“You lost him?” asked the VelkLaddeur.
“No, Sir. We got him, but somehow he escaped,” said Lt. Jones.
“What do you mean ‘you got him.’ If you got him, he would be dead.”
“Yes, Sir. But you see, when we sent in the corpse collection unit, all they found was an old man named Max Dudley.”
“Didn’t the drones see the unchipper in the plaza?”
“That they did, Sir. But there was some kind of electrical disturbance that confused the drone’s circuitry. The unchipper must have escaped then. The most likely explanation is the drone. . .once the electrical disturbance ceased. . .automatically assumed Mr. Dudley was the unchipped man.”
“Mr. Dudley was a chipped man Lt. How could the drone assume otherwise? Machines never assume Lt. Never. What kind of electrical disturbance was this?”
“We’re still uncertain. Our tech guys are checking it out as we speak. Nothing’s turned up yet. It seems in perfect working order.”
“Keep looking Lt. And keep looking until you find the problem. The last thing we need is another unchipped cowboy running around footloose and fancy free.”
“Yes, Sir.”
“I want a full report of the problem ASAP. See to it.”
“Yes, Sir.”
“One more thing. See the safe nurse before you leave.”
“But, Sir.”
“You know the Law Codes. Eye for eye and tooth for tooth.”
“What if we don’t find him?”
“Thirty days Lt. You have thirty days before the methyl butyrate is released.”
Lt. Jones left the VelkLaddeur’s office. The last thing he saw was his Cheshire cat-like grin. It unnerved him.
Lt. Jones grumbled to himself as he walked the long corridor to the safe nurse’s lab. He hated this building, the National Security Agency. Every conversation was under constant surveillance, 24 hours a day, seven days a week. One couldn’t even grumble aloud without it going on record. Secretly, he was glad when it was quitting time. Working in the NSA gave one a headache. One couldn’t even go to the bathroom without some roving mechanical Cyclops staring at you. Yet, this was the case for all government buildings. Constant surveillance. Always watching.
Lt. Jones entered the safe nurse lab where he instinctively held out his hand and passed it over the receptionist’s scanner. It beeped.
“We’ve been expecting you,” said a thin, middle-aged woman with short hair, plain face, who could easily have passed for a man. Her name tag said Leah. Dr. Charan will see you now. She led him to a small room with pink walls and told him to sit on a table. Leah closed the door and left. He tried the door. Locked. The room was bare. No cabinets, tables, or anything to suggest he was in a doctor’s office, yet he knew he was monitored. A moment later the door opened.
Dr. Ali Singhe Charan was short, bald, bushy gray eyebrows, and wrinkly forehead. “You know how this works,” said Dr. Charan immediately. “Same principle as the V-chip in your right arm. This will be in your left arm. Roll up your sleeves.”
Jones rolled up his left sleeve and relaxed as Dr. Charan rubbed alcohol on his arm. Then he picked up a needle, inserted a rice-sized capsule, and carefully inserted it in the lt’s arm.
That’s it?” asked Jones.
“Yes,” replied Charan. “In 30 days the capsule is programmed to release 100 micrograms of hexylbutyrate and 50 micrograms of pentane dioxide. First you fall asleep, then the heart stops beating. So quick, easy, and painless.”
“And the antidote?”
“There is no antidote for the red capsule. We remove it manually.”
Lt. Jones forced a grin. “I feel like Damocles.”
“You are Damocles,” said Dr. Charan.
19 October 2006
Macrobia
This blog entry is the very rough, coarse, most likely to be re-written 7 more times, 1st (2nd really) draft of chapter 1 of something I'm calling Macrobia, a city-state in the not too distant future of the United States.
This chapter is spread out over a few blog entries because of the word limit. . .and to make it easier to read.
Feel free to comment, critique, offer suggestions, food, and Nepalese Rupees. All will be welcome.
Sincerely,
Someone
PS. I'm copying and pasting this thing from Word.
The call, a high pitched wailing cry, went out from the walls of the castle. Almost by instinct, people everywhere in the plaza emptied their pockets of everything. Receipts, credit cards, pens, watches, necklaces, even cash, and immediately laid it down. Michael hesitated, even though he knew they would check his pockets. Still, there was the chance. He hesitated, thought better, and pulled out a wad of cash and a handkerchief, and shoved it in a crack in the nearby concrete wall.
Michael Perez was a shade under 6-foot-tall and fair in complexion. His thin angular face and dark-grey eyes seemed to pierce one’s soul. People found it difficult to look him in the eyes. They said they felt transparent in his presence and were found wanting. He wore his hair short and as a rule never let it go more than 6 weeks without getting it cut. His long, thin, but very dark eyebrows gave his face a hawk-like bearing. He wore sand-colored khakis and denim long-sleeved shirt. He always wore khakis and long-sleeved shirt, and never varied.
“Of all the times for the Prime Minister to call, it had to be now,” he thought to himself. He looked around. Everyone looked like hippies in a drug-induced stupor. . .or just stupid. He felt ridiculous leaving his money out for the entire world to see. But everyone knew the Law and the sweep patrols were always more than happy to remind you.
