Arbitrary Ravings

A Declaration of Intent

2011-05-13T12:40:00.000-07:00

Perusing these internets at length, parsing the malodorous qualities of this deluge of information and irrelevant advertising it has come to my attention that I have absent, in practical terms, for far too long.

There is, in fact, a necessity for a leaf, an islet if you will, of contradictory thoughts, rambling-to-no-purpose-loquacity, and vivacious show-off vocabulary mining. That is not to say that some of these qualities do not exist in other digital, ethereal locales en ligne. There is to my knowledge, however, no real space where the facet of a truly inept understanding of the world combines so perfectly with a shameless overindulgence in lengthy sentences.

That place, for some short years, was here. But long ago it ceased to be an active ingredient in my day/week/monthly routine. Recently though I had the fortune to find a certain artist's thoughts on some aspects of the Muse. Lately I've been neglectful of the dame; not so much from lack of interest, but from a marked increase in busy-ass-life-is-busy circumstances. If you care to read the page, however, you'll find his (no doubt a trifle self-serving) advice to write regularly in a virtual self-indulgence tablet. In uncharacteristic and un-looked-for brevity: the lad convinced me. So get ready, world for a fresh inducement to sleep! or at least turn off internet and go outside. I'm Back.

Also, because this site appears to be woefully behind the times and less user-friendly than other options, I have decided to move this little operation next door to Wordpress. Here it is.

Should-be-doing-homework-post

2011-02-12T19:16:00.000-08:00

In the depths of a Western Canadian evening, a lone dramatist of questionable merit silently debated with the voices in his head whether to begin another round of computer hearts or continue his frightfully obtusely-plotted soon-to-be-Broadway-nothinginparticular play. The latter, I hope, wins out because this particular drama is already two days overdue. In addition to the author's severe lack of will to do peer-edits of his drama workshop classmates' scripts, failure to actually WRITE a damn play for the class would perhaps result in the loss of the proverbial (and real) 500 smackos.

Home sweet home/blast from the past/I was a better writer at fifteen than I remember being.

The Importance of Mitch McConnell

2009-01-24T13:30:00.000-08:00

Here is a video I finished a few minutes ago; it is full of reverence for our Nation's Leaders.

The Triumphant Retreat

2009-01-17T11:27:00.000-08:00

Am flattered to have received another undeserved award from Her Crazy Quiltiness: http://aldebaran14.blogspot.com/2009/01/awardium-leviosa.html
and have decided as a result of my dubious merit to twitch a lifeless limb on this catatonic scribble den of mine. Can you believe it? Throughout the whole of the blessed Year of Our Lord 2008 I took it upon myself to regurgitate just ONE piddling little post! Honestly, I wasn't that busy.

So I suppose, lacking more original inspiration, I shall reflect on things dismal and beautiful that occurred in that preceding annus (don't you DARE free-associate) of ours. Let's see... in the world, almost one year ago to the day, something happened in Gaza (surprise surprise). That time it wasn't 400 children who were blown up, but the wall on the border to Egypt. I must say I was moved to see the pictures of ordinary people desperately acquiring essentials that this brief window allowed them to get. And now they've received a bountiful gift of white phosphorus.

Also of note was the great Andean Diplomatic Crisis, wherein Colombia had some Death Eaters on their payroll summon the Magic Incriminating FARC Laptop. Its voluminous documentation pointed digital fingers at Venezuela's Chavez, Ecuador's Correa, and revealed once and for all that Santa Claus does not exist. :'(

In the Land of the Freebies, some of the white people finally started to feel the pinch of their Empire's steady economic decline, and thus it became an Official Reality. For this reason they allowed a half white man to cheer them up, and now they are extra pleased with themselves. President B(S)a(a)r(d)a(a)c(a)k(m) Hussein Ob(s)ama will, he tells us, do wonderful things in the coming year, like recognize Israel's Right to Defend Itself (from Jewish academics especially), give more Military Presents to the people of Afghanistan, call Hugo and Evo a Source of Instability in the Region, and invest in fixing (not obliterating) America's Glooooorious system of obsolete infrastructure. Fun times ahead, I tells ya.

Here in Canadumb there was a faux-election, in which 22% of the population elected 46% of the MPs. 900,000 votes for the Green Party (including mine) elected nobody in particular.

Goodness, I don't seem to have found any cheerful macro political happenings in the last year. No, WAIT, there was that shiny pin-hole of righteous footwear-flavored protest from one Muntadhar al-Zaidi. May he be an example to us all.

I don't want to seem long winded (HA!) so I will perhaps touch on events concerning myself in a subsequent post/rant.

Hamlet and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat

2008-03-08T13:13:00.001-08:00

Many things going on, in the big world and my world.

First my things. Last month went to Merry Old Engelonde for to see a suite, if you will, of historical-ish plays by the Bard himself. These were performed to near perfection by the impossible-to-praise-enough Royal Shakespeare Company. I will not get too voluble on the subject but it may suffice to say that the productions, of which I saw all the "Henry"s (IV-parts one and two, V, and all three parts of IV) were graced by vertical entrances and exits (by trapeze), battles both real and abstract (one with a large amount of paper streamers), voluminous organic percussion sound effects, trap doors aplenty, and a very large, rusty metaphorical representation (a tower) of the "realm" at the time of the turbulent events.

At home, my drama company has finally cast itself for our production of Frank Wedekind's harrowing (and very German in that respect) "Children's Tragedy" Spring Awakening. And guess what my chippies... I'm the LEAD. Ohmigoodness. But yes, I will be playing the part of Melchior Gabor (no relation to Zsa Zsa), the free thinker and accidental rapist. Cheery, no? I'm also very pleased to announce that this production will have absolutely nothing to do with the recent Broadway "musical" interpretation of the same play.

Lastly (though there is much else), my original play, Area Code 419, Africa Calling, has been selected as a runner-up in this year's Young Playwright's Festival. True to form, I at first wondered why it was I didn't win, like two years ago... but that's really neither here nor there, as it will be staged regardless, and that is what counts.

Anyway, perhaps a little about the big world now...
Mr. Obama, I would really like to believe in you. It's just that... You're a Democrat. I have come to the conclusion from much reading and ponderation that this so-called "people's" party is really the true obstacle to genuine social (not to mention political) change in the Land of the (shopping) Spree. I was impressed with your comment on using nukes, but then you say you want to increase the military! You spoke out against the "US-led" Iraq genocide at its beginning, but then you voted every time to fund it! And finally, I have read that you hired Zbigniew Brzezinski as a campaign adviser. This man has admitted to conspiring to start the horrific and endless Soviet-Afghan war.

And for all you "identity politics" voters who are afraid of being either racist or sexist: why not vote for Cynthia McKinney? She is black, and she's a woman! She also happens to be a Green; therefore, owing to the corporate-media imposed third-party blackout, you have not heard of her...

On Auto-independence and Other Such Concerns

2007-11-09T19:39:00.000-08:00

I took the Novice, class 7 driver's test (for those readers who are unfamiliar with BC licensing). I passed. This is good. It was my first try too.

I did, however, make a few minor mistakes, one of which (supposedly) was honking at a car that turned in front of me, obstructing my divine right-of-way (Dieux et ma voiture). Really though, if I hadn't slowed I would have hit them. I can only guess why the tester thought this behavior was inadvisable. Perhaps he saw in it the incipience of Road Rage, that scourge of otherwise peaceful developed nations. Whatever the case, I passed. Ha. Ha.

Also, it looks like I may be taking another course as a 'special student' in the spring. This would be Anthropology 100. Why, do you ask? Well, taking this course would enable me to take the 200 level course when I start full time in the fall. Once those two prerequisites are out-o'-th'-way I will be able to take any Anth. 300-level course from second year on. There are many that look quite interesting...

A Joke.

2007-10-20T21:56:00.001-07:00

How do you know whether an elephant has been in your refrigerator?

You check the pastry shelf for mushroom tidbits, stand perfectly still and attempt to move only your jaw muscles, stomp on thirty-two wretched roadside snails, start a virtual fire and burn down the internets, call your imaginary elephant mother and ask her whether uncle Floopert has gone missing, grow the fine mustachios, order a box of peppermint polyps, publish a pseudonymous tract against firemen, paint your ears bright yellow and then mauve, move to Malaysia, forget to wash your Monday-stars, read a signatory's signature signature, write down the exact number of daisies it would take to convince a head of state to scratch him/herself, open a roti stand, ride a sedentary deer with emotional issues, refer euphemistically to yourself as "me," antonym antonym antonym antonym, and, FINALLY, use a banned quack-medical device to detect the velvety hint of a peanut butter footprint on the floor of the fridge.

Where's the Love?

2007-10-17T15:24:00.000-07:00

So I'm just about finished with this Suitable Boy tome, with about 150 pages left. (Do not anyone tell me any ending secrets or I will personally see that those blabbers receive as much Evil Eye as is humanly possible.) Grammatically dubious parenthetical thoughts aside, I've been fishing around for another novel-type-thing to take its place when I've done with it. I usually have about five or six different books going at any given time, only one of which specifically falls into the comparatively "light" category of novel.
And so it was that I turned to Arundhati Roy's "the God of Small Things." I thought it sounded interesting, despite some dire warnings of hugely depressing subject matter from other parties. So while I was locked out of my house yesterday afternoon as a result of my own stupidity I sat down to read my borrowed copy, rather fittingly, in the rain.
Very little apart from Lemony Snicket could have prepared my for the startling morbidity of this text. Every character is either dead, a murderer/manslaughterer, a rapist, an abusive husband, a wretched "man-less woman," or some variation on this general theme. The only characters, in fact, who seem to have any love for each other are the miserable dizygotic twins, Rahel and Esthappen. They, needless to say, are the continual victims, thus far, of brutal neglect and a horrendous destruction of innocence.
Why must a novel contain such lurid, over-drawn melancholy? This is merely my first impression as I haven't finished the book, but, simply put, प्यार कहॉ है?
I will grant that the whole thing is written in an intriguingstyle with lots of linguistic liberties given and taken, as well as a capitalization Free For All, and I admire these things. But I contrast Roy's approach to subject matter with that of Vikramji, who imbues his novel with plenty of sadness, but everything else as well! and frankly, I find the latter more aesthetically satisfying...

On Things

2007-10-05T15:40:00.000-07:00

Well, I had an eventful Summer, but not so eventful as some previous ones perhaps. However this was all right. I didn't go to Europe. I didn't set anything on fire. I didn't steal the phone repairman's shoes. I didn't cast out any demons. I didn't hide in a port-o-potty.

I did get some writing done. I decided pull a George Armstrong Custer (attempt something I am almost certainly incapable of) and develop some female characters. This has had mixed results, but at least they're results. A woman called Deianeira Hodgson-Heyworth is the obscenely wealthy widow of "noted industrialist John C. Heyworth." She lives in New York (or somewhere very similar) in the 1920s. Apparently most of her friends have gone the way of her husband, so she resolves upon hiring a "lady companion" to share in her personality, which is far too, shall we say, dynamic, for one person. Her companion is named Mercy, which is appropriate. They have many adventures.

Thus far they've had two adventures, but they'll probably be seen to experience more.. but who knows?

Other than that I am taking tomorrow my last ever cursed standardized test: the biggest of them all in fact, the SAT (Sordid Atrocious Taunting). I've been preparing for this God-forgiven piece of rapacious inhumanity for many moons, many Yojanas in fact. Predictably my math skills were on par with that of a two-headed with brucellosis. We'll get through somehow.

If you're looking for an unfathomably good, epic-length novel, try A Suitable Boy by Vikram Seth.

Harry Potter and the Imam's Fatwa?

2007-07-14T13:03:00.000-07:00

Let me start off by saying: I love, adore unrestrainedly, those books. I don't know how that Scottish witch (good witch) does it, but they are possibly the most engaging, effortlessly enjoyable things ever written.

