Les Cousins
The Cousins is obviously centered around its titular characters, Paul and Charles, and the way that they differentiate themselves. It doesn't put the two on equal ground, however, as Charles is visiting his cousin Paul at Paul's home (provided by his wealthy absentee father) in the heart of Paris, while Charles is accustomed to provinicial life. The heart of their difference doesn't seem so much to be, as it may appear on the surface, about whether or not they are willing to engage in hedonistic behavior but rather how they go about getting what they want. For one, Paul has his mysterious friend Clovis always at his side to go about without regard for scruples (as can be seen in the very first activity that Paul implicitly asks him to undertake, encouraging a fling of his to get an abortion). Clovis can be seen as the way that Paul deceives, that he makes a clever show so that his intentions are only displayed when it best serves Paul's purposes, and this is typified by the way that Clovis hides away money in the animal's mouth that hangs on the wall and conceals his actions each time he goes to it. Charles, on the other hand, cannot hold back his motives or methods from public purview, as when he cannot refrain from telling off a party guest that he does not like.

Both of their relationships with Florence reflect this disparity between the two. Charles cannot help but explain to her exactly how he feels about her, both in the strength of his feelings and his reservations due to insecurity. On the other hand, Paul sneakily arranges so that he can lure Florence into the apartment, in the hopes that he can break the burgeoning relationship she has with Charles. She serves as a manifestation of the conflicting desire in choosing between these two types of people: while Charles is initially flattering to her, his inability to actually achieve his desires (such as getting a private car ride with her) leaves her dissatisfied, and though Paul ends up playing her and in effect calls into question her own autonomy, she finds in him a sort of script to follow that is functional if not exactly empowering.

An interesting subtheme within the movie is the issue of race. The use of the Wagner music, which Paul performs a poem in German to, seems to indicate the relentless pursuit of the end is tied to not only feelings of personal superiority, but also ones of racial superiority. This is further implicated in Clovis's dismissal of the African from the party. We can see the difference between the cousins on this matter when Paul wakes up a sleeping Jewish guest by yelling "Gestapo!" and shining a flashlight in his eyes. Paul tries to distance himself from the macabre suggestions of this by focusing on its utility in getting him awake and out of the house, while Charles is preoccupied by the psychic toll this must have exacted upon him.

The 400 Blows
As the film is obviously preoccupied with youth, the relationships amongst the youths may be of secondary importance to that of the relationship they have with figures of authority, but it does define what separates the more societally functional classmates of Antoine from the types (such as the protagonist) who eventually gets carted off to a reformatory. They are all participants in mischief, as is clear from their running away from the teacher as they march through the streets or how, even while Antoine is being punished for his "singling-out" by his teacher, they fight amongst themselves during recess. What does distinguish Antoine is that he is consistent in his detractions from the figures of authority: while other students assure the teacher of their own innocence or how Rene attempts to ensure that his room is smoke-free when his father arrives, Antoine does little to confront those above him to mitigate his punishment but is either openly insubordinate or vacantly quiet when he awaits his sentence.

The other students also find alternative ways to misbehave, they are not always taking out their frustrations on those that actually influence their lives in a controlling manner but turn their mischief on one another. This can be seen as the student who sees Antoine skipping class later, feigning ignorance, goes to his doorstep to ask his parents if Antoine is still sick. In another scene where the conflict is not between two students but rather all against one we see the prized glasses picked up and vandalized by almost every member of the class subsequently. The former is a way that the student is able to break an understood rule amongst classmates while the latter shows how the students can form their own sort of power structure to censure a student who they believe to be obnoxious (which seems to be the most sinful trait throughout the movie, merely being an inconvenience). This sort of mischief even goes so far as to inconspicuously control those in power, as one student attempts (successfully) to distract another in the midst of a recitation to bring out the ire of the teacher and direct it at the student who is actually attempting to do his work and not the one who is misbehaving.

My Night at Maud's
An interesting aspect of the movie is how Jean-Louis picks out his wife-to-be Francoise. While she is certainly beautiful and he knows that she is of a similar enough of religious ideals that she is a Catholic as he is, he has never spoken to her when he eventually decides to marry her. Even before this admission to himself of his intentions for her he follows her wordlessly through the streets after mass. The extended sequence where he is continually confounded by tight alleyways and the cars attempting to go about their business ends in him losing her and craning his neck about to relocate her. The implied question at this point is what was he hoping to obtain by following her: some information about her life, or a chance to talk, and what excuse would he have for his presence wherever she ended up? It may appear that this is merely a way to underscore the unclear yet committed purpose he has for her, which will serve as the basis of his character throughout the movie.

The function of his near arbitrary choice of a wife is to link it with his religion. The majority of the movie is focused on what his faith has to say about his relationship with women (which he differentiates with other worldly pleasures such as wine or smoking) and so the parallel between the two is clear. When he is questioned about how he is Catholic, he states that his parents were, and that he chose to "keep it up." Here is a marriage of chance and commitment, a kind of leap-of-faith towards what was randomly bestowed upon him. So, as he allows repeated chance encounters to determine the object of his desires so does he allow the method of his life to be determined by fate. This is not to say that he downplays the importance of these things to him, but it shows his resolution to participating in the life he has been dealt.

Alphaville
The simplistic and arbitrary style of life in the city of Alphaville is intentionally left mostly indistinct from the present. While the particular indulgences of city may had yet to enter into French life, the technology present was not really distinguishable from that of the time (and though the artificial intelligence being would certainly be beyond the scope of the contemporary technology of the film, the voice is never given a distinct source and thus appears more as an understanding than an actual mechanism). The way that the minor, inconsequential choices that one may make (such as whether to drive through the north of the south of the city) mirror those of the rising consumerism of the time. The way that Lemmy's camera is considered a relic shows the way that the present "cutting-edge" is always giving way to more advanced technology (often by such insignficant degrees as to be unnoticeable). In fact, even within Alphaville the present manner of technology is not given nearly as much consideration as the near-future as its scientists do not speak of recent discoveries and innovations but rather those to come.

The nature of language within Alphaville is of central importance to understanding the nature of its operation. The typical Gideon's bible is replaced with a dictionary, constantly updated by means of exclusion. This is highly reminiscient of 1984 in its preoccupation with Double-Speak as a means to control the minds of citizens. There is also the comic misuse of space jargon to describe mundane Earthly existence (such as "intergalactic" travel or "light-years" losing its connection to distance but rather becoming a catch all term for large quantities). The situation becomes particularly bleak at the film's end when Natacha fumbles with the word "love" to describe her relationship with Lemmy, which suggests that those with a broken relationship with language may be manipulated even by the introduction of new words.

Le Bonheur
This film becomes practically unbearable with its constant audiovisual over-stimulation. The Mozart score, whenever it appears, has such unmitigated volume to it as to drown out all dialogue and ambient noises. The bright color palette that is used throughout the film never ceases as even the fades are not to the typical black but instead to a bright blue or orange. This serves to illuminate the concern of the film, namely sensual fulfillment. The focus of the story is of a man's infidelity and eventual replacement of his wife with his mistress. The pivotal scenes of the film are where Francois confesses of his relationship (with an undercurrent, but not an overt show of shame) to his wife, their final act of love-making, and her dissappearance to commit suicide. The way that he describes his relationship with his mistress is that it does not detract from his devotion to or need of his wife Claire, but instead that he merely found himself as if he had "extra arms" that needed to be intertwined with anothers.

The nonchalant attitude that the film takes to such a dark subject is due to its analysis of the acceptability of a certain attitude by society at large. Essentially, the need to stimulate is not called into question, it is taken for granted that to have more, one's "fill" as it were, would be an unreproachable goal. What this film shows is that Francois, and many of similar persuasion, are not concerned with seeing themselves as part of a complete system with his family but instead an individual that seeks fulfillment in his interactions with others. He describes his family as "four trees" within an orchard, and his mistress Emilie as a tree off on its own, and in doing so (though most likely unintentionally) shows that he views their grouping as not fundamental but only an organizational one, and as we see later, interchangeable.

Cleo 5 to 7
The character of Cleo certainly appears self-centered, and in some ways may be reprehensible because of it. However, there may be another way of perceiving her: that she is incapable of escaping her view of herself as an object of adoration and that she is losing her idea of herself as a person because of this. Her need to show off herself may be seen as not self-assured but rather neurotic and compulsory. She claims to be tired of her song as it comes on the radio in the taxi, yet she goes to the cafe and turns it on in hopes of seeing people react to her presence. Her sense of her "self" and the image that she portrays to others is deteriorating, as can be seen when she refers to her hair as a hat that she wears (and though it is revealed to be a wig, the uncertainty of these distinctions become clear). Her relationship with her husband is that he treats her as a pretty little thing, and the presence of so many kittens within her bedroom underscores this possibility of not seeing her as a person but instead a cute object that is kept around to be pleasant though not to converse with.

This changes as she meets the man on the bridge. Her spontaneous relationship forms not because either is seeking out company, but instead because they both meander to the peaceful site while no one else is around. Rather than play off the possibility of the severity of her illness as most of those around her do, he quickly commits to figuring out the state of her health with her. The allure that she has with him is that their relationship becomes even more non-corporeal as he is going to have to leave for war, and yet he still wants to maintain closeness with her. She gains through him a relationship defined without physical or sensory contact, but instead only in memory and personal understanding, which allows her a comfort that is missing elsewhere in her life.

Pierrot Le Fou
In this film Godard seems less interested in genre deconstruction than the absurdity and disparity between men and women. Though the film does stick to the general paradigm of the couple-on-the-run noir films, it breaks with it in so many ways (its tone, the plot, etc.) that it does not even feel like a parody so much as an unhonored premise. The attitude of that Ferdinand and Marianne have towards one another is perpetual frustration that they cannot play the roles the other wants them to (this can be seen in how Ferdinand is called "Pierrot" by Marianne though he corrects her each time and conversely how Marianne gets the wrong things from the book store). The film works as a continual inability to commit, in how their journey begins with Ferdinand leaving his family and ends with his unsuccessful attempt to stop his own suicide. It is mostly a raging against the way that one is forced to travel along predetermined paths (which is made explicit as they drive off into the sea only to prove that they can).

The distrust of women is particularly apparent in the character of Marianne. The general premise of their trailblazing is so that she might be able to meet up with a relative and get money from him, but this is proved to be fallacious as the man that she is speaking of is another lover. She leaves and reappears to Ferdinand suddenly, and her motives for doing so are questioned, though she presents herself merrily in contrast to his upset behavior (such as sitting down on the train tracks).

