Well, I finally resurrected the Beast. The Banana Boat. The BeBop. My 1966 289 Mustang, a deadly bucket of rust and hope and burning fossil fuels. There are other Mustangs out there in much better shape, and I used to be jealous of those who could afford to replace chipped paint and fraying wires. But now I understand the truth, that I will never have the money to make it a real driver, and even if I did I would put more cash into it than I would a brand new '05 GT that would giggle as it passed the BeBop at 146 MPH. That monster should not be run, today or ever again, because each time I start it up I take a full year off my life. Today for no reason at all I drove my mother's station wagon over 100 mph on the parkway, because I didn't feel like being slow and I sure as hell didn't feel like being sane. I have always felt that, in the ancient and wise words of Thompson, if a thing is worth doing, it is worth doing right, and if you are going to speed you had better make sure that everyone else on the road has reason to fear you, because otherwise you will be busted for exceeding the speed limit by a mere 10 mph and your friends will mock you for being a sucker. That is the nature of life in America, if you are discovered breaking the rules by a slim margin others will despise your weakness - BUT, if you have the balls and the guts and enough hot air in your head to bust that limit wide open by doubling it, then shit, you are a force to be reckoned with.

I should not be allowed to drive the Mustang because it is fast and accelerates hard enough for me to pass anything that is naturally aspirated, and with a few hundred dollars I could beat to paste every one of those dumb punks with tricked-out plastic four-bangers. I have crashed once already due to my love of Speed, and my 1.5 tons of American steel required $1,000 of work to get running again. I will speed again in the future, perhaps frequently, and if I crash again that car will not be worth saving. But she will have left this world the way all great Warriors desire to, in a blaze of stupidity doing what she loves best, which is moving faster than anything should be allowed to if it wants to stay on the ground.

The BeBop was built in a different era; there is no reason for that much horse-power to live under the hood of a passenger vehicle, especially one that does not like other passengers. When loaded down with friends the acceleration drops off sharply - the only time that car runs as it should is when I am driving it alone. There is room perhaps for a backpack, and the spirit of Horatio Alger screeching gleefully and reveling in celebration of this disgusting example of American excess. Cars this old and this powerful should not be allowed to run, and in any other country than America they would be banned out of sheer revulsion for their size and deadly fumes. While she is in my possession one or both of us will die, and if I live to bury her I will invest my future dollars in a sensible and environmentally responsible car, something new and reasonable but with enough strength to feed that occasional desire to move. And if I die with a Will intact I will insist that the BeBop be sold for scrap and broken up, her parts melted down and remade into the door frames of a new Mustang.

Two rather remarkable bits of writing to point out here, one that's been around for a short while, and one that's brand new.

First, the olde one. Anthony Swofford's Jarhead - A Marine's Chronicle of the Gulf War and Other Battles is awesome. You should read the whole thing, but there's a paragraph or two that I want to save for all posterity:

"Some of the men who spread good news [about war] have never fought - so what could they have to say about the purity of war and warriors? These men are liars and cheats and they gamble with your freedom and your life and the lives of your sons and daughters and the reputation of your country...

Some wars are unavoidable and need well be fought, but this doesn't erase warfare's waste. Sorry, we must say to the mothers whose sons will die horribly. This will never end. Sorry."

The second piece, the new writing, I never thought I'd see. George Will is as redoubtable a warrior for the Right as there is in America, but this is actually what he wrote in a recent editorial:

"The commander in chief seems not to fathom the depth of the difficulties when he describes the insurgent cleric Moqtada Sadr as a person who will not 'allow democracy to flourish.' 'Allow?' If some bad people would just behave, democracy would sprout like tulips?"

That sounds suspiciously like criticism which, if true, is nothing short of remarkable. I always wondered how people who are obviously intelligent could support such a dunce as our !President, but it appears that the worm is turning for Dubya, as even his partisans are beginning to question the utility of this morass that invading Iraq has become. Remarkable!

I have given up on Americans. These swine no longer deserve my pity, or any other form of attention. One of them wrote an article for today's opinion section that states, boldly and for the record, that we have done nothing to earn the sacrifices that Our Brave Soldiers are making in that stupid shit-littered sandbox Iraq.

Well, son, you may be on to something. Off the top of my head I can name perhaps five Great Americans who might have been worth dying for, and even then they are remarkable not for the ways that they exceeded human expectations, but merely by not possessing the flaws that make the rest of us Fools and Animals. We have taken the greatest continent on Earth, with more natural resources and beauty than civilised humans had ever experienced, and created a generation of permanently stupid cripples who spend their time phoning in votes for massive popularity contests and writing songs that glorify their excesses.

How, O Lord, how did we so blithely squander this bounty? Of course, our scientists have just proven that there is no way for You to exist, at least, not as the all-knowing all-powerful God of legend. Are we really the image of You? Because if we are, then you're responsible not just for our weird lanky bodies and worthless sense of smell, but our Stupidity as well. These brains are activated only once or twice in a lifetime, for most of us, and even for those like myself I can count only half a dozen so far, although there is a margin for error due to the wretched state of my memory.

Life is Suffering. Hoo boy, there is no more noble truth than that one. Everyone who goes out in public in sweat pants is suffering, I guarantee it, in some form or another. Everyone who puts their beer gut on display is suffering, and increasing the suffering of others. Not because they are grotesque to look at, no - there are plenty of things in this world that elicit the gag response. Anyone that fat who doesn't give a damn will burden the health care system in some way as to make my insurance more expensive, will beat their wife/husband/children to compensate for their lack of self-esteem, and will argue for forty minutes with the ticket monkey at an airport about their "Two Seat" policy.

You can take that to the bank - I assure you. News like that comes with a warrantee.

And That, as they say in the Biz, is That. Finals are completely done for, and I'm actually considering working 36 hours in three days every week at the workstudy job I held all semester. If it weren't the easiest job I've ever had (and believe me, I've had some pretty ridiculously easy jobs) with plenty of opportunity to do nothing for hours on end, I probably wouldn't bee so hot to get back to it. But us True Warriors have ways of keeping our attention occupied, or just letting it flag and staring at the wall until time melts away. I could get some serious reading done this summer, and get paid for it...

Damn, what am I doing sitting here?

Holy Hell. Today has been absolute insanity. I awoke from my usual 1230-1430 nap (yeah, there's nothing usual about it) to terrible visions of a future dominated by half-mad mutant babies and green aliens who wear contact lenses to hide their purple pupils. "You actually WANT to be a child of these Earth-creatures? You must be CRAZY!"

Seriously, it's almost 1 O'clock in the morning (0100 by our standards), and half the people in this world that I give a damn about are still up and signed on to their AIM accounts. There's a part of this scene that is unnatural, and it's either the fact that such a large segment of the Sane human population is still awake and at their computers, or the fact that I'm still awake after a semester of preaching the benefits of getting plenty of Rest. This Squad Leader will have a lot of "'splainin" to do come next fall...

There is no other explanation.
Aqua Teen Hunger Force is written by drunks.
Directed by drunks.
Animated by drunks.
Produced by drunks.
There is no other segment of the population that would find this kind of gibberish amusing at 0034 hours. I guess that means I'm ready for bed. Hooray for finals! Woo!

Jeezus, I've been surrounded by swine and wildebeasts of all sizes. Politicians of every stripe are beginning to visit Anytown with disturbing frequency, and for less-than-alturistic reasons. The torrent of abject stupidity seems particularly thick today, and it's impossible not to believe that some malicious cosmic force is behind it.

On the upside, I found another Stephenson book the other day, and although it is short it is sweet. Read "The Big U" for entertainment. Later on I plan to collapse in a steamy pile on the leather lay-z-boy and let the cats chase themselves stupid while hopped up on canned processed meats.

From a Salon.com article about the Israel/Palestine conflict -

"But both the Palestinians and the Israelis I talked to agreed that there was one party who could break the deadlock: the United States. 'It's like two people fighting,' Yehuda said. 'You need someone from the outside to step in and break it up.' Every Palestinian I talked to agreed -- but most had become so despairing of a reasonable U.S. policy that they didn't even bother to bring it up. Clearly they'd grown weary of grasping at vain hopes. Mention of Bush brought a bitter grimace, sometimes the dark smile of a gunfighter. This man is detested."

I really wish there was a way to convey the utter contempt that the rest of the world holds Bush in to those who would have him elected. Maybe a national field trip to the middle east? Goddammit! How are the shitheads and the weasels allowed to get so far ahead in life? Is it really just cash? How sick.

It just becomes painful.