The thing about the stories that has always ranckled with me though, is this: a conspicuous absence of anything relating to faith, God, religion, anything. At first you might think, well, this is logical. In today's "Western culture" there is a pronounced rejection of faith in many areas. This state of affairs is not complete though. Almost every Western institution that can trace its origins farther back than the Renaissance usually had or has some associatioin with faith, or at least the Church. And despite the wishes of many scientific, evolved, intellectual, etc. types, these origins continue to influence and persist in our culture and others. This is why no matter how much "Jo Rowling" tries to avoid sticky religious controversy, she cannot fundamentally sidestep such inconvenient muggle concepts as "God" in every page. Some examples:

The wizarding hospital of "St. Mungo's" (named, I've been told, after an actual saint).

The Sanskritic and, by association Hindu, names of two of Harry's schoolmates-- Parvati and Padma Patil.

The constant stream of allusions to Classical mythology (ergo faiths) in names, creatures, etc. (Minerva, Argus, Fluffy, etc.)

There are probably more; these just sprang from my mind, fully armed. However, even from these examples one might be able to infer that Rowling tries to stick to "safe" religious themes and concepts, so as not to offend certain touchy parties. The problem with this, however, is that it would now be impossible to represent, for example, Jewish or Muslim Britains at the apparently all-inclusive Hogwarts. Does the school have secret apartheid regulations forbidding attendance by members of these two faith cultures? Is the food served in the Great Hall consistenly un-kosher, un-halaal? Or does she think Arab culture, that gave us the unparalleled Tales from the Thousand and One Nights, has but little to offer in the way of magic? But digressions aside, I think it would be a rational day in the White House when we saw a new character in the upcoming "Deathly Hallows" conclusion by the name of Kabir, Mohammed, -baum, -berg, -owitz, or Khan. These two faiths, she apparently thinks, still contain adherents who'd be willing to raise heck against haraam notions of magic, sorcery and enchantment. And she's probably right. I think it would be vastly entertaining though, not that I'm an advocate of strife, but still...

Of Tacos and तबला |

2007-07-10T18:23:00.000-07:00

In short, I have found out yet another meaty staple for my diet and it is this: tacos. Yes, I've known of these unstable items for many moons, yet in my childhood I was never inclined to sample even a fastfood example of the genre. Now, with the advent of my ability to eat things other than "kid food" ifyouknowhatImean, I can cram just about anything into my mouth and the "buds" (as those things that help you taste tell me they like to be called) put up very feeble resistance. Tacos are great. If I were in the mood I might compose a limerick, but wouldn't that just be so cliche?

A taco is really quite grand
When you know that you've made it by hand.
But now don't let it crack
Or you'll lose a whole snack
And abandon your lunch to the land.

Applause please... no, don't kid yourselves.

In other worlds, I have, after months of searching and scheming, found a guru for to teach me some of the ropes as regards Tabla. This proved to be most exciting. I learned in an hour six different types of बोल. One, whose name comes not to mind, was quite difficult but I'll get it eventually.

If there were a deepest circle of Hell, he'd have a one-way ticket.

2007-07-06T10:40:00.000-07:00

Today is, apparently, the sixtieth anniversary of the creation of the AK-47 assault rifle or Kalashnikov, after its inventor Mikhail.

I, who have never seen anything that remotely resembles the human tragedy of armed conflict, find it hard to even comprehend the destruction that this infamous object has forced upon the ordinary people of the world. Indeed, one would probably be hard pressed to think of any war in the last half-century in which the "AK" has not found a role. It might even be possible to estimate the number of deaths this weapon alone is responsible for, but I wouldn't want to. I'll leave that to Mikhail.

The gun's inventor says he feels no guilt for his indirect genocide, which probably dwarfs anything the Austrian Corporal came up with. Instead, he says that "politicians" are responsible for the world's innumerable wars and slaughter. And cigarrette-wallas aren't responsible for lung cancer, either. This isn't surprising. People pass the buck with great dependability, myself included. Who would honestly want to admit to an obscene fraction of the carnage in the last century, easily the deadliest yet? The truth is, if you forge cheap death for desperate hands, it will be used.

It's probably pointless to blame one man for humanity's failure, but he's certainly helped us along for the last few years. If there's a Hell, Mikhail, you wouldn't miss it for the world.

Oh goodness gracious

2007-07-03T22:00:00.000-07:00

I swore I would never repeat this wretched cliche of so many amateur bloggies (not that I'm not one myself) but I have not posted for a loooong time. Part of it was to do with this strange selling-out to Google which fuddle-duddled everything up, but I'm sure I should have shown more initiative.

Needless to say, after just finishing a brief account of Indian Independance, I am even less fondly disposed towards the forces of faith in nationalist politics, and nationalism in general. I'll elaborate more on that later...

Le Chanson d'Harry Potter Continue

2007-03-10T01:07:00.000-08:00

The saga continues... (with an initial note and subsequent uncertainty from the translator)

[This part needs work]
He thought back to that Thursday, the most important day in Harry's life, the most unforgettable day in Harry's life. In the middle of the night Harry secretly got out of bed, donned his invisibility cloak, and like a puff of steam tiptoed down the stairs, and then went to the school hunting grounds, like the night when the keykeeper Hagrid secretly took him to see the fire breathing dragon, waiting to ??????

"Hey! Wormtail, how ya doin'?" Harry first called to the guy opposite.

Peter was his parent's classmate at Hogwartz School of Magic, and afterwards became Voldemort's henchman. His good sense at the critical moment helped him pull life out of death. So, the now aged Peter had become Harry's devoted follower.

Peter smiled and bowed towards his idol Harry. In the muggle world Harry still was only a normal young man, but in magic circles he was a spectacular person. Because of his fame there were bad or jealous magicians and beasts who wanted to smash Harry.

Ron faced the portrait of DaVinci's old man and said the spell: "Fried banana pudding". The door creaked open showing a long crack where the moonlight shone through the darkness. Harry hurried in, then turned and closed the door, took off his invisibility cloak, and looked around.

Tonight Harry was a little uneasy wearing the invisibility cloak because it seemed like overkill for a minor problem, but he couldn't really blame himself, since kindhearted Harry had gone through many, many terrors at 4 Privet Drive. So far so good, the moonlight-drenched passage was empty, completely still. At several key times (like when Dudley suddenly attacked him) he pulled out the Marauder's Map ...

I Am Called Upon to Single-Handedly Reverse the Decline of Western Academia

2007-02-23T11:53:00.001-08:00

So I took the PSAT a few months ago, and my score was: not bad. In any case, I'm coming to regret somewhat my decision to disclose my email to these College Board "folks" as I've been getting letters almost daily from strange academic institutions of higher learning. I've never heard of most of them, but the most cocktail-conversation-appropriate of them was from Columbia (which I have heard of). Part of it reads:

"Imagine yourself eating lunch in the cafe where Jack Kerouac wrote ...
... conducting research where the laser and FM radio were invented ...
... interning at an investment banking firm on Wall Street ...
... studying in buildings where Langston Hughes sparked the Harlem Renaissance ...
... on a traditional campus in New York City."

...Very modest I must say. Anyway, other notables included Univ. of Notre Dame (who predictably appealed to my faith), Stanford, and U of Pennsylvania. The latter two, however, simply invited me to attend some highschool level course bs, which my dad assured me was just a money making ploy. The annoying thing about a lot of these emails is that if you click on any link provided, they interperate this as "interest" and immediately bang off three more letters to you. This has happened several times.

Harry Potter Knockoff Parte Deux

2007-01-31T09:59:00.000-08:00

During dinner, as always, Dudley had let loose his spoiled personality, and not only yelled abuse at his fool of a father, but also threw a plate of cake at Harry's face just because Harry said something to him that a polite child should not say.

Lying alone in the large tub with the piping hot water flowing over him and his soul calmed, he decided his evening's activity would be to take as long a bath as he wanted. Though usually unwilling to accept anything from the Dursleys, still he had decided to use the adults' bathroom. It was very rare for anyone to enter the crude old man's bathroom. Even his wife and child were not usually allowed in, so the chance of Harry's being disturbed or upset was not very big.

Apparently his uncle let him do this because he was a little embarrassed, Harry thought as he soaked in the tub, repeatedly thinking of how his cousin Dudley had squandered his advantages with his repulsive actions.

Harry had very carefully planned this bath, because before he had gotten up in the middle of the night and run around, and been caught by his Aunt. He could not bear thinking back to the terror of that night, and hoped not to experience it again. The invisibility cloak he naturally could not do without for the purpose of security. Harry also wanted to bring "Introduction to Transformations" so if Dudley blundered into the room he could change into a huge monster and scare Dudley half to death. After thinking for a while he felt pity for the obese pathetic worm, and decided to bring his Marauder's Map instead. The Marauder's Map was scarcely less important than the invisibility cloak. It was the most important tool for Harry to use when he was breaking the school rules. The map would show anyplace Harry thought of, including all the complicated twisting corridors and secret passages from the wars of several decades ago. But the most important thing was that it displayed the names of all the small points representing the locations of all the people in the area. This way, if anyone approached the bathroom Harry could get an early warning.

My New Favorite Book

2007-01-26T13:23:00.000-08:00

Harry Potter
and the
Leopard Walk up to Dragon

(The following is a translated excerpt from an unauthorized Chinese sequal to Harry Potter, written in anticipation of the 5th installment [when was that, '04?]. Note the unmistakeably Chinese cultural details and descriptions.)

"Chapter 1: A Sweet and Sour Rainfall

Harry did not know how long this bath would take, when he would finally scrub off that oily, sticky layer of cake icing. For someone who had grown into a cultured, polite young man, a layer of sticky filth really made him feel sick. He lay in the high quality porcelain tub ceaselessly wiping his face. In his thoughts there was nothing but Dudley's fat face, fat as his Aunt Petunia's fat rear end.

Harry was a 5th-year student at Hogwartz School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. At that heavenly amusement park his grades were the highest of all the students in his class. Because of this, when summer approached he was named the Head Student in his class. But for some reason Harry did not understand, Professor Dumbledore firmly insisted that his summer practice be at his aunt's house at 4 Privet Drive.

His objections to this were overruled by the Headmaster on the last day before leaving school. Because of this Harry had been unhappy the whole day. 4 Privet Drive to him was his childhood heaven, but also his childhood hell.

His first day back, his cousin Dudley also returned home from school. This was his nightmare. From the depths of his heart he was not willing to pass summer vacation with his fat cousin, but there was absolutely no way to change the fact. At the magic school he was a young celebrity, but at Privet Drive he was still a protected object. [?]"

Big Surprise...

2007-01-24T15:49:00.000-08:00

You Are Surrealism

Dreamy and idealistic, you've created a world that is all your own.
It's very likely that you've either dabbled in drugs or are naturally trippy.
You are always trying to push beyond the boundaries of your culture and society.
You believe that art, love, and freedom can change the world.

What Art Movement Are You?

Procrastinosaurus

2007-01-21T23:42:00.000-08:00

This slow, ancient herbivorous reptile was capable of sleeping for up to two weeks at a time, awakening itself only to slither its abnormally long tongue in the direction of some food, while forbearing to move a single other unnecessary muscle. The fate of this species was decided relatively early in the Jurassic, when males and females became simply to lazy to mate. Gavrilovich Putitov, the Russian discoverer of this dinosaur, claimed that on sighting the first Procrastinosaur bones he was siezed by an inexorable urge to call it a day and unearth the rest of the beasts tomorrow.

Thank you ill-timed literary inspiration. I am supposed to be finishing a music assignment, in case you were wondering.

Return of the Son of the Long-Winded Traveller

2007-01-15T21:50:00.000-08:00

Happy new year everyone. I spent the holidays in Paris. This was mainly an aging-consolation for my father, who approaches his half-century of existence this May. It was quite nice in fact, so I'll get my petty complaints out of the way first.

I found, to my chagrin on TWO occasions, that Parisians do not clean up the merde of their petits chiens, and are apparently not compelled to do so by any municipal legislation. I later learned from observation that most feces were deposited on the far right of the sidewalks (political meanings?), right up against various buildings.