Their portrayal of the Vietnam conflict seems to be a criticism of American simplicity. Ferdinand attempts to portray a self-assured American through a string of buzzwords, and Marianne takes the stereotypes of Asian appearance, dress and speech to ridiculous extremes. While they make loud and colorful displays, they are only met with dumb approval by their American audience, who they coerce out of their money to further finance their travels.

Les Mistons
This short focuses on the fetishization and distance from women that closely mirrors that which a film audience would experience to its stars. While the youths appear to downplay their influence on Bernadette, thinking that she often does not realize their presence unless they jump out towards her and her boyfriend. This is most likely an underestimation, however, perhaps most obvious when she is in mourning of Gerard's death and passes by them, since while she doesn't turn to face them, they are gathered within a few feet of her in plain sight. While she is playing tennis she is obviously showing off her body, and considering that Gerard is more interested in the game, it is likely that she is doing it for the boys off in the bushes. With the joy that is readily apparent to her during these times, she is thrilled and empowered by the attention she is receiving.

The attention that the boys give to image helps to link the way that they relate to Bernadette and the way that the audience does. As they take the postcards and attempt to create a narrative (to forge the suggestion of Gerard's infidelity) so is the audience left with this piece of imagery of the film to create entire personas and conjecture about their natures (with all their secret nuances). The way that the boys cannot have an equitable relationship with her and resolve instead to look from afar, and to seek lingering traces of her after she has left, shows the distance that the movie screen invariably creates that cannot be traversed.

Les Carabiniers
Throughout this absurdist critique of war mentality the inability for the protagonists to properly relate to images shows how they are manipulated to the point of death. The naive nature of these characters is quite distancing, and their actions appear so foolish that one cannot possibly view any of them as a personal simulacrum, yet this distance causes the audience to have even more disdain for those who buy into the myths of military service. It becomes apparent immediately as Michelangelo and Ulysses are told what they will be able to do when they are off at war that they are brought in for the basest of human desires, namely the subjugation of all else to oneself as its own end. And while they do prove to be malicious in that they are remorseless executioners, the kind of carnage that they ask for is not acted out as one might expect. For instance, when they seize a house, it appears that Michelangelo will rape the woman there, and yet he only lifts up her skirt and looks. He does not see this (admittedly perverse and heinous) possibility for gratification, but is held back by his necessary voyeurism.

When Michelangelo goes into a cinema and watches a movie involving a nude woman, he is constantly shifting his position so that he might get a better perspective (and pays no heed to the others there that he obviously disturbs with his antics). It is as if he does not understand the difference between the presented and the real. This discrepancy is made even more apparent when Ulysses opens up the case contained the spoils of the war and only pictures are inside. They belabor all the wealth they've accrued by showing off each postcard and stating what it is, and it is not until Cleopatra and Venus become upset that they try to defend their alleged fortune. They recognize that there is a difference between this and the "real" things they represent, but the degree and nature of the difference is not analyzed deeply and they continue to go on putting names to the women in the pictures and enjoying the right to these things.

The Umbrellas of Cherbourg
This operatic musical is a display of the power that the way in which one conceives one's life has over it. From the beginning we see the rain coming down on the tow and the many umbrellas that serve to protect and identify those underneath it. The shop that Genevieve's mother owns and operates is highly stylized (as are most locales throughout the movie) to put an emphasis on its color, which is mirrored when she asks the color that each customer wants when they go through. The ability for this aesthetic thing to push out the mundane and preserve the cultivated appearance that one has achieved functions in the same way that the musical romanticizes the lives of these people. Just as Guy leaves Genevieve, so does he leave the screen, and as his absence leaves her to forget who he was and what he meant to her she is pressed to consider leading her life as her mother foresees it.

The simple lives that they lead practically border on being trashy. Guy and Genevieve have a whirlwind romance that results in a teenage pregnancy, and while he is away she marries a rich man who will most likely spend much of his time away from her. When Guy comes back from his service, he becomes self-destructive until his aunt's caretaker is left without a job by her death, and the two decide to take up the life that Guy had originally envisioned he and Genevieve would lead. These cliches never strike the characters as such, however, since they have loftier self-conceptions that protect them from the grim realities that they are living out.

Bonnie and Clyde
This film about the couple on the run, without a grand plan but adapting along the way to the various impediments and advantages that they are presented keeps up the tradition of many of the films of the French New Wave. The sexual tension of the titular characters remains unresolved throughout much of the movie, and its elusive nature is titilating to the viewer. The repression that Clyde has towards his sexuality seems to stem from grandiose ideas that both he and Bonnie are above it, though when his brother implies that they have consummated their relationship and asks how much pleasure Clyde exacts from it, Clyde jovially continues the charade. It is not his self-righteousness but rather his inexperience that has been the reason of his celibacy, and for a character that so obviously enjoys being in the priveleged position of understanding this reluctance fits well. The frustration that it engenders in Bonnie causes her to resent a more sexually fulfilled Blanche and urge C.W. to get a tattoo on his chest which he prominently displays.

The nature of rumor becomes a focal point throughout the story. The characters cannot resist telling who they are and their exploits to the random people they meet, even becoming self-defeating as Buck reveals his identity to a police officer during a heist. Their status becomes larger than they are as they read in the newspaper of robberies attributed to them that they are certain they could not have committed. In fact, the principal antagonist of the film is a Texas Ranger who they sought to humiliate by taking pictures with him as if they were friendly, and his status causes him to seek out revenge for the allegation. Even when C.W. agrees to participate in a plot to kill the couple he only does so because he believes the hype that they are untouchable.

Last Year in Marienbad
This jarring examination of the impossibility of identity without the aid of memory (as well as the malleable nature of memory itself) forces its audience to question who they are, how they have come where they presently are, and what are the unifying forces that allow them to understand what they want. Throughout the nameless story we see a man try to convince a woman that they have had a relationship in the hotel they are staying and that they should continue it. The roles that the various people staying at the hotel are emphasized through a play at the beginning of the film where most lines are delivered as the camera rests on the other character, caught in a stasis awaiting their line. As the play ends, the chatting amongst the audience is punctuated by periods of silence where each person is frozen, heightening the aire of performance that each person gives that alienates them from their actual identity and personal understanding.

Throughout the film there is a game that a certain man is so adept at that he does not lose. The various characters make suggestions as to how it is possible, but none truly understand it. This shows how if someone understands the way that these simple mathematical patterns play out then that person can eventually coerce others into behaving in the desired way. When the woman looks at a series of photographs aligned in the same manner as in the game, the connection between this becomes apparent. This skilled man meets with her to inform her of certain trivial facts that would disprove the fact that she had the alleged meeting with the other a year before, and his understanding of what information she needs to hear allows him to cement the doubt within her and eventually extract the other man from the situation entirely.

Hiroshima Mon Amour
This story of two lovers who don't truly know one another yet try to find meaning in their connection shows the necessity for one to come up with an overarching narrative to what is necessarily chaotic: life. Throughout the film we see shots of their wrists close to one another, both wearing watches, signifying that they are trying to synchronize their stories at this particular turn. This attempt at finding a similarity of their lives' struggles comes when they say speak of what their respective ages were at a pivotal time, and when the answers are 20 and 22 the discrepancy is elided, since they are "the same age, really." Their understanding of one another is quite simplistic, as they continue to be overwhelmed by their nationalities and conceive of one another as somehow representative of that ethnicity.

The beginning of the film sets the stage for most of this evaluation of the past by trying to recreate the atomic attack on hiroshima through a museum. There are various artifacts from the carnage that signify the most extreme alterations caused by the blast, such as a collection of bottlecaps that melt together into one immense blob. There are also video re-enactments of the attack that are cut to several times, showing again the most severe effects that the bomb had on the inhabitants. No matter how horrific the displays are, however, the overall feeling is much more sterile and dispassionate than the experience of the attack could have possibly been, and Lui reminds Elle of this constantly throughout her story, saying that she could not have really known Hiroshima. But the perceived past is nevertheless influential, as can be seen when Elle begins to refer to Lui as a previous lover, to try to make sense of the contingent aspects of her life.

The Story of Adele H.
In this film we follow the true story of a daughter of the famous writer Victor Hugo as she attempts, and fails, to become the love of Albert Pinson. She has travelled across the Atlantic, though none other than herself wishes her to, to meet with Albert in Halifax. We learn that she is obsessed with him to the point of hiding outside his home to watch him court other women. It is revealed that he is a charmer who will gain a woman's favor so that he can exact whatever he wants from her (with Adele this is the power of the status of her father) before he will leave her behind and move to the next object of his desire. She understands this, and yet continues to pursue him in the hopes that she will be able to bargain with him to fulfill the want he has left her with. She even seriously considers getting a hypnotist to trick him as he has her into being enthralled by her presence (and equally distraught by her absence) but gives up this pursuit when she realizes that this impossibly good promise is just that, and is only capable with a willing participant.

The most harrowing part of the film is after leaving Halifax she follows Pinson to the Caribbean, where she finally loses her will completely, exhausted in the street. When Pinson discovers her there, she no longer even acknowledges his presence (though he is still not trying to fulfill her desires but only attempting to get rid of her to save face). And yet in some ways she seems strangely actualized in having this permanently elusive love, as it has caused her to move across the world and break her spirit in pursuit of him. She has defined herself to a degree that would be impossible if he would have returned her affections, as she appears quite distant from all those who do care for her (from her father to the woman who takes care of her after she is bedridden). By becoming obsessed with this person who she has minimal contact with she turns herself into a person more defined by herself than any of the others around her.

Shoot the Piano Player
The piano player of this atypical noir film is the innocuous Charlie Kohler, who has given up life as a famous pianist to play for locals at a bar under the pseudonym (his real name being Edouard Saroyan). A waitress falls for him as she understands his past, and we see a long flashback to his past through her retelling of his life. This attribution of meaning to the past becomes a central theme to the film, as we see Charlie try to understand his role through the skills that he has honed in his former life. In one scene we see Charlie about to attend a piano lesson while he is hearing someone play a violin inside, and he attempts to ring the buzzer but eventually cannot after much trepidation, unable to interrupt the beautiful music. After he sees the woman leave and he goes in to play, he imagines the impact that his music would have on her as she periodically stops to listen and the music continues to be audible to her as she leaves the building. This attribution of her mirrored impression of his music is a source of confidence to him as he practices.

The way that Charlie becomes obsessed with his past can be seen while he stalks about the house that he has holed up in with his brothers. Left with a gun, he muses as to how he has been left with the genes of criminals like his brothers, and begins to think that the shop owner that he killed in self-defense was the result of biological determinism. The way that he reads into the meanings of his actions to reconstitute himself as an outlaw further entrenches him with his brothers, and by the time that he is attacked he has shirked the indecision that he had displayed earlier in the film and is able to join the fray and defend his new home.