The End of Times Approaches! Finals are occuring almost daily here at U. of A. I prepare for a summer of Work while my fellow mids who are lucky enough to be on scholarship take a three-week vacation to the fleet called Cortramid. But I'm not jealous, goodness no, for I will be in North Carolina and Colorado and massive debt for moths to come.

Smile!

Well, that was fun.

We were ambushed this morning by our 3rd class mids in sweat tops and cammie bottoms and roped into a PT session the likes of which we hadn't seen since orientation. I was doing fine until we had to stand at attention inside a hot (to me) gym, then my gut rebelled against the unexpected pressure and I heaved into one of the heads and nearly collapsed from hyperventilating. They called the campus paramedics and everything, took biometric readings and fed me oxygen until I could get back on my feet. By the time the whole episode was over everyone had eaten the catered breakfast, which I was kinda sad about. They had a lot of eggs and meat. A Lot.

I still don't think that many people at the unit fully understand my disease, which is unfortunate. But it's my responsibility to make sure that it's understood and that I don't do anything too stupid in light of it. In any case we earned our 3/C anchors, which is nice, and as the year is wrapping up now's as good a time as any to reflect on the lessons learned, trials overcome, competitors bested.

Maybe later.

This is quite possibly the most disgusting thing I've ever heard from anyone about anything.

It's sick. It's absolutely sick.

For those too lazy or too late to follow the link, our !President said, in response to a question about the new wave of violence in Iraq, "That's what you're seeing going on: These people hate freedom, and we love freedom, and that's where the clash occurs... it's going to take a while for them to understand what freedom is all about."

Fuck you. Fuck You you shiteating walking corpse. I'm watching my brothers and sisters die for your jackass policy of forcing people to live by the American code of freedom (and there's no shortage of irony there), and you stand here behind your SS guard and ivory-plated toothbrushes and grin like your mother just won $50 in a bingo game.

Doesn't it seem a bit wrong to anyone else that we're showing them how to love Freedom by occupying their country and dictating terms about how they should govern themselves? WTF?

Ugh. I didn't want to go to the last Sub Club meeting of the year, mainly because I've been sleeping all day since the Final of Doom and the Midn in charge of the club is a (I just found out mysoginist) douchebag. Our sub lieutennant came in and demo'd a fairly realistic game where you play a sub commander, and he talked with us for a bit. Towards the end he mentioned that if we ever get a chance to talk to some old WWII sub vets, we should, because these guys had seen and done more by the time they were our age than we will in our entire careers. Combined with the LT's obvious depth of technical skill I left our unit feeling like a ten year-old kid who doesn't know nothin' about nothin'. It's really the first time in a long, long time that I've actually felt young.

Woah. I just had my ass handed to me by a test, which I normally don't really mind. If it's a subject like calculus, the red hate for which boils in my soul to a rythmic pounding like that of an Apache helo on it's way to kill, then I pretty much expect to do poorly and it's no shocker when I do. But this was in Naval History, my chosen major, man! My fellow midshipmen relied on me last night to help them in reviewing for this test, and I feel like I've let them down horribly. The dates of battles, the major players, all things I've heard and read about a thousand times, I discovered had never really solidified in my memory. Who was in charge of TF16 in the Battle of Midway? RADM Spruance, but did I get that right when it mattered? No one can say.

Damn. It's humbling, which is good, in a way. Guess I've got some reading to do.

I just saw Dawn of the Dead. What makes this movie so fantastic is not that it does any one thing particularly well (although the makeup and effects are pretty damn good). It's the zombies. Zombies make any movie better. Doubt me? Imagine the worst film of the year, say, Gigli. Pretty goddamn awful, right? Well, just add some zombies to the mix. Now we have a terrible movie, but with an undead Jennifer Lopez, craving the flesh of the living in a non-creepy-sexual way. She eats her press agent! Then P. Diddy comes up with his peice and his homies blow her skank-ass away, but not before one of his Boyz is bitten and starts to listen to Dave Matthews before everyone catches on that he is now undead.

It also made me want to kill people, walking damned or otherwise. Mainly those who are noisy. Mainly my roommate. Damn.

Perhaps if I dedicated this blog to People Living With Intestinal Disorders, it would do some good for the greater population of Earth. Perhaps if I hosted intelligent discussion on the current state of whales, people would be interested in what I had to say. Perhaps if I actually did something with my time instead of watching movies at work and watching teevee at home I could talk to other people without wanting to kill them.

Seriously. This desire to rend and destroy the lives of the creatures I share this planet with gets in the way sometimes. Well, I wouldn't really kill them as such - I'd just send them home crying to mommy after utterly crushing their spirits. It's wrong, morally, but I feel like destroying.

Yes, give me one of the new 155mm AGWS' to play with. I've a few rounds to park in the homes of my enemies.

I was seized by an intense desire to travel to Las Vegas to see the new Star Trek dealie after veiwing the commercial for it. I guess it worked.

Last night's South Park was the sort of genius that it's going to be hard to live up to. I hope Parker and Stone haven't set the bar too high for themselves.

This crap about distributing manufactured news segments to teevee stations that hype up the new Medicare legislation without actually saying anything is beyond disgusting. The fact that many stations ran these reports without examining the source is even more disturbing, for it points to a fundamental laziness that ought not to exist in our "news" organisations.

Roommate Dirty Boy fell asleep on the couch last night with his shirt off and his hand down his pants - this despite the fact that his individually sealed room was five yards away. It must have had something to do with the amount of nasty nasty Slurricane he downed in 40 oz. bottles last night.

"Walk away, me boys, walk away, me boys, and by mornin' we'll be free. Wipe that golden tear from your mother dear, and raise what's left of the flag for me..."

HAPPY SAINT PATRICK'S DAY!

Minus the music, probably the best piece of journalism I've seen about the Whole Iraq Mess was just aired on the History Channel. It's a part of their "One Year Later" series, but it was basically a montage of outstanding photography and testimonials from the journalists that went along for the ride during those first six weeks of what most closely approximated "regular" combat. It was graphic, it was real, an awesome illustration of an experience that can only be imperfectly described to those who were not physically there. Everyone who says they support war should be forced to watch it.

Again, without the music. I find that sort of thing manipulative and annoying, and I would order the whole set on disc if I could press a button to mute the orchestra. If you're not moved by the sight of five young boys whos faces were burned off by a bit of unexploded ordinance unless there are sappy violins playing in the background, then there's something really really wrong with you.

I'm going to step outside into the chilling night air and let it cool and cleanse me. Spring break was great - in the words of Peter Gibbons, "I did nothing, and it was everything I thought it could be."

-From the Creep In Chief (yup that's me. boring story, might record later for posterity, or myself)

Item the First: 9/11 in Spain. Holy Hell, who saw this madness approaching? Could al-Qaida still be sore about the sacking of Jerusalem during the Crusades? Pause a moment, for the sake of civilisation and sanity.

Item the Second: The battle heats up. Actually, it's been hot all along, the only difference is that the two sides that have been fighting finally got around to actually declaring War on The Enemy. Many broadsides have been fired and are reloading in the Royal Republican Navy, and the Kerry task force is replying in kind, if not with quite as many guns. There's also the plucky Holy Armada of MoveOn, which can count on a certain amount of popular support and an almost equal backlash as they fire what cannons they posess.

Item the Third: I'm about to blow upwards of $70 smackers on this nifty little number, but why? I can't connect it directly to any computer I own except two old Macs that are barely good for typing. It's part of the Pack Rat instinct, and I should quash it immediately. If it becomes necessary to own a MessagePad 2000 in the future, I'm sure I can find one. For now, there's a leadership conference in Notre Dame that will require a small outlay of funds, and despite the tax return I ingested last week I shouldn't be spending more than I absolutely have to.

On the other hand, everyone treats themselves to some sort of rebate extravagance... damn damn damn.

John Kerry and John McCain? Outrageous! McCain will never jump ship - he is a loyal and honorable man. His defection might inspire the more intelligent Republicans to rethink their unthinking support for Dubya, but the rest of them would be fired beyond measure to work against such a "deserter." Besides which, that would totally screw up my Democratic Dream Team ticket, presented forthwith:

Prez: John Kerry (Best option? No. Foregone conclusion? You bet.)
Vice Prez: John Edwards (What's up with all these Johns? Would bring much needed energy and southern charm to ticket, so long as personal pride does not interfere.)
Secretary of State: Wes Clark (Start a pattern with super-smart former generals, but leave this one's brain intact. Also increase southern appeal and Defense credentials.)
Secretary of Defense: This one's up for grabs, and damn hard to fill. Ideas?
Dir. Health and Human Services: Howard Dean (The doctor is in, and would do wonders for our health care system if allowed.)
Attourney General: Hmm, perhaps this would be a better fit for Mr. Edwards. Few can match his experience with the Law in this country. Only if Mr. McCain did jump on the ticket... two Navy heroes in the top slots of government? I'd be happy with as much, although it really is a pipe dream.
Dir. Homeland Security: Edward Rendell (Start a pattern with goofy former Govs of Pennsylvania, make Labor happy.)