The Mona Lisa is a 3 & 1/2-ring media pop culture circus that perennially degrades the traditions of Western Art.

For the first few days it was bloody cold.

And that's basically it. The rest was transcendant. Some of my highlights include being able to read any sign on which I deigned to glance, the Musee National du Moyen Age (at the Abbee Cluny) with its relics from a time when Western Europe fuddle-duddled in the grip of the wily old Church, the Picasso Museum, and one of the most profoundly spiritual masses I have ever heard, on Christmas Eve at Notre Dame. Listening to the scripture I felt as though God was speaking to me more clearly than ever before in a language that was not my own.

Sugar crepes are sooooo good!

Goodbye Pinochet!

2006-12-10T20:58:00.000-08:00

So he's dead. He's dead at the stale old age of ninety-one years. It's just marvelous the happy endings all these grand old dictators come to. Let's recap: Idi Amin Dada, butcher of Uganda and supreme blemish on anti-Zionism, died peacefully a few years ago in the land of the highjackers. Slobodan Milosevic, scion of Serbian ethnic supremacism and expansion, died *just* before facing trial for his crimes. Now old Augusto, slayer of thousands and champion of "free"-market economics, has died not-so-peacefully, but still quite old and unpunished. Apparently he "accepted his responsibility" for his enthusiasm for Milton Friedman's ideas (not to mention the dead people). Well that's nice. I just wonder when we're going to see Mr. Henry Kissenger quietly accept responsibility for his clotted hands and move on. After all, he's got to get on with his life.

There is another side of course. Charles Taylor, former glorious leader of Nigeria (I believe) was in the dock last I heard. And let us not forget Saddam and a couple of his bubble-Baath buddies. They will be executed, supposedly. Saddam is no longer free to kill Kurds. This is a good thing. This good thing came at a cost, don't you think?

Adventures in the Khalsa Video Store

2006-11-14T19:53:00.000-08:00

After dropping off an associate at a Renaissance dance class, I was impelled to patronize an audio-visual entertainment establishment. I had heard through various channels that this store harbored a sizable selection of Indic cinema. This turned out to be true. I tearfully welcomed the sights of sundry stars and titles into mine eyes, and chose from these three films: Andaz Apna Apna, Dil Se, and Bombay. I am somewhat partial to the music of Mr. Allah Rakha Rahman, as you may have guessed.

Before the clerk was able to fulfil my rental wishes I glanced at a small periodical placed upon the checkout counter. I was puzzled, at first, to find that I could not read the script. But then to my mind came the most brilliant of insights-- ahah! This establishment was a
Khalsa establishment. Therefore the script was *duh* not Nagari, but whatever it is the Panjabi script is called.

In the evening I participated in a rehearsal of my percussion ensemble. This participation was mostly limited to misplaying various Mexican mariachi melodies and repeatedly sparring with one of my colleagues a la musketeer... with marimba mallets.

They Could Only Fix So Many Races

2006-11-07T21:29:00.000-08:00

At the moment, I am once more proud to be American. My faith in our tarnished and abused democratic franchise is slowly becoming restored. It would seem that the party of spineless wishy-washer pro-war Democrats has taken control of our House of Representatives. This is a good thing. Despite their conniving in the corrupt and non-sensical two-party system, the Democrats are a party of change, and usually change in the right (meaning left) direction. There are exceptions of course. Lock-step Republindependant Joe-"mentum" Lieberman "prevailed" in Connecticut, proving that it's ok to tell people they shouldn't critisize the Great Warlord Premier Bush. For the house at large though, things are looking up. If these Democrats actually gain control, who knows, some of them might actually feel like calling W on a couple of his pacts with the "Devil" (thank you Senor Chavez).

The Senate looks unlikely to wilt in the winds of righteous popular anger. Too many close races the "Repugs" were able to jiggle around and claim a ficticious lead, probably. Jim Webb, last time I checked, had a ghost of a lead in the Virginia Senate race, which will probably evaporate in the next little while. Ho hum.

But it could have been worse, I tell ya. This is the first American election I've watched that I've felt optimistic about. Perhaps there will be a deluge of Congressional investigations next year... one can always dream.

101st POST!

2006-10-07T00:57:00.000-07:00

And it is, believe it. Such things have transpired since e'er I set my trithling fingers to a key. I would as lief ta'en grimbles to the raqtery croovis.

I am composing now more than once I did, which was not at all. I am writing... less. One outlet creative proffilcateth and another sundunderabangs. Such is the way of the life/world. In any case, my sundry compositions retain a tang of the filmi, the Zaptrack, the Origmods, and the long-named Russo-types. Hindi is going... more or less ambivalently, as it now must compete with French in the language timeslots of the everyday. Constant vigilence.

Anyway, in other news, Condi lied, but Woodward was sporting enough to tell us about it, for which I thank him most heartily. Thanks for that, and for that other thing with the other big powerful guy who may or may not have been worse than the one who's around right now.

Do you really represent us, woman? Last time I checked, we weren't a nation of perjurers.

Joe benedicts up a zinger, clerics call him rat

2006-09-17T19:38:00.000-07:00

Well, pope Joe has done it now. On Tuesday, in a speech in Germany, the Holy Father sparked a doozy of an incident by quoting a 14th century Byzantine emperor's less than favorable feelings on Islam.

Anyone reading this will have already seen the quote. If you haven't, these times demand the Times.

What I find interesting when comparing the origins of Christianity and Islam is that in its first millennium, the early Church converted almost all of Europe through peaceful (if not always knowledgeable) missionaries and the "pious" aristocracy. It was not until later that zealous Christianity aquired a militaristic strain (manifested in such events as the Crusades and the various Inquisitions).

Conversely, Islam's first centuries witnessed a wave of military conquests and invasions by the then-politically-unified Arabs, all in the name of Allah and his Prophet.

Now, I don't currently know enough about the intial spread of Islam to assert that most (if any) of the conversions to this new invading faith were actually forced, but I think it's clear that Islam would certainly not have gained such a large following without this series of military offensives.

In lieu of this evidence it would seem that from its very beginning Islam has exhibited a disturbingly close affiliation with violence, and I personally take little issue with Benedict's condemnation of the association of violence and faith.

Enter, to music

2006-09-07T20:14:00.000-07:00

Today was my first day of school. Ever.

I'm taking a first year course in music composition at the university, hoping to expand my horizons of creative ineptitude. Taking it to a whole new level, yessir. Anyway, in the class there are miraculously two people I used to know. One is what we in the business call "clownspawn," and is, rather, the son of local entertainers in that veign. The other is a young man whom I knew in my little league baseball years, my principle memory being the time when he took a bat to the back of the head (don't worry, it wasn't me [I knew you were thinkin' it]).

The prof. is a nice enough, rather erudite and obscure fellow. Subtract forty odd years, he's me. In any case, I'm quite convinced this course will require me to do things that most would consider interesting. This week's assignment: write a one-minute composition for a 20-piece ensemble. Use only the note A.

Whaaaaaaat?

Yes, only the note A. You may use any octave or combination thereof so long as the instrumental ranges suffice. "Anything goes."

What fun!

IN OTHER, SADDER EVENTS

Crocodile Hunter and professional wildman Steve Irwin is murdered in cold blood by a stingray sociopath. Steve brought a certain wacky, compounded enthusiasm for nature and wildlife to our TV screens, for which he will not be soon forgotten. Many loved his sundry programming and feats of derring-do. I was one of them. Yes, in my early nature-freak phase I subsumed my consciousness religiously with helpings of Mr. Croco-hunter, protector of the wild, guardian of the scaly, wrestler of the aquatically toothsome. What a guy. I'll say it again, what a guy.

Long month's journey in Today

2006-08-22T14:33:00.000-07:00

One month previous, I departed for that splendidly isolated island. What a trip. In London Brian and I and our grandpere stayed in a charming little establishment near Edgewear Road. This, as some of us had failed to be aware, was quite near the heart of London's Middle Eastern neighborhood. Needless to say, headscarves and burkhas presented themselves for our viewing by the airbusload. I rather enjoyed walking by the Anglo-Arabic dual language signs, Falafel cafes, and curious foreign knick-knack outlets every day. My parents, particularly mataji, felt somewhat awash in such a sea of Islamic modesty. She, poor feminist, looked upon these things as oppression. And she was probably right. However, I usually find that I enjoy a degree of cosmoplolitanism, repressive or no.

Anyway, we are very thorough travelers, and many a sight did we see, including the Tate Modern, Wallace Collection, Victoria and Albert, Westminster Abbey, British Museum, Natural History Museum, Imperial War Museum, and other such things. In truth, much has been said regarding each of these marvelous places, and I will be so bold as to stop the tap of my verbose musings and let other, finer appraisals inform the curious as to their particular merits and attributes.

Leaving London we embarked upon a whirlwindable roadtrip (of a few hours) to Stratford-upon-Avon. It was there that we enjoyed some of the most comfortable condominiumestimable accomodation that ever I have seen. It was nice. The raison peradventure of our wending thither was the prospect of presently perusing divers plays writ by the Bard himself, and performed by a certain royally-sanctioned Theatre company. Of those exquisite visions of dramaticality I will say only this: money and imagination are a very VERY good combination.

Flying home from Britannia, I took a two-week whistle stop in Vancouver, the better to attend a certain Shakespearean workshop. The play was Twelfth Night; I, Feste in the last two acts, 1st and 2nd Officers in act 3. It was well. There also did I chance to make the aquaintence of a young girl. In sum I will say that it was spiritually almost impossible to return home, as I have done corporally. I miss her.

John: Wither?

2006-07-22T15:17:00.000-07:00

One more day and I will be off once again for the land of the origin of my over-powering ethnicity: ENGLAND! No, not the U.K., though there are some stray strands of Irish, Welsh, and Scot floating about my Deoxyribonucleic acid.

Yes... off once again to witness the works of the Bard in authentic accents, though this does not have to be a barrier to superior performance. Off again to gaze in disgust at crumbly vestiges of weary Imperial gianthood, long passed into reactionary folklore. A question I shall probably ask myself time and again is, "Prevaileth Engelond?" And after a few hours in this land my answer will undoubtedly be, "It Doth."

Conversely, I have recently been reflecting upon my dwelling musically in the years 1965-1979. A good friend of mine made clear her disapproval of this etat d'affaires, admonishing me to live in "the present" and make it my own. I shall, I say. I will live in the present, and make it my own with barrels of pearls from the past.

The fact is, she told me firmly that there were many good non-mainstream acts wandering about these days, but that I simply lacked the wherewithall to seek them out. She then dutifully directed me to the work of an genre-meshing ensemble from the down-underworld, called "Cat Empire" aiw. Their music, I will admit, would have been enjoyable had it not been for the tenaciously hard-to-ignore SPOKEN (and not very well either) part of a particular song. Why? Because one of the genres they have unceremoniously shoved into their orchestrational kitchen blender is... rap. Lovely.

Despite all this, I was still wondering whether I should give the music of the present more attention...
...And then I listened to Bold As Love, by Jimi Hendrix...

Sorry Lor, I'm irrevocably pinioned to the past.

2006-07-17T13:05:00.000-07:00

Clay stuff from a long time ago

more madness from moi

I Am a Jelly Doughnut!

2006-07-15T14:59:00.000-07:00

You Are Most Like John F. Kennedy

You live a fairy tale life that most people envy.

And while you may have a few dark secrets, few people know them.

What Modern US President Are You Most Like?

India Bleeds

2006-07-12T01:11:00.000-07:00

Yesterday a number of bombs exploded inside seven trains on the Mumbai transit system. Police estimated the deaths at around 190 with at least 600 wounded. The blasts effectively shut down the city, one of India's largest financial centers.

Prime Minister Manmohan Singh called these attacks "cowardly." I disagree, as the emotion of cowardice and its parent, fear, can only be ascribed to mammals of higher developement, such as humans. These attacks were obviously not committed by humans. The perpetrators of this atrocity would be boastful to classify themselves as anything above brine shrimp, for their cold-blooded sociopathy belies humanity.