Of course I haven't been using this. Why would I? All it would do is allow me to preserve my thoughts for the future. I'm more into perverting my thoughts, to create the illusion that there is some kind of cohesion to this motley of menz. And there ain't, but illusions are fun.

At any rate, I'm going to school and staying focused. I'm letting the truth be my hocus-focus, so I can become my own hostess, or something to that effect. What does this have to do with the blog (considering that when I had plenty of time on my hands it became tumbleweed-ridden)? Well, for one of my classes we're supposed to keep an blog to document our reactions to the movies we see, and I plan on converting this blog to said blog. So what does that mean for the entries I'm not writing. Why, it means that I'll just not post in my livejournal: manlymotley. I have a lot of things to not write about that occurred over the summer, such as how I mentally, physically, spiritually, financially, romantically, socially, and creatively abused myself, in such wonderful lands as Las Vegas, Detroit, Downriver, Cyberspace & more! So, if you want some of that sterf, head over to LJ, and if you want my thoughts French New Wave Cinema, stick around here.

Also, for the quadrillions of you that like to post blog comments, I'm going to have to warn you that if you aren't in my class I'm going to delete whatever you've got to say. Posting a regular comment shouldn't be a problem, I just don't want the space for my classmates encroached upon.

yeah... rollercoasters. that be my wheel of fortune.

You see, the bits of fabric that make up this man that uses myspace discerned you as a curious plus, and you were added thus.

Then the man of livejournal saw your reply.

And another stood back and sewed these two together.

All right, Grindhouse = Yes. I'm kinda all giddy about that scene that got cut from the theatres, and that's why I chose the BIGREDBIGREDBIGRED soda behind a pretty girl, and for the scenes of the pretty girl in front of explosions made me giddy in the theatre. I also did the see in theaters twice thing. Worth it.

Now, I'm beginning to think I'm a silly billy. I put all this work into making my little icon-links, yet no one knows how they work! There are no instructions, so I understand. anywayS each picture is a link to the I(nternet) M(ovie) D(ata)b(ase) website for that movie or television show. Hurrah! I recommend opening them in new tabs for speedy delivery.

Actually, as weird as this sounds, I have not played Chrono Trigger, though almost everyone who's video game opinion I value likes it. It will happen one day: I have an SNES, but my two TVs are a little 13" that could and a nice big'un that for some reason mutes the color and does wonky things (sometimes there's static). So I'd love to get a new TV for it, and Chrono Trigger would be at the top of my list for games to play. Hmm... by creating an absence I prevent nostalgia and exchange it for new experience... not bad. not bad at all.

The atmosphere sounds like real trouble. I'm going to need some sonic advice before this thing is through. And we'll need the cocaine, a tape player for special music, Acapulco Shirts... Get the Hell out of El Ay for at least 48 hours. Blows my weekend. (why?) Because naturally I'm going to have to go with you.

Jealous Christ, What is wrong with my brain? It needs to be stopped.

Yeah, so I want to chop the music up and spit it out to calcify on the walls.

----------------- Original Message -----------------
From: Obama is RACIST
Date: Jun 10, 2008 11:52 PM

Oh I'm sure I wouldn't object--I don't know if you know, but I was the one who said "Ouch" to your drama memoir, haha. I was actually in Vegas on vacation alone, it was a getaway. I spent four nights there and had a great time, I saw a few shows and spent all day at the Strip. It was an interesting vacation because I came to personal revelations. My friend wants to go there in a few weeks, but I'm not sure if we will because she's not good at planning.

Have you ever played Chrono Trigger? I'm sure you have, it came around the same time as FFVI. The music from that game is very depressing, I can't bring myself to listen to it--there's a strange atmosphere in it, but I still like it. I actually wrote a blog on here comparing the two, because I can't decide which one is better.

Have a great time in Vegas, I know I would. I hope you are bringing enough money to experience the attractions. If you like rollercoasters, go on the one at New York New York Hotel. Its worth riding at least once. :)

----------------- Original Message -----------------
From: Manly Motley
Date: Jun 10, 2008 7:30 PM

Your Heroes: the composer of Final Fantasy, the compositional Finalizer of Fantasy, and the fantastical decomposing finality.

WOW.

Hey, I'm going to Las Vegas tomorrow. Maybe I should go back in time and hang out with you.

i may be a robin hood, distributing my $300 from being George Bush's courtesan, but i am not a starving hood by any means. I brought my ticket to the lady and asked her for "two more of these please." Brandon's response was: "Holy Cheesus" (which I thought was somehow a riff off of how i thought Jesus was "Cheesus," a glowing slice of cheese on a pedestal with elves dancing around him[?] when I was a little one, which he denied but then claimed because he thought it was so funny).

Of course I'll see you there. In fact, I believe we need to organize a caravan to harpo's. I live right off of 94 (eh, maybe 4 minutes from the time you turn off 94 to the time you get to my apartment) about 6 miles before the Harpo's exit. Too bad it's too far to walk to though (i live about 3 blocks away from the Magic Stick, so I'm a little spoiled).

----------------- Original Message -----------------
From: julia
Date: Jun 9, 2008 9:42 PM

So I found the ticket you put in my bag.
In most situations, I would protest, by I thank you so much. I don't even know what to say except that your kindness has warmed my heart.
I hope you're still planning on going, I would hate it if you gave me a ticket and I won't even be able to enjoy the concert with you!
I got your off the board, but my cell has been dead all day, much as I would have liked to thank you over the phone rather than myspace.
I'll see you at the concert right?


For salvation: Dial 555-I-don't-want-to-get-not-added. com/comPEWTers
 

You want in: you've got to commit within the next so many minutes.

!

Little need to apologize, for your reply was at a time most beneficial.
woooo! Indeed.
Through a degree of separation: Jon Matle.

----------------- Original Message -----------------
From: ..Gen ☮..
Date: Jun 8, 2008 7:05 AM



Sorry, I don't really use myspace all that often anymore. But you're accepted, woooo! Do we know each other?

----------------- Original Message -----------------
From: ..Manly Motley..
Date: 05 Jun 2008, 00:10


^Very Yes^


Accept or Reject me. The suspense kills.....

My massive harboring in of friends is coming to a close. The Friend Request folder has dwindled to 27 from somewhere 600+. The end is nigh. Speak now, or forever have the peace of not having to pay any attention to manlymotley.

----------------- Original Message -----------------
From: ..mikey..
Date: Jun 8, 2008 3:52 AM

im so confused

----------------- Original Message -----------------
From: ..Manly Motley..
Date: Jun 8, 2008 12:47 AM

Act up! Fight the shutdown!

Will you take up arms: and fight?

Yiz, FYGHt you shall.

----------------------------------------------------------------

And you have been made privy to the Sent Emails of Andrew at about 123 in time o'clock.

Have fun.

If you were extremely diligent in procuring the lastest hits of Manly Motley, you'd be aware of this gross poem, as well as this not so gross poem. Then there's this memoir.
So don't thinky cuz I no posty I no writey. Writey Good!

I have a hunch a lot more writing is going to come out of Las Vegas. I leave tomorrow. See you bitches next week.

So, yeah, ACT IV and V are coming. I was sidetracked.

But what a sidetrack, sheesh. This little number took a lot more effort, but I wanted to get it done ASAP.

So, what you see here is a new style of literature I've made by putting two others in a blender, and I call it Gobbo Gonzo. The basic idea is to take the foundation of mixing truth with fiction in the self-centric style of Gonzo Journalism, but rather than just making the fudgings an unlikely but possible string of occurences, to take true stories and transform them into a fantasy setting. So text messages become insexts, little jumping magical creatures who you write on their wings, and other such things.

Actually, I had planned a lot of material that I didn't use. Not only were there several interesting things that happened that I wanted to talk about, but there were a few fantasy elements I wanted to add in (for instance, that I am a changeling, a throwback to Welcome Back and something I think that goes well with the character I am: Manly Motley [which is also my AIM name, case you didn't know]). Actually, these two go together, because after I was awake for so long and high for so long, whenever I stood up I had a head-rush and my skin felt all shifty (which I mentioned to people like Jah at the time), and I didn't realize it at the time, but that's perfect for a shapeshifter AND I could directly quote myself. This is why I find this style so intriguing: because some things that the reader may think "oh, he certainly is making this up about his skin feeling like liquid" and it would be actually true, just out of context. Primarily, I like the way that Gonzo, and even more explicitly Gobbo Gonzo, shows how we create fictional narratives of our past to construct our present identity. Plus, if I'm ever out of material, I can just write about something that happened, and if that's ever boring, well, somebody can start throwing lightning bolts around. Huzzah laziness and daydreaming!

 And I feel that I'm happy with this in that I explore some of the possibilities opened up here, I'm got some major beefs too. Like, I don't know how I feel about the whole Crackers of Graham thing, because I like how it takes the familiar and makes it foreign, but it may be to ostentatious for what effect it has. I also feel like some stuff is too arbitrary (like, the centaur is in there just because I wanted to convey the image of something extreme and un-human, though the combination of man and beast would describe lots of folks at DEMF/Movement), and some of it lacks the dual-layered aspect of the rest (like Jay, Jah, Kevin and Kristine all not having a race, though I was planning on making them human). And I have other responsibilities that prevent me from making this a more fully-fledged attempt (I honestly think I could get this at least up to 20 pages if I went into everything I thought of [these kids at the party kept screaming "let's check it out," and I was going to make them kithkins in the thrall of thoughtweft, or when I saw Prince Caspian {Gag} I was going to imagine that all the little girls who saw me there were entranced by my beauty and scribery, and so would be these pixies being led by a new master, or this long conversation I had with Kevin I wish I would have recorded]). Also I would want to create my own mystical reality, rather than just relying on typical fantasy elements with a smattering of Magic the Gathering (Loxodons, for example). But this was more than anything an exploration, and if some of it's dumb, well, hopefully I agree with you and I'll weed it out.

Now that I've whetted your appetite, I'll pull a Venture Brothers Season 3 Opener and not show you the what I've built up right away. This is a poem that I arranged out of 2 pages chosen at random from Frank Norris's The Octopus.

But unlike Publick and Hammer I won't make you wait (a week, hopefully) to release the pressure.

