The Epic iPhone Fail

Well, not to say I told you so-- actually, I told you so.

Oh, don't get me wrong: I completely understand how Apple's clusterfuck would blindside you. The original iPhone's release last year did have a hype machine in full swing, lines of sweaty-palmed nerds lined around the block in rapt anticipation, and eventual (inevitable) server overloads under their combined weight, but why would that happen again? Apple must have learned their lesson, right?

It's not your fault. You were duped, like you've been duped before, like you'll be duped again and again. In any case, I thank you for being good guinea pigs. Do let me know when your MobileMe account starts working, won't you?

Dammit Internet, be more funny!

Yes, yes, there's a Funnyordie.com, Adultswim.com, Collegehumor, Break, Ebaumsworld, JibJab, Cleanguys.com (snicker), and good ol' YouTube, but is it just me, or have these sites lost their luster?

Traffic would indicate that no, they haven't, and I'm just a disgruntled curmudgeonly misanthrope. But I don't think traffic is a good metric; in fact, I would argue that increased traffic is a sure sign that the general quality of their content is going down. Here's the equation: the more content a site has, the more traffic it gets. With sites like YouTube this is especially true, since the content is being created AND promoted by thousands of individuals. An increase in contributors, though, means that a number of people are posting content that is essentially garbage, with very little entertainment value. In addition, in order to produce massive amounts of content, the cost of the content must perforce go down. And with lower costs must come lower production values. From the perspective of these sites, this is an acceptable, even desirable equation. Push the content, maximize impressions, cash in.

So what's the solution? I haven't thought it out that far. I've already made the problem worse by writing a severely unfunny post. It's also difficult to avoid YouTube, which is simultaneously the definitive source for video on the internet and the most egregious offender. I'd say that we can all help by vetting ourselves. Don't post garbage on your blog. Don't watch pointless kick-in-the-balls videos or man-fall-down fare. In short, the only way we can force content providers to give us the funny is by ignoring the asinine.

George Carlin, RIP

Shit, George Carlin is dead. I'm pretty pissed, as I think being pissed is the only adequate tribute.

Fuck me, this is a blog, not an obituary section. As much as I respected Russert, George Carlin was more than a stand up comedian, he was an institution. The influence he had on the art of comedy cannot be expressed in a format so crude as this. I'd probably sound like more of cunt than I already do just trying.

The thing that really burns me, though, is all the little cocksuckers who want to get into comedy and don't even know who he is. In the end, though, the people who loved his comedy, not just because he was a funny motherfucker, but because they connected with it, they- we- are the ones who will keep his legacy alive. Tits.

Sundays without Big Russ

So you probably know by now that Tim Russert, the host of NBC's Meet the Press and one of the more bearable talking heads in the list of celebrity journalists. I'm sure he'll be equally remembered for big stories like the Plame scandal as well as his quirks of character, like his stupid little white board. I'm not much of a eulogist, and to be fair I'm not even a regular MTP watcher, but one thing is certain, and certainly sad: though he one of very few reputable journalists with a huge audience, his slot will almost certainly be filled by a loudmouth windbag like Lou Dobbs or Bill O'Reilly. Fuck.

A word on the new header

Yes, I incorporated the horrible visual pun into the new header, but when you take into account that the title of the blog is already a reasonably bad pun, sticking to my guns can only help at this point. Um, no pun intended.

On another note, I spent way too much time on this, but starting from scratch was necessary in this case. All of my original files of the header were lost long ago and I couldn't find the primary material (the stuff with the dueling guys) anywhere on the internet. As it is, I still don't know who the artist is. Ok, I think there's going to have to be a part 2 to this, because there is a quite a bit to say about the image, and I'd prefer to do it justice. Here it is:



I will say that there are still many flaws in the redesign, mainly due to haste, and a lot of stuff i wanted to steal or crib from the image, but i'm impulsive. I sure hope it's public domain.

Brave Men Run on Boing Boing

My fellow slave and DIY posterchild Matt Selznick recently released his book, Brave Men Run, in various formats, and Boing Boing picked up the story! Super sweet. Go Matt.

As for you, you should go download the book in your format of choice. You can listen to it as a podiobook, read it at your leisure as a PDF, or netjack it straight to your brain. I'm not kidding. Ok, I am, but still, do it.