“I don’t care what anyone thinks. I’m not going to the PM.” The plaza was nearly deserted. A few stragglers hurried past, but other than that nobody remained. Lots of shops surrounded the brick-lined square. He walked in the opposite direction from the PM’s castle keeping his head down to avoid suspicion. Not everyone had to see the PM today. You only had to see him once a year, but once a year was enough.
Michael picked up his pace, and came to a deserted street. It hit him at once like a splash of cold water. “He’s coming. Velkladdeur is coming. He’s at the end of the street.” Michael had developed an uncanny intuition. He could divine events before they happened, and he felt Velkladdeur, the chief of the PM’s secret police, approaching in his mind’s eye. His hair stood on end. His skin crawled. He turned and walked back towards the shopping plaza and the PM.
The plaza was empty. A wave of nausea hit him. He gulped and ran towards the only door left open. Too late. It snapped shut.
“Man, man, man, man, man, MAN. . .this is not good,” he thought. “Hide. I must hide.”
Out of the corner of his eye he saw a tarp-covered park bench adjacent to a construction site. Velkladdeur’s presence was gone, but something else approached. Drone. A flying globe that detected motion. A flying machine, basketball-sized, that sensed the smell of blood. He felt the flying droid hovering around the corner. He turned towards the tarp and nearly ran into a homeless man-the Can Man.
The Can Man was a balding fellow with short, curly, greasy, brown hair. You smelled him before you saw him. The Can Man could always be recognized by his clothes, since he always wore the same thing; faded blue-jeans, tee-shirt, and faded denim jacket. Even in the middle of summer. People said he had a wardrobe full of identical outfits, sort of like a regular Ernest P. Worrell of whom he bore a slight resemblance. The Can Man walked around the city with a black garbage bag collecting aluminum cans to get insulin money for his diabetic wife. There was a slightly devious look in his eyes. Not enough to commit a big crime, like murder, but perhaps a pickpocket or two.
Michael glared for an instant, and then grinned. The Can Man said, “sorry,” in his soft timid voice. Michael ran on.
He dropped to the ground and rolled under the tarp. Seconds later the drone rounded the corner and hovered over the very spot Michael stood. It paused for a moment as if sniffing the air, and then silently buzzed through the air zigzagging to detect the subtle change in the air temperature. It hovered above the tarp-covered picnic table. Michael froze. The flying drones, some no bigger than a sparrow, detected humans by hat and movement. Lie perfectly still and there was a chance you could avoid detection.
“Steady. . .steady, Michael,” he told himself. “Just don’t move.” Every muscle in his body relaxed. He could feel the faint metallic clicking of the manhunter probe slowly ejecting from the drone.
Michael sensed rather than felt the tip of the long, snaky probe rest against the back of his neck. He wasn’t sure if the probe registered his existence or not. An alternate thought struck him. “It may think Mr. Can is me.” He didn’t know for sure.
Heart rate: 80 bpm
Blood type: O+
Height: 1.98 m
Weight: 51.1 kg
ID Number: 63MX4R_hss
Caught! He sensed the drone scrape cells from his skin. Just a few were needed for a complete DNA analysis. Why did the drone register him as 63MX4R_hss? He had never been chipped before. His employer kept prodding him to do so, but something about the process bothered him. Nobody dared appear before the PM without proper identification. To do so was certain death. Besides, you couldn’t carry on business without it for long in the city.
He felt the sensor remove from his body and recoil back to the drone. It flew away. Michael relaxed.
Sometime later he heard voices on the plaza. He rolled over and gasped. The Can Man was lying beside him the entire time. His eyes stared directly into Michael. A thin mucus covered them. He was dead.
Michael rolled away and emptied his stomach. A minute later he left the tarp in time to see the first people emerge from the PM’s cathedral. “Something is different about them,” he wondered. “Their eyes. . .they’re glazy, hollow. . .and yet, they live.”
Two women and a little boy walked past. He followed them.
The mass of people headed towards a complex of dome-shaped buildings a mile away. Michael felt compelled to investigate. The closer the buildings, the greater the sense of evil grew on him. “I must…not…enter…that…complex. Complex bad.”
The air seemed heavier, thicker. And, “are my eyes getting blurry?” He wondered.
They walked by a gravel parking lot. “Now is my chance. I’ll just act like I’m going to my car, then duck out of site until everybody is gone.” Michael scrambled three feet down a dusty path and surveyed the lot. “Let’s see now. What kind of a car would Mr. Perez, molecular biologist at ZantraTec Pharmaceuticals drive? The white Mustang? Nope. Too flashy. The black Ford SUV? It would be easy to hide under, but too hot in the July sun. And in this corner we have a green Jeep. Ahh, just right.”
Michael walked to a dirty Wrangler and peered inside. “Whoever owns this thing, must have stock in McDonalds and Marlboro.” The floor was littered with cigarette butts and Big Mac wrappers. It was an older model Jeep, one that required you to punch in a numeric password to open. Unlike the newer versions that only required one to pass your arm over a dash-mounted scanner. The scanner detected the microchip in your arm and presto. . .the door unlocked itself. In the decade since the government began mass-chipping the population, automobile thefts dropped to virtually zero. Still, some people refused to purchase new cars and relied on pre-2015 models.