As crores of Mumbai's citizens saw their city thrown into violence and terror (yes, I use the word), many deserve the sincerest praise for their heroic selflessness in assisting the many wounded train passengers, requiring no encouragement but flocking to help those in need.

My prayers go out to these, and all other victims of violence and militarism worldwide.

Frivolous Thoughts Aplentitudinous

2006-07-11T00:36:00.000-07:00

A little while earlier I realized that I did not know what day it is. Needless to say, this surprised me a great deal. This single fact excited my father to polemic remonstrations such that he did declame, "O! To be young and have no cares..." As a matter of course I deduced that he did not consider himself to be the former, nor to possess (or lack, as it were) the latter.

Speaking of which, the vast majority of the world's people definitely disagree with me, but I have found Tom Green's horrendous film from 1999, after multiple viewings at long intervals, to be... hilarious. Indeed, some might think that a man who screams and destroys everything in sight at every opportunity is more annoying than amusing. However, the timing, delivery, and simple mannerisms of this man are just too much. It's outrageous, get me?

What the hell is the NRA's problem? The U.N. does not wish to take away their guns. I wish to take away their guns!!! Do not ascribe excessively noble motives to this, or any other international organ-association!!!

This site is good, clean fun: http://www.nra-kkk.org/

A QUEST!

2006-07-06T09:59:00.001-07:00

This word, that once innocently connoted happiness and carefree pleasure, has in the last half-century become a monster of popular culture. Everything, whether hilarious, disgusting, distasteful, or anything else, can be labled "GAY." Why is this, children??

This presents a seemingly insurmountable quest of urgent importance to the freedom of the world!!! I charge you, inimitable cyberhost, discover for me the origin of the word "gay" with its *current* meaning! From whence did this miraculous term spring forth!?

Mr. Snow and Mr. Frost

2006-07-05T14:14:00.001-07:00

The following is a monologue I wrote and performed a few months ago, to a generally favorable reception. It's somewhat non-partisan believe it or not. Enjoy... maybe.

“Reaching Out.”

A sterilized, under-funded, bleak looking “mess hall” of an insane asylum. Sufficiently self-controlled inmates sit on their chairs, expectantly awaiting someone. Enter Herbert Frost. He ascends to a podium downstage-center.

HERBERT. Good morning everyone. My name is Herbert Frost, and I am a city councilman. As some of you might know, I am currently campaigning for the office of mayor of this great city. Now, I’ve come here in response to a new bill just passed
by the city council (which I supported) that extends our sacred democratic franchise of voting to those members of society who have been declared clinically insane.
Stops a few moments for it to sink in.
Some of you or the voices in your heads might be wondering, “what is he talking about?” or “what is voting?” or even something in your own little made-up language. The fact is, you have all been granted something that millions of other perfectly sane people don’t have, but dearly long for: the right to elect your own government. This is a sacred righ-- a right for which millions have died, a right that is the foundation of our free civilization, and a right of which you should all be very proud.
And so, my friends, I am asking you to exercise your right. I am asking you to vote this Tuesday for me. Why do I want you to vote for me? You may well ask. Well, I want you to choose me not for my benefit, but for your own. I stand by my decade of service as a city councilman when I say that I care about all of this city’s people, sane or no. As mayor I will be committed to your and your city’s welfare, 110%.
Some of you may also know that this is a highly contested election. My principle opponent is the incumbent, Robert Snow. I believe Mr. Snow has mismanaged this city during his four consecutive terms, and I think it’s time for a change. Throughout this campaign, my opponent has leveled an egregious number of personal and slanderous attacks at me, which I would like to address. First of all, he claims that I am speaking to you today because you are the only kind of people who will vote for me. This, in itself, is a preposterous and insensitive assertion, which attempts to minimize your contribution to the democratic process. Secondly, he has exploited to his own ends the fact that I have fathered a child out of wedlock. I say to you truthfully that had it been up to me, that child would never have been born.
However, I would ask you all to look past this barrage of fallacious and contrived hostility, and to look clearly at all candidates in this election, and on Tuesday make the best choice for you, your city, and--
An aid comes up to Herbert and whispers in his ear. The aid leaves. Herbert takes a long look at his audience.
Well folks, I’ve just been informed that the bill granting you the vote has been vetoed. But you know, you people are all insane so… twing-twiddly-ding-dong-derriere…
He laughs at his “clever” joke. The aid comes back and whispers again. Herbert goes deathly pale.
I uh, was not aware that network television was broadcasting this address live... I think I’ve said enough.

^copyright J. Green, 2006^

Confirmation of Conformation

2006-07-01T11:57:00.000-07:00

Am now a "Canadian AP Scholar." Oh! What wonders! Yet another assurance that my mind conforms, at best, to their requirements. I am "acceptable." How wonderful for me.

But you see, I don't forget the many I've met and still know who don't have the same dumb luck. And where does our superlative system of education leave them? At minumum wage, to be spat upon by the beautiful Intellects of the world. I shall soon enter into the first formal stage of classifying myself above my fellow man: higher education. Who says the Middle Ages have ended?

What I find most disgusting about all this is that I often consent to it. I view myself in the light of "superbrain," and don't mind the utterly frivolous and fiendish taxonomy of worth in which our society indulges. It's ok if you're at the top, right? Well, that's the thought behind the average dictatorship, and where have those got us?

Most accurate quiz I've taken in a while...

2006-06-26T15:02:00.000-07:00

You Are 44% Cynical

Yes, you are cynical, but more than anything, you're a realist.

You see what's screwed up in the world, but you also take time to remember what's right.

How Cynical Are You?

My motivations and goals seems so repulsive

2006-06-21T12:24:00.000-07:00

What do I wish for in this life? I spend a lot of time thinking about products. Products for entertainment, self-aggrandizement, anything, anything at all. Admittadly, many of these products are books, putting me in a minority, but my materialism still astounds me. Do I really "need" so much? No. No. No.

The fact is though, if it's there and readily available, I will want to experience/use it. Can I be blamed for this? Probably, but so can everyone else.

Can I believe I'm right now contemplating the purchase of a seven hundred dollar computer, for basically one program that cannot be used with Microsoft technology?

Mera cumpleanos nochmal hai

2006-06-17T11:33:00.000-07:00

It's funny, I wasn't so terribly psyched about this birthday as I have been about previous ones. But then again I have very few outside of the family with whom to share this event. Oh well.

A fairly frequent thought of mine is, "if I were to suddenly leave this world, for what would I be remembered, if at all?" Now, I'm not saying I'm suicidal, far from it, but to a certain extent this thought does animate some of my choices.

To put it in hackneyed army terms, I try to "be all I can be," without of course joining the army... ugh.

Recently some of my efforts in this direction have been my learning to read and write Devanagari ("script of the city of the gods"), which is the wonderful alphabetic syllabary of Hindi and a few other languages. In keeping with my multitudinous and ever-increasing Indic interests, I'm also endeavoring to learn to speak Hindi itself. And what a wonderful language it is... far closer, if fact, to Latin and therefore English than one might think. It's proving to be quite enjoyable.

Anyway, I'm still writing my horrible sketches and other dramatic material, trying feebly to compose music, studying European History, and learning how to draw cartoons as well.

It's a strange life.

One of many

2006-05-10T14:27:00.000-07:00

All right, I'm gonna come out and say it, damn the consequences, I believe that legalized abortion was the main cause of the dramatic drop in crime in the mid '90s.

It all makes perfect sense! Who are the most likely people to get abortions? Young women from underprivaleged economic backgrounds. And who was reaching adulthood in the mid '90s? People born in the years of and following the Roe v. Wade decision!

This is very simple cause-effect reasoning folks. Sure, sure, some of you may cry "post hoc ergo propter hoc!" but seriously, think about it.

That's all for now...

Up

2006-04-01T18:25:00.000-08:00

Once in a while it is expedient to avail one's self of the rudimental disobedience that has defined the last century.

Drab interiors dampened the spirit which had been flickering uncertainly anyway.

Hostility, open or closed, shuts experience into a murderous self cycle of recycling, reliving, replaying, repeating.

Hope exists, taken for granted, but encouraging.

Garbled thoughts uncorked that fizz onto your screen in a manner of speaking.

Where can it go?

Up.

A bearable yet inconvenient weight.

2006-03-26T12:17:00.000-08:00

To curse my construction and creation is to indulge in folly. To consent is to accept the irksomness of realidad.
;

The way of the world.

Happy nerf-day to you

2006-03-03T09:23:00.000-08:00

So it's Julian's birthday today, and thus he has come into posession a prodigious quantity of firearms (toys, to be exact). I can't even begin to expound on the manifold uses and wonders of these new dart dispensers, cap annhialators, and water drenchers, but... you get the idea.

In other areas, I just finished watching Grizzly Man this morning. That Timothy Treadwell... what a fella. I mean, one is pretty much assured that he had some kind of mental disorder, but at the end of the film I was still rather sympathetic towards him and his legacy. I think, had he not gone back to the bears so late in the year, he might still be with us. Another thing is, right from the get-go (CLICHE ALERT) he reminded me of my drama teacher, whose name I will not disclose, and who can be kind of an alarming guy.

Also, in inevitable Kaffee Haus news, I feel somewhat helpless in the face of the awesome organizational talent and power of some of our members (you know who you are, mademoiselle). I wonder if my involvment as a "producer" is really necessary, or if I should just be involved in the creative aspect of things (at which I excel what what!)

Der painty pen is der way of der future...

2006-02-22T17:02:00.000-08:00

O ja, viele dinge fur Deutschen stereotypescen in meine neue sketch.

Anyway, as the next Kaffee Haus lunges toward us at a rip-roaring speed, I find myself somewhat prepared. Shiraz came over the other day to do a last ditch blocking/read through session, which yielded some rewrites, but nothing too substantial. It shall be grand...

Also, thinking of writing a parallel to the American Indian story, in suburban home dramatic form. The resident family whose house is invaded by strange people shall be called "Savage." (This nomenclature does not reflect any personal opinions, but rather wishes to mock those of others, past and present.)

I have a bloody string of rehearsals for orchestra in the next few days... I wouldn't mind so much, if I actually got to play a bally-hoo instrument.

Triumph on all fronts what what by Jingo

2006-02-12T17:10:00.000-08:00

It's been such a shmeee couple of days...

First off, I uh, well I... ya see... WON THE PLAYWRIGHTS COMPETITION! BOOYAKASHA!
Yesindeed, Revenge in the Countryside is now going to the big time ("big time" here meaning small high-school community theater space). It's probably quite clear that, even though a few days have passed in which to get over myself, I still haven't.

O happy self congratulation! *Pats own back repeatedly until shirt catches fire*

But really, I mean, how could they not pick it with such immortal lines like: "You should condemn him and his lying, fiery pants!"

Then, after (or rather in the middle of the allotted time for) drama, some silly theater-minded folk assembled at our espacio for auditiones.

Just like last year really, only this year... well, you git the picture.

We were all saddled with some idiotic scenes (barring mine of course). In spite of my myriad of somewhat repulsave idiosyncrasies, Hannah volunteered to fake audition with me. (Hankie baby...) We played two eldery oldsters meeting for the first time after 55 years. The script was terrible, so was I...

I've started reading the Jew of Malta. *Wonder of wonders* it's not actually a bad play, obvious stuff aside. It'd be fun to put it on. Verily, 'twould cause a singular ruckus.

Shame, shame, double shame

2006-02-04T23:49:00.000-08:00

That's basically it man. All my side-chatting, dumbass, unwarrented dissention. I really do feel bad.

But oh well. What can one do but do better next time?

After class, I walked, mailman style, all round downtown with Meara. Why do I do these things? Just typical, irrational male behavior I suppose. The "follower strategy," as some in the scientific community might call it. Hope I didn't freak her out too much.

Anyway, then I went home, watched some Bob Clampett cartoons, which were fantastic...