Just what we needed: more Smurfs

Sony Pictures announced that they will be working on live action / animation hybrid film about the Smurfs. Yeah, the Smurfs, the little blue men with stupid round tails and very limited vocabularies. I always thought it was a weird setup: kind of a communist dictatorship (Papa Smurf is the leader) with an entirely barter-based economy.

Smurf sexuality has also baffled me for quite some time: as two henchmen on the Venture Brothers were arguing about, it's hard to tell if they're mammals or not. If they were, Smurfette would have to be in heat 24-7, but it would be difficult to deliver that many similarly-aged smurfs with a single female if they weren't birthed as a clutch of eggs. Nonetheless, I have to side with the mammal argument, because as one of the henchmen pointed out "[Papa Smurf] has a fucking beard!"

I sincerely doubt any of these concerns will be smurfed upon in the movie.

I thought we had ankled these blue buggers ages ago, but given Hollywood's obstinacy toward coming up with new ideas, it shouldn't come as a surprise that they resurrected the Smurfs. Where's Gargamel when you need him? Makes me wonder whether we won't see a Shirttails or Snorks movie any time soon.

One good thing that came out of this for me post, though, was finding this awesome Smurf redesign. I did a Google image search for "zombie smurf" (get it? resurrecting the Smurfs? hahahahhahaaha.... ahh.... fuck you.) and was unable to find something suitable, but i couldn't help but notice this awesome image. If they looked like this, I might be on board.

More Kennon James artwork here.
More info on the Smurfs movie here.

One act of kindness

My purpose is not to gripe, but for me to get to the point, I have do expound a little bit on a few topics that are going to sound like I'm griping (which I'm not). Please, read on.

For the second time in a month, my car broke down. First one, then yesterday its replacement. I subsequently have to ride the bus to work, which is itself no picnic. I don't think it would be professional of me to voice my opinions on that, so the less said the better. In any case, it's been a difficult day.

In any case, on the way home I have to take two buses, so I need a transfer from the first bus. I didn't have correct change, so I was unable to purchase the transfer. I called my girlfriend to ask her to pick me up from the second stop, but because of some crazy parking conditions near our place, she couldn't come. It sort of felt as though nothing would go right for me.

As I was getting off the bus, the driver beckoned to me. He slipped a transfer into my hand and said "it's good until 7:30." I gave the man my heartfelt thanks and smiled. That's when I realized that it was the first time I've smiled today.

I won't belabor the point any more, I just want to encourage anyone reading this to practice random acts of kindness. Yes, I know I sound like Oprah. Even so, the power of your own humanity is much greater than you may think. You probably already know all the BS people spout about this topic, saying it makes the place a better world and other nonsense. That's immaterial. The point is that it'll make you feel good, and it's the fucking right thing to do. We only get a limited number of opportunities in life to prove to ourselves that we are indeed human, not ants navigating around each other on our narrow little paths. Don't waste the opportunities, it could make a big difference to someone. You. Others. Does it matter to whom?

Say "Oh."

Listening to the Vampire Weekend song A-Punk is usually a pretty fun experience for me, but who knew it would contain such a wonderful nugget of wisdom? I'm referring to this line from the chorus:

Look outside at the raincoats coming, say "oh."

I should mention that I have no idea what the song is about (stealing some asshole's ring?), and in the interest of full disclosure, this blog post is not really about the song. It's about the idea Vampire Weekend seems to be communicating in that line.

I've had an atypically hard day today. I won't get into it, because that wouldn't be saying "oh." All the same, I have very little patience at the moment, particularly for artificial padding to make a simple thought into an overwrought writerly mess, so I'll get to the point: there's a common way of thinking that suggests people should face the adversity in their lives by smiling at it, welcoming it, and finding the positive side of it. I can't say I don't admire the can-do spirit that aims to make lemonade out of sour sour lemons, but I think it goes too far when it tries to turn shit into ice cream. Optimism is one thing, but denial is quite another. It's amazing that clarification is required, but indeed, bad things are bad, no two ways about it. Still, grousing through life is no way to live, so what's a man to do? Say "oh," that's what.