Embedded microchips first became available in the 1990s when Applied Digital Solutions of Delray Beach, Florida created a device about the size of a grain of rice that could easily be inserted into a person. The VeriChip™ was a tiny implantable radio frequency identification device or RFID. In humans, the microchip is inserted in the back of the upper right arm. Because of its tiny size, it is practically undetectable once embedded. A polyethylene cover helps the chip bond with the skin so it doesn’t migrate.
The chip works in much the same manner as the bar code scanner at your local grocery store. Only instead of a bar code, one has the half inch long microchip in your shoulder. When a scanner or reader passes over, a radio signal energizes the dormant VeriChip™ which then transmits a unique sixteen digit identification number. This number is used to provide access to a secure database in Switzerland containing the person’s complete medical history.
“Ow! Let me go!” shouted a voice. Michael heard scuffling at the end of the parking lot. Two men wearing identical clothing; black pants, black shirt, black shoes, were arresting somebody. The sweep patrol.
In a matter of seconds, the sweep patrollers subdued the man, scanned him, and subjected him to a breath test on their portable GC-MS systems that monitored volatile organic compounds, or VOC’s, that were considered markers for various disease. They also told you what food you ate, how much, and where you purchased it.
A crowd gathered around the scene like a pack of hyenas. And like hyenas, they laughed and stared at the prisoner.
Michael threw himself to the ground and rolled under the Jeep. He didn’t hear or see the man in black watching him. So when a face appeared some time after the mass of people had passed by, he thought for certain he was caught.
This chapter is spread out over a few blog entries because of the word limit. . .and to make it easier to read.
Feel free to comment, critique, offer suggestions, food, and Nepalese Rupees. All will be welcome.
Sincerely,
Someone
PS. I'm copying and pasting this thing from Word.
The call, a high pitched wailing cry, went out from the walls of the castle. Almost by instinct, people everywhere in the plaza emptied their pockets of everything. Receipts, credit cards, pens, watches, necklaces, even cash, and immediately laid it down. Michael hesitated, even though he knew they would check his pockets. Still, there was the chance. He hesitated, thought better, and pulled out a wad of cash and a handkerchief, and shoved it in a crack in the nearby concrete wall.
Michael Perez was a shade under 6-foot-tall and fair in complexion. His thin angular face and dark-grey eyes seemed to pierce one’s soul. People found it difficult to look him in the eyes. They said they felt transparent in his presence and were found wanting. He wore his hair short and as a rule never let it go more than 6 weeks without getting it cut. His long, thin, but very dark eyebrows gave his face a hawk-like bearing. He wore sand-colored khakis and denim long-sleeved shirt. He always wore khakis and long-sleeved shirt, and never varied.
“Of all the times for the Prime Minister to call, it had to be now,” he thought to himself. He looked around. Everyone looked like hippies in a drug-induced stupor. . .or just stupid. He felt ridiculous leaving his money out for the entire world to see. But everyone knew the Law and the sweep patrols were always more than happy to remind you.
“I don’t care what anyone thinks. I’m not going to the PM.” The plaza was nearly deserted. A few stragglers hurried past, but other than that nobody remained. Lots of shops surrounded the brick-lined square. He walked in the opposite direction from the PM’s castle keeping his head down to avoid suspicion. Not everyone had to see the PM today. You only had to see him once a year, but once a year was enough.
Michael picked up his pace, and came to a deserted street. It hit him at once like a splash of cold water. “He’s coming. Velkladdeur is coming. He’s at the end of the street.” Michael had developed an uncanny intuition. He could divine events before they happened, and he felt Velkladdeur, the chief of the PM’s secret police, approaching in his mind’s eye. His hair stood on end. His skin crawled. He turned and walked back towards the shopping plaza and the PM.
The plaza was empty. A wave of nausea hit him. He gulped and ran towards the only door left open. Too late. It snapped shut.
“Man, man, man, man, man, MAN. . .this is not good,” he thought. “Hide. I must hide.”
Out of the corner of his eye he saw a tarp-covered park bench adjacent to a construction site. Velkladdeur’s presence was gone, but something else approached. Drone. A flying globe that detected motion. A flying machine, basketball-sized, that sensed the smell of blood. He felt the flying droid hovering around the corner. He turned towards the tarp and nearly ran into a homeless man-the Can Man.
The Can Man was a balding fellow with short, curly, greasy, brown hair. You smelled him before you saw him. The Can Man could always be recognized by his clothes, since he always wore the same thing; faded blue-jeans, tee-shirt, and faded denim jacket. Even in the middle of summer. People said he had a wardrobe full of identical outfits, sort of like a regular Ernest P. Worrell of whom he bore a slight resemblance. The Can Man walked around the city with a black garbage bag collecting aluminum cans to get insulin money for his diabetic wife. There was a slightly devious look in his eyes. Not enough to commit a big crime, like murder, but perhaps a pickpocket or two.
Michael glared for an instant, and then grinned. The Can Man said, “sorry,” in his soft timid voice. Michael ran on.
He dropped to the ground and rolled under the tarp. Seconds later the drone rounded the corner and hovered over the very spot Michael stood. It paused for a moment as if sniffing the air, and then silently buzzed through the air zigzagging to detect the subtle change in the air temperature. It hovered above the tarp-covered picnic table. Michael froze. The flying drones, some no bigger than a sparrow, detected humans by hat and movement. Lie perfectly still and there was a chance you could avoid detection.