Oh, and I found out at sectionals this morning that I wouldn't even get to play my rather small bass drum part in the Mahler symphony. Nope, now I get, joy of joys, TAM TAM.

BLOODY STUPID EEJIT GAY RETARDED TAM TAM WITH ABOUT TEN BEATS IN THE WHOLE BLOODY PIECE.

My brainy lies over the ocean.... in Asia to be exact

2006-01-30T20:53:00.000-08:00

Pretty typical week. Bloody election (bloody tories), bloody Mahler, bloody Indo-Pak tension films (Earth), bloody Kaffee Haus (went swimmingly for all that it could have crashed and burned), bloody life.

I was just informed of a statistic (I love them, don't you?) that reports that under thirty percent of B.C. highschool seniors pass the math twelve provincial exaaaaamination.

Indeedlidoodli what what tommy rot what ho by Jingo!

That is to say... well DUH!

Seriously, no matter how many strikes, strikes, and spending hikes we go through, these bloody kids don't git no bloody smarter (except for the Asians), they git dumber what what! (Except for the Asians.)

"A hit! A very palpable hit!"

An all new selection of highs and lows

2006-01-15T21:54:00.000-08:00

No, I'm not talking about uppers or downers (Any Downers???), simply referring to the ever-widening gap between my good moods and... less good ones. That is not to say that I am a wrathful person. No, it's usually just a kind of despondency. But not right now! so it would be a waste to concentrate on such silly irrelevent matters.

Apparently my submissions in sketch-form met with a degree of approbation from my contemporaries, though they gave me credit for one of Brian's ideas it would seem. Infuriatingly, I was unable to attend the meeting at which my ideas were evaluated, and therefore unable to absorb the ego-inflation firsthand. Oh well.

Recently watched (how many times have I written those particular words together before?) a generally entertaining Indian film of the appelation "Mission: Kashmir." I, who prior to the viewing of said cinematic endeavor had known little of the Kashmir sovereignty conflict, found it an informative as well as suspenseful war film. It did not flout tradition, and squeezed in a few competently staged songs even though it's a war film. Hehe. Gotta love Bollywood.

Preity Zinta (left) has an extremely well-apportioned face.

Titles are unnecessary.

2006-01-11T23:53:00.000-08:00

Not a bad day, all in all. Madre spent a considerable amount of time on here setting up our trip to Frisco in March. The place doesn't sound too bad; reportedly lots to do there.

Read a large chunk of a book called "Freakonomics" today. Very interesting arguments. Its subtitle is "A rogue economist explores the hidden side of everything." I had no idea there was such a strong corellation between abortions and the future crime rate. That being said, we shouldn't have to live in a society where some even need abortions. But that's a bit of wishful thinking. It's rather humbling to view the human race as a bunch of inherently selfish beings, who sometimes cooperate against each other, but said book inpires just such thoughts. Right now I really have very little faith in human capacities of any sort. It would be ungratefullness of the most human kind to attribute what good there is in this world to ourselves, no, that doesn't fly with me. I'd say the Man Upstairs is about the only thing keeping our asses out of nuclear holocaust or summut like that. But after all, what's an unconditionally loving parent to do?

If "con" is the opposite of "pro," then isn't "Congress" the opposite of "progress"?

2006-01-08T12:36:00.001-08:00

AHAHAHAHAHAHA! yes it is...

Anyway. Yesterday we finally had the "Kaffee Haus" meeting. It went tolerably well. As interesting (and I call it that with reservations) as the whole planning and preparing aspect of it is, I'm really more excited about the possibility of putting some of the wacked-out products of my erratic and contradictory mind on stage, for all to seeee...

It will be grand.

I find I talk quite volubly and too often inanely when I am nervous. That's a shame.

If I were an advocate of intelligent design, I would definitely cite Aishwarya Rai as proof of my crazy contention:

Every night I rue the day John met Yoko, and wonder what the biological explanation is for Ms. Rai.

Ye non-existent masses, speak!

2006-01-01T21:02:00.000-08:00

All right then. This was an interesting venture on my part, and a nice way to chronical, if somewhat fragmentarily, a year of my life. Throughout I have given free reign to my stylistic and literary presumption, with mixed results. However, as I stare ambivilantly into the ugly/beautiful mug of the new year, I'd like to ask you something: was it worth it?

If anyone in the entire world wishes to see this blog continue, please affirm you noble sentiments with a comment to that or any other effect.

Otherwise, this will be the last entry for this journal, and another chapter of my life shall come to a hackneyed close.

Thank you.

Last of the year... maybe

2005-12-29T11:06:00.000-08:00

It's been a strange and relatively eventful year I'd say. I found my true home, discovered Genesis and Bollywood, tried my hand for the first time at playwrighting, and writing in general. I took a couple of APs too, didn't do too badly on them, and saw one of the most fantastic products of American cinema- Army of Darkness. Also, and this one is unmercifully never far from my mind, a friendship of three years ended in utter ignominy, amid insults and accusations. For my part I will say this, I'm sorry. If either of you ever see this, I hope you'll not dismiss it out of hand. I will always remember your friendships with love, and regret the forces that drove us apart. I don't blame either of you. And you shouldn't blame him, he may have loved you more than I did.

Tell me why you cry, and why you lie to me.

2005-12-06T20:51:00.000-08:00

I am the void of no alternative, skating along the brink of oblivious yestermorrow.
Who are they that maintain the isolation? that query, or rather never, as to the underlying traits of this organism? You don't know, I don't know, he don't know, they don't know, isn't there someone who bloody knows? I got somethin' to say, it might cause you pain, get out of my car, jump off my plane. You're the kind of guy who deals in necromantic retail situations day to day. Ok?

I am Kelpie. Ya dig?

At least we're consistent. 888989442759 is who. and why? No.

Throw him bodily from the roof. See if he doth go down: "poof!" Q is a letter, no better than the rest. To rest on it is to begin undending quest. He we she they fa re tee doe why is my torpedo so slow.

You know what's really lame? Holocaust jokes. I mean, jeez. with a louise on top. Or rather accompanying. Mister sister in a twister gets a blister his transistor likes to glister on the cownableopolis tracheophyte-feeding giganticopulous zero-theroidicus.

What a surprise...

2005-12-01T00:17:00.000-08:00

You're The Guns of August!

by Barbara Tuchman

Though you're interested in war, what you really want to know is what
causes war. You're out to expose imperialism, militarism, and nationalism for what they
really are. Nevertheless, you're always living in the past and have a hard time dealing
with what's going on today. You're also far more focused on Europe than anywhere else in
the world. A fitting motto for you might be "Guns do kill, but so can
diplomats."

Take the Book Quiz
at the Blue Pyramid.

How will I escaaaape from memories of "Rent"???

2005-11-27T18:24:00.000-08:00

I now know why I felt I was in an alternate universe. I was. And now that I have looked upon a glowing product of the American Theater industry, and found it almost meritless, I am convinced that I would not belong with either pole of the great society (if it is even worthy of such a dated, legislative apellation). No, not with the crazy ass, agnostic fair trade activists, nor with flab-jabbering, pro-fetus, rapturous reactionaries. Oh well.

Specifically, my complaints upon viewing said film were as follows:

1: Musically, I found, to my astonishment, that it is actually possible to over-use vocal harmony.

2: Aside from the demonically modern, and therefore awful, music, there really wasn't much to it.

3: As a result of this, I found each and every character/plot point inherently unengaging.

4: Writing music that sounds like it came from the bowels of Satan is not a good way to promote anti AIDS campaigns.

Phew.

Poesye

2005-11-18T15:40:00.000-08:00

The Steamy Beast.

It rips across a surface now
In a wilderness of tyrant demon rage,
Harrying now here, now where, it is not known,
Collapsing all who stand, who linger on to toil
Above their comrades that have fled below.
He (for so it may be called) roars and spits a burst of foulest hiss
Into the treacherous air that, rather than rejecting, striking down,
Now elevates, now raises high the steaming, gaseous welt
That screams up then to new ethereal climes.
In brief, it is a scourge, so loose and potent of a type
That only mother dear may lift it up, despite its hateful gripe.

...Would you believe it? This is actually about a clothes iron.

The beginning of a beautiful, if slightly biased in my favor, friendship

2005-11-15T21:02:00.000-08:00

I'm liking Mr. Davies more and more as I get to know him. Of course he's given me a few outlines, but I have yet to discover the particulars of his adventures in the New World. 'Till then, I'll be mightily anticipatory.

Today was like most Tuesdays. I usually get more concrete work done when I don't have an entirely free day. Today was a bit of an exception. Oh well.

Worked on more lovely little German vibraphone pieces mit Dave. The current one is called "Bauernlied," or, Farmersong. I now have temporarily bendy vibe mallets with which to dampen zhe notes as they are supplanted by younger ones in the great sphere of time, no matter how fleeting.

Recently I watched a documentary on Al Jazeera called "Control Room." It was a fascinating view of recent (who needs to mention them?) events within the Middle East from a mostly Arab perspective. It confirms many a suspicion. There were also many frustrated western journalists not content to wear khaki glasses while appraising the facts. God further their endeavors.

Geez...

2005-10-09T16:56:00.000-07:00

It's really rather difficult to write from the perspective of a nineteenth century female textile mill-worker widow. Go figure.

Judge, O World.

2005-10-06T18:41:00.000-07:00

The fact of the matter is, our assignment for this week in senior company was to write something (monologue is easiest) relating to one of the characters in Animal Farm (which we are adapting)'s impressions of the death of the Leninpig Old Major. The following are the two I've done so far. One is Snowball, the fervent, committed, revolutionary Trotskypig. The other is the appealingly cynical donkey Benjamin. For most effective contrast, read Snowball's account first.

Snowball's Account:

Old Major was an example to all his animal comrades in England and, in fact, every beast in yet unemancipated lands. Though he, like most pigs, was never forced to endure the hardship and interminable tribulations under the tyranny of Man as other animals, he still maintained an ardent empathy for his suffering comrades, and his will never flagged respecting the rebellion which he, in effect, called into existence. What grief then was ours when, but three days after his now legendary speech, he returned to the earth, as we all must in due time. Though the fact of inevitable demise is ever apparent to any who wish to think on such matters, it manages to excite, even after much warning, a sadness that seems to transcend all others that darken our short lives.
In the evening of that third day, Jones quietly buried the one who taught us Beasts of England. The sun, setting slowly as did that Revolutionary, cast through the weeping trees a glorious, dappled light on the heroic, full-grown tusks that crept from his mouth like immortal heralds of the final victory. Finally at peace, the wise old boar outwardly presented a stark contrast to his urgent, violent exhortations of three nights previous.
As they carried their prize boar of many a fair to his eternal rest at the foot of the orchard, Jones and his men staggered under old Major’s weight, symbolizing our inexorable rise above Man, to bury him as he buried the old boar. Yet through this paltry funeral, it was apparent that Major meant more to Jones than any other animal in his enslavement. As Jones drunkenly tottered to the gravesite, his face reflected the sun’s dying rays with a line of tears, barely perceptible in the fading gleam, which he sought to hide from the rest of the men. These tears were not, as might be believed, of sorrow for our dear Major’s death, but purely for grief at the loss of a locally famous beast¾ one of the few things in Jones’s life that had brought him anything akin to renown. Man can never truly grieve for an animal. His heart knows no compassion, kindness, or respect. He was not, in fact, weeping, but laughing. Laughing at what he saw as the end of the finest pig that ever walked the shining fields of England.
But it was not the end. As Man carried our hero to his grave, we watched, unseen, from our cages, stalls, and paddocks. I saw them all— pigs, dogs, horses, sheep and cattle— gazing from their respective confinements at the stirring sight. I wondered, while watching, if they all fathomed the meaning of this old boar, if they knew how much he and his message would change their lives, long after he had departed their simple memories.

Benjamin's Account.