Don't get me wrong: I'm not suggesting that the answer to life's scrapes and bruises is an extra-thick layer of callous. What I am suggesting is a bit of perspective and a bit of acceptance. Yes, people are wearing raincoats, which means it's going to rain. Shall we match the rain with our own facial precipitation? Shall we sing in the rain like a fucking maniac, laughing our way right into pneumonia? Nothing so dramatic. Just go outside as you have in more pleasant weather. Walk the same route you always walk, and turn your face up to the sky as you tend to do. When the first droplet of rain hits you in the cheek or left eyelid, you will not need to react: you knew it was coming. What's more, you know there will be many more to follow. You can feel secure in the knowledge that you spared yourself the double indignity of being wet and angry, and that when it rains again, you may not even feel it. Of course, it's still acceptable to get mad when it rains shit instead of water, but that hardly ever happens.

Check out my sweet ride and phat bling, now on Valleywag! --> http://ping.fm/ZWuj2

Culottes Vs. Pantaloons

For many years, a question has burned in my mind: When did the switch over from knee breaches to long pants happen? And why? Who was the first guy to show up to the social event of the season wearing long pants and subsequently scandalizing the gentry? Conversely, who was the first guy to show up wearing knee breaches, illiciting the snickers and stares of the fashionistas wearing long pants?

Last night I went to a bar where a band called Les Sans Culottes was playing. I didn't actually get in, because by the time I had the cover-money in my hand, the place had filled to capacity; that's a story for another time, or maybe never. What really interested me was their name: as stupid as this sounds, it reminded me of Funky Phantom. Here's a refresher:






And in case you need more:

Wikipedia - The Funky Phantom


I have to admit that I didn't become aware of this character until his appearance on Harvey Birdman: Attorney at Law. A regular character posed this question:

"I'm seeing a hat, a cravat, and what are those, sans-culottes? So I gots to know: what make you think you're so funky?"

The answer came in the form of a hip-hop video featuring dancing bitches, a horse-drawn carriage with hydraulics and phat rimzz, Antonin Scalia and Pat Buchanan. Hilariously current! In any case, back to the pants. Despite clearly being a member of the aristocracy of the late 18th century, Funky Phantom chooses to wear long pants; perhaps this is an element of his funkiness. But when you consider the main group that wore sans-culottes, it becomes clear that pants were more than just a fashion statement; they were also a political statement.

Of course I realize that the writers of Birdman were only trying to write an outrageous joke featuring an old Hanna-Barbera cartoon character and recognizable contemporary political figures (sad that Scalia can be called a political figure, since politics should theoretically never come into play in the Supreme Court); nonetheless, they may have stumbled into a very loaded set of circumstances. If you took a look at the wikipedia article on Sans-Culottes, you have seen that it was a term coined by the French aristocracy for peasants and the working class who did not wear the fashionable knee-breeches of the higher classes. It makes sense: the lower leg was usually covered by knee stockings and a set of buckled shoes, which would be terribly inefficient to wear during intense physical labor. The stockings would run and tear, whereas long pants would cover the leg adequately from brambles in the field or falling sparks or other detritus in factories. So now that that's clear, back to Funky Phantom. Since his aforementioned tricorner hat and cravat make it clear that he was a member of the aristocracy (he put similar articles of clothing on his fucking cat, for Christ's sake) why would he choose to buck the fashion of the time and wear long pants?

You may or may not know this, but Funky Phantom became trapped in his house during the revolutionary war and was not released until a group of kids not unlike the Scooby Doo gang stumbled into his home and freed him. In the Birdman video, he is clearly down with Scalia and Pat Buchanan. Do you see where I'm going with this? Funky Phantom is George W. Bush! The long pants are part of his populist affectation, but when the war came knocking on his door, he promptly turned tail and ran, letting the people he hoped to identify with do the dirty work. Granted, there was no Republican Party yet, so he was probably a Federalist with proto-republican leanings.

So we have a partial answer: long pants were introduced by the working class, not as a fashion statement, but out of necessity. Cartoon ghosts with heavy political prescience aside though, the working class cannot account for the switchover in the upper classes. Typically the upper classes try to hang on to the earmarks of their lives of leisure, and since knee-breeches are so laden with delicacy, refinement, and inefficiency (read "decadence"), it's difficult to reconcile the plummet in popularity the would experience in the coming years.

I can't say I have a real answer, but I do have a theory. There is only one class that mixes attributes of the lowest among the working class and some of the highest strata of the aristocracy: the military class. Around the turn of the century, the United States was still in the midst of military birth-pangs, and in France, there was total social upheaval. Lesson from the Guerilla-style Revolutionary war must have taught the militias of the time of the disadvantages of wearing sheer stockings into battle, and indeed, early military uniforms show long-pant early adopters could be found in the ranks of the military.