Much like the original Dream Team of American b-ball, these warriors would make fools of their opponents and deliver Slam Dunks for the American people on domestic and foreign issues. If only they could be counted on to listen to my advice... but that is pure hubris. Hitler himself would have to be resurrected and placed on the Ticket for me to vote anything other than Democrat in the upcoming "election." Let us hope that this time around we really do have something to vote for, instead of just another boogeyman to vote against.

Well kiddoos, this is one Nasty midshipman. I haven't shaved in three days, I slept in and was late to work this morning (although my alarm clock really did malfunction. no lie.), and when I get home from work I do nothing but change into sweats and vegitate on the couch. I don't know that I'd even have the mental capacity to read a book at this point, and in any event I lack the energy to try. I'm pretty sure something's on the teevee right now, but that's a whole room away. I'll actually be interested to see how long this complete apathy lasts - something tells me I should take advantage of it while all the other roommates are away.

That's another issue, actually. I can deal with any sort of roommate, following the Worst Experience Ever at my former small downtown arts college. This foul beast I shared a two-bed with left spit cups full of chewed tobacco everywhere, turned the teevee on and up every night, piled clothes upon his side of the floor until there literally was no floor left, and even Bob help me I am not a liar failed to flush the toilet after blasting a dookie almost every single time. Compared to this dipshit my current roomies are angelic, but I'm still seriously glad to have the pad to myself for this week. "Lone Wolf" best describes me.

This is hilarious. A new nickle, put into circulation presumably because there aren't enough of the old ones to satisfy demand anymore. The front remains unchanged, while the back now features the image of two hands shaking in friendship. Who do these hands belong to? One, to a soldier of the United States Army, the other to a Native American (or Native Indian, whatever). What's wrong with this picture? Aside from the fact that we never were very friendly to the natives, I mean. In fact, didn't we pretty much slaughter and displace their entire population so we could erect a few thousand Wal-Marts?

Being a historian such revisionism - no, blind and willfull disregard for the truth - really eggs me, especially when it's paid for by the government. This one really is a step too far, gents. If we can't use images while truthfully depict what happened, let's at least stick with something that's accurate.

This story regarding comedy and news is both encouraging and disturbing. Encouraging, because perhaps network bigwigs will begin to catch on to the fact that people don't necessarily prefer polish over content. Disturbing, because anyone who considers themselves "educated" by watching SNL and The Daily Show really shouldn't be doing anything like voting. Or talking.

It was warm enough today in Anytown to wear shorts. Outside. It'll be freezing by the time I make it home this evening, of course, but it was worth it.

My roommate "Class" came up with the idea for hosting a wine+jazz party at our university-owned pad a while back. I thought it sounded like a good idea, cool music and good food and plenty of wine for all. Class's kind of people, though, are most definitely not my kind of people. I learned how to make fresh bruschetta and cut up lots of fruit for a chocolate fondu plate, and a few of the bottles of wine people brought aren't all that bad. But I can't get smashed because I work tomorrow morning, and I don't think I'd want to around these folks anyway. They club and dance and own ten pairs of shoes each, and it doesn't make me uncomfortable, it's just kind of sad. Ah well, this pinot grigio isn't the greatest, but it works okay...

Well damn. One of my erstwhile roommates is gone for a few days with his family, and the pad is already a happier place. It's not because this kid's a cruel pig-man or anything heinous. He's just, noisy. He's a noisy, noisy boy, and kindof messy and stinky to boot. He plays guitar and sings, one of which he can do well. I don't mind the guitar because he's actually pretty good, but the boy should just never open his mouth. His voice is that painful.

So I'm standing in the kitchen and one of my other roomies comes over and opens the refrigerator. I say to him, "wait, do you you hear that?" He pauses for a second, then smiles and says, "that silence?" I reply, "that's the sound of no Dirty Boy!" And we both laugh, because it's the truth. We're happier people now.

And of course I feel horribly guilty, because this sort of attitude is definitely off the Way of the kensei. However, seeing as my ambitions will not allow me to live the life of a true aesthetic I must admit to a few earthly spiritual imperfections. By and large I am not an easy person to perturb, but the difference is so immediately noticable that I cannot deny it. The next few days will be almost blissful, and it's all because a certain person will not be present for them. Terrible terrible.

Cool: it's really late and I just finished a paper that's due tomorrow - no, later today. It's the first time in a long time that I've put anything off this drastically, and being done with this project just in time feels kindof good. Of course, sleep feels better, so I'll get on that pronto.

By the by, I got a billet as a squad leader on next year's drill team. Our current drill commander claims that, with batallion/company PT a thing of the past, our positions will entail more real work and responsibility than a more traditional one. My fellow leaders and I will be responsible for the appearance, performance, and training of our squads, for unit functions and drill competitions. I'm Pumped, Oo-rah.

H+101 hours - I had forgotten just how bad "Spaceballs" was until we watched it on the bus. There are plenty of classic lines, but good God it's an awful movie. And now I have to try and drown out whatever's just been put on with some high noise - elder Beck with The New Pollution does well. The temperature drops as we wind northwards, and people begin to complain. We eat at a corral-style feeding trough, hit the head en masse, board our chartered conveyance and become one with the highways again. The seat by the head on the bus is starting to stink, dammit. In theory we have another nine hours of traveling before we get home, and are privileged to walk into our Batallion Muster with all our beads on. Then comes a full monday of crap, followed by another week and another month and the rest of the semester and the rest of this awful cursed year of 2004.

Will it be cursed? That's a tough nut to question. There is a good chance that near the end of this year, we will have a new President in some form, and in a way everything leading up to that event is just a sort of time murder. The forces of good and evil are gathering for the final showdown in our nation's capital, and when the Time of Reckoning comes one of our parties will be pistol-whipped into submission by the new Kings, who will interpret their .5% margin of victory as a New Mandate, to continue the rape of the American Dream by some new technically legal means. This doesn't have a whole hell of a lot to do with our trip to New Orleans, but it's on the mind. There's a newly minted couple in the seats in front of me, and for some reason their necking doesn't bug me. I'm owed one bottle of Corona from Mr. Green Jeans, and I can't remember buying the six pack that it came from. I think I also bought someone a syringe from a bar - Jesus knows just what was in it. GOD HATES ALL SINNERS. Remember this when the time comes for you to choose, bubba, keep that in mind when you are deciding what kind of score you want the Great Ref to put on the books next to your name. Only YOU have the power to save your soul from the eternal torments of Hell.

Shit on that gibberish. But there doesn't appear to be any more to say, so I'll let the battery on Pallas run itself out playing some soothing tunes.

H+77 hours - And so much for all that. The inspection was painless, although we got nailed for unsatisfactory shaves. Our drill commander fscked up the marching routine, but not quite as bad as the last time. The real story of that day is, however, the night, when we loaded ourselves into the Liberty Bus and, thirty minutes later, onto the streets of New Orleans. If you've ever heard tales about what a wild time it is, they're probably all true. It is a massive, never-ending party that encompasses virtually the entire inner city, and for those in the right frame of mind it could be the time of a lifetime.

H+90 hours - And for many, it was. How can you not enjoy yourself in a town that has drive-through daqueri huts? Some of us came out in worse shape than others, but our bus has the same number of bodies on it this morning as it did when we left home. No small achievement, since several of these kids were avowed alcoholic virgins before the weekend. Most were seasoned pros, or at least experienced amatures. I began the night with a pitcher of Bud at a nasty Mexican restaraunt somewhere off of Bourbon Street, continued with several cans of Bud and Heinie and Amber Brock, then wrapped things up with a pair of "Hand Grenades," the fruity drink of choice for the hip party clientel. They come in neon grenade-shaped cups, but I failed to retain either of mine. I don't remember doing much except walking around and buying drinks, but everyone assures me that I was having a good time.

So last night I stayed in and played hearts and basketball. This morning as we crossed the Mississippi Delta again I felt an even deeper longing for the sea. The ripples and crests are pillows, the foam a blanket, this endless empty blue sky the only roof I need. I could and someday will rest forever among the waves. Good Lord, what a sentimental moron - humans are no better suited to live in the ocean than they are to live in space. Whatever primitive genetic memory I'm addled with is just that, primal instinct. When the waves do close over my head God will be laughing at me, the Big Idiot, for thinking this was somehow right and proper.