It was the middle of the night. From this information one might naturally conclude that I was asleep. I was. Asleep, that is, until something very large and excited charged into my stall. It was Boxer, as riled and restless as I will ever see him. He stamped and whinnied to be absolutely sure of disturbing me, and then sputtered a few broken sentences, with which he communicated the general idea that he wished for me to accompany him somewhere— something about a pig and a dream. I didn’t refrain from telling him that I was quite happy with my own dreams, thank you very much, but I followed him anyway.
He led me to the end of the big barn. Sitting heavily on a platform in front of us was Jones’s prize boar, Willingdon Beauty, who made it a rule to have everyone refer to him as “Old Major.” This “Old Major” had thought it absolutely necessary to deprive the entire farm of an hour of sleep in order to expound upon a nocturnal hallucination. Strangely though, he never did. Instead, he told all the animals how miserable their lives were. After a few minutes of this abuse of their condition, most of them attained a pitiable state of emotional agitation. And who was responsible for this travesty of treatment? Man was his answer. To remove Man, he posited, was to remove hunger, overwork, and all other troubles from our lives. To Man’s elimination old Willingdon urged every animal, though no mention was given as to who might rule in his place after he had been overthrown. The old pig finished his declamations with a stirringly senseless song, which was then sung five times in painful succession.
Three days later, old Willingdon called it a life and died. Being so soon after his great, frothing oration, this seemingly sudden passing moved many, especially the pigs, to loud protestations of grief. In the evening of the same day, Jones came out to bury the boar, along with a few farmhands, who grumbled at the extra work. The animals looked on at the entombment of their superpig with such gloom that one might have thought the farmers were burying food. From their compound I espied Snowball and a few other pigs, regarding the scene with what they obviously deemed was its due solemnity. Half a minute later I looked back, and noticed that Napoleon, another pig, had shoved Snowball to one side, and was now observing the funeral in grave prominence.
While this took place, farmer Jones carried Willingdon’s already decomposing corpse to its allotted hole by the orchard, shedding small, inconspicuous tears for the animal in whom he had arguably taken most pride, and the only one for whom he had felt anything resembling affection. How fitting, then, that this same beast had three nights before denounced him as the ultimate evil.

Ahhh... the sweet verisimilitude of human passion defies description.

2005-10-04T22:55:00.000-07:00

Eugene Onegin. Bloody fantastic opera, what. Even with the lamentable manners of the largely student audience, I enjoyed myself to the full. It's a shame though, people have such difficulty taking nineteenth-century drama seriously. It's tense, highly emotional stuff, but it now seems so over the top that people can't relate to it. One must, in effect, transport one's self to a different era's attitudes, modes and morals. This seems, sadly, to be a bit too much effort for most highscool/university students.

Polish thespian calisthenics

2005-09-18T19:18:00.000-07:00

That pretty much says it all. You've gotta wonder about that silly place. I mean, for most of its history it hasn't even exsisted. Which reminds me of a joke: If an Englishman wrote a book about an elephant, he would describe its habits and how best to hunt it. If a German wrote an equivalent tome, it would focus upon the animal's anatomy and biology. If a Pole wrote a book about an elephant it would begin thusly: "The elephant is a Polish question."

Now, I don't mean to offend any people of Polish descent who might hazard their sanity in reading this, but I find it amusing nonetheless.

Anyway, the class was taught brutally, if temporarily, by David (that's right, passive voice; whatcha gonna do about it?), our instructor of last year. He informed us, after a lengthly discussion of the history of that most unexplainable phenomenon, Theater, that he had been reading over the summer. I immediately had misgivings. What he had perused was a most uncompromisingly thorough treatise on the physical side of theater, of all things. To make a short story shorter, we partook of strenuous excersizes, all of which have reduced me to a sorry condition.

Hell yeah!

2005-09-12T16:13:00.000-07:00

You Are a Freedom Rocker!

You're stuck in the 70s - for better or worse
Crazy hair, pot soaked clothes, and tons of groupies
Your kind showed the world how to rock
Is that freedom rock?... Well turn it up man!

What Kind of Rocker Are You?

Not at all surprising...

2005-09-12T16:05:00.000-07:00

Cheese Pizza

Traditional and comforting.
You focus on living a quality life.
You're not easily impressed with novelty.
Yet, you easily impress others.

What's Your Pizza Personality?

Why Caesar? Why not ME???

2005-08-19T11:24:00.000-07:00

Oh yeah, Vancouver's gonna roooock. First priority: Brutus (but not very likely), second: Cassius, third: Antonius, fourth: Octavius, fifth: Caesar. Who knows what kind of dramatic divas I'll be pitted against, but I shall prevail! I am extremely suited to a misguided patriot, a jealous nobleman, a partying suckup, a calculating commander, or a self-righteous Imperator. I am not, of course, doing justice to each fully three-dimensional character by simply steriotyping them in a few words, but what are ya gonna do?

I am now making my first forays into Plautus, whose comedy is proving to be a singular delight, possibly better than Aristophanes. The Braggart Soldier (my current choice) restores my confidence in my own loosely-organized, farcical creations. Whether they're funny is, to be sure, another matter.

Anyway, can't wait for the reunions, professional productions, fantastic own performances, and, naturally, Def Leppard.

For What Purpose Do You Wish to Enlist the Powers of the Concierge?

2005-08-12T11:33:00.000-07:00

To mark his farewell performance before setting off on yet another vacation, Johniphilus decided to effect a few backbreaking dusting and vacuuming jobs. It wasn't at all interesting.

After this, he planned to conduct himself to an amateur production of one of the Bard's lesser-known, and consequently lesser-staged chefff d'ouurves (maybe).

The singularly incredible author has also experienced a minor renaissance of creative pifflickoes, as he has termed his little dramatic phlingdillies. He is now annoyingly ripping off the Greek master Menander, and using a New Comedy formula, with one alteration. It's set in a ski lodge.

Back and I don't want to be

2005-08-09T20:01:00.000-07:00

To be brief, it was everything I expected, which was quite a lot. I've decided I'd rather live in London than Paris. Paris has an infinite number of things to offer, to be sure, but the absence of giant English bookstores, the best "theatre" in the English language, and the beyond superb Indian food restaurants more than swayed me. Paris did have some superlative museums, the Louvre and Orsay particularly, but there sure isn't any Sunshine Radio (the world's greatest Asian station). Every city has its treasures. Lord knows I'd happily spend the better part of my days in Rome or Berlin, but I just love London. Toodle pippies.

Confuse their knavish tricks, confound their pooooolitics, long may she reign!

2005-07-25T10:17:00.000-07:00

I'm SO exited! London! Omar goodness! And Paris! Yes!!! We're finally going TODAY of all days. I can't believe how much I'm gonna see... the British Museum, the war rooms, a PLAY at the GLOBE theater! (the Winter's Tale, which is awesome), the Zoo (God bless Raffles), the National Gallery, and soooo much more. And that's just in London. In Paris I'm going to see le Grand Louvre (formidable!), la musee d'Orsay (I don't think that's how it's spelled, but what the hell), the Paris zoo (naturellement), the Versaille(?) palace, Notre Dame (sadly, we won't make it to Chartres, but oh well), and that's just what comes to mind right now:D. Oh right, and I'll get water from the Thames AND the Seine for my growing collection of worldly water bottles. So auvoir non-existent readers!!! This shall be the grandest adventure yet. I won't write! or send postcards! or use a computer! BWAHAHAHAHA! (pathetic, I know, but we all must have an outlet). Anyway, to put it into one hyphenated word, I'm SUPER-PSYCHED! Cheerio you bally bunch of blighters!

Hello girlies, what can you do for me?

2005-07-11T21:34:00.000-07:00

If you're not some kind of wacko ski fanatic, don't go to Whistler. Especially if it's summer. Goodness gracious it was a tad dull, even with a large snowy glacier to climb up (which I did. all the way to the "saddle"). But I'd much rather go to a regional in Vancouver, and go to Bard shows... over and over... and eat caremal corn and drink sobes. Ah yes... just one of my little heavens on earth. But getting back to the trip, I think the best part was the last night, when I played a strange variant of tag in a big pool with a bunch of girls. One might think that sentiment is a mite pathologically lecherous, but then again, maybe it is. All I know is, it was muy divertido. The only bad thing was, some of them were a little inarticulate, and when I made up for that with my dictional ostentation, they supposed I was gay. Naturally I vociferously refuted the scurrilous hypothesis many times before the pool closed. I hope I got through to them. If not, no me importa.

I hope I can learn enough French to actually know the damn verb-forms. I am ignorant of the little buggers as of yet. I'll get them... they'll see.

But tally-ho! It's time to go. Goodbye you ingrate loon(s).

Primus sucks

2005-06-09T12:18:00.000-07:00

Well, we have no internet at home until further notice, which really blows. In spite of this lack of a time-waster, I've now learned decidedly more art history. As a result of this, I am now rather excited about certain museums I will be visiting.

Also, I finished Volpone (pronounced Vol-poh-ney). It's really a decent comedy. What a shame no one reads Jonson anymore, not that they ever did. However, his works are well worth it, and are perhaps better than Marlowe's, though I have yet to read very many of his.

In addition, I've changed the title of the pastoral revenge tragedy from "the Shepherds of Satiria" to "Revenge in the Countryside." So far it's eleven pages, made up of two scenes-- some of the, well perhaps the, longest I've ever written.

That's what YOU think!

2005-05-29T11:53:00.000-07:00

Noam Chomsky's book has made me so angry that I've finally decided to get off my posterior (euphemism for lack of a better word) and do something. I am annoyed at myself for feeling like I was already busy when I could've done more. As the Economist says: "The Sudan Can't Wait." Naturally, countless other impoverished nations are included in the thought of this brief statement.

Feels like some sloth coming on...

2005-05-26T19:33:00.000-07:00

Ahhhhh... good to be home. It's a bit cold though. I guess that's logical, as this place is a tad more cold on average than Missourah. You heard me: Missoooooorrrrahhhh.

I finished Twenty Years After! Finally! It's a great book, but I think my attention span is shrinking, because I read about ten things between my commencement and termination of it. I think I liked it better than the Three Musketeers. TTM is wonderful, but TYA is just so deliciously complex... A plethora of characters, historical and invented, as well as millions of little interweaving plotlines. However, I don't think I'll jump into the next one, Le Vicomte de Bragelonne, just yet. As mentioned, my concentraion wanes.

Thus, I started another Aristophanes play, The Birds. So far I think I like it more than the others I've read of his. It doesn't get so tangled up in contemporary Athenian politics which, while interesting, are a tad hard to keep straight in one's underdeveloped head.

Doooown home town

2005-05-21T09:10:00.000-07:00

Ahhhh... to be in the land where cowboy hats are an acceptable fashion statement; the land where you open up your host's closet to find four or five hunting rifles. It's a great place though, even with lots of little yellow magnet-ribbons over-patriotically adorning the rears of one in twenty cars. You get used to it all after a while, and just ignore all the stupid crap in the face of the real stuff. Like the river. However pumped full of industrial chemicals it is, it's still the Mississippi. I'm glad I thought to get some of it.

Anyway, I'm here in my grandparents' house with my uncle and aunt's family. They're pretty nice. Haven't seen 'em in about five years. I get a huge flashback with my cousin Neil. He is soooooo much like Brian was, with even more energy if that's possible.

I also saw Revenge of the Sith yesterday. It was everything I expected, which wasn't a whole lot. Worth seeing once, but I wouldn't take anyone *special* to it.

The Old Man in the Mountain.

2005-05-10T13:40:00.000-07:00

A mountain holds a paradise in which
Are multitudes of human pleasure found.
There, all alluring voices, sweet of pitch,
Contend to fashion peacefulness profound.
Who might inhabit this idyllic place?
How might they have, while all of us have not,
A heaven in creation’s fallen space,
Where one’s concerns are easily forgot?
An old, dilapidated man is he
Who dwells in this enchanted lair of bliss.
And whosoe’er his victims chance to be,
Are lost inside unsafe forgetfulness.
To see again the Eden to them shown,
They’ll hazard death, and fight empires alone.

Two down, one to go.