I wish I had more to say on the subject. I still wonder about the first man to be laughed at for wearing knee-breeches in a roomful of snooty sans-culotte wearers. I wonder how present this question was in the mind of the creators of Funky Phantom. I wonder how the band Les Sans-Culotte sounds, and if they're aware of the wry nod to fashion, politics, and populism in history their name represents. Most of all, though, I wonder when the short-pant-and stocking combo will come roaring back, and whether any of us will be ready for it. Word to your mother.

Sounds Like Rain

I enjoy rain, but I also enjoy sounds like rain. a really old hard drive spinning up and clacking softly, for example.

I so my one-a-day thing fell apart pretty fast. I really do have a lot to talk about, but the main thing is that I've really overloaded my plate. too much to do and not enough time to do it means I only get to write at 4 am. so instead of forcing a new post, I'll just put up my latest work. Please enjoy.

Too Soon to default to the day's news...

...but I'll probably do it anyway.

Um... um... why don't you tell me about your day?

Ok, so on the for-realsies tip, I have a lot of things I want to talk about, but no time. I'll come back later and update when I'm finished with my day's doings, and also when I'm more drunk. Please to check back.

Repost: The One-a-day promise

Hello, society of friends. Welcome! If you're not a Quaker, you're also welcome (only less so). Here is a repost from my Blog on Myspace... sadly, it gets a lot more traffic than Epistles. At any rate, voila le reposte:



Wow, that has a nice ring to it [The title was also "The one-a-day promise". This will be my last interjection]. I should write ad copy:

Let's face it: your anal cavity is like a painful boiling cauldron of lava. Under these conditions, even the toughest industrial grade analgesic suppositories disolve quickly and easily, and require two, three, even four applications in one day. But who has time for that? You're a busy person with a busy intestinal lining. Smingers' Analgesic Suppositories is guaranteed to be the only suppository on the market that lasts the whole day. Smingers' brand can take the heat... so you can get on with your life. Say goodbye once-- and for all-- to anal discomfort with Smingers': That's the one-a-day promise.

Sometimes I surprise myself.
Sadly, I have nothing so pleasant as pills that go in your butt. What have comes out of butts: more talking. As in talking out of my butt. Hm... probably should have worked on that one.
In any case, here's the real promise: I promise to post at least one blog post per day for the next month. Super duper pinky swear. That's not all: at least once, I'll post a piece of original artwork by me, and I'll try to include at least one complete work of fiction, one film review, one uncomfortably candid intimation of personal details, one news analysis (that one's easy), and one of something which I haven't decided on. Hopefully I'll have time to end with some fireworks.

Here's the catch: I won't be doing it here. I'll be doing it on my "legitimate" blog, Epistlesatdawn.com.
There are a lot of reason I want to do this, but I think if I get into them, I'll lose some of my steam. Steam is a precious resource, as is punk, which is why they're so kick-ass together. Hopefully I still have some of both. I suppose we'll see, won't we?


***

I hope you all... no, that ain't right... I hope both of you appreciate the wonderful layer-cake of metatext I baked up. Don't make me spell it out. I'm a shameless self-aggrandizer, don't test me.

If this isn't enough content for you , then consider the following image:






Maddening, wouldn't you say? No? Entertaining? Silly? Funny? Witty? Irreverent? Reverent? I'll take anything. I any case, I've noticed that blogs tend to get more traffic when the readers are more visually stimulated. In a calculated effort to express a fraction of my contempt for... well, everyone, I have chosen to keep this space at least 95% image-free. Now squint in pain at my woefully underworked layout and tiny Draconian fonts.

No more free logos

So I made a logo for a co-worker for free. I'm not sure why agreed to it, but it may have something to do with my prosthetic spine. In any case, I was fairly proud of the work; it's nothing out-of-this world, but it is a nice little idea executed in a way that isn't totally suicide-inducing. It can be seen here.

I probably shouldn't complain that she hasn't posted a blog since December given my spotty record and yes, out-and-out disdain for anyone who would read more than three words written by a hack like me (who am I talking to anyway?), but dammit, I don't want anyone else squandering my efforts! I do a damn fine job of that on my own.