Intro to Gobbo Gonzo:
Towards the Day Memorial
by Andrew Matle

To: (no name) +1313PRIVATENO.
Sent: 2:35:39 5/24/20008
Size: 0.5 kB
Message type: Text message
Type: Personal

"Just about to arrive…" I look at the message scrawled with the careful ink on the back of its cellophane wings, and then throw off the tiny insext. I watch it hop, a tiny bright light skipping along in the shadow of the tracks for the clockwork beast that would soon rumble overhead. I had inscribed at the end of this shadow, where it met the Great Hall of Ancient Lord Alfred Cobo. I had cut a line through the street to stay in the shadow, and I looked back at my zigzagging paths, through the techniques of sun and shade, to the start of my quest, some miles away.

Idly the prince wrote back to his father when the inspiration struck him; most often the inspiration was fear of social enfeeblement or insignificance. The Motley Younger had departed, on an all-expense-paid pilgrimage to the hamlet of St. Francis, so the Motley Elder was to go to the Magical Music Festival of the Straight either on his own or not at all. So, after much humbling prostration on the prince's part, a decree was sent back:
"First, there will be five and twenty awarded for the admission of yourself. Second, there will be five and twenty awarded for the admission of a guest of your choice. Third, there will be a small extra sum awarded for the purchase of Nectar to ward off the curses of the Sun."

I rubbed the back of my neck, it didn't feel too sensitive. Hell, if I was going to suffer the indignity of going to this thing alone to make a few bucks, my skin could at least take one for the team (or, rather, my wallet). The walking was over, but now the standing had just begun. I saw the legions in line, so I followed suit. I kept myself occupied with catching a few insexts, writing on them, and sending them back to wherever they came from. I had my pocket gnomes playing all these new wild compositions through the tubes in my ears. I felt a tap on my back:
"Hey! What the hell are you doing?"
"I'm, uh, waiting. Like you are, I think…"
"You're about to go to a Music Festival…"
"Yes… And I'm male, I'm almost six feet tall, I weigh a buck-fifty-"
"But you're fucking listening to headphones!"
I looked this satyr up and down now that he had insulted me, forced me to justify my existence to him. He was oddly unattractive for a satyr; he had hastily-consecrated rings all over his body: at least seven in each pointy ear, one mangled with scarring in his brow, another in nose and lip and so on. It seemed not an angle of viewing him would deceive his talismans' bewitchment: all was aimed at obfuscation of his irrelevance. No shirt, certainly not a problem here, though I noticed infinitesimal beings, little cancers within him feverishly clawing their way to the surface of his skin, awoken by the curses of the Sun. His pants had once been bought by his mother, believing that he needed some sturdy denims to house his goat-child legs. He had wore them to the little satyr games with pride, but as the schools of youth ended and his playmates trudged to their respective Guilds, he worked out his rage by disintegrating their promise: an unbustable lattice, with colors that don't run, and lines never twist. But they do, the lattices burst open, the colors have become saturated pulp and there are no lines anymore. Just shitty jeans.
"Yeah. So I want to listen to some fucking high-class music instead of trying to wrap my aural cavities around the desperate vibrations from down the entrance aisle? And you're concerned with this because…"
What was meant as a rhetorical pause to allow his retort only allowed the dumb wheezing of his lack of comprehension to provide counterpoint to those desperate vibrations. So, I indulge in the opportunity to proclaim my wittiness:
"… you're so pissed off that you've only been here for 15 minutes and you've already been refused by two girls, one who had a tiny shirt over her midriff that said 'EASY AS FUCK TO ASSFUCK'?"
Something about my vicious critique of his strategies loosened the cobwebs in his brain. He was here to fuck: What the fuck did this, what is this guy anyway, he's too, uh, shifty, anyways, What the fuck did this guy matter anyway? He doesn't even have a girl here with him that I can hit on. Fuck him. Let him listen to his way too-loud gay-ass music. Whatever, queer.

At the end of the line I've stupidly stood in for so many minutes I see "Will Call". Oh, fuck. I get out to wind round and round again these muddy empty lines for those who did not use their Runes to secure their admittance earlier. I gave the currency and was shuffled to be branded, should this cattle want to leave the Festival's Pasture. An unflinching elf took my arm and was about to apply the brand when the taskmaster stopped him:
"You know, you've got to put it somewhere they can't just peel it off, and slap on their friend, you know?"
"Yes."
"Yeah, they'll try anything to get in here, won't you bastards?" He looked at me.
"But I paid…"
"Yeah, but who do you got waiting? Huh? Who?"
"No one."
"All right." He pats the elf strongly. "Looks like we got one of the good ones here! I like you! You know that? I fucking hate most of the freaks that come to this thing, but you, you're different! What's your name, son?"
I hesitate. Not this guy, he doesn't deserve it: "Jorgen Scott."
"Whore-gen Scott? You're saying you're the son-of-a-whore there, Scott?"
"No, JORgen, like a jay."
"You're mother's a whore, what?" He laughs and slams his hand into the elf's back, who miraculously doesn't lose his grip on the branding iron, still exactly at the same point in its arc to my arm. "So, when you mark Scott, don't make it hurt too much, OK?" He tapped the elf slightly, and he consequently brought the iron to my arm. I tried not to betray my pain to them, but the blank stare of the elf and the boner-sadistic grin on the taskmaster did not make a mentally secure place for me, so I yelped.
"Pussy." He smiled and walked on to the next elf, with the next guest.

"What's underneath the shirt."
"My food."
"Can't have no food in here."
"Why not?"
"Cuz, that's the rules."
"Don't they sell food in there?"
"Yeah, it's just no outside food."
"But didn't the food in there come from the outside at one point?"
"You trying to get smart with me?"
"I'd say I am smart, not just with you."
"What?"
"Let's just say that once I take this food inside, it won't be outside food anymore, right?"
"What the fuck do you think you're trying to pull?"
"The right to do with my property what I please, so as it doesn't harm others."
"But it does harm others."
"What, how?"
"The people in there, selling the food, you're hurting their livelihood."
"Oh, I mean like getting your toe stubbed or being kneed in the balls kind-of-harm."
"Look, if you don't throw out your food, you will get some kneed in the balls kind-of-harm."

Stomping about the middle grounds of the festival, stomach gorged with a too-hastily-eaten lunch, brought me to a debilitating nausea that would typically have me curled up in bed, isolated from this world. But now I was fucking bomb-blasted by bourgeois bravado: Come over here, we've ripped the ear off of a Living Loxodon, covered it in glaze and had it covered in the scorching oil of the spells of our most advanced chef-mages. Yours for only eight tickets; Or: We have the leaves of a tobacco plant dried and rolled with scores of tiny enchantments to wind you up, or let you wind down, to make you approachable, or to make you seem bad… whatever you want them to be… oh, and have some candy… Refer to the price-chart for tickets; Or: Sit down, saddle up, for we have for you the Element of Wind! Pure, and simple, and legal, and it gets you High! Just two tickets a toke!

Gibberish-madness-promises swirled around me. The only solace of these bomb-blasts was the bombast it would arm me with later. I needed to get out of the commercial cornerstone, the hijacked hub of what used to be a free festival, to the sultry spokes of this whirling wheel. I walked about, satchel gripped tight, consulting the scroll I had made for the quest, attempting to coordinate the artist with the stage with the time with the self.

As expected, I saw demi-humans of every sort, moving past one another, next to one another, pressing against one another. I had moved to the dungeon, and had to put the satchel behind me to maneuver down the ramp. I saw a centaur grinding his horse-pelvis into an entire coterie of kithkin women, and the depraved decadence of it surged through my dick. I wanted to be a part of it, lunge up onto some unsuspecting hips and ass and start thumping away, numbly humping, a droning simulated sex to a superfluous syncopation, where I would be ignored but my body adored. I stayed my skin-shifting, maintained this present form as a rock un-eroded jutting out against the steamy stream of slick skins.

I walked and walked, finding no music nearly so gratifying as that my gnomes had played to me while I was in line: all was replaceable. Take a beat here and switch it with that one over there and no one would notice. It was not an experience, it was an excuse. It was not to hear of beautiful sounds, carefully crafted to ease through the ear a melding of the mind of the author and audience, but rather to have a reason to show off your tiny tummy, your awesome ass, your luscious legs, to tempt with your sacred snatch. And I do refrain from saying divine dick, because I did not see many men showboating, but the bitches were in rare form! And more power to them, because I am sick of having to seek out pornography: bring it to me! All of the many flavors (textures, colors, shades, hues, saturations) of the Ho-Rainbo were there to be sampled, if you cared to. I could, but didn't. I just couldn't ignore this awful music, banging through my brain. I couldn't get into it. I needed to spend some money on just a little something to make me GOOOOOOOOOO…

Whoa-hoa-hoa… I find myself hours of disappointment (reaching its apex at fruitless four-twenty) later nudged into a corner, staring at the Straight that gave this hamlet its name, with some creepy old warrior types.
"They should make Egyptian Lover the President…"
His glazed gaze betrayed his jay, smoldering sweetly, pinched privately betwixt his thumb and forefinger. I stared at it longingly, letting my eyes slowly caress his chest, upwards to meet the reddened embers of his vision. I painted my face half-pout, half-plea.
"You want to hit this? Come on, bend over, lean in…"
He placed the little jay, a roach by now, in my fingers for a little blast. Not much, but it had come graciously after a long wait with no promises, and a few flecks found their way to my palm, which became greedily ensnared in the empty wrapper of the fruit-juice-speckled tree-gum I noisily chewed on. They moved .. I could even hint that I was looking to buy, and the few left were exchanging highly refined orbs, containing spells to unlink the chains of the self. I didn't want to go that far, I just wanted herbs. So I took stock of the situation: I could claim that I got High, it was probably going to be forever until PB Wolf got on the stage, I was tired enough from my continual walking that I knew that I would get excited enough to dance, so, what should I wait for? I walked out, proudly neglecting purveyors, and saw a familiar face, realizing that my prophecy to her had only just now become true.

In the day leading up to the festival, I had sent out various beeletins to announce my lack of guest. Free 12 hours of entertainment I had said, and those sans-penis would be given priority in my choosing of a mate. However, there were no applicants. The beeletins buzzed to an uninterested crowd. Except for the last, which was able to get a reaction from an old acquaintance who I had thought to be completely uninterested in my affairs:

----------------- Original Message -----------------
From: Captain Hook
Date: May 24, 2008 10:19 AM
hey there, well i would take you up on your offer but i already have the weekend pass!! yay for me well anyway if you see me up there come on over and say hi! sooo i will probably see you later!

----------------- Original Message -----------------
From: Darn Mawtlee
Date: May 24, 2008 10:33 AM
cool. in case you have trouble spotting me, i'll be the white kid that's on drugs.