“Steady. . .steady, Michael,” he told himself. “Just don’t move.” Every muscle in his body relaxed. He could feel the faint metallic clicking of the manhunter probe slowly ejecting from the drone.
Michael sensed rather than felt the tip of the long, snaky probe rest against the back of his neck. He wasn’t sure if the probe registered his existence or not. An alternate thought struck him. “It may think Mr. Can is me.” He didn’t know for sure.
Heart rate: 80 bpm
Blood type: O+
Height: 1.98 m
Weight: 51.1 kg
ID Number: 63MX4R_hss
Caught! He sensed the drone scrape cells from his skin. Just a few were needed for a complete DNA analysis. Why did the drone register him as 63MX4R_hss? He had never been chipped before. His employer kept prodding him to do so, but something about the process bothered him. Nobody dared appear before the PM without proper identification. To do so was certain death. Besides, you couldn’t carry on business without it for long in the city.
He felt the sensor remove from his body and recoil back to the drone. It flew away. Michael relaxed.
Sometime later he heard voices on the plaza. He rolled over and gasped. The Can Man was lying beside him the entire time. His eyes stared directly into Michael. A thin mucus covered them. He was dead.
Michael rolled away and emptied his stomach. A minute later he left the tarp in time to see the first people emerge from the PM’s cathedral. “Something is different about them,” he wondered. “Their eyes. . .they’re glazy, hollow. . .and yet, they live.”
Two women and a little boy walked past. He followed them.
The mass of people headed towards a complex of dome-shaped buildings a mile away. Michael felt compelled to investigate. The closer the buildings, the greater the sense of evil grew on him. “I must…not…enter…that…complex. Complex bad.”
The air seemed heavier, thicker. And, “are my eyes getting blurry?” He wondered.
They walked by a gravel parking lot. “Now is my chance. I’ll just act like I’m going to my car, then duck out of site until everybody is gone.” Michael scrambled three feet down a dusty path and surveyed the lot. “Let’s see now. What kind of a car would Mr. Perez, molecular biologist at ZantraTec Pharmaceuticals drive? The white Mustang? Nope. Too flashy. The black Ford SUV? It would be easy to hide under, but too hot in the July sun. And in this corner we have a green Jeep. Ahh, just right.”
Michael walked to a dirty Wrangler and peered inside. “Whoever owns this thing, must have stock in McDonalds and Marlboro.” The floor was littered with cigarette butts and Big Mac wrappers. It was an older model Jeep, one that required you to punch in a numeric password to open. Unlike the newer versions that only required one to pass your arm over a dash-mounted scanner. The scanner detected the microchip in your arm and presto. . .the door unlocked itself. In the decade since the government began mass-chipping the population, automobile thefts dropped to virtually zero. Still, some people refused to purchase new cars and relied on pre-2015 models.
Embedded microchips first became available in the 1990s when Applied Digital Solutions of Delray Beach, Florida created a device about the size of a grain of rice that could easily be inserted into a person. The VeriChip™ was a tiny implantable radio frequency identification device or RFID. In humans, the microchip is inserted in the back of the upper right arm. Because of its tiny size, it is practically undetectable once embedded. A polyethylene cover helps the chip bond with the skin so it doesn’t migrate.
The chip works in much the same manner as the bar code scanner at your local grocery store. Only instead of a bar code, one has the half inch long microchip in your shoulder. When a scanner or reader passes over, a radio signal energizes the dormant VeriChip™ which then transmits a unique sixteen digit identification number. This number is used to provide access to a secure database in Switzerland containing the person’s complete medical history.
“Ow! Let me go!” shouted a voice. Michael heard scuffling at the end of the parking lot. Two men wearing identical clothing; black pants, black shirt, black shoes, were arresting somebody. The sweep patrol.
In a matter of seconds, the sweep patrollers subdued the man, scanned him, and subjected him to a breath test on their portable GC-MS systems that monitored volatile organic compounds, or VOC’s, that were considered markers for various disease. They also told you what food you ate, how much, and where you purchased it.
A crowd gathered around the scene like a pack of hyenas. And like hyenas, they laughed and stared at the prisoner.
Michael threw himself to the ground and rolled under the Jeep. He didn’t hear or see the man in black watching him. So when a face appeared some time after the mass of people had passed by, he thought for certain he was caught.
17 October 2006
14 October 2006
Sir Spam-a-lot
This message came to my e-mail account. It's from a perfect stranger, and I have no clue what he, or she, or it is talking about.
Who else would think this was a good idea?
has just been released.
More photos coming soon! They are known by any number of other names, such as foo fighters, flying saucers, and Transient Luminescent Phenomena.
One of the issues I hit while setting. " I was suddenly hit with such a strong feeling of utter emptiness that I didn't have the heart to continue.
Well, besides fly and make guacamole.
" Do you need me to slow down? Often, however, we exit a sold-out theater feeling deceived after the hype. Someone should remind him of this fact, because likely he's forgotten about it, along with his name. While I do not expect car stereo manufacturers to grok podcasting, it would be nice if. They are no standard shape, but instead seem to vary as fashion demands. While the latter is perhaps a more accurate description, it is too sterile to capture the imagination of most researchers and seems confine to a doctor of geology studying Pine Bush, NY. Occasionally, it is reported that the objects seem aware of humans and will react to being seen.