30 Days of Night Review

The Vampire Movie genre is a funny thing: it's much older than the zombie movie genre, but has none of it's cohesion or consistent formal conventions. Nosferatu, of course, is a classic: Murnau's vampire was inhuman, loaded with metaphorical value while staying essentially creepy. By all indications, the vampire would be the gold standard of fear in cinema. But from the moment Bela Lugosi stuck a pair of (I assume) funny-smelling plastic fangs in his mouth, the genre was doomed to a future of campy jokes, silly accents and affectations, and really bad wardrobe. You might be thinking that I'm referring to the extremely gay Interview with a Vampire (and I don't say that derisively; the movie is laden with homosexual subtext and, well, text), and I am, but I'm also thinking of the Blade and Underworld Movies, which basically cranked out clumsy vampires by the barrel and cut through them like Chuck Norris cuts through gangs of ninjas. Some films, like Larry Fesenden's Habit, were well-done, but they got caught up in the sexual aspect of vampirism. There's no doubt in my mind that Bram Stoker's Dracula is an extended sexual metaphor, among other things, and I'm certain that the oft-maligned Fessenden was paying tribute to the B-movies of yore like Daughters of Darkness. I'm not going to lie: I love a sexy movie as much as the next guy, but turning a vampire into an object of sexual desire (or mirthful escapades as the case may be) is in direct conflict with it's sense of menace, it's inhumanness, it's pall of fear. Me? I want blood.

I have no idea why the vampire was defanged in this way, but 30 Days of Night set out to undo all the damage done over the last several years. The film is set in the northernmost town in Alaska, during the part of the year when there are literally 30 calendar days of perpetual night. A group of vampires cut off the town's communication and go on a month-long feeding frenzy. Without commenting overmuch on the premise, it's quite refreshing to have one that doesn't involve vampire race wars and the Ultimate Fate of vampire-kind. This is a small town and a small faction of vampires intent on nothing more than sucking all the blood they can.
The protagonist, Sheriff Eben Oleson, is also a key to the threat posed by the vampires. Although he is generally a quick-thinking, capable man, he is far from being the super-cool Blade or Selene, who slay enemies by the dozen with a dry quip and a dry brow. Oleson is not a badass hero, but a protector who is barely able to protect a small group of survivors, let alone a whole town. He great under pressure, but the pressure is so great that at moments he appears to be on the verge of cracking.

But who wouldn't? These vampires are menacing, the way vampires should be. If a porcelain Tom Cruise wearing a puffy pirate shirt accosted me, I'm sure that I would die... laughing. The vampires in 30 Days are not the foppish aristocrats of the night we've become accustomed to, nor are they the leather-clad glorified red-shirts that Wesley Snipes eats for breakfast: they are monsters in men's clothing, razor-fanged, crazy-eyed, blood-soaked beasts with contorted alabaster faces. Everything about them says fear, from their normal-yet-slightly-stressed attire to their gutteral vampire language. The wonderful thing about them is not that it's a unique re-envisioning of the vampire, but a return the core foul thing that predates all cinema. They are part of no underground cabal or society just beyond the scope of human eyes, just a pack of dangerous, hungry scavengers with nothing more in mind than tearing out a throat or two.

All told, the movie is generally unspectacular, but likable nonetheless. It dusted off a few tricks from the horror movie playbook and filled in the blanks with great makeup, good but scant gore effects, and a hasty tacked-on romantic angle. That said, I would watch this movie again and possibly buy the DVD. I like gore effects, great makeup, and the horror movie playbook. I would go so far as to say that I'm skeptical of films that think they can improve on it. Even though this is a perfectly likable little movie in the grand scheme of things, in the here and now, it's a wonderful treat for those of us who have been waiting for a vampire movie with scary vampires in it.

Freewrite

Ok, no long exposition. Freewrite time: ready, set, go:

"Guillaume! Guillaume! Where is that boy? I swear he's always getting into one thing or another! Guillaume!"

Guillaume was not in his room. He was not anywhere around the mounds of crunchy fresh snow in the backyard, nor in the surrounding woods. He had not climbed over the rickety rusted chickenwire fences erected decades ago by the grandparents of his neighbors. He had not wandered down the gentle slope of the hill he lived on, nor up the equally mild incline of the next hill. He had not traced the path of the semi-frozen rivulets of melted snow, nor was he at any the various puddles and undisturbed basins where the water collected.

"Francois!"

"Yes mother?"

"Where is your brother? Where is Guillaume?"

Francois's heart strained to tell his mother again. Instead he wordlessly poured her a fresh cup of Earl Grey and adjusted her blanket. He was unsure whether the tea service was older than the dozens of porcelain dolls in oak cases lining the room; they had always been there.