H+29 hours - We had a chance to scope out some of the competition and eat in the base mess hall, which were both somewhat underwhelming experiences. Based solely on what I've seen of other teams so far, we'll fall right about in the middle of the pack, which I'm told is quite an improvement over previous years. The Colonel expressed the hope that we would come back with some sort of trophy for our new, somewhat barren display case that sits in the foyer entrance to the unit. We all gave him one of those good-natured ha ha's because we know for a fact that with our practice schedule, we're nowhere near the top. Academy kids do this for hours a day, every day of the week, so if we place in any capacity we're golden.

There was a cheesy little parade on the base, with floats and motorcycles that threw Mardi Gras beads to anyone on the side of the road. Some of us came back better equipped than others. As the time approaches for the depravities (festivities) to begin, however, I find myself less and less enthusiastic about attending a ritualistic orgy of drink and dance in the heart of a foreign land. Our Base is far, far away from Tulane and Bourbon Street, and I worry that some of these kids are learning to swim in shark infested waters, being young and new to the life of carousing on the town after dark. But what am I saying? This Midshipman hardly caroused when he could, and even now that the Curse has been lifted I am not tempted by Sin and Vice.

H+42 hours - This sentence sums it up: "It's been six months since I had a drink, and I'm in New Orleans for Mardi Gras." Those are the words of an addict, a goddamn drunk. I said that I wouldn't buy spirits for the underage amongst our battalion, and for this run, I'm not; but someone's gotta cover for this massive amount of booze if the Gunny should come back and catch us with these purchases. At breakfast a few squads from another unit came into the mess. The contrast between their unit and ours was striking; we've always known that compared to the rest of the nation we're somewhat laid-back, but these kids were all shaved like Space Monkeys, names on their out-shirts, dressed identical, dressed to kill first thing in the morning. Drill Team is probably the most intensely military activity we participate in, and that's a fairly small chunk of the battalion. The rest of the time, we're midshipmen for two days out of the week.

On the other hand, we're well adjusted social people, with the full benefits of a more real-world college experience. The kids that get processed through the Academey are locked on, but no one else in the fleet can stand them. I'd rather be sane and a little nasty than come off as a polished prick.

In 3.5 hours, we saddle up and ride into battle. Boo-Yah.

More from the Tulane Journal:

H+19 hours - Mama pajama rolled out of bed and she ran to the police station, and that's where everything started to go wrong. Never run directly to the Police; they are powerless to protect you in the face of True Evil, which is the only Evil I fear at this point. We're crossing some massive body of water that no one can name, definitely in LA, several hours ahead of schedule and full of coffee and breakfast buffet insta-meal. This Evil is insidious for it cannot be seen but must be guarded against at all times. For our decade it's name is Terrorism, and it is pure masturbation to think that any part of this bid to send our Drill Team against the best and brightest from the rest of the nation will aide in Mistah Bush's never-ending War on Tear-r.

Who would build a highway straight through the middle of a green swamp field? Americans, that's who, bubba, and if you've got any sort of problem with that you can take it up with the Federal Highway Commission and Department of Pork. That would be your Congress, yours and mine, bubba, you'd better believe we put those scumsuckers in power for lack of a less offensive alternative. Does that make it Right? Hells no, and not even less Evil. But perhaps there is no way to live in America without participating somehow in it's eventual destruction, when throwing away a tin can means putting rust directly into your children's drinking water. They have shots to deal with that sort of poisoning, but how long will it last? Don't think about it. Throw up another Sams Club and move on to the next hillbilly enclave.

When the sun intruded into my eyeballs this morning we joked that we'd inadvertantly driven to Hawaii, what with the palm trees and warm air. Oh, you rotten bastards! Traffic on an interstate at 9 A.M. is never a good sign, but there is jack-all to be done about it. Take a deep breath, glance idly at the brick home neighborhood that runs down Lamb Lane just off to your right, accept your fate. Boys will be boys, and not even a busload of Warriors can move the deadly results of their youthful indescretions in Speed off to the side of the road in time to make a difference. Perhaps this will put us back on time, in the wrong direction.

H+24 hours - We're actually staying in a new gym on a reserve air force base, where large expensive raptors take off overhead every half hour. There are clean, modern facilities, and so far we haven't had to share them with anyone else. We're also getting cots, which is quite an upgrade from our last stay in the bleachers. There are basketball hoops and climbing ropes and a lounge equipped with a soda vendor and plenty of hot sauce. Marines need their Hot Sauce.

Wow. There really is nothing like New Orleans during Mardi Gras. I kept something of a journal, although I don't know how much of it will go up here. Let's start with the first few hours...

18FEB04 - Well, we’re H+6 hours into our mini-invasion of the Deep South, and my Drill Commander just sent me his love in a bottle of Amber Brock, which I haven’t had in about 6 months. A new medication, at least new to me, has made this possible, and seems to have done a real job on my symptoms. Our chartered Drill Bus is unfortunately equipped with TV screens and loud speakers, which are playing “Gladiator” for anyone who cares. And anyone who doesn’t - goddammit those things are loud. I would cut the wires to the two that they’ve installed over my particular seat, but that kind of destruction is generally frowned upon with rented property. This whole experience is already several steps up on our last competition road trip, where we were stuffed like tinned crab meat into a couple of industrial vans.

We’re passing baseball stadiums with fameous names and outlet strip malls that perfectly mimic the shopping arenas common to every city in America - my sincere hope is that I will wake up at the end of our journey in a place which is recognisably different than the one I left.

H+12 hours - Passing trucks give me the impression that we're surrounded by ghosts. We're finally done with movie time, so the bus is dark except for one or two reading lights, and the glow-screens of various music devices. The rest of the world narrows to a spotted tunnel of cream-coloured lights and asphalt until another American city looms in the distance, flanked by the requisite Waffle Houses and Rent-A-Cube self-storage depots. Ye Gods - did that billboard change it's message just to suit my taste in music? It's happening on a road near you - Believe It. The Golden Age of Marketing is at hand, when all the businesses you patronise are owned by a central Parent with access to your spending habits and credit history. They will know where you live, what kind of coffee you brew, and when you like to turn on the morning news to ingest along with your Malt-O-Meal.

That rotten vending machine could only dispense caffine, so I'm awake in Nashville for the driver change-off. This version will be an upgrade, a Beast with raven hair and the sick ability to pilot our vessel through the mad straits of the Bible Belt all the way to the anus of the Mighty Mississip' at the Gulf of Mehico, where we make our beds tomorrow night.

Someone at work today looked at me in my SDB's and said, "You're a pilot?"

This happens quite frequently, actually, since the airline (and bellhop) industry saw fit to copy naval uniforms to clothe their own ranks. Why? I always chuckle when I see a pilot walking around with their three-striped epaulets, until I remember that there's little to distinguish me besides an anchor. I think the Navy needs new uniforms, and not just because they haven't changed in 100 years. There's something to be said for tradition, sure, but something more distinctive, more unique to the Navy would do wonders for public and personal image. I dunno, something along the lines of the unis the officers in Nadesico had, but not so elaborate.

I don't mind the khakis quite as much as I used to. They don't fit me too well, and the female version recieved the lowest satisfaction rating of any uniform in a recent survey, but overall they're comfortable and people assure me that they look "sharp."

Might have to take the day off of classes tomorrow to get everything together in time. A real tragedy, that.

"The defense department regrets to inform you that your sons are dead because they were stupid."

A fellow MIDN's AIM away message, and also one of my favourite quotes from Top Gun. How many of us really will die because of some stupid mistake, one of those "senseless tragedies" that makes the headlines for a day and then disappears? How many are dying right now? Those who deal in Death must live with their mortality in a way no others may understand. I haven't gotten there yet, but I know that the first time you're shot at it changes you forever. The question then becomes, will I be one of the lucky, or the dead?

Wow, that's kindof a downer. I'll try to come up with something more amusing later on.

Outstanding! Up since 0445, that makes it a 19-hour day fueled by two cans of Carbonated Energy Drink. Tomorrow, a shave and a haircut and another doctors visit and laundry and packing. I'm thinking of getting a hotel room for Friday night in New Orleans, just to have a place to go and take a long shower. Hm, let's check those prices now...

It's hardly proper, but I can't resist thinking that now we have the full might of the Army and Navy pitted on the Democratic side against the Texas Air National Guard and it's AWOL 1st Lt. Bush.