2005-05-07T13:50:00.000-07:00

Well, the English ones went pretty well. I'm almost certain I was the only one of my age there, but that was to be expected. The first was in a very cold gym with lots of long tables and uncomfortable chairs. Other then that, it was ok. Everyone seemed to love the passage on the emotional complexity of cowboys, as did I.

The next one was in a less cold Japanese classroom. We took it all alone. I'm amazed absolutely no one besides us did it, I mean, it's literature, how hard can it be? As it turns out, not very, but I suppose it's just the "unnecessary" effort that kept them away. Oh well.

I'm starting to like this Shaw guy, though he was a bit of a Socialist. Mind you, it was the better points of Socialism that he seemed to espouse, like equality, so it's not too bad. Pygmalion, needless to say, is a wonderful play. Phonetics and the Greek myth... Who else would've thought of that? Brilliant.

AP sage

2005-04-29T14:14:00.000-07:00

I am now officially ready for ANYTHING they throw at me in their blasted little passages, even if it's some incomprehensible blurb from Obasan. Please God don't let it be so.

So, I'm looking at some really lovely free/vacation expanses. YES! it's about time. I'm gonna read my plays that just came in! Racine, Moliere, Wilde, Middleton, Shaw, and, if they ever turn up at zhe local branch, Jonson and De Vega.

Life will be good.

Biology is another matter.

Poor fellow!

2005-04-26T09:51:00.000-07:00

Oh, Tartuffe is a wonderful play, I must say. But enough of anapests. Yesterday I did an unfathomable amount of reading, which, while I do read frequently, was quite novel in its magnitude. The only drawback is I don't have time to watch movies. It seems whenever I have spare time, I want to read :S. But as I was saying earlier to someone who probably won't read this so I feel no obligation to mention their name, the ryme scheme was a little much, it would've been better in blank verse.

Part Last (yes, it does have an end).

2005-04-16T12:44:00.000-07:00

Nishan knew that if he stayed standing he might soon be killed, so he immediately threw his body flat on the ground, and crawled under the thick torrent of altered fruit. His uncomfortably terrestrial journey was long and tortuous, but soon he was clear of the ireful avenue. He then adopted a less reptilian posture, and, realizing he was late, ran towards the palace gates. On arriving in front of the gates, a wide chasm in the ground instantly opened before him. Had he not abruptly stopped, he would have fallen down into the rift, in which there seemed to be no bottom. Fearing the emperor’s displeasure in his absence, Nishan hurriedly took hold of a wooden plank, and laid it across the small abyss. He dashed over it, through the grounds, and into the palace. As soon as he went in, there was a sudden eclipse of the sun. The sky turned a shade of purple and the stars were visible. The stars were very visible in fact, and they all looked abnormally bright. Nishan came out of the palace, and on seeing the sky, ran back in to fetch a sheet of papyrus and a quill pen. He decoded from the largest: “Fool! You have upset the essential factor of predictability in the course of time! This has set off a joint supernova and we shall all explode within seconds!”
To this Nishan yelled, “We’re free!” and the stars exploded.

Part 7

2005-04-15T13:47:00.000-07:00

“Thank you, good Tiridates.” replied Nishan. “I deeply regret disturbing you so suddenly, but lately there have been strange goings on, such that I may not now speak of. I shall presently inform you of everything.”
The next morning Nishan arose intending to walk to the palace as he usually did. That morning, however, soon proved to be divorced from regular occurrences. As he stepped out of the door, a man of great girth, leading a number of intimidating dogs, approached him. The fat man seemed to be in a towering rage, and accosted Nishan: “Sir! You have stolen every one of my noble hounds’ individual chew toys! I cannot imagine how or why you did it, but as I have personally known all who live on this street for most of my life, I am certain it was you! Naturally I am extremely angry with you, but I am a hunter who believes in the sanctity of life, and therefore will permit you to run before my hounds overtake and dismember you.”
When the fat hunter finished his sadistic declaration, Nishan calmly ran as fast as he could and climbed into a sufficiently lofty olive tree. The slobbering canines gathered below him, growling and barking with as much ferocity as if they had never been more furious at their prey. After a few minutes of fearfully strangling the tree, Nishan observed Tiridates emerge from his house and walk over to the cantankerous fat man. Tiridates berated the generously proportioned hunter until he sulkily withdrew his dogs. Nishan then descended from the tree and renewed his effort to reach the palace. Sadly, while he was walking down one of the main avenues, another misfortune befell him. On either side of the street were multitudes of fruit shops packed side-by-side. Unexpectedly, men appeared behind every shop front, carrying armfuls of fruit. Then, without warning, they started to fling the fruit at each other as hard as they could. While they were engaged in this, those on the left harassed those on the right, and vice versa, with fervent exclamations, such as: “We have poisoned our fruits! You all shall die!” from the left, and “Hah! We have concealed razor blades in our fruits! You shall die first!” from the right.

Part 6

2005-04-14T20:56:00.000-07:00

Nishan was rather startled at this, and queried: “What have I done to displease you?”
“Every prophecy is set, defined, and non-negotiable. You flouted these rules today when you condoned the emperor’s resolution to stay in bed. Thus he never stepped upon one of his frogs and the prophecy was not fulfilled! The falling of that pillar was no accident, Nishan. You are to be eliminated because of this.” Replied the heavens.
When he had finished decoding this last remark, Nishan was seized with a powerful fear, and decided never to converse with the stars again. He ran down the stairs from the roof into his room, packed his things, and left the house. Then he wandered the streets confusedly for a few minutes, until he determined to stay the night at the house of his friend Tiridates. After a short walk he arrived in front of his friend’s door and knocked six times. In one or two minutes he heard a faint scuffling noise, then a few very audible bumps, and finally an explosive yell, which issued forth with the severity of a gunshot. The door slowly opened to reveal a wild-eyed man who had apparently been sleeping. White stubble stuck out rebelliously from his chin at unimaginable angles, and what remained of his hair was carelessly strewn about in a decidedly disordered manner.
It did not take him long to recognize Nishan, and he promptly exclaimed: “Nishan, my good friend! Had I known you were to come here I should not have fallen asleep! As it is, you are welcome to my home at any time, though if I had received word of your coming, I might have prepared to accommodate you.”

Part 5

2005-04-13T17:25:00.000-07:00

After the emperor had clarified this monosyllabically, the court’s trivial machinations peacefully resumed. Nishan was happy to prophesy only that which would please the king. One day however, when he asked the stars to tell him what would befall the emperor, there were no pleasant predictions. So he hastily selected a prophecy that he deemed less distressing than the others, and set off to give the ruler his daily horoscope. On arriving at the emperor’s chambers, Nishan was embarrassed to find that the emperor had no clothes. The monarch was slightly frivolous, but a kind man all the same, so he bade Nishan sit down and disregard his appearance. Nishan did so, and proceeded to relate, as gently as he could, the “dark” prophesy, saying: “Majesty, I consulted my astrological arts this morning, and found there were no prophesies that might be acceptable to your… selective tastes. This is my prediction: about a hundred sacred tree frogs escaped from the royal menagerie last night. When you go forth from your rooms today, you will presently step on one of them and squash it to death.”
“Well, I don’t have to do that. I’ll just stay in bed!” said the emperor. Nishan had no qualms with this, so he advised the ruler to do as he wished.
The remainder of the day passed smoothly, until around six o’clock. The old soothsayer was walking out through the palace gates, when one of the great stone pillars that held them up collapsed onto its side, nearly crushing him. Nishan picked himself up and dazedly made his way back to his home. When night fell, he went up to the top of his roof, as he always did, to speak to the stars. He observed that they were shining brighter than usual, and the first sentence he decoded surprised him considerably: “Old man, you have disobeyed us!”

Part 4

2005-04-12T11:28:00.000-07:00

Nishan heartily thanked the carter and they soon arrived at the city walls. After this Nishan was easily able to talk his way past the sentries, and get into the palace. Without further deliberation, he strode purposefully into the throne room where the emperor was holding court, and shouted: “It is I, Nishan, the one you exiled so long ago! I have come to demand that I be reinstated in my position as royal clairvoyant owing to an unprecedented increase in my foretelling abilities!”
Nishan bellowed this statement so loudly that the entire court could hear him. They could not, however, understand his proclamation because diction had gone out of fashion so that everyone spoke in simple sentences and read Hemingway.
The emperor then told everyone to leave him and Nishan alone. They did so, and when the room was free of jabbering courtiers, he spoke to the old man: “Why are you here? I made you go away ‘cause you told of bad things and I didn’t like that. Now you’re back and you think I’ll let you stay? You’re crazy.”
“Your supreme eminence, I am resolved on predicting only beneficial transpirations regarding yourself, and will not deviate from this voluntarily chosen method unless it is your will that I do so.” replied Nishan.
“Ok.” said the emperor, “If you don’t say that bad stuff will happen, you can stay.”

Part 3

2005-04-11T15:54:00.000-07:00

The old man read the entire communication and collapsed onto a log-stool in a mild state of shock. When this passed, he cupped his hands to his mouth and shouted into the air: “Why me?”
He then looked to the brightest star in the sky and decoded: “Because you are alone.”
After his first encounter with the stars, Nishan learned many things from them every night. This knowledge he gathered was so secret that no man had ever even dreamt of it, nor has any since. In the space of a few weeks he amassed such a quantity of knowledge that he desired to reenter the world in spite of his banishment. So, after packing his meager remaining possessions into a red-and-white spotted bag slung over a stick, he made his way down the precipitous slope that surrounded his house. When he arrived at the side of a road bordering the hill, he observed a dumpy little man driving two donkeys ahead of his cart. He hailed the carter, saying: “Hello there, O carter! I am unfortunately stricken with a broken hip. Would you be kind enough to transport me into the capital?”
The carter was a little taken aback by this, as he had not expected to see an insane-looking old man jump out from behind the bushes. Then, to answer the old man’s request, he said: “My wife once told me that those who have broken hips are unable to walk, but as I am going to the capital anyway, I’ll take you as far as the outer walls.”

part 2

2005-04-10T13:58:00.000-07:00

One evening Nishan, who had always relied greatly on astrology for his predictions, decided to fashion a telescope out of available materials. Following numerous dismal failures, he finally managed to hollow out a log and equip it with the necessary devices. He immediately set to work studying the heavens. While he was thus engaged, an idea came to him. “I wonder,” he thought aloud “if there is any significance behind the twinkling of these stars.” And since he had no other obligations, he began to try and see if the intermittent flashes of the celestial spheres could be interpreted through various codes. After going through a plethora of cryptographic contrivances, he finally chanced upon Morse code. When he had completely filled one of the pieces of flattened bark that he used for writing, he started deciphering the sporadic flares, and abruptly stopped. He had only interpreted two flashes, but was completely astounded that he could understand them. The “word” was composed of only two letters: “W” and “E” respectively. Thinking that that it might be a simple coincidence, he quickly decoded the next few dots and dashes. There was only one comprehensible order of the following letters: following “W-E” were “S-E-E-Y-O” and “U.” Hastily fumbling with his pen he excitedly interpreted the rest of the message, which read:
“We see you, and we know of every detail of your life in advance. We know also the lives past, present, and future of all organisms that inhabit your small planet. We will not answer any queries as to how or why this is so, but we have chosen you as the solitary life form to whom we will reveal ourselves. You may ask anything you wish relating to time’s fixed events.”

New story! Woohoo!

2005-04-08T18:12:00.000-07:00

Oh yeah. You're gonna loooove this one. Before we begin, however, I'd like to state that Fiona once ate too many carrots and turned orange. That is all.

The Man Who Spoke to the Stars.

Very recently, in the high, sleepy hills of a distant land, there lived a wise old man who had been exiled from the king’s court because of his disastrous prophesies for the kingdom. This man was called Nishan the Seer. He had lived in the same little hut on top of the most precarious hill since he had been thrown out of the royal palace and the capital. When first arriving on the hill, Nishan, very distressed, had torn his clothes and hair in frustration, lamenting: “Why was I cursed with this ability to foretell the Future? It has brought me nothing but ruin!”
After a few weeks of this self-pity, he started to become accustomed to his new environment. He built his house, found out which trees bore the best fruit, learned the locations of the berry bushes the bears visited (studiously avoiding them), and ascertained where the largest schools of fish swam in the river. In this way, he passed many of his days in a state of near contentment.