Finally, they fell apart.
They are no standard shape, but instead seem to vary as fashion demands.
You know that, right?
Already, their were website scrutinizing the fliers and trying to ponder Shane's next move.
While the latter is perhaps a more accurate description, it is too sterile to capture the imagination of most researchers and seems confine to a doctor of geology studying Pine Bush, NY. He looks like he would be good at frisbee, but further testing will be necessary.
No, I was frozen simply by the raw passion of their kiss-the opposite of the complete emptiness that had washed over me and from which I was still trying to escape.
Occasionally, it is reported that the objects seem aware of humans and will react to being seen.
While I do not expect car stereo manufacturers to grok podcasting, it would be nice if.
Who else would think this was a good idea?
has just been released.
More photos coming soon! They are known by any number of other names, such as foo fighters, flying saucers, and Transient Luminescent Phenomena.
One of the issues I hit while setting. " I was suddenly hit with such a strong feeling of utter emptiness that I didn't have the heart to continue.
Well, besides fly and make guacamole.
" Do you need me to slow down? Often, however, we exit a sold-out theater feeling deceived after the hype. Someone should remind him of this fact, because likely he's forgotten about it, along with his name. While I do not expect car stereo manufacturers to grok podcasting, it would be nice if. They are no standard shape, but instead seem to vary as fashion demands. While the latter is perhaps a more accurate description, it is too sterile to capture the imagination of most researchers and seems confine to a doctor of geology studying Pine Bush, NY. Occasionally, it is reported that the objects seem aware of humans and will react to being seen.
Finally, they fell apart.
They are no standard shape, but instead seem to vary as fashion demands.
You know that, right?
Already, their were website scrutinizing the fliers and trying to ponder Shane's next move.
While the latter is perhaps a more accurate description, it is too sterile to capture the imagination of most researchers and seems confine to a doctor of geology studying Pine Bush, NY. He looks like he would be good at frisbee, but further testing will be necessary.
No, I was frozen simply by the raw passion of their kiss-the opposite of the complete emptiness that had washed over me and from which I was still trying to escape.
Occasionally, it is reported that the objects seem aware of humans and will react to being seen.
While I do not expect car stereo manufacturers to grok podcasting, it would be nice if.
13 October 2006
12 October 2006
Life
I must say, I envy people who own their very own washing machines.
These people are superb.
God likes them.
I dream of no more trips to the laundromat with a bulging pocket full of quarters jangling in your pants making you look like a circus clown with a tumor on his thigh. No more reading 3 year old McCall’s magazines with the coupon for a free bottle of slim fast cut out. No more deep conversations with 50 year old greasy, slobbery men, wearing shorts and too small tee- shirts, who scratch their bellys and play video games and still live with mom. No more quality time spent wanting to smack little unruly children wandering around the parking lot playing tag, and sometimes running up to the chair you’re sitting on and holding on to it for dear life because they’ve made it ‘home.’ No more mumbling under you breath saying “Please don’t look at me like that ever again woman.”
I want to be REALLY happy in Life, not simply mediocre happy.
My sister is a year and a half younger and single. It would be very strange to see her wedding, to see her married. To know that she’s doing all those things married people do that single people don’t, or rather shouldn’t, because if they wait, it will be better than if they hadn’t. So, they wait, and get antsy, and pester God with silly questions, and go outside and run 12 miles, then take a shower, a cold one, because they’re hot and salty, which makes them thirsty, so they drink water, tap water, which isn’t cold enough. So they put it in the freezer to chill, meanwhile they chill, by taking a nap, and oversleep because of a heat headache. So they make coffee, boil it to extract extra caffeine. Drink it to make the headache go away, which it does, in time. Of course now they have to go to the bathroom since the caffeine is a highly diuretic substance, which makes them thirsty again, so they get the water from the freezer, but it’s harder than a deBeers diamond, so they make iced coffee, which breaks the blender, and splashes coffee on their white tee-shirt, which means another laundromat trip to Hades across the River Styx, trying to avoid Medusa, but can’t, Pandora’s Box has been opened, the goddess has perceived your singlehood, asks if you want to be REALLY happy, so you put on solemn airs and say as seriously as you can, “Por lo siento senorita, para yo no hablo ingles bien,” she is not amused, nor are her 7 out of wedlock children, she’s leaves in disgust, but not after forgetting and leaving a dirty sock on the floor, which falls by your foot, which you try to avoid by contorting your body like a Hindu mystic, and in doing so convince the guy across the room, the ‘big-boned’ fella with Big Mac and fries breath, you need more trans-5-omega-7-gluclosidase mindotoxine pills to cure you, he’s an expert in such things, read it in Cosmopolitan, right beside the astrology column.......ahhhhhhhhhh........Life.
These people are superb.
God likes them.