----------------- Original Message -----------------
From: Captain Hook
Date: May 24, 2008 1:00 PM
well that makes it even harder!

So, I smiled and uttered a "hi" that was returned, smiling, clutched satchel, to walk home on a High note, on a "hi" note, listening to my gnomes, dreaming of better-prepared festivities to come. Once snug in my hovel, I scraped some resin out of my glass pipe, mixed it with the flecks I had trapped in the wrapper, and turned to the big-screen scrying sheet in my den. I puffed petulantly at the pitiful potency of the pathetic portion of pot, but the rapid sucking and lung trapping did me right, as I felt my legs anchor into the soft sofa, rejuvenating. My mind began rejuvenating as well, as I had conjured the Venture Brothers to the screen to anticipate the 3rd season. I set down my cache and drifted into slumber, the last sound one I would have for days.

*****

One, two, three, four… that's the manor. All right. But there's no space to chain up my carriage… Ah, here. It's far down but it doesn't matter much. I realize that walking in the opposite direction I had lost the specific manor I was to go to, which was unfortunate because there were two manors back to back with fires at the mouth of their carriage caverns, but I figured it out due to the address. I made my way to the fire, announcing myself to no one: I deserved to be there.
"You probably don't remember me, but I used to hang out with your brother like a million years ago."
"You're right. I don't. Try a little harder next time."
Anna giggled and let me know the basic score of the place: who was where, what was fun, what was to be done. I plodded about, preparing a plot should pussy present itself… but I couldn't help but notice how attached everyone was. Oh well, I hadn't sprayed much of the Magic Mists around my manhood (still had plenty of Vice left at home), so converting this into a less sexual, more social outing was not hard. I found my way to the kitchen.

"So, no one in the Earth world has discovered it yet, but the kithkin plant Tila Tequila is warping the standards of human beauty." Kevin waved to me, continuing his story, "See, she's making them appreciate the tiny, stretched-out features. They're giving into ideals that aren't even possible in a pure human, probably not even a half-breed. Manly! How's it going? Good to see you come out!"
"Well, you know me, never one to miss out on some socialization. Who's your big buddy over here?"
"Oh, this is The Minotaur, and this is Manly Motley."
I shook his bestial man-paw.
"You can just call me Man, if the quadrasyllabic title is too much."
"Or Lee." Kevin jovially interjects.
"Or Lili." Kristine walks in to join us. This is the first time I've heard her voice since 'like a million years ago,' since the last time I saw the two K's her voice was stolen by some tragic illness cast upon her. She gives a shy little smile to cover up the emasculating suggestion.
"I don't know if Manly would want a girl's name." I can see Kevin is enjoying this.
"You know, it isn't so bad. It incorporates both my first and last name and it's easier to say, repeat, understand… I like it. Besides I hate being referred to or seen as a dick, and having a girl's name could only help. To be clear, though I hate being seen as a dick, I don't hate my dick being seen." I covered up the emasculation by wallowing in it, then warping it into a public discussion of my genitals. Not exactly useful in the present situation in terms of macking (one out of three female, one out of three single, zero out of three targets), but I did make them all laugh.
"In Minos we never let men get called by women's names."
"Is that a fact?"
"Yes. In Minos we see that as a great sign of disrespect."
"Hey, I didn't mean anything mean."
"Well, that's okay. Unless, wait, does she have to give me something to make amends for the disrespect?"
"Like what?"
"I don't know. Money? A virgin? Shit, something."
"In Minos we don't ask for such things."
Well, my greed got at least two laughs.
"What do you ask for?"
"In Minos we ask for our families to be fed, and our jobs to last long, and…"
He was still talking but I couldn't concentrate. The sad look in his eyes, longing for a land he had idealized into infinite potentiality (and thus destroyed) was too pathetic, too divorced from the present for me to take. So: "Hey, there's a fire outside. Let's roast something." I was already holding the door open for both K's.

"Well, we have everything for S'mores." A glutinous grin came over my face as Kevin passed by.
"Except for the chocolate." The glee was now out of me, as Kristine uttered this tragedy.
"Hell. That's all I like about S'mores. I would eat them without the Marshmallow. Hell, I'd eat them without the Cracker of Rev. Sylvester Graham." I whispered to Kevin: "Hey, try to whore me out a little. I don't know to who, it looks like everyone's taken, but you know, doesn't hurt to try."
He nodded in approval, and I sat down to look at the crowd. Other than a sorcerer who some call Tim and Anna, I recognized no one. Immediately Anna starts screaming, and I'm about to say "C'mon, I don't look that bad…" when she points to an empty seat. "SPIDER! SPIDER! KEVIN, KILL THE SPIDER! … EW, GROSS, NOT WITH YOUR HAND!" He picks up the unfortunate arachnid and arcs him into the embers. I'm pleased with the excessive agony engendered. The sparks of the exploding exoskeleton sparks a conversation with the girl who I'm seated next to.
"Gloomwidows can be dangerous, but they don't go after ground-dwellers. It's the Young Gloomwidows you have to worry about. They're the only spider that lives around us that has venom that could kill a demi-human."
"Shit, I didn't think there were Gloomwidows in the land of the Large Lake."
"Well, um, yeah, there are." And her boyfriend puts his arm around her. The conversation opens up, and I let myself become slowly extricated.
"Yeah, the little ones, the Daddy Long Legs, they could kill you if their fangs could reach you."
"I heard they can't pierce human skin."
"Doesn't matter. Their poison is potent enough, but they don't have enough for the legal dosage."
"Yeah, but they don't have the evolutionary drive to bite bigger animals."
"Unless they're provoked."
"But the threat has to be the skin for them to bite it, you swat at them with something and they'll bite that."
"Shit, Kevin, you could've been killed!"
"You guys are crazy."
I used Kevin's deflection to reign in control of the conversation again.
"So, you seriously don't have chocolate for S'mores?"
"We have chocolate syrup…" Kristine offers "you could, I don't know, pour it onto the Marshmallow?"
"Hey, what if we inject it into the Marshmallow, so when you cook it the chocolate heats up?" A few nodding heads. "We'll need a syringe. Quick, who knows a heroin addict?" I hop up furiously, leaving my captive audience craving more, and head inside.

He's still standing there in the kitchen, I'm sure reciting the lists of all the wonders of his land.
"Hey, Bull-boy, you know where I can find a heroin addict?"
Before he even turns to me, at the second I enunciate the 'Ick,' the door busts open. There is a being beaming with pride, but there's something off to his smile, his façade. I know that, socially, we're all compulsive liars, sure, but this was different. It looked as if he had made some bargain to get a smooth face that would always lay over a deep-seated madness of inferiority.
"The party has arrived!" I could tell from his voice: Troll. Wow, I had never seen a troll I could deem attractive before, but it was the result of his demonic bargain I'm sure. What price had he paid, what must he make himself become the Hand of to pay off his effortless charisma? "Who are you two wild guys?"
"Well, I'm Lili, and this here-"
"Wait, Lili?"
"Yeah. I'm trying it out."
"Trying it out? What's your real name?"
"What's real?"
"Whoa, man, hold on, you're blowing my mind! No, I'm just shitting you, just shitting you. I know all about that shit man, philosophy. I used to take all sorts of classes on that shit. Now I'm headed to Medical School. Yeah, but I still know about all that shit. Like, Dess-kart-ess, you know, "Therefore I am, I think." and fucking, who's that other guy, oh yeah, Sar-ter. I forgot what he said. He was an ugly motherfucker though, had fucking fish eyes" he started gesticulating lines of vision from his eyes in crazy directions "I don't know how he ever got any, but he did, the fucking gimp pimp. Man, hey, it's kind of a sausage fest in here. I'm going to check out the fire. It was great meeting you two, stick around and I'll see you later." He shook both of our hands but never met either of our eyes, and was off, an obnoxious pinball, towards the shiny light.
"He didn't even ask me about Minos."
"Don't be too broken-hearted, but I think it's not high on his list of priorities."
"In Minos we always have our priorities…"
I don't even acknowledge my disappearance this time, just ducking out mid-sentence. Good God, your country of origin is not you! Talk about something else! So what if your head is a fucking bull's head? Get over it! You might think that it's your "hook" or your "in," and sure, it's a distinguishing feature, but what do you expect, someone to listen to you drone on and on about this place you couldn't have spent more than 5% of your life in? Talk about yourself, talk about now. Your body is at a party, but where is your mind?

In the den there was an unwatched Star Wars movie on the scrying sheet. An elf is lounging, rapidly dissecting a Cube of Erno Rubik. He was holding it out from him, his fingers pinching invisible skewers through the cube, his lips moving soundlessly forming "green" or "white." I picked up a copy of House of Leaves and started flipping through it.
"Whose is this?"
"Well, it's Kristine's, but I'm going to be reading it next."
"You should, it's good." I mean, hell, I've already stolen some shit for it here, might as well pimp it.
"Yeah, but it's so long."
"It's a quick read though. You don't need to read everything."
"What are you talking about? You need to read everything."
"No you don't. There's some lists in the middle… here, that you really don't need to read."
"If it's in the book, you need to read it."
"Well, it's just pages and pages of lists of things that aren't there. Just get the basic idea: There is Nothing there."
"Well, after I read the list, there's bound to be something he doesn't mention."
"Like what?"
"Like puppies."
"Well, actually they mention how a cat and a dog run through the manor and just materialize outside. So, I guess they do."
"Well, whatever, I'm sure there's something that they don't mention."
"Well, I'll tell you what, you read through it, and if you can think of some architect or whatever that is left you, you let me now."
He shrugged, and then slammed down the cube, with six sides of complete colors.

Outside I suspected to find the troll entertaining the waning crowd, but it was quiet. I only saw Kevin, Kristine, and a few of the other couples.
"Where did dude go? I thought he'd still be terrorizing you guys."
"He was, but then…" Kevin leaned his head back, holding an imaginary bottle, making loud glugging noises.
"Yeah, he drank like an entire fifth of his shitty vodka. He was trying to fart into the fire, and he started laughing like a freak and he almost fell into it." I could tell that the retelling of the dumb experience was the only pleasure that Kristine was taking from it.
"Yeah, I had to push him so he just crashed into some chairs, but he ruined my fire." Kevin seemed to remember the task at hand, so he started shoveling scrolls and twigs, whatever kindling he could collect to restore the former glory of the pyre.
"Wow, he's a winner, ain't he? He was just letting his modesty shine bright inside, giving me some Philosophy 101. Regular scholar that one."
"He does that with anything. Mention you do that, he's been doing it for two years before you; you say you like this, he's been a fan since before you were born." The furrow in her brow told me she'd practiced it, had been burning to have her theory heard, recognized and respected. I hoped my meager nod would suffice.
"Where'd he go?"
"I don't know, probably next door."
"What's going on over there?"
"Same thing as here, just more people."
"Anyone I would know?"
"Not likely."
"Hmm… so, inside again?"
"Well, we're actually going to check out what's happening next door. You should come too."
"Eventually."