I am sad that Clark was forced to jump out of the race by this Kerry-shaped killer typhoon, and I have to admit that the lightning speed with which he's locked up the nomination makes me slightly nervous. Too many factors came together too quickly for this to sit well with those of even a slightly paranoid bent. I have an awful feeling that there's some sort of Ho-Tep in Kerry's closet that's going to break out and eat the soul of the Democratic party this fall.

I've spoken about the effects of Total Burnout before, and I think that if I were still in high school, or in a position to obtain massive amounts of free coffee tomorrow morning, I would go All Out. For the sake of creativity and my fellow Man, and the terrible future we shall create together...

John Kerry taking money from special interest groups? Astonishing! Of course, Mistah Bush would never do such a thing, at least, no more than $120 Million in two years for a re-election campaign. How could you possibly need to spend that much money, sir?

"Just watch."

Pig! That shiteater has been rooting around in his own filth for so long that his eyeballs are covered in dung. He has no form of vision which is not colored by Money and Politics, which are really just two different shades of grey and thus quite unsuited to making distinctions between right and wrong. I on the other hand was a Champion this afternoon, capped by the fact that I now own a pair of stain-proof khakis purchased at a good discount. This miracle fabric will change our lives, yessir, no more laundry and embarassing marks on our leggings. Hell, we should just make full-body suits from the stuff, coat our teeth and hair with Teflon so that nothing gets messy ever again, and we can all look like Stars every hour of the day and night.

Bzzzzzzzzz.... yes indeed, sports fans! Having A; been up and awake since 0430 this morning and B; just downed 16 oz. of Carbonated Energy Beverage, I've achieved that weird balance of being stimulated to a comfortable degree while my eyelids droop and my muscles ache from exhaustion. I must shortly run off to the gym for a special low-impact PT session oo-rah, and for the time being I'm not really making any sense. I wish I had a paper to write. The results would be, entertaining. Probably.

I spent the afternoon before the ball this evening rearranging all the furnature in my room. The University obviously had very clear intentions for where our desk and bed and dresser would go, because the outlets for all our appliances are in specific corners - cable here, so your TV should go right here, too. But I think I've found the absolute least efficient use of space here. Nothing is conviniently located any more, and my network cable snakes across the room in front of my closet. I'm happy with it.

The Umpteenth Annual Midshipman Naval Ball was an interesting time. The food was mediocre, the music was awful, but the Lieutennant who came to speak to us made some very good points in an entertaining fashion and only took up fifteen minutes of the evening. I think he's one of the best speakers we've had to sit through, and if I hadn't had a date to worry about I'd have stuck around to chat it up. As a gaggle of bow-tie ridden Mids stepped awkwardly to the Electric Slide on a faux wooden dance floor we joked that if Al-Qaida used the same methods to train it's militia we'd all get along much better. And it's true; nothing brings people together like the shared suffering of a Goofy Dance Step.

I have finally broken through that mad crest of exhaustion that comes after a full night of rock-like sleep. Perhaps because of this rotten Disease I spend more time than most people actively thinking about my health, and several solid hours of sleep every night seems essential to maintain a proper Balance in one's life. But the rest of the kids around me behave like goddamned Vampires, escewing the light of day for the security of night; I would not be surprised if it had something to do with the way low lighting and alcohol at the right levels can make anyone into a Prom Queen. It must be easier to deal with the disappointment of your waking life if at night you can disappear into someone other than yourself.

For the first time in a long, long time however I feel like a creature of the Night. I could go four more hours on this strange rush if I had something worth my time to do, but all there is is this glowing screen and a keyboard that sits innocently in front of it like a doormat that I need to wipe my paws on before entering the house.

I don't know for sure about this girl. It seems like a novel and legitimate enterprise - a cute philosophy major inviting discussion on many topics? My roommates have asked me if there exist in real life versions of the hot/smart idealised women of SitCom stock, and I have answered "yes." I knew two of them in my high school, one a questioning Calvinist, the other too perfect to be real (only she was, and I waited ten years to ask her out. Too late). The third I had the chance to spend the day with, completely by accident, several years ago. She was a friend of my cousin Blaze, who was invited to ride roller coasters at an Amusement Theme Park with myself and my sis Aisling. Blaze and Aisling ran off together, which left me with The Girl. Quite aside from being gorgeous by any measure, she could talk and listen and we did just that for a number of hours that I soon lost track of. The experience was so rare and so right that I have never been sure that it actually happened, and of course I've not seen her again.

At any rate, there's been some speculation that the pictures on Amandas site are really some dudes friend, and he's writing all these posts as a social experiment on nerdy 'net dwellers. Based solely on the responses she's given, I doubt that's true, but there are plenty of effeminant guys out there that could pass for gals if you only heard them speak. Shit, did I spell that correctly? Her site also drives home the fact that in nearly two years I've not gotten a single email about anything I've written here, but this is because I am a social cripple and I have no problems with that. Which should make tomorrow's Naval Ball all the more interesting - did you know that the difference between Dinner Dress Blues and Service Dress Blues is a bow tie? I'm not wearing that thing on a bus...

Also in Navy News, CNET (wait, it's NETC now, which is obviously a better acronym and therefore a better department) has decided that Navy Midshipmen will no longer be required to PT with their unit. No more motivating runs, no more daily sevens led by the senior chief, no more Gunny Fun Days hauling uprooted trees and five-inch mooring lines across a football field. This will be good for those who are Motivated, and bad for those who are Not, because the winners will keep themselves in shape through determination while the floppy ones will turn to fat and fail their next Physical Readiness Test.

Marines, however, are still subject to the whims of the Gunny, and in a sick strange way I'm jealous. The Disease has prevented me from doing much PT with the unit anyways, and we'll still be mustered in the gym at 0600 for whatever sort of activity the company CO's can come up with that doesn't count as "exercise." But some of that shared pain will be missing.

And yes, that was a nice long post. Count it as Content, and move on.

I should be asleep right now. I should be sleeping like the dead, after a day of being drugged up, knocked out, and photographed from the inside by a man in a white smock and striped tie. A fellow midshipman made the claim at drill practice tonight that she had been moving without rest for 41 hours. Only monsters and freaks push themselves that way, and being the former King of Coffee Freaks I know a thing or two about over-stimulating one's body. I fear that switch has turned in me, however, and I am no longer seriously tempted to go to such extremes - perhaps it is because such escapades inevitably cause serious Gastro-Intestinal troubles. I need a Cure, goddammit, but all I can do for now is sleep. So...

"zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz"

I am incapable of lying to myself, which is why I will always tell the Truth. But socially it is impossible to always tell the Whole Truth to others, so we must be selective with how much Truth we tell. I never tell outright fabrications, but if a sin of omission is still a sin, then I will have to lie every day of my life because the truth is too difficult for most people to live with.

If someone asks me for the Whole Truth, I will give it to them freely no matter the circumstances. To do otherwise is unacceptable.

Massive weirdness has gripped the Internet as of late, viruses popping up like toadstools and doing damage to in-boxes across the world. Being A: a Mac user, and B: posessing of various effective anti-spamming tools and techniques ("Hall of Mirrors" and "Dancing Blossom" being the two principle lines of defense for this Mac Kensei), I have been spared any form of heartache. However, my friend Renfield's address seems to be suffering from some malady, for I cannot send him anything.

Which might be for the better. Har har. I'm staring at the away message of one of my fellow midshipmen. It's time for another Pledge Drive, and the frats are really throwing down the booze and carpet to get new plebes in. The message says, "Bid Night... am I good enough?!"

Shit, I always feel guilty for quoting someone I know directly, but this attitude really gets to me. What kind of question is that to ask? What do you think these Clowns are actually bidding on? As a permanent social cripple, I am ill-equipped to understand the How and Why of modern fraternity houses, except that it seems like fun for most people to drink themselves into a stupor five nights a week and live in a nasty house with loud kids on every side of you. Perhaps there's more to it, I don't know. My attitude and personality are totally incompatible with that kind of lifestyle, which is why I happily remain on the fringes of most social circles. Happily? Yes, in the long run.

My dear friend Tak's husband is a real momentum-killer; the two of us were slated to go view Bubba Ho-Tep, staring everyone's favourite Chin Bruce Campbell, and in a rare fit of expeditionary fervour, said Husband decided to leave his Isolation Chamber and join us. Now, I'm not a natural conversationalist. In fact, I tend to shun the talkative people in favour of those more reserved. But Tak and I are so fundamentally similar yet posessing of very different backgrounds that there is usually plenty of fodder for Chat.