I dream of no more trips to the laundromat with a bulging pocket full of quarters jangling in your pants making you look like a circus clown with a tumor on his thigh. No more reading 3 year old McCall’s magazines with the coupon for a free bottle of slim fast cut out. No more deep conversations with 50 year old greasy, slobbery men, wearing shorts and too small tee- shirts, who scratch their bellys and play video games and still live with mom. No more quality time spent wanting to smack little unruly children wandering around the parking lot playing tag, and sometimes running up to the chair you’re sitting on and holding on to it for dear life because they’ve made it ‘home.’ No more mumbling under you breath saying “Please don’t look at me like that ever again woman.”
I want to be REALLY happy in Life, not simply mediocre happy.
My sister is a year and a half younger and single. It would be very strange to see her wedding, to see her married. To know that she’s doing all those things married people do that single people don’t, or rather shouldn’t, because if they wait, it will be better than if they hadn’t. So, they wait, and get antsy, and pester God with silly questions, and go outside and run 12 miles, then take a shower, a cold one, because they’re hot and salty, which makes them thirsty, so they drink water, tap water, which isn’t cold enough. So they put it in the freezer to chill, meanwhile they chill, by taking a nap, and oversleep because of a heat headache. So they make coffee, boil it to extract extra caffeine. Drink it to make the headache go away, which it does, in time. Of course now they have to go to the bathroom since the caffeine is a highly diuretic substance, which makes them thirsty again, so they get the water from the freezer, but it’s harder than a deBeers diamond, so they make iced coffee, which breaks the blender, and splashes coffee on their white tee-shirt, which means another laundromat trip to Hades across the River Styx, trying to avoid Medusa, but can’t, Pandora’s Box has been opened, the goddess has perceived your singlehood, asks if you want to be REALLY happy, so you put on solemn airs and say as seriously as you can, “Por lo siento senorita, para yo no hablo ingles bien,” she is not amused, nor are her 7 out of wedlock children, she’s leaves in disgust, but not after forgetting and leaving a dirty sock on the floor, which falls by your foot, which you try to avoid by contorting your body like a Hindu mystic, and in doing so convince the guy across the room, the ‘big-boned’ fella with Big Mac and fries breath, you need more trans-5-omega-7-gluclosidase mindotoxine pills to cure you, he’s an expert in such things, read it in Cosmopolitan, right beside the astrology column.......ahhhhhhhhhh........Life.
09 October 2006
Prey
By Michael Crichton is not worth reading. It has potential, but he should re-write the book because it's f-l-a-t.
State Farm sent me a gift certificate for paying my bills on time. With it, I bought two books at Amazon.com, and one only cost me 46 cents.
State Farm sent me a gift certificate for paying my bills on time. With it, I bought two books at Amazon.com, and one only cost me 46 cents.
08 October 2006
Visitors
The Bushes were in town yesterday.
Former President George H.W. Bush and his sons, President George W. Bush and Florida Gov. Jeb Bush, after the christening of the aircraft carrier named for the senior Bush. DELORES JOHNSON / THE VIRGINIAN-PILOT
Former President George H.W. Bush and his sons, President George W. Bush and Florida Gov. Jeb Bush, after the christening of the aircraft carrier named for the senior Bush. DELORES JOHNSON / THE VIRGINIAN-PILOT
07 October 2006
Let them eat cake
My sister, God help her, baked this cake from scratch in our oven. In most cases, I would lick the icing in some obscure part of the cake so as not to arouse suspicion. In this case, it just didn't seem right anywhere.
06 October 2006
Obsessive Compulsive. . .me?
You May Be a Bit Obsessive Compulsive... |
 Meticulous and detailed oriented, you have some irrational obsessions. Maybe it's your super neat closet or washing your hands a gazillion times. You probably know it's weird, but you just can't stop thinking about it. In fact, the more you think about your quirks, the more you have to do them. |
05 October 2006
Blogging
"I spend way too much time reading blogs of strangers cause it's addicting to read the personal and semi-private online journals which tells me that I have a curious nature, much more than normal, and I should really find some other things to do with my life so as not to waste so much time because, after all, what good can one glean from the perusing of all this blogomania?" thinks Jason as he types on his Compaq at 3 PM while staring out the window at the cleaning ladies troop from apartment to apartment on golf carts sweating profusely in the 75 degree sunny weather here in Virginia Beach and the squirrels who play in the front grassy area before the children return from school and chase them with rusty tricycles and streamers and ice cream in their pudgy little hands.
The area beside the apartment complex here to Regent University (a mile away) is a large, wooded area home to fat old foxes who come out at night looking for rabbits and other small furry creatures with whom or of whom, I forget which it's supposed to be, they can spend and agreeable night with. The creature I saw the other night was the fattest fox I have ever seen. It was checking out the 3 large rabbits that hang out in my front yard and when it saw me coming, trooped off back to the woods.
Have you ever felt like Charlie from Flowers for Algernon. . .after he comes down from his medication? Yeah, it's kind of a bazaar feeling, knowing that you have a prodigious quantity of knowledge in your mind, but can't access it for unexplainable reasons. . .actually you could, but to do so would require something extraordinary to jog your memory banks.