"Mother, would you prefer to take your tea in the living room? It's almost time for those judge programs on TV that you love so well."

"I would prefer if you would find your brother and bring him here, you lackwit!"

The last time Francois had heard that word was long ago; he and Guillaume had clambered across the slippery rocks of the creek across town and into a cave that reputedly had been a pirate's hideout. Mainly they found dozens of beercans and a powerful stench of urine. Convinced they would find some manner of booty, Guillaume dragged Francois through the deeper chambers of the cave. The croaking of the native frogs was amplified several times over, creating a monstrous omnipresent rumble. It was this that distracted Francois long enough to keep him from immediately noticing the wails of pain from his brother. He had fallen and sprained his ankle, which, at the time, seemed life threatening.

Note... okay, this is good stuff... I think I need to switch into real writing mode.. I'll let you know when it's done.

Friday's Link of Wonderfulness vol. 1

Since I'm a professional web surfer (I work at Mahalo.com), I thought I'd begin favoring you with a weekly weird link chock full of wonderfulness (in addition to my well-known love of nautically themed melancholia, I'm also a big fan of strange things and portmanteaux).

This week: The Parasite Pals!

Have you ever felt lonely? Upset that even though you get to see your friends on occasion, they eventually have to go home and leave you? Well, if they lived inside you, they'd never leave! Joy!

This is the central idea behind the Parasite Pals. They're basically cute, Sanrio-style drawings and flash animations of disgusting organisms that feed off of your blood and inward meats. My favorite is this happy fellow, Tickles the Tapeworm:





Aw, the stomach is sad! :(
No reason you should be, though!
Happy weekend and labor day, y'all!

Happy Babies and Angry Old Men

So yesterday my buscapades continued. As I was only my way to work, I noticed one old man getting kind of annoyed. He was one of those old guys who can't really stand up straight and needs a cane. I think he was upset because another old man was standing too close. I could here that they were talking to each other, but I couldn't make out what they were saying until this little gem from the one with the cane:

"Get away from me! Are you a faggot or something?"

He said it in Spanish, but that sounds even more abrasive.

They continued bickering for few seconds, then both got off at the next stop. The bus idled there for a few moments, and the whole load of commuters rushed to the right side of the bus to watch their continuing and escalating beef. The one with the cane was now wielding it as a weapon.

"Pinche Viejillos!" exclaimed one bus patron with a laugh. It means, roughly, "fucking little old men!" Perhaps I'm a little too sensitive, but it was too early in the morning for hostility and madness and callousness. I needed a book of Bukowski poems and a belt of whiskey, stat.

As the bus pulled away and relegated their rivalry to my memory, I felt a profound disgust for life itself. I can't take you through my thought process, because it was somewhat hazy to me: all I know is that something about these bitter old bastards, full of piss and vinegar, hanging on to their pride and preserving their last ragged breaths like a bag of jewels seemed utterly, utterly pointless.

But that was yesterday.

Today I've been listening to a song called "Intelligentactile 101" by a young lady named Jesca Hoop. A lot. It's nice.

As far as I can tell, the song is sung from the perspective of a fetus in her mother's womb. It mainly discusses her plans after she's born, like sucking her mom's fingers and other important things.

You know something? I love songs about being born. This one in particular is especially jubilant, rocking from side to side and laughing like a toddler with a set of colorful plastic novelty keys.

Dont' get me wrong: I don't want to be a baby again. I'm not pining for my childhood as a reaction to the unpleasant portent the two old men formed. All the same, the themes raised by this song are just really cheerful. I like the idea of just enjoying life, of seeing it through a fresh lens. That, I think, is the key: I've always though that life must inevitably become more complicated. Every moment we live adds a new dimension of context, a new aspect of complication that seems unimportant in the moment it occurs, but eventually breaks our backs with it's sheer weight as more and more of these moments accumulate.

If we didn't change, this would be completely true. But even though reality is a dynamic and ever-changing system, so is a human being. The concept of growing or acquiring greater strength to carry greater weight seems remarkably short-sighted as I think. Did not these mighty A.M. gladiators value their strength, their capable-ness, their identity as manly men without need of others to defend them? That way doesn't seem right to me. No, the answer isn't in addition, it's in subtraction.