Perhaps ten words were said in the car that were not related to directing the actions of the Driver. The whole mess felt awkward, and it went a long way towards hilighting the nature of Tak and I's relationship. One's own spouse should never be viewed as the Intruder, but that's exactly how it seemed, and that is Wrong on a subconscious level that I am not prepared to attack or question. I am DOOMED on this planet for the next thousand lifetimes to be one-upped by Fate, the dirty whore. Fuck you! If that is my destiny then So Be It, there appears to be fuck-all I can do aside from swallowing the whole dirty nut with an expression of hopeless determination.

Allright. Enough of that violent horse shit. A true Warrior makes his own path, and you'd better believe I'm playing that card to the hilt. There is nothing quite so comforting and terrifying as the realisation that the sword in your hands can swing both ways, and wielded by an amature it is just as likely to maim you as it is to cut down the opposition. There would be no weeds on my path if I could stop nicking myself like a twelve year-old shaving for the first time. Bold Strokes and small cuts are both necessary, bubba, to rid the countryside of those nasty green stalks that carry ticks and disease to every part of your body if you're not careful... fuck, where was this going? I was trying to write about Life, and I got hooked up on this Path metaphore, which did no one any good.

There are a few things about life that annoy and vex me, but no one else with any mind at all could give two shits. I clearly am wandering off the Path.

This story makes me happy.

New Hampshire Republican Primary a shocker...

Actually, I'm a naturally happy person. This story gives me hope, perhaps more than I've felt in a long time, that we are not doomed to another 4 Years of the Chimp in Chief. There is mounting evidence that more people are pissed than are pleased, that what should have been obvious to everyone from the beginning is now finally being understood by the Masses. The Crown Loyalists will have a hard time explaining away the fact that 1 of every 20 Republicans in N.H. voted against Junior.

My evening letter to Renfield

The 2005 Mustang GT is pure sex. You can tell that it was built by stone-crazy Torque Lovers, and at half the price of a Vette I'll use that extra $20,000 to crank it up into a genuine Demon and stomp the guts out of every Son-Of-A-Banker rice-burner who's stupid enough to rev his phony muffler tip at a stoplight.

I love the fact that the interior looks exactly like mine. Even the goddamn speed gauge is the same, with some neat trick lighting thrown in for added zest. The entire enterprise is Zesty, the way real wasabi burns your sinuses, and I can hardly wait until the day I have enough time and money to convert the BeBop from a rust pile into a real car again. Tak and I will go to the auto show here, unless the entire city is buried in an Ice Storm. Do you know what real cold is like, brother? For weeks here the high has not exceeded 20, and unlike those flat plains out west we get real snow storms, bubba, you're walking down the street one night and WHAM a bucket of white powder covers your face and turns the streets into a free-for-all of panicked old women and 40-Something SUV Identity Whores. I was Born and Raised in the mountains, brother, and we never got snow the way we do now in Anytown.

But that was pointless. My writing gets savage whenever I'm reading Thompson. "Kingdom of Fear," indeed, and where are the text books I ordered online, goddammit? I paid those dirty bastards with real cash, and I expect Results soon.

My life for the week of Mardi Gras will be chronicled on the NROTC website, for our Drill Team will be competing at Tulane during that wild week-long orgy of booze and beads. We are traveling straight into the Heart of the Beast with a busload of trained killers and rifles at the peak of hunting season, and when the hammer falls, the Warriors will have their way. Count on it.

More later, or when I'm feeling less sane. Tell Russel that he is a Warrior, as well, and that he is welcome to pray at my alter of SPEED and POWER anytime he comes this way.

-Liam

Written this evening to my dear friend Renfeld

You amuse me, brother, you amuse me. The children you describe are not unique to one place or time on this earth; their kind is the rule, not the exception. Idiocy thrives among us like the creeping vines of a rain forest floor, or VD among Viet Nam GIs in the 70's. There is little we can do to escape it, until Mistah Bush builds his moon colony and passes legislation to have the Sane confined to it's rocky surface while the Loonies are left to roam like wild, horny geese across what is left of the earth.

Do not challenge any Established Position; that is the road to Trouble and Bad Vibes, and it is far more likely to get you locked up for disturbing the status quo (or PEACE) than to actually make any difference in the way this foul world is run. Can you overpower the guards of the insane asylum with an army of banana-armed monkeys? That question merely points to a deeper one, namely, why would you want to?

"Last night I had the strangest dream I ever had before. I dreamed the world had all agreed to put an end to war. I dreamed I saw a mighty room, the room was filled with men, and the paper they were signing said they'd never fight again."

Do not weep for me, brother. I chose to become a member of our civilisation's Samurai, a trained, ruthless, and completely loyal killer, bound by an ethereal code of honor and duty, but my master is not one man. It is the TRUTH, brother, and because the TRUTH as most people accept it does not exist, I serve nothing but the future. I am Free in a way that only a prisoner can appreciate.

We are all prisoners of our intellect - that is the boundry that defines what we can accomplish. Few among us live to that extreme, however. Most are ruled by Fear.

Weep for those that live in Fear, brother, for they will never know themselves or any human being. I share in your pain, as "...one shock of recognition runs the whole circle 'round."

Two very complicated failings - in a recent debate Peter Jennings, who I had previously applauded, made the claim that the charges against G. W. Bush regarding his time AWOL from the Texas Air National Guard are "unfounded." There is in fact extensive documentation, including Bush's actual military records, that he went missing for over a year and neglected his duties. So, Peter, the charges stand; smart people do not debate the fact.

Mr. Clark, for all his claims that he's not a professional politician, sounded like a professional question dodger as he refused to answer Peter and stated that Bush's previous record was not germane to his current campaign. I'm sorry, but Bush's military record should absolutely be a part of the debate, particularly if you're leaning on your own record to help get you elected.

Paris Hilton should be made the spokeswoman for America. She is a noisy plastic whore with no vision beyond her own material desires, a perfect front for Bush and his cabal.

It is not hard to imagine the towering rage that the Republicans would summon in their media if it were discovered that the Democrats had been rooting around like crooked pigs in the trough of GOP internal computer communications. "But my hand was made strong by the hand of the Allmighty..." Thank you Johnny Cash, for that insight - is it indeed the truth that these sick politicians believe that they are guided by God Himself? That they can do no wrong when the Lord is clearly on their side? This is not like overhearing a conversation stupidly held in a public place; the GOP raided the home mailboxes of leading Dems, then blamed the victims for not using combination locks and biometric certification devices to prevent such theft.

And now there's a poll that places Clark in second place in NH behind Kerry? This is Madness on a grand scale. What a spectacle for historians of the future!

It shouldn't be that difficult to make George Bush look like a fool and a posuer. He does it himself daily, but it's so painfully obvious that most people choose to ignore it. There is no honesty in his face or his words, yet people trust him because they cannot accept the idea that he is not what they want him to be. That is the Mystic Power that guards him against scrutiny and debate, but it is beginning to erode as the truth slowly seeps out from the edges.

Kerry earned several standing ovations, and his oration matches Edwards' and Dean's, except at the end as he began eerily chanting "Bring it on! Bring it on!" as a challenge to Bush. I suspect he has strong support in NH already, and the next week or so will broaden that across the Primary States. I would be happy to vote for him, or Edwards, or Clark, or Dean, but I still hope that the General will get his act together.

I will drink ten glasses of water this evening to cleanse the interior of this dirty human sack, and stand beneath hot jets of the same element to burn away the outer layer so that a new one can grow clean in its place. Water is apparently my source of strength in this world, and I emulate it in many conscious and unconscious ways...


You are guided by water. You are generally calm and peaceful, but you can be very destructive without even realizing it.

What force is your soul?
brought to you by Quizilla

And now the Penguins are taking lessons in offense from the Avalanche, and former Mayor of the Universe Rudi G. is pooh-poohing the entire Democratic party from a taco restaraunt. This poor sap should know a thing or two about fighting "tear-ists," or at least the results of terrorists ambitions. He, like the rest of this country, was eager and thirsty for Vengance, the blood of our enemies, and if we couldn't find the men responsible then we'd settle for the spiritual co-conspirators. No one who is taken seriously by either side really questions the moral rightness, or rightousness, of Gulf War II, but anyone who thinks that it made us safer is a fool or an idiot or both. We should tape them up and place them in a new padded holding pen to be constructed in the middle of Montana, but we'd have to start with Rudy, and no one who values their political lives could get away with that outrage. The People would raze the headquarters and stomp the volunteers of anyone who tried, so we must live with this sterling voice of reason calmly telling us the biggest lie of the year, that Everything Is Really All Right. Keep the Goofball and his Republicans in charge forever, and they will make you Kings in the eyes of your neighboors and Vengeful Gods in the hearts of your Enemies.

