasionally glanced at his friend’s eyes to see if they were still glowing. He wondered if he should have actually taken the Lithium. Then, like a lump in his throat, he felt the beginning of the urge to tell this person the things he could not seem to convey to this psychiatrist. The lump grew in the silence. It continued to grow until Nathaniel was choking on it, and he began: "I’m trapped between worlds!"

"Everyone is. Go on."

Nathaniel explained how he was stuck between waking and sleeping, logic and illogic, comfort and torture, Stephanie and Margaret, work and doctor’s visits, isolation and friendship, drink and sobriety—he kept going, feeling the need to unload augment as he was unloading, his face becoming red as he spoke, seeing the glint of the snake eyes flash in seeming acknowledgment and understanding. Nathaniel stopped talking to inhale. He saw Stephanie’s smile in his mind’s eye. Nathaniel just realized where they were.

"Where are we?"

"At the edge of the forest, but you knew that."

"What are we doing here?"

"I want to show you something. But do go on, you have so much on your mind."

Nathaniel continued speaking as if he had lost control of his tongue. He talked about killing the psychiatrist and fucking Stephanie. He spoke of those sleepless nights, and how he had nothing to show for himself after all these years on earth, and how he had gotten drunk by himself when he turned twenty-three because there was no one to drink with. He talked about his life being a living hell, comparable to his dreams, and how nothing really seemed to matter anymore. He continuously talked, not being able to stop because the lump in his throat was killing him. With every word he spoke the lump seemed to get larger and larger, insatiable. They were deep into the forest when Nathaniel realized, with shock, that he was no longer speaking words, but simply voicing meaninglessness. It awed him more as he realized that he was speaking in tongues. Just when he stopped to inhale, the two friends came upon a clearing.

There was a fire in the center with a bluish tinge. There were people around, laughing, singing and dancing. It seemed rather pastoral.

"Come," and Nathaniel followed his friend into the clearing. Nathaniel was given drink, and he began to feel comfortable. As he drank more, he felt the need to laugh, and to sing. Time seemed to stand still, as he was perpetually given cups of more drink, a sweet, nectar-like fluid that only seemed to make him thirsty for more. Nathaniel was dancing with some of the women, tripping and stumbling and falling. Men were playing instruments that sounded strange in this new state of his, but he liked it. He felt at home with this strange men and women, and he kept looking at his friend who sat on the outer edge of the circle, smiling. It got to the point where Nathaniel was ecstatic. He wanted nothing more than the drink and this infinite moment; he had never felt better in his entire life. He felt so good that he called out to his friend.

"You indeed are my friend! I have never felt this good ever!" He exuded emotion.

"Oh really?" His friend was suddenly behind him, and Nathaniel temporarily—though brushing the thought off immediately—wondered how he got there.

"Yes! I think I now know what it feels like to be a god!"

Nathaniel did not feel the push until after the fire was upon him. He saw his friend laughing with his tongue out, and within the fire it looked like his tongue was forked. In his omniscience, he realized that that was not a person at all, and that that non-person was not his friend. He then realized that he was not omniscient, but it was too late. As he burned, hardly feeling anything but pain, he turned and saw Virgil, mouthing the words he knew he did not know.

New Year's Reflection

How soon hath time the subtle thief of youth,
Stol'n on his wing my three and twentieth year!
My hasting days fly on with full career,
But my late spring no bud or blossom sheweth.

Perhaps my semblance might deceive the truth,
That I to manhood am arrived so near,
And inward ripeness doth much less appear,
That some more timely-happy spirits endueth.

Yet be it less or more, or soon or slow,
It shall be still in strictest measure even,
To that same lot, however mean or high,

Toward which time leads me, and the will of heaven;
All is, if I have grace to use it so,
As ever in my great task-master's eye.
~John Milton (1631).

"As true today, as when it was written."
~Homer Simpson

"I hate quotations. Tell me what you know."
~Ralph Waldo Emerson.