Maybe I should explain this cosmology a bit more thoroughly before I engage this concept. Let's start with another old man: Heraclitus. Notable idea:

This world-order [kosmos], the same of all, no god nor man did create, but it ever was and is and will be: everliving fire, kindling in measures and being quenched in measures.

This is essentially the concept of Universal Flux. It means that the universe is always changing. Kant was probably aware of this when he came up with his idea that the "real" universe is pretty much unknowable, because our perceived universe is always several steps behind the shiftless actual fabric of reality.

While all of this is a bit dizzying and maybe a little depressing, it's important to remember that a human being is not just a hunk of matter or a simple animal: we're much more than creatures, much more amazing than even the greatest and most majestic of reality's constructs. We're in and of this universal fabric, but we don't have to act like the rest of it. The sun, for all it's brilliance and power, must follow it's appointed trajectory. It must burn and burn until it has nothing left to burn. Sad.

But us? People? Do we have to keep all the residue and space dust that accrues on our happless, possibly hatless heads? Hell no! We can take showers! We invented shampoo! And this is not limited to detritus from the nether-corners of existence: this concept can also be applied to the ponderous context that collects over our lives. Just as every moment forces a new dimension of context for us to carry, we can perform an act of perceptual judo and be reborn. How? By understanding that the person you were just moments ago is not the person you are now. You've aged a bit, some things that seemed true then probably seem the tiniest bit less true or more true now, and just like a baby's rapidly changing synapses, your mind has made and severed thousands of connections. The point? You're a new person! That other person? Gone. Now there's you, and no one has ever met you before, and though that other guy has eaten all kinds of shit, you have never even had the pleasure of tasting chocolate.

The wonderful thing is that it's not limited to once a year or once a day or just whenever an epiphany decides to wander in: we can do this every minute, every second, every discrete unit of time we have in our whole lives! The only thing we have do is remember.

Maybe this is sounding very Catholic of me: a sort of modified penance to achieve absolution. This has nothing to do, though, with being in the good graces of the Universal powers that be. It has everything to do with the perception you have of yourself. You have to remember that existence is any incredibly complex dynamic system, and as small spinning convection cells in this system, we're in a perpetual state of flux too. If our perception of the whole system is always a few steps behind the system itself, why should our perception of ourselves be any more caught up? We are reformed and recreated every moment, so why not embrace contextual babyhood? It sure beats the alternative.

Man, I can't wait to know what chocolate will taste like to my tomorrow-tongue.

The Wheels on the Bus

My car is broken at the moment, so I had to ride the bus home from work today. It made me remember a few things I already knew:

1) People who ride the bus are by and large decent, but there's always one jerk in the bunch. For the most part they're fine people: quiet, minding their own business, generally absorbed in their own affairs, iPods, newspapers, or conversations with the other people living inside their skulls. Still, there always has to be one person who wants to be the center of attention. Some kid I saw today was tripping old people as they walked by. When one lady said something to him, he lost his cool. It was a rather pathetic spectacle.

2) Bus drivers are generally not the most polite or intelligent people in the world. I think the last time I rode a bus was about a year ago. At that time, I stepped onto a bus that was apparently ending it's run. I was about to ask the bus driver a question when she made a shooing motion with her hand and commanded "Off my bus." As I tried to interject that I only had one simple question, she reiterated her order. I tried to mention that that is not the most polite thing to do for a person in a public service profession, or at least to affirm that I hadn't been rude to her, but if I hadn't stepped off as quickly as I did I might have lost my nose to the slamming bus door. This was at a terminal, so of course, the bus I wanted was hers. She parked the bus for awhile and rolled it to the opposite end of the station. She saw me running to catch it, slowed down, realized I was the guy who had questioned her politeness, and proved me right by slamming the door a second time and peeling out.
Today it was something much more simple. I was sort of lost and confused after getting off at the wrong stop, so I walked up to a bus that wasn't mine and asked the guy a question:

"Does the number 68 stop here?"
My question was answered with another question.
"Do you see a sign that says 68?"
"Well, no, but that's why I'm asking you." I briefly considered adding "because you are a professional coach conductor while I am a barely literate rube who has no right to trouble you with his problems" but decided against it.

The point, I think, is that you should never ask a bus driver questions. Burdening them with your ignorance is a cardinal sin in BusDriverLandia. Do what I did instead: carry your ignorance as you walk home. Let it distract you from the various marginalized people you run into on that walk, and the smell of sewage wafting up from the street. Then go get your car fixed, for fuck's sake.