Check that. Dean and Edwards just stomped all over Clark on the podium. Yes, when it comes to choosing a presidential candidate, one must look at the issues and the merits of the person, but when it comes to electing any figure to public office they must in these times be able to impress us at the stump. Of course the pimply geek has the best plan for spending the student council's money, but the Jock will always win in a vote-off because people instinctively trust their eyes to tell them the truth, and they believe anyone who looks good must be good.

The Handlers were the downfall of Gore in 2000, and they will ensure Clark's defeat in the middle stages of this contest. That will leave us Kerry, Edwards, and perhaps Dean, if his money spigot can be unfouled. Edwards has the lamest tag line I've yet heard, ("We can do it, yes we can!") but his speech is fueled by real energy and intelligence. Shit, even Leiberman sounded better than the General, but Joey is so busy admiring the rust on his ship that he's failed to notice it's been sinking for six months. He will be stomped in NH by the four top dogs, and perhaps Kucinich and Sharpton will take the opportunity to leave gracefully.

Or maybe not. They're both convinced that by simply being in the race, they're doing good things for their party. And maybe they're right, who knows? The one thing that we should have learned from the last presidential installation is that no matter how good you think the point spread is, you're wrong. Long odds don't make anything impossible, just unlikely.

Damn, democratic debate on. I was all fired up to write something long and awful, but now I have to listen in for a few hours. More later. P'raps.

It is difficult to live with the fact that my heart is full of hate, but the Chimp In Chief arouses such primordial feelings of anger and dispair that it would take a metaphorical backhoe to uproot them.

We have become a Nazi monster in the eyes of the whole world - a nation of bullies and bastards who would rather kill than live peacefully. We are not just Whores for power and oil, but killer whores with hate and fear in our hearts. We are human scum, and that is how history will judge us....No redeeming social value. Just whores. Get out of our way, or we'll kill you.
HST

Two of my roomies are fairly liberal, but one is quietly conservative. Like all the other ones I've met and spoken with, they usually say something like "I don't know, I don't think he's doing a bad job. Who would you rather have, Gore?"

Well, yes. Gore had real military experience. Gore had vision for a better tomorrow and the guts to do the hard thing to get the right thing done. Gore also has intelligence, which some think should be a prerequisite for directing the most powerful nation since Great Britain ruled the waves and 25% of the earth's surface.

Who does vote for these dishonest shitheads? Who among us can be happy and proud of having all this innocent blood on our hands? Who are these swine? These flag-sucking half-wits who get fleeced and fooled by stupid little rich kids like George Bush?

Barring a string of heinous fuck-ups, if Clark takes New Hampshire or even comes in a close second he will be the Democratic nominee. That sounds quite official and certain, coming from a sophomore history student, doesn't it? My own hopes for the future of this nation of Meat People have been dashed and resurrected so often that making a judgment call on anything NOT written in granite seems like wishful thinking.

I'm seeing the world through the bottoms of Coke bottles. Everything is distorted and I feel slightly drunk all the time - This Midshipman has just purchased new glasses, which I haven't worn for around four or five years.

I was led to believe that the DODMERB (Department Of Defense Medically Excruciating Redundant Bulls**t) physical was an intensive, six-hour full body workup, designed to test the real limits of our physical capabilities so that our fitness for the Service might be properly assessed. I did a hearing test, and I had to take my shirt off and touch my toes. It was a bit of a letdown, although no sane person should complain of being spared a routine proctological exam.

I keep buying music and ripping old CD's, but my iPod Trixie still insists that I haven't used even half of her capacity. I'll have to scavenge my roommate's collections...

In this life, there are nothing but possiblities. Panther seems to have killed my printer, or at least pissed it off so bad that it won't talk to me anymore. And the writing bug bit, briefly, before I was loaded down with a record number of books to read for my classes. (10 at last count, not including what I might end up reading for an independent study course)

February is already shaping up to be quite interesting. But why am I even thinking about shit that far ahead in the future? The Wayfarer accords with the present.

Right on.

Here are a few new gems from the Spam Department, although I'm sure you all have gotten a few of these yourself:

"You frozen coffee mug."
"Next to the fritty body lies a used lemon."
"Look at that, someone is grabbing the model."

And, my personal favourite,
"What if he saw a bitter triangle that was sending mail to a homeless man?"

These are obviously some form of English. But why? Anyone who speaks english would recognise this for the jibberish that it is. Perhaps some form of advanced anti-anti-spam utility.

Apple, I think the new mini iPod is a great device. These new color-screened media players will take a while to gain traction with the general gadget-buying public, particularly since many of us have just made a significant investment in a similar peice of hardware. The mini is well-positioned at the high end of ultraportable players and the low end of ultraspacious jukeboxes. And for the low low price of $149, almost anyone will be able to afford one with some judicious saving over the next month or so.

Wait. I'm sorry. It's actually $249, a mere 50 smacks less than the new 15 GB version. For 50 buckos, I can nearly quadruple my storage space? Why the flaming fuck would I want an inferior model, then? At this price range, 50 samoleons is not nearly as large a gap as it would be in the $20-$150 range - we're talking about a whole other segment of the electronics-buying market. $150 is within the realm of possibility for your average high school student who's still operating on an allowance. At $250 you need rich relatives or an after-school job, and how many teenagers you know are willing to go through that kind of hassle?

Goddammit. I thought we'd learned something about pricing after the whole iMac thing. That was five years ago, Apple. People only love you as long as you're nice to them.

Okay, here's a good solid reason to support Clark. There was a story recently in Anytown's local daily paper about what ol' Wes did for new years eve. Instead of attending a huge fancy party or something, he went on one of those chintzy boat tours in New Hampshire where they have a table of deli meats and pass out sparklers. He had no signs or stickers to hand out, no supporters gathered round the dock, no press presence really at all. He walked around the boat and talked to people.

He exhausts his aides by stopping to talk to everyone who waves at him. He's also one of two candidates who have made a public declaration that he will not badmouth Dean as a means to make himself the "front runner." These two decent acts on his part are the antidote to modern politics, and I really really hope that it's not isolated to the helter-skelter primaries.

CONSUME OR PERISH

This Mad Cow scare is an interesting peice. The way modern agribusiness is run, there were one thousand opportunities per second for the BSE virus to spread throughout the population of cattle that our poor infected Bessie was found in. They live in pools of their own shit and eat liquified leftovers from other slaughter operations and get antibiotics pumped into their bloodstreams hourly. There's nothing healthy or natural about how these beasts are raised, in particular the close quarters they live in. So no, if one is infected, it's a more than fair bet that a whole mess of 'em are too. And if that's true, and this enciphelopathy can spread to humans, then McDonald's is in a mess of trouble. Although there seems to be some debate as to whether their "burgers" actually contain beef...

Aisling and I sojurned to Colorado for a few days before Christmas, and the experience was also interesting. CO no longer feels like home, although it always will be. Going places and doing things changes you, and that's why the people I know who stayed behind seem so much younger than I am. It doesn't help that I'm older than dirt to begin with, but still. The whole Navy angle really has people flabbergasted, too. No one can figure out why I decided to sign up, which means it was the perfect choice.

"Throw away your television, salivate to repetition, obliviate this ill condition now..."

The final test for Calculus assumed the form of a ravenous, oh, let's say wolverine, devouring everything in it's blasted path. My QPA, which would have been a very lovely 3.something, now flames in ruins below the minimum 2.5 required by my ROTC unit. An "F" in calc is also unacceptable for scholarship applicants, which means that yours truly will be paying for all of his education instead of part of it. That's okay - I'm going to school so I can be in the Navy, not the other way around. But the math department of U. of A. will be recieving a vicious letter indicting the incompetentcy of this "teacher".

Shit, have I really been doing this blog for more than a year now? What have I accomplished? What's been changed about this world that would otherwise have remained the same without my anonymous online presense? The answers, I think, are "yes" and "not a whole hell of a lot." But I'm content with that. May you and yours have a happy time, and remember, "Reject the basic assumptions of civilisation, especially the importance of material posessions."

Sweet Jeebus. "Killographic?" Killographic? How old are these people, twelve? That word is roughly on par with bootylicious and schnizzle, which I swore never to use in a sentence. How are these dipshits allowed to work anywhere? Their water should be reclaimed for the good of the tribe.