I wonder what heaven will be like has been the dominant thought in my mind, not brain, mind, mind you, lately and I cannot seem to get rid of it nor do I want to. I also have this incredible feeling that God is staring at me like a giant biologist looking down through a rather large microscope and keeping me separate from other humans to see what I do. It's like he is reserving me for some future event in the Earth's history and right now I'm not ready to do that task, deed, or work, but will soon be called to do it for nobody else will know how or won't want to and this is one reason why I am not yet married as it would be in the best interest of humanity in the long term if I do it. . .sort of like Jeremiah the prophet. Nevertheless, in the meantime I feel absolutely compelled and driven to write like a madman, (this is horrendous writing and I know it and do not even care to know what my grammar is like-though actually I do), write write write right now. Ahora. Ecrivez maintenant. Blog blog blog. Slog slog slog. Slog through the blog. Slog through the blog like a frog in the bog. Blog like a song like a frog in the smog. "A chain in a cog," said the rooster to the throng. "That's my song," said the biker to King Kong as he sat on a log in the bog on a log while he hummed a little song.
The area beside the apartment complex here to Regent University (a mile away) is a large, wooded area home to fat old foxes who come out at night looking for rabbits and other small furry creatures with whom or of whom, I forget which it's supposed to be, they can spend and agreeable night with. The creature I saw the other night was the fattest fox I have ever seen. It was checking out the 3 large rabbits that hang out in my front yard and when it saw me coming, trooped off back to the woods.
Have you ever felt like Charlie from Flowers for Algernon. . .after he comes down from his medication? Yeah, it's kind of a bazaar feeling, knowing that you have a prodigious quantity of knowledge in your mind, but can't access it for unexplainable reasons. . .actually you could, but to do so would require something extraordinary to jog your memory banks.
I wonder what heaven will be like has been the dominant thought in my mind, not brain, mind, mind you, lately and I cannot seem to get rid of it nor do I want to. I also have this incredible feeling that God is staring at me like a giant biologist looking down through a rather large microscope and keeping me separate from other humans to see what I do. It's like he is reserving me for some future event in the Earth's history and right now I'm not ready to do that task, deed, or work, but will soon be called to do it for nobody else will know how or won't want to and this is one reason why I am not yet married as it would be in the best interest of humanity in the long term if I do it. . .sort of like Jeremiah the prophet. Nevertheless, in the meantime I feel absolutely compelled and driven to write like a madman, (this is horrendous writing and I know it and do not even care to know what my grammar is like-though actually I do), write write write right now. Ahora. Ecrivez maintenant. Blog blog blog. Slog slog slog. Slog through the blog. Slog through the blog like a frog in the bog. Blog like a song like a frog in the smog. "A chain in a cog," said the rooster to the throng. "That's my song," said the biker to King Kong as he sat on a log in the bog on a log while he hummed a little song.
03 October 2006
02 October 2006
28 September 2006
New things in my life
My left pointy finger is numb and cold. I think I squashed a nerve in my back that travels through my forearm and attaches to it.
This apartment smells like apples.
The Eastern Panhandle of West Virginia does to.
I saw a fox in downtown Chesapeake the other night.
Last night at work a co-worker told me a shofar (a rams horn) is the sound of God and asked me if we had one at church. I said no and told him you can't blow those things in Virginia Beach because the police will put you in jail. He then proceded many times that night to imitate a rams horn because he thought I was being too secular.
I got plenty of rest when I clocked out and went home.
I ate the rest of the jalepeno flavored pretzels for part of my breakfast.
My car needs washed.
I lifted weights 1/2 and hour ago and want more food but all the dishes are being washed in the dishwasher.
This apartment smells like apples.
The Eastern Panhandle of West Virginia does to.
I saw a fox in downtown Chesapeake the other night.
Last night at work a co-worker told me a shofar (a rams horn) is the sound of God and asked me if we had one at church. I said no and told him you can't blow those things in Virginia Beach because the police will put you in jail. He then proceded many times that night to imitate a rams horn because he thought I was being too secular.
I got plenty of rest when I clocked out and went home.
I ate the rest of the jalepeno flavored pretzels for part of my breakfast.
My car needs washed.
I lifted weights 1/2 and hour ago and want more food but all the dishes are being washed in the dishwasher.
27 September 2006
Moon-Watcher
In the book, 2001 A Space Odyssey, (my current read) Moon-Watcher is the leader of the last tribe of hominids in Central Africa around 3 million years ago.
Note: I don't think the Theory of Common Descent is the best explanation of reality, but it does make for a good story.
He is nearly five feet tall, hairy, and has two women and a cave. What cements his status as a local legend is the day he kills a leopard and impales the head on a stick. This act alone makes him ruler of the free world and the inventor of shish-kabob. Which brings me to my next topic-current world leaders.
My aunt sent me this picture of one world leader and I don't know what to make of it. I'll let you write the caption.
Note: I don't think the Theory of Common Descent is the best explanation of reality, but it does make for a good story.
He is nearly five feet tall, hairy, and has two women and a cave. What cements his status as a local legend is the day he kills a leopard and impales the head on a stick. This act alone makes him ruler of the free world and the inventor of shish-kabob. Which brings me to my next topic-current world leaders.
My aunt sent me this picture of one world leader and I don't know what to make of it. I'll let you write the caption.