As I go in through the back I hear the front door open, so I swiftly move into the den. It's Jay, though his friend Jah insists he be called Mouser.
"I so shouldn't have come tonight."
"Why, what's wrong?"
"I just should've stayed home." He looks wistfully at the two-score ounce bottle of mead he's clutching.
I look confused, hoping to be filled in. Jah obliges: "Drama, dude, it's just all drama. Don't worry about it."
I am, and so is Jay. He slumps into a fold in the couch. Kevin walks in, greets, but sees how distraught Jay is.
"Hey man, you can't let him get to you."
"I know… but, I mean, I want to relax, I didn't come here for that…"
"Look. Look around you. These are your friends. Shit, we've even got Manly here-"
"-Lili! I now am to be known as Lili!" Jay's initial confusion gives way to laughter.
"But this is my manor, and these are all my friends, so you're going to sit there, you're going to drink your mead, you're going to have a good time. All right?"
And though Jay's acceptance was reluctant, it really was all right. Somebody had conjured the Melee of the Brothers Super of Smash on the scrying sheet, and rather than focusing on the violence outside, we focused on the violence inside. We passed around the controllers, and Jah pulled out a spliff, sparked it, and got that spinning around us too. I felt all jiggly as I puffed, and I became Jigglypuff. A steady stream of guests trickled into the semi-permanently ajar door, but I paid little heed as I jammed my little squishy heart out, serenading unsuspecting foes to sleep in order to throw them off a cliff. My convoluted strategy and squeezable exterior didn't let me win many matches, but it didn't matter.
"You know, this is one game where it's fun to lose!"
It seems our troll companion had found a fun way to lose at life. Outside, the carefully crafted exterior had crumbled, leaving only a hulking mess of quasi-humanity hulking about the yard, one hand groping his genitals not out of sexuality but to tug his bestial urges to the forefront, the other clutching an empty bottle of vodka.
"You faggots! You're all… filthy! You're all filthy fucking faggots!" A long pause "Hey, faggy boy! Come out here! Come on, Come on, out here, uh, me… Come on… me! Come on out here and fight me, like a MA/n!" His voice had cracked in the middle of 'man,' to great hilarity inside. I could see that Jay took it with some stride, thankfully his nemesis wanted to make it crystal clear who was the ass in the situation, but he still felt responsible for bringing this hostility here. I had to step out to the front, to survey the damage.

The freak shattered the reins to a carriage nearby (I thanked myself for having arrived so late). The horse didn't run off, just kind of stood around waiting to be chained back to its carriage. He screamed at his futility. I saw a few unfamiliar faces trying to cajole him to a more collected state. It wasn't working. I expected to see Kevin show up to save the day, but it was Kristine who practically materialized out of the dark.
"What are you still doing here?"
"That faggot, he-FUCK! FUCK THAT FAGGOT!"
"Look, no one's getting their ass kicked tonight except you if you keep this shit up."
"Hey, fuck off, this is between me" hiccup "and the faggot. The pu-hu-" hiccup "ssssssssss-eeeeeeeeeeeee."
"No, this is between you and everyone that can hear you, which is everybody here plus our sleeping neighbors. You need to shut the fuck up. Understand?"
"Do, you" hiccup "understand that you're just a… a… artsy… faggy… slut?"
Her hand was held out straight beside her before I even saw it move. I saw the night collect in her palm, aphotic wisps swirling from between fingers, forming a pitch orb floating just an inch above her skin. He didn't see it, doubled over laughing at his "joke," when the gleam signified the completion of the spell. She reached up and caught it, then brought it roaring into the side of his head. I knew a little about this: the first sensation would be deafness, blindness, a complete shutoff of the senses. This would only be for a faction of a second, which I matched to the stifling of his giggling, but then the senses roar back as the convulsions set in. His head flew back, his back arched, and I saw his face stretch into spikes, regardless of the shape of his skull, skin, anything. The spires were shifting chaotically in length. His knees crashed into the stone walkway, cracking it. He tried pushing at the spikes warping his skull from the inside, to keep them in, but his skin was sharp enough to cut crazy lines of across his hands, speckling blood spastically across his uncertain face. The pain in his hands went unnoticed, since the transformation of one's near-spherical skull to a amorphous thing of quills surging out to break the surface of the skin is accompanied with a pain of a simultaneous migraine, deadly fever, with burning sinuses and the sensation that one's head has become a Rubik's Cube being rearranged by a frustrated adolescent retard. He gave up trying to fight or understand this pain, collapsing on the lawn. As if to make amends, he began to nurture the lawn with a foul liquid that was seeping through his pants.
Kevin walked out behind me, with a luminescent blue orb in his hand, which he chucked right into the head still bouncing about on the ground. It froze, one sole spike jutting out from his forehead.
"Hey? Is this fun? You having a good time yet?"
He only groaned in pain.
"I stopped it because I want to know: Is this a fun party? Because I was a little worried that it would be so-so, but you, you're a party animal! How would anyone have a good time unless you showed up?"
Another groan.
"Why'd you stop it so soon? Did you hear what he called me?"
"Yeah, I just stopped it to get his reaction. What's the matter? Having trouble expressing yourself?"
"Well, now he is, but before it was too easy to express himself."
"I have an idea. Why don't you go home, and since you're such a star, the party will probably follow you there."
Another groan.
"Do you need some help getting up?"
Groan.
With a flick of his wrist Kevin sent down three orange-red lines of plasma, one hitting the ground instantly igniting the urine that had to be at least twenty percent alcohol, the other two blasting him in the back and legs. He didn't so much as stand up as he was jolted up, and began a staggering gallop away from us. Kevin put his arm around Kristine.
"Hey, I'm sorry about that."
"Don't be, he's an idiot."
"Yeah, I know, but still."
"You know what he said earlier tonight? He said 'I didn't think I'd come here to conversate about academics.' If I took anyone who said that seriously, I'm be in pretty bad shape."
Kevin drew her in, and kissed her forehead.

See, I told you I was going to be diligent about this.

I also have a tentative title (know I said I probably wouldn't until I was done, but it kind of jumped out at me): "Slick Madness and Quick Redness". I may change it, but I think that it's fitting in a lot of ways.

For you Hump(ing) Pleasure:

I wasn't joking people. Here's part two. If you're new to this, I'd say scroll down.

When I'm done, I'll repost all of these with a little editing (I've caught one typo so far in ACT I, "through" when I meant "threw"). I just want to spam you all with my sweet lovin's ASAP, so sorry if there's a mistake or two. Withoo furthoo ado:

I was writing a letter, and my long-windedness made for a tale that I think is worth relating to the world at large. Don't let this distract you from the five-act story I'm writing.

Now, this may seem racist against the 50/50 African/Americans, but it's not. In fact, after my Af/Am History AND Literature courses, I was awarded the "Honorary Black Guy" title by the "Grand Council of Blacktasticism" (comprised of tambo, willie best, dubois, patrice, mantan, the bronze buckaroos, Jack Johnson, asbestos, tonto, buckwheat, billie holiday, tom russ, l'ouverture, vesey, and beau jack) so it's impossible for me to be racist, regardless of my views.

More honestly though, this is a self-deprecating examination of the unfortunate situations that cause non-introspective people to attribute the flaws of particular members of a sect with its entirety. It's tempting.

The story:
"
i have had one encounter in detroit, and it was more comical than scary by the end of it: I was walking on a freeway overpass by my lonesome when I realized about two-dozen afro-american youths coming up the opposite way. my extremely racist tendencies told me to turn around, but i quelled them: "come on, they're decent people. they're black, so they want to prove that all black people are not materialistic, brutal heathens, right?" well, as I continued, I planned to stay on one side of the bridge, eyes looking forward but making no contact, with my mp3 player providing sufficient distraction for not making any social contact. but these jerks, who i had provided at least 85% of the bridge to, decide they're going to walk nearly shoulder to shoulder to cover the entire bridge, with a depth of four or five at any given point. I think: "if i bump shoulders, i bump shoulders, no helping it now." I'm relieved as the first person sidesteps me a few feet before we collide, renewing my hope, but the next guy doesn't budge ("hey, this is MY bridge! this chalkie can fuck himself.") So we collide, and my frail frame is spun practically 90 degrees, and in the same instant the guy behind him yanks my headphones off of my ears (and they're not just buds, they clip on, so it wasn't a casual pull). fortunately, my mp3 player stayed in my pocket. I turn around with a sitcom-esque "Heeeeeey" in that "what-gives?" fashion. The guy next to the thief makes exaggerated run-away motions, laughing. The thief turns around, waiting for me to make a move. I shrug my shoulders ("what the fuck am I supposed to do, chase you? yeah, I'm not Chuck Norris and you guys aren't ninjas. Ninja, please.") He looks down at his spoils: one pair of earwax encrusted, $10 headphones sans ipod or whatever he hoped for. he wads them up and throws them at me. I give an unsarcastic "thanks man," smiling at the inconsequentiality of it all, and continue on my way.

Haven't been on that bridge since, and I occasionally hold my headphone cord when I pass young'ens I racially profile.
"

So, this is the first Act of Five. I know where this story's going, but I didn't realize quite how ambitious it was until I sat down to write it. I thought I was going to write all five acts tonight, but I realize that would be utterly insane. I think "tonight" would end sometime around 3 in the afternoon tomorrow. Thanks, but I need sleep. And videogames. And movies. And maybe some ice-cream, because I'm such a good boy. But who would I be to deprive my endless legions of fans of some serious Andrew goodness.

Don't worry, the rest will come soon. I figure an act a day is pretty reasonable (hell, I did all this after a day full of classes and some inTENSE walking). If the heroes seem neurotic now, don't fret, this may be a story where they come to understand their shortcomings and dismantle them. Or maybe you should fret, because they'll self-destruct by fully indulging them. Hey, I won't give away the ending yet. Wait a couple of days.

I have this thing where I tend not to name things until they're done. I was reading about Baldwin a little while ago, and it said that he would constantly be changing the name of his novels as he wrote them. I figure why put forth the effort now? Wait until I can view it objectively, and select its propah title. Too bad people don't do the same for their children, it would make it a lot easier to figure someone out by their name (though, that being said, I find my name fitting: "Manly Combination-of-Incongruous-Elements," if I am to trust my self-designed etymology).