Tennis...

2005-04-05T18:36:00.000-07:00

Yarr... just got back from that mindless pasttime. It's got to be the most elitist sport out there. The scoring system alone was created specifically to exclude the peasants. Poor peasants.

There are a couple of us who've been taking lessons for absolutely ever. This one other guy in th'aforementioned group, Dylan, was playing with a less-experienced, extremely attractive young girl today. He's something of a patrician, or at least he acts like it, and she dresses like a little floosy. Because of this, they reminded me of a stout old corporate boss and his gorgeous young girlfriend (though she's probably older than he). But I'm just a little envious, so my opinion is undoubtedly biased.

You know, I didn't think I'd choose sides before, but now I believe I'd throw my lot in with the Musketeers and try to save Charles from the scurrelous puritans. They're just too right-wing.

2005-04-03T14:55:00.000-07:00

some books... they're surprisingly colorful for scientific literature

Fie upon that dastardly Robert Mugabe!

2005-04-01T22:28:00.000-08:00

What an asshole, I mean, his people are starving and he tells the aid orginizations NOT to give them food. I really can't conceive what could make him do something like that, I guess he just doesn't give a damn, kinda like a fellow who can't talk and lives on Pennsylvania Ave.

And another thing, what is the Christian right's problem? If you're worried about alleged gay promiscuity, why don't you flippin' let them get married??? It's all very depressing: people who are eager to hate and comdemn can be so easily used by immoral politicians.

Bah! it makes me sick, and apparently the Pope as well. Hope he's ok either way.

Getting back to me, my existence of late has been absolutely saturated with Shakespeare. Finished Hamlet, started As You Like It (I'm reading that one out loud, and using Cary Grant's voice for Oliver), got discouraged midway through Troilus and Cressida, and watched many many film versions, specifically: Zefferelli's and Olivier's Hamlets, some weird modern Macbeth with Greta Scacchi as Lady M., and that's it for now, but I'm told more are coming.

Tell it to the Marines you son of a bitch it to the Marines

2005-03-29T10:30:00.000-08:00

That's an actual song. I added the er, objectionable lyrics, to mock it mainly. Yes, the rents got this four disc set of "music from World War II" thing from that big store way out yonder (Costco). It's quite fun to listen to, if a bit sickening at points: "Don't refuse a soldier" *shudders*. But the instrumental stuff is good swingy-type period music, a bit of vibraphone, it seems to have been popular then, and even what sounded like the ancestor of electric guitar (I could be wrong however). There's even a track with Doris Day singing with Les Brown's orchestra, though it's not the best one on there.

Anyway, has anyone seen my poniard? I think I'm going to go rescue Charles I. I've decided I don't like those Puritans.

2005-03-27T17:09:00.000-08:00

weeee.. I finally figured out the digital camera! This is my drumset... oh yeah

George was justified.

2005-03-26T23:51:00.000-08:00

He really was. There's something undeniably attractive about Indian culture: all that singing, and dancing, and the beautiful women! It all combines to create an absolutely sublime entertainment experience. Such is Bride and Prejudice. I've not seen much Bollywood as of yet, but so far I'm impressed. There's some bloody fabulous stuff they're churning out, though admittedly most of it's probably silly shite.
Anyway, I had to somehow get to the theatER didn't I? Well, contrary to my first choice of looking all spiffy and independant, and arriving at the designated hybrid cafe alone, good old dad decided he should drive me and that he should be benificent to all and let Brian drive. Oh yes... Let's learn how to PARK... and TURN AROUND... VEEERRRRY SLOOOOOWLY! So I ended up being twenty minutes late for poor Whitney who was sitting there all alone watching some weird old movie on the CBC. I felt bad, but then Meara got there and everything was happy:D
So while they watched the strange film, I sidled over to some bookshelves and debated whether to buy The Jungle Book or Ivanhoe. I got neither in the end.

But now it's Easter! yay! and I have to go to bed. bye.

cooool

2005-03-24T12:56:00.000-08:00

You're Elizabeth Bennett of Pride and Prejudice by
Jane Austen!

Which Classic Female Literary Character Are you?
brought to you by

Good times...

2005-03-23T18:23:00.000-08:00

I can't believe I couldn't think of a better title, but come on; it ain't easy bein' brilliant ALL the time. I also can't belive how arrogant I'm sounding. Oh well.
Whitney babysat el niñito today, which was purdy cooel. Went over to the Lieutenent Governer's gardens with them and disrupted some already insane ducks with food. We also chased him around while he put Whitney through a careful vetting process, testing every one of her parameters. Then I took a test with lots of depressing passages in it, and we all saw Roderick do his Leprechaun show at the castle. 'Twasn't bad.
I'm watching the most hilarious French movie right now. It's called "Les Visiteurs." It's about this French count and his servant in around 1100 who get transported to the present day. Jean Reno is the count, Godefroy de Papincourt, Comte de Montmirail. It does a really good job in preserving Medieval silliness. It reminds me a lot of Don Quixote.

Sir Gawain and the Green Knight

2005-03-22T18:49:00.000-08:00

schweeeeet. images... I love this painting sooo much

Sonnet #1

2005-03-22T11:58:00.000-08:00

Their policy is to maintain a hold
On ancient values in Old Testaments.
And to export these crusty rules of old,
To all our inner city apartments.
They plan to send abroad things stranger still.
Whose definitions are so very vague.
Democracy, liberty, and free will
Will be abused to wage wars and to plague
The Arabs: Sunnis, Shiites, all alike.
Who will, in turn, rise up to pilot planes
Of death. Straight through the brother metal spikes
They’ll crash, and plunge the island into flames.
And all the while the leader sits and stares.
Not knowing how to quench the mortal flares.

What a dreary world it is for some.

2005-03-20T14:59:00.000-08:00

Especially in Victorian times. I mean, that's what's scared me away from such period authors as Dickens for so long: too depressing. But I just started Jane Eyre, and though it is rather glum to begin with, I'm quite enjoying it. I asked mum what she thought of it and she said: "Oh, it's excellent. I love the Bronties." Seriously, that's how she pronounced it. Said I: "I suppose you should take up saying the "R" in "foyer" now, shouldn't you?" and she just gave me a sort of dryly amused look.
Personally, I quite like to pronounce the "r" in "foyer," it makes me feel American. I wonder if that's a good thing...

In other theaters of war, the play's going pretty well, I wrote a rather lengthy introductory scene at Lara's behest, in which most of the main characters walk back to Camelot after what was unknowingly the last tournament with the entire Round Table present. It's ok I suppose. I had to make Launcelot into a bit of a jerk, but that adds more depth to him, so I'm not complaining.

Oh my Gaursh! I'm white!

2005-03-17T18:46:00.000-08:00

Isn't that weird? well, I've thought for ever so long that I was 1/64 Native American, because my great aunts (whom I never knew) used to say that their grandmother or whatever was Cherokee. Not so, it would seem. My malcontent grandma just HAD to spoil cherished family myths, and find out that it was all a MISCONCEPTION! Dammit! Do you know what this means? Now, when I vote in U. S. elections and they ask for race, I'll have to put "Caucasian". grrrrrr... I wanted to be aloof from all that and simply say: "mixed"!

On a completely different note, drama was soooo good. I got to give Whitney a heroic kiss! We were doing a scene from one of the winning YPF plays. It was quite silly and arbitrary. I don't really resent the fact that my play didn't get chosen, the satire was a tad too true, but I WISH Brian's play had been picked. It's soooo hilarious! and I wanted to be Pizza Phil :'(

Oh well.

Sinatra's voice (8) It's that wonderful time of the year... when you open your glass doors and hear... all the birds singing(8)

2005-03-13T14:21:00.000-08:00

That's not actually a song of his. Completely made up. I'd give Rogers and Hammerstein a run for their money I bet. Anyway, the silly lyrics were inspired mostly by my state of mind, and that's really what I just did: opened the glass doors and replaced them with screens for the first time this year. Oh so brilliant. I wish I could think of something to say that would have some substance... Oh yeah, operation Grease was a complete success! (except for my poor bro's expectations :(... oh well). So we went to Grease which I enjoyed far more than I expected I would. Two of the singers were especially amazing, but they each only got one song :@. Then we adjourned to dear wifey's house for some "Call the poliiiiice" and "Can we have your liver then?" 'Twas a bit annoying that señor papa had to show up so early...

Woot. Mumsie's back.

2005-03-07T20:09:00.000-08:00

While that may sound a little sarcastic, it's quite true. She's been in San Francisco the whole weekend, and having one less person to take care of mayhem boy is a tough gig. Especially when the other one's not much better!
Anyway, it's all been pretty mellow lately. Sometimes it isn't, but I almost always am. Going to finish Le Morte d'Arthur soon. Interesting book. I'm on the "Tale of the Sangreal" right now, or, as is more frequently expressed, the Quest for the Holy Grail. Sooooo much symbolism. Bountiful Biblical allusions as well. One example is when Sir Percivale (supposedly a lifelong virgin) sleeps next to a lion. "The lion shall lie down with the lamb," anyone? It's also a bit striking that the Grail has origins so much older than the British conversion to Christianity. I mean, it'd be hard not to see that there's some Celtic magic hidden away in that little cup.

Of ELO, the "Scottish Play," Gioacchino Rossini, picaresque novels, and extremely good company.

2005-03-05T20:02:00.000-08:00

Yes, it was a satisfying day. As I pulled my head out of the soft embrace of my pillow to acknowledge my dad's presence, he congratulated me on the soundness of my biology essay. Not a bad thing to wake up to. After dragging myself off my loft bed in the twilight hours of 8:45, I departed for Orchestra. Phil actually brought the parts this time (still not all of them though). My playing was oh, so beautiful. Beyond compare I say. Whether that is because it was exellent or odious I do not know.
We finished early, of course, so I slowly made my way downtown to meet a few social associates of mine. That was good. And now I am back here, reading Macbeth (oops), and doing all sorts of other brilliant things

Phil Rempel can be quite the dumbass

2005-02-26T18:24:00.000-08:00

This guy is really annoying.

1: He's principal purcussion for the orchestra, thus he gets to assign all the parts.

2: He hogs ALL the timpani parts for himself!

3: He didn't bring the snare drum music today so I was stuck banging away at the mundane base drum.

4: I had to do this all the way through our new music, which just HAPPENS to be by one of my favorite composers, Rossini (the overteur for his "Gaza Ladra" opera).

5: When I asked him whether I'd get the snare drum part he just said: "probably"

well, maybe I'm just being petty and selfish, but it's still pretty off-ticking.

And a rock feels no pain...

2005-02-21T22:35:00.000-08:00

Yar. Well, life's been purdy good lately I must say. Had a fabulous trip to the big old piece of grass and dirt and rocks known otherwise as the Great Pacific Northwest. Border guards are funny fellows. They can be quite surly and still look silly and absurd. One can never laugh of course. That would be rude. And one might also get one's car pulled over.
But anyway, we went to Seattle. That great city full of fish, Nirvana, Jimi Hendrix, and loads of other stuff. EMP was great. It's too bad it's all designed to cater to people with no musical ability. Grrrrr. I still jammed very effectively in upwards of three locations however, and that was good. I discovered something while I was there. I love rock and roll, but not that song. Don't spend another dime on her music, baby!
Thanne wente we to the citye of Vancouvre, whare I (in true vyking fashioun) attacked Northe Vancouvre and forced themm to betrothe their moste virtuouse young womann to marrye me whann she reached the age of thirty. *Laughs an evil viking laugh*

Today this illustrious writer penned another masterpiece in essay form, and that's about it. Fare thee and thy kinsfolke welle!