21 September 2006
Thank You
from http://www.edvard-munch.com/Paintings/anxiety/scream_3.jpg
I want to take this time right now to thank all the drug and chemical manufacturers at Bayer Pharmaceuticals for the wonderful mind-altering and semi-hallucinogenic substances that you sell to the general public.
The last 24 hours went by quicker than I thought thanks to your products.
While laying prostrate since late Tues,early Wednesday. . .details are fuzzy. . .I had much time to reflect on how much I have yet to accomplish in Life. I also had some very very strange dreams which is to be expected when it feels like Satan himself visits you and is jabbing your forehead with a laser beam and making you feel like experiencing the ice cream headache from the 7th level of Hades.
I dreamed (by the way. . .I've never done any illegal drugs in my life). . .that the government passed a law sending all Americans back to their 8th grade English class for a semester of remedial treatment. All my grade school friends were there, including their wives, children, and other English teachers (not everyone-some had died). And we spent the day going over gerunds, and dangling participles, and how we should put i before e except after c (and some other word). And I remarked how fat the former cheerleaders were. At lunch, we went to Africa and were standing on a bridge watching a herd of 1,000 elephants drink from a river. I had one picture left and then discovered my camera had a chip that could record 100 more. Then we went to a petting zoo with antelope, springboks, white-tailed deer, elk, moose, sheep, goats, and zebras. One of the antelopes was head-butting a baby goat, then a lion escaped, but nobody paid much attention because we were going to England. In England, we came to a mountain that looked almost exactly like the one I grew up on, except instead of houses there were enormous trains. It was, in fact, a museum dedicated to trains. . .and all the trains were about 100 feet high and painted in bright shiny colors. Then we went to a ski lodge because somebody wanted to rent a jet plane on call up there to 'cruise around a bit.' The pilot was there watching us though none of us knew it, and we were discussing rumors about how much of a drunk he was. Nobody rented the jet.
Then, I met a man who designed a jet-car. I saw him flying through the air over some very high mountains (Pyrenees?), then he ejected in a thing like a rocket and parachuted down to earth in an asbestos and kevlar parachute that felt like one of those scouring pads one uses to wash dishes.
Back to the lodge, we made plans to go skiing next week in West Virginia. I told the guys I went just a few weeks ago forgetting that it hasn't snowed in West Virginia since, oh, the last Ice Age, but somehow I distinctly remember doing so, but it was very muddy.
Then I woke up, drank an espresso, cooked an omelet, and prayed never to go through an experience like that ever again.
You can start psycho-analyzing me now.
18 September 2006
Motivation
I am taking a break from Regent U this semester to finish working on a science-fiction novel. I need a break.
A man who has no purpose in life cannot possibly be motivated to do much. He may work hard and be very intelligent, but if he has no defined goal, he is fulfilling another man's dream. He is a mere pawn in another man's vision.
When a man has a specific dream, he cannot be stopped. He may encounter hardships and difficulties along the way, but the path to greatness is never easy. . .unless he wins the lottery. Besides, life wouldn't be that interesting if it weren't for all these little 'adventures' that people like to talk about when they're old and gray and smell funny.
A man who has no purpose in life cannot possibly be motivated to do much. He may work hard and be very intelligent, but if he has no defined goal, he is fulfilling another man's dream. He is a mere pawn in another man's vision.
When a man has a specific dream, he cannot be stopped. He may encounter hardships and difficulties along the way, but the path to greatness is never easy. . .unless he wins the lottery. Besides, life wouldn't be that interesting if it weren't for all these little 'adventures' that people like to talk about when they're old and gray and smell funny.
15 September 2006
Profoundnessness
"I used to be with it. But then they changed what it was. Now what I'm with isn't it. And what's it seems weird and scary to me."
- Abe Simpson
It is high noon here on the east coast and (so far) this is my deepest thought of the day.
- Abe Simpson
It is high noon here on the east coast and (so far) this is my deepest thought of the day.
13 September 2006
The new manshack and some philosophy
Here, ladies and gentlehobbits is the new place. . .the new castle. . .which during hurricanes has a fairly cool moat.
And now, some philosophy. . .
"Every ant knows the formula of its anthill
Every bee knows the formula of its beehive
They know it in their own way, not ours
Only mankind does not know its formula"
--Fyodor Dostoevsky
And thus we rely on alternate means to make meaning of Life. Means that were not meant to be used, or rather, we use our faculty of logic which is an attempt to reduce everything down to biology. I'm talking Survival of the Fittest, Reductionism, the Law of the Jungle.
This is the natural inclination of mankind when he forgets, or fails to realize, that there exists a spiritual reality far more concrete than the physical reality we observe with our biological senses. The one composed of atoms, molecules, electrons, quarks, and muons all the way up to planets, solar systems, and galaxies.
When a civilization fails to acknowledge the unseen, all it's decisions must be based on the seen. In due course, that civilization must decline, like Rome.
But you say, "Well, in a hedonistic society like 2006 America, we're doing pretty good."
That's because we are living on the moral capital of the last 200 years. Furthermore, are modern Americans really better off now than they were in, say, the 1950's?
Most people I see are obese, dull-witted, and unable to think an original thought more than twice a week (I'm trying to be nice here).
It seems to me that we are losing the moral momentum of the previous generations, and are slowing down, fast, due to the friction of immorality.
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