Enough Jibber-Jabber:

So I thought that this morning I might check out some of y'alls' blogs (It's really too bad that Bob Loblaw changed his name, and that he doesn't have a Law Blog), and what started as mere lurking became full-blown-soap-boxery. I realized to my horror that these hours (lituhrlee) I've spent in these postings might be deleted by their respective owners, and I couldn't stand for that. Plus, most of the Myspaces are friends-only I believe, so my adoring fans wouldn't get to drink in the sweet ambrosia of my oral diarrhea.

I've come to the following conclusion about linking these posts: if your blog is private, well, the links won't matter, and if it isn't, peeps could find it anyway. This will just make it more clear what I'm reacting to, consequently (hopefully) making it more pleasurable. So: 1 2 3 4 5 6 7

Oh, and if any of you want this taken down, if it's too poy-sonal, I understand and will oblige. I'm flexible, both literally and figuratively. Enjoy.

1.)
I'll start off by saying that my managing to see this makes me feel special as a tard.

Seriously, your reluctance to express yourself for fear of a disenchanted audience is EE-effin' silly. Even if no one gives a shit, you still are engraving the invisible parts of yourself to this stone tablet known as the intarweb, which you'll be able to go back to even after you're senile to figure out who you are, what trails you've blazed. How else can you expect to get yourself? Shine on, crazy diamond, shine on.

Yeah, this coming from the guy who incessantly panders his blog, trying to build the grassroots cult to form the foundation of his future literary career. I'll roll my eyes at myself for a minute. So, I get your apprehension of divulgence to the woefully mute, but what I've said to you I believe, and in saying it to you is a way to reaffirm it to myself.

I feel you on the whole few-friends, pushed-away conundrum. Probably for similar reasons too, though you understandably keep details scarce so as not to upset those you speak of, as I am given to emotional outbursts and proclamations which have made for a series of on-again-off-again friendships, with a precious few (one?) remaining. It can hurt, that's fosho, but maybe you're more attached to who you think they are, or who you want them to be, than what they really are. Too often I've found myself the sole author of this personality I'm allegedly drawn to, and as time wears on the discrepancies of who I want and who I have evince themselves. When two fight, seldom is only one to blame. Sometimes you have to let those connections burn to the ground to fertilize future relationships, to nurture them with wisdom gained only through bitterness and pain.

I'm inclined to think that the advice you speak of is not a Zacky-original. I'm reminded of something I read about, oh, 11 hours ago:
I hope that's legible, but if not, here's the part I had underlined: "Cliches are detrimental insofar as they inspire us to believe that they adequately describe a situation while merely grazing its surface." Something tells me you won't demand MLA format, so I'll just say it's from page 88 of Alain de Botton's "How Proust Can Change Your Life." And methinks that you not knowing what you had until it was gone only scratches the surface of what you've gone through. At least I hope so.

No one to go to, I hear that. There's so many queer little facets of myself begging to find their match in other people, and their isolation puts a stranglehold on their growth. This kid is a super-nerd (though I think I prefer the term "geek").

I realize that you posted this on Brett Easton Ellis Day. I threw an ill-fated soiree in honor of a fledgling artist who hopes to have a joint B-day party one day with that author, Wanda Sykes, Rachel Weisz and Jenna Fischer (which, while it would be a absolute blast, would not allow me to feel like the hottest person in the room, which is of grave importance to me). Too bad we didn't know one another well enough at the time for me to send you an invite. I realize that I too was blue that night, before the "festivities" I went for a lonesome walk that served as the inspiration for my "To Fulfill a Home" story. Maybe the next BEE-Day will be brighter for us both.

And to refrain from double-posting, in your next blog you spoke of epiphanies. Pity you didn't elucidate, since the premise of observing others to learn about yourself be vury, vury wise. In the future, mayhaps.

(When I first tried posting this, I was weirdly launched to my own blog and came back to yours without seeing the comment posted. If this is some weird hiccup in myspace, and you end up with two od dese, sorry. Delete this one.)

2.)
HAY-ZEUS KREE-STO. Effin' Epic.

This obviously means that you think decoupage is racist, jesus is a mummy, and your paranoia will earn you showers of affection.

Rofl, jk, jk. Though the third might be right.

One of my favorite things about dreams is how the most insanely absurd things happen matter-of-factly. "Honey, can you do me a solid and tape up the corpses? I've got to mow the lawn tomorrow, and those things are such a pain to move around."

Honest guesses: You see yourself as the voice of reason, that your companions (maybe from a specific place, or life in general) don't get the repercussions of their actions and they need someone with your kind of eye on society to keep them out of harm's way. But you don't see yourself as the leader, as you are dragged into these awful activities you feel pretty guilty about. You are seduced by your guilt, tempted to go to a place of isolation to contemplate the crimes you've participated in, ignoring the destructive society that needs you to keep their dark designs hidden.

And if you're crazy, I'm jealous.

3.)
I don't mean to be a hater, but as you said, I "need not take your word as law," so I'll make you privy to my recantations.

You put a lot of stock in blood. Sure, I do love (most of) my family, and yes I share blood with (most of) them, but what about orphans? And those adopted? Or those people who are raised by their parents, but they're violent, selfish fuckers? Do these people miss out on what you call "the greatest love of all" because they don't share enough chromosomes? Or, in the last case, should they be forced to abide blood's bonds, even if it means being beaten by barbarians? I've never met either of my biological grandfathers, and I'm glad (well, curiosity would make me want to know them now, though one's dead and the other one may very well be, but I'm glad they weren't there when I was growing up). From what I've been told, they both sound horrible. I am far more attached to my un-genetically linked grandpas than these guys prone to alcoholism and abuse, even if together they could make up to half of those double-helices that tell my body how to grow.

I smoke weed every day (well, that's not true, but it's not so much by choice as it is by availability of cash and connections). But then again, I don't want to get far in life. That sounds ghey. I want to get far in Andrew.

I thought of leaving that previous paragraph as is, but I thought it was a trifle to enigmatic, and while I don't think I'm going to win you over on much here (if anything), I would be cosmically saddened if this briefness would stave you off while a more wordy, yet clearer explanation would let you appreciate where I'm coming from. So: The point of my life is not to get pats on the back by those "moral exemplars" of our society, whether literally, verbally, or in the form of promotions or pay-raises or lavish gifts. Society at large could peg me as a degenerate creep-o, and it would make me feel shitty, but if it would actually cause me to neglect my yearnings, to strip myself of those desires that are among the precious few things I know to be real in this world, I would essentially kill Andrew and put that model-citizen mass-produced mannequin in his place. Rather than become the faceless, interchangeable cog in MechAmerica, I intend to fully realize my role as whatever Hand of God I'll destine myself to be, whatever wild force I shall be as a player in the world-stage. And weed, yes, despisable ganja, is very much a part of that. The way how it can leave you as a child, joyfully fumbling through the wond'rous mysteries of that present moment, is something I need. I cannot allow myself to calcify my senses, I need the "doors of perception" to be jambed open as often as possible, unhinged if possible. A good deal of my literary heroes used it scrupulously, such as Allen Ginsburg, Hunter S. Thompson, James Baldwin, and I guarantee more. I get that it isn't necessarily positive, but nothing is, really. Exercise can be used self-destructively, as can study, as can devotion, as can practically everything. And maybe its allure has caused many people to actually calcify, to sit stoned on the sofa, slugging their way through their days, and that's tragic, but not the certain outcome of everyone who picks up those Jive Sticks. Absolutes very often neglect the totality of reality.

As for COPS, that's definitely where I want to be when I "grow up." Not with a blurry face, mind you, but mounting a staunch opposition to the culture of "schadenfreude hard-ons" that allow it to be successful, and to stop America, that Cronus from eating its retarded children instead of learning who they are and why they are (which would make it possible to prevent imbecility instead of merely quashing it and the bodies it inhabits). Hmm... If by "going 'very far in life'" you mean having a lasting impact on society, even if it is met with stern opposition, I'm down for that, just not becoming whatever those people who happen to inhabit Earth the same time that I do consider "respectable."

I've been spewing my ideas non-stop, so I figure it's time for someone else to remark on the subject you address, Aristophanes. From Plato's Symposium:
I really like this story, and when my Ancient Religions class went over it yesterday I got to show the story's depiction in "Hedwig and the Angry Inch." What a blast. 3rd class meeting I've been to and I'm already showing my appreciation for musicals, transsexuals, and other such things rarely loved by the fiercely heterosexual male. As for my reaction to your idea of the looking to the future: prudent. I agree that the interpersonal is most important aspect, not the inter-corporeal. However, and I don't know if you suggest this (probably not, but I have to say it), outer inferiority does not signal inner superiority. I've tragically committed myself to that fallacy about, oh, three times too many. So I'm going to start going for the ones that the divining rod 'twixt my legs points to, and go through however many fun nights it takes to find someone as bootiful on the outside as on the inside. Oh, yeah, and one with a bootiful personality too (get it? get it?). Actually, the sagginess you warn of is one of my prime motivators: I've got a shelf-life, by Jove, and I plan to enjoy and share as much of myself as I can before I expire like so much neglected lettuce in the back of the fridge.

I also agree with the sentiment that you shouldn't change who you are to appease your lovah. As well as the importance of love. I just think you rely too much on "common sense" instead of developing your own sense. Your desire to articulate your thoughts lets me know that you have intelligence, so don't succumb to parroting or the stagnation of your thoughts, erroneously assuming you've got it all worked out. You don't. I don't. We're fucking young, dude, we've got a lot left to learn.

4.)

Failing: way too harsh. I mean, even if you're a "real" rock star you've got at least 4 or 5 good years left in you. Plenty of time to recolor perceptions. And if you turn out to be as survival-minded as boring-old-me, you might have only gone through a quarter of the chapters in the story of Ben. Seems you have high ambitions, and the skills and time to let 'em bear fruit, and it would take a mighty cold father's heart not to be proud of that.



Compared to yours, my hegira was timid, dumb and ill-conceived. You've relocated to a city with rich history and culture, and I went to a back/tard-re/wards armpit know for Confederacy, changing its area code to match its fucking college football team, and a burning hatred for the English language (except when talking about Mexicans, when they suddenly become Oxford-Grammar-Nazis). I only idly dreamed of becoming a bartender (while working at BK, where the most exciting occurrence in almost 12 months was buying a dime off a patron as I ran the drive-through), you did it. Mine started later and ended earlier, brought about by a self-loathing "duty" to a thing vaguely resembling a woman who I thought was the best I could do, whereas you left for yourself. After it all, like the Monarch I slunk back to my hometown to claim "a fat inheritance" (though my family is still alive doesn't mean I can't suckle the teat of their diligent toils), but you're making it work.


I'm not saying you shouldn't reconcile, far from it. Even after the trials you two had, you obviously still feel that deep connection, so don't neglect it. But realize that when you fly, you leave those without wings behind. And communicating from up-high is a nerve-wracking thing to consider (I didn't talk to my parents until about a week before I returned, and hadn't told them I was leaving). Essentially, all is not lost and there's no need to feel ashamed for pursuing your dreams, for few are brave enough to do so.

5.)
Destiny is a sham. Unless, of course, it's written by you and then strictly adhered to.

Really, there's like 3 billion heterosexual women out there (and like 300 million gay guys, equal to about the pop. of the US). Granted, I guess half would be in your age range, and I'm sure you wouldn't be attracted to all of them (and none of the gay guys), but there's people out there that lust for your bones. Unlike you, most people bury their desires deep, so someone could want to kiss, date, marry, or fuck you (or some or all of the above) and you'd have no idea until that glorious reveal takes place (if it ever does). I have a story about this, though it'd be kinda crass to relate it here, but I'm a living testament to that.

Seriously, you don't know people as well as you think you do. Don't let your preconceptions destroy the mysteries hidden in the heads of some gals you might just want yourself.

[he replied, and then I replied with the following]

you have to admit that unaided flight is a matter of physical impossibility, whereas your not finding a girl is a social "impossibility," so I think they're not on quite the same level.

I'm not sure about the number either, I've just heard that there's 6 billion of us dicking around right now, and so I figgered half of that.

You've heard of self-fulfilling prophecies? No one wants to be approached by someone who is convinced there's a 99% chance that they're pure evil.

And I don't know how you ask them out, but that is important. I'm not saying that what you're doing is bad: from what I know about you, you honestly make your intentions known, probably early on. This is wrong. Make the bitch chase you, she will follow. Seriously, for some reason I don't get, if you come out the gate with how you truly feel, lavishing the attention you'd think she wants (and she does, deep down), she'll peg you for a freak or a loser. Aloof is lovable. I wish that wasn't the way, and that I could speak candidly about my feelings, but I guess that's a sign of weakness, desperation.

And let's just say that she really doesn't like you, even if you play the game like a pro, don't let that stop you. Girls are friends with other girls. If you play tight to your chest, attempting to woo someone yet only showing friendship, you might start to hang out with a bunch of girls. Wear the banner of "Yeah, I'm single, but I'm not really looking. I just like you all, there's no reason why friendships can't cross the gender line." Eventually someone will make it known they wantcha, and then move. If your first reaction to a new chick is "I like you, I'd like to date," unless she's sure about it by your looks alone, she'll say no, and then friendship is pretty awkward, keeping you out of her circle of potential playmates.

I guess you shouldn't expect things to happen quickly. If my advice is right (and I'm far from an expert. Maybe you should talk to that other Matle) it'd probably take a little minute before you hook someone. But you'll be set up with a lot more lures in the water, and so when one of them takes the bait but bolts beneath the murky depths, just shrug, cuz there's bound to be another nibble soon.

And I realize how, um, dumb this all sounds. You're not looking for some dude to expound what he thinks you should do, you're looking for a lady to see you for the generous snuggle-bear you are. Don't forget though, that's there's actually girls out there that are as needy (and some much more so) than you, that could be lying in bed bemoaning their isolation at the exact same moment you feel hopeless. When you realize that the number of girls that are drunk with need is unfathomable, maybe you won't feel so hopeless. Oh, yeah, confidence is another turn-on for most ladyfolks. I get its a Catch-22: you won't feel confident unless you have someone, and you won't have someone unless you're confident, and I don't have a good answer for that. But I have a stab: fake confidence. I'm not saying arrogance, which I don't think you have to worry about but I'm just clarifying, just confidence. Exude that you'd be a great guy to hang out with, and maybe someone might just believe the "lie," and then maybe it'll become the truth.

You know, I need to put my theories to the test. I have had something special happen to me last semester (the aforementioned crassness), but that was pretty lucky... Or was it? Maybe it was the beginning of the new 'drew "game." Hmm... I don't know. I just know I liked it.

6.)
Whoa there killer. Remember: "Asshole" is a relative term. It's not like "equilateral," or "symmetric" or something, it's more like "delicious." So, what you're basically saying is that you want the people you don't approve of destroyed. That smacks of fascistic genocide. Not the type of company you want to keep.

Now, if I'm going to try to extrapolate from your examples that "asshole" is not just a catch-all phrase for the folks you don't like, I'd say that your specific grievances are: 1.) Men who are aggressively sexual to the point of trivializing those they pursue, and 2.) Men who are thoughtlessly judgmental, and so more concerned with expressing disdain than honestly appraising one's strengths and faults.

This may seem paradoxical, but by excluding women from these negative traits I think you are succumbing to male-chauvinism. How? Because you're acting as if all women behave within certain limits, that they can't do these things, and so even while they are qualities you don't like, you're saying that men can make this choice, but women can't. I mean, if you want to be a feminist, you've got to think that women and men are equal. And, beyond all this a priori assessment, I can say that I've seen women do both of these things.

Your rumination on the half-killing of America reminded me of this dude interviewed outside of his bomb shelter: "If half of Los Angeles is destroyed, maybe 80, 90% of the people will be dead, and there will be fewer mouths to feed and those of us who survive will have more food and water to divide up." (Atomic Café, 1:10) I'm glad that you shy away from this instead of salivating over splitting the spoils like this shmuck.

I'll say that I tried to frame my extrapolations in a way that it would be easier for me to agree with you, but from the bare-bones descriptions you gave, I'd say there's plenty of times when this is appropriate. Especially the dumbass thing, since there really are people that do stupid shit (like, say, going to a non-costume party with white face-paint flaking off everywhere, and pants with strategically cut holes reading "No Fly Zone" and "Fag Hole," with a sign taped to the chest reading "IRL FAJIT" or "TRYING TOO GODDAM HARD"), and a little social censure might help those folks understand how to better incorporate themselves into the group, even if that criticism is flaky and self-serving. As for cute shoes, it is a tragic truth that not everyone I want to fuck is someone I respect. If someone falls into this overlap of the Venn Diagram the strange shapes of fuckability and respectability, and a curt compliment of their clogs would court the cunt, then hey, why not? It's certainly not ideal, but the multitude of factors that dictate how I get to satisfy mah urges (physically, emotionally, intellectually, socially) means that I don't expect the ideal no mo', not in the near-future anyway, so this is a road I may travel, and I don't feel shame for it.

And I don't think Karma is a bitch. I don't think Karma is. It's a fallacy borne out of the human need to believe that the Universe does spin in the way we want. And while someone might think it's harmless to believe in Karma, since it might just help some folks get through the day, I say this precise pacification is the problem. It may be a new flavor of opiate to the Western masses, but it's an opiate nevertheless. Look at the language you use: you want the government to do this, some big bad force to clean up the mess for you. Stop believing in Karma and you'll realize that if you want to see change you've got to be active. Thankfully, you contradict your earlier claim at the end, saying you want to "take things in [your] own hands." That's good, you should ACT UP, FIGHT AIDS check..., wait, I mean ACT UP, FIGHT ASSES check....

Excuse me if I've done something wrong, I'm just trying to get you to see a little more nuance to the matters of social reconstruction. If these sentiments are so crucial to your role in society, bully for you. But, you know, there's no need to throw the baby out with the bathwater. The people that harbor these feelings probably did not get them in their primordial state, and so they're not inextricable facets of their personalities, but most likely the product of a careless education. So, you want change: Educate, don't Extirpate. Those who succumb to shallowness are ripe for reprogramming, since their sentiments are not strongly fortified and are thus easily uprooted. I'd much rather live in a land where everyone held common beliefs because of communication and contemplation instead of one where common beliefs come from exiling all dissenters.

7.)
A.) When does someone stop being a stranger? Honestly, if you had to wait until you truly knew someone before you banged, you'd be... Catholic. At least an observing one. And those fucks suck.



B.) Three questions on 3.: What's wrong with your family being your friends (I understand that might not work out, depending on your family, but is there something fundamentally wrong about it)? Isn't the friend-romp thing just a reiteration of 2.? And when have you considered romping with a member of your family? (Unless, of course, by separation you mean not that they aren't the same people, but that they won't interact.)

C.) From the grief your friends give you, the first thought that comes to mind: get new friends.


D.) Dear gawd, I hope you don't care what I think. This pretentious kiddo always needs to be seasoned with that grain o' salt.


E.) Explosions are painful, but they sure are exhilarating. Sometimes easy is boring.

[she responded, and the following is my response]


I get it, 2 is more about you keeping your friends from trying to instigate a relationship, and 3 is about keeping them from imposing on the ones you've already established. But I've got to ask, if your friends (or just some of them) are these gossipy instigators, what do you see in them? Alas, it may be my despicable maleness that keeps me from understanding this biting, but what I've read in Stein's Three Lives makes me have a theory:
Maybe you want people around you to scold you and to scold them, so you're forced to reconsider your actions and redefine your beliefs. What if you want them to meddle, since without their assessment you fail to understand your identity? In other words, you don't know how to judge yourself until you form it through your reaction to your judgment by others. The way how you go back and forth from acceptance of their accusation ("since part of me became nauseous when I heard it spoken out loud I think it might be true.") to the rejection of it ("It is an unnecessary obstacle for me to build if I allow this to happen. I don't like people putting their heads where they don't belong.") makes me think that this is the case. And what if its precisely that sadistic urge that your friends have in causing fights makes it so appealing? If they were tactful, kind and praising their words might not do you any good, because without the hostility the words would not have the firm, combative qualities that spurred you to your self-discovery. Because while you to show your doubts, this post reads like a mini-manifesto, and manifestos are usually written to oppose some external force.


I don't know. These may be the inane ramblings of a guy futilely trying to make sense of what he sees as a network of sadomasochism. I don't mean to offend, or put words in your mouth. Feel free to slap me if I've overstepped my bounds.

[and, unbelievably, she responded again, in a fashion I was actually interested in reading and satisified once I had done so. Seeing as how most of mah posts were mere self-indulgent, self-aggrandizing "lookie-how-smartie-I-is" bullshit that fell on understandably deaf ears, it was such a sweet relief to finally desire to learn something from someone else. I swear, my ivory tower is lonely. I think I need to knock it down, maybe build an ivory ranch-style four-bedroom or something.]