Exposê alone has made Panther worth it, although being a student of the U. of A. I was provided my upgrade free of charge. Now I never quit an application or close a window if there's a chance I'll need it again sometime. If I'm sick of the clutter, I hit F12 and everything scoots to the border, which on Pallas' 17 screen leaves more than enough room to accomplish anything. When I wish to view some other project I hit F11 and a mosaic of windows presents itself to me, I select the one I desire and everything else falls away behind it. And she is faster, now. I can feel it, as the processor gives off just enough heat to remind me of sitting next to a fireplace on this cold December day. It almost makes me forget that the vicious Fates have scheduled my two most difficult finals back-to-back beginning tomorrow morning at 0800 sharp.

God Damn It. I really don't want to vote for Howard Dean. General Wes has tripped a few times, but expecting perfection from any human being is folly. He is the best in the field, and actually represents something I want to vote for. All Howard Dean has to offer is something to vote against - George W. That's all well and good for getting people riled up, but how long can raw anger sustain itself? Eventually it must be replaced with ideas and leadership, and Dean has not displayed the depth of character that indicates he has either of those.

Al Gore, you disappoint me.

I really just wanted a more permanent place for this Daily Zen quote to live. I don't like random text files hanging out on my hard drive.

"I have just three things to teach:
Simplicity, patience, compassion.
These three are your greatest treasures.
Simple in actions and in thoughts,
You return to the source of being.
Patient with both friends and enemies,
You accord with the way things are.
Compassionate toward yourself,
You reconcile all beings in the world.

- Lao Tzu"

Gee. I have finally, officially joined the ranks of the iPodded. MyPod. Rocks, both literally and figuratively. Although leaving it plugged into the wall in the dock overnight failed to charge the battery?

There is a much larger ROTC drill competition that is being held over Mardi Gras weekend at Tulane. That's New Orleans, for those of you who don't know your American geography. We're pretty desperate for funds at this point, so we have to choose between starting an escort service and selling votive candles to family and friends. I'm trying to figure out how much makeup I can get away with...

Go go gadget finals! Some easy essays, a fuck-ton of Bio, and a calc test I am worryingly unprepared for, and I'll be through with this semester. It's been fun, kiddos.

There was something I was going to complain about, but I forget. There's something else I'm going to complain about, though, and it's evangelists. Specifically, how all well-adjusted people despise this particular brand of person. Today on the Submarine a visitor-pig asked a few questions and got a few responses from me in the control room. He said something along the lines of, "you guys are doing a great job, here's a tip!" He hands me and my coworker Gamer a tiny replica $10 bill, and on the back are some clever trusims, to wit:
WHAT MONEY CAN BUY
A bed BUT NOT sleep
Books BUT NOT brains
Food BUT NOT appetite... etc.
Blah de dah, no big revelation to anyone who's spent more than a few miniutes of their lives in self-examination. Then we get to the kicker religious crap, "What money can't buy, Jesus Christ can give freely without charge. Is He your Lord and Saviour?"

Whoa, hold on a minute, slick. If you don't have, oh, let's say brains, and you buy books to try and improve your brain, you will fail. But Jesus Christ can make you smarter? Hungry? Sleepy? If I were a religious kind of guy, I'd find this kind of depressing. Gamer, who's very religious (wears a cross necklace, listens to gospel music in car), gets the heeby-jeebies from these nutbars too. I think it's the absolute unthinking unblinking certainty in something that by it's very nature cannot be proven to exist that gets to me. God is the greatest logical falicy there is, and I just can't understand why you would want to base your entire worldview on something so nebulous.

Harumph - every web browser I've tried using the past few days has been acting up, crashing at random and doing other unsavory things. Is it possible that there's something dirty in my U of A campus network connection?

Read The Cryptonomicon. It's a long story, but so well written that you won't notice. Also, I desire the weather to continue to become colder. I need the practice, you see, for a brief December sojurn back home to the Mountain State. Aisling and I have timed the trip to coincide with the release of The Return of the King so that we may share the experience with our Tolkien-fiend father. I can hardly wait to pack up and go somewhere.

There was indeed snow on the ground in certain parts of New York, which made our journey to Ithaca all the more entertaining. Good bagels, too.

For everyone attending a place of higher education, these last few weeks will be a close approximation to the waiting room for Hell. You know, intellectually, that the end is near, but there's so much shit to wade through in the meantime that you'd almost rather not exist at all. And someone here at the University of Anytown has made me their real and permanent enemy. This person is responsible for putting up Christmas decorations a week ago. Christmas decorations? What other clever, sick ways will they find to torture us?

My calculus teacher said today, in effect, "you need to teach yourselves this information." I almost laughed out loud.

Well, the DOOM is over with. Knowing that it is no longer mathematically possible for me to earn the required grade in Calculus is kind of disappointing (yes, I'm sure I did that poorly), and it also seems intolerably cruel. If someone fires a missile at my ship, I won't have ten minutes to work out my own intercept vector; a peice of simple software will have it done for me in a fraction of a second, another one will check it over, and a third will update it constantly so that my firing solution is always accurate.

But there's no point in me jabbering on about this horrid non-sense. There are reports that in certain areas of the North East there is actual Snow falling from the sky, as though that's what it was supposed to be doing all along. I can hardly wait for an accumulation...

The Time of DOOM approaches. This Calculus test will end me, and I'm starting to think that I should have just chucked caution and gone for Total Burnout, that weird energy that you only get when it's been a high number of hours since you last slept and you've lost all hope of recovering any sense of self. You begin, for instance, to italicise indiscriminantly, which is not good for anyone. But your mind is free to act in ways that are not possible when it's properly adjusted to the external social pressures we're accustomed to, which can be an important advantage when one is dealing with something as gnarly as resolving vectors into norms and calculating related rates.

Sucks.

Madness. This hideous form of mental torture known as Calculus threatens to end my career - all Midshipmen must pass Calc 1&2 with a C- or better, which I am well on my way to not doing. Every minute of my day from 0600 to 2300 is full of something terribly important, all leading up to this weekend when our Unit drill team traverses an untold number of miles to Cornell University in search of fame and glory. I'm probably experiencing the closest thing to stress that I ever do, and all I can do for now is consume this aluminum-wrapped energy beverage and hope it balances out the fact that I'm running on two hours of real sleep and might might get another six before I collapse into my pillow approximately 31 hours from this moment.

I must really be a deep-seated masochist, though, because this is fun as hell.

Also, I know that this won't matter in the long run, but I just want to point out that I in no way whatsoever support the RNC or our !President's "compassionate conservative agenda." I don't know where Google gets off making these sorts of connections.

Last night I did absolutely nothing, and it was everything I thought it could be. Seriously, one of my roommates told me this afternoon following our Navy/Marine Corps Birthday ceremony, "I have a hard time keeping track of what you're always running off to do." I laughed and said "yeah, I'm pretty... busy." He said, "Yeah, but at least your life is interesting."

It is. You know, with everything we put up with, everything we're asked to do and the standards we have to perform to, our lives as Midshipmen are very interesting. Quite a bit more so than your standard-fare college kid, I'd dare to say.

Today, oweing to the unseasonably warm weather, I convinced my Psych T.A. to hold our recitation out of doors on the grass in front of one of our Learning Buildings. Yellow leaves fell as we discussed Skinner and behaviourism, the sun shone into our eyes, and the only thing that could possibly have ruined it did; time progressed to the point where I was required to attend my work study, in the basement of some other building where I could not see this pure blue sky. Ah well, we are never in control of our circumstances.

"Soft Serve" is the perfect song for a beautiful day. Perfect.

A further example of modern idiocy: This afternoon, in one of our fine Learning Buildings, I approached the automated snack machines in search of sustinance. These machines take either quarters or our U. of A. ID cards. I lacked change, but I did have a one-dollar bill, and so I made the reasonable decision to utilise the change machine to obtain quarters. I insert my bill, and the machine spits out a Sacagawea dollar coin. (As a quick aside, I like the things and I think more people should use them, but now that they've not been minting them for a while, I fear that they will become too rare)

"Allright," I think to myself, "they placed this machine next to the snacks, so I must be able to use these to purchase said snacks."

Nothin' doin'. The snack machine rejected my dollar coin. It also rejected my ID card, which I learned later on that day still had over $140 on it.

Who the hell was responsible for this madness? Probably the same damn dirty soul who infected me with this head cold... arrrr.

"The story of what we've done in the postwar period is remarkable. It is a better and more important story than losing a couple of soldiers every day."

- U.S. Rep. George Nethercutt (R-WA)

Picked this off of MCM's blog (you may remember him as the dude responsible for The Bush Dyslexicon), and you can be sure that I'll be sending Mr. Nethercutt a letter at some point today. It will likely be scathing in nature. If I didn't have my own reasons for being in the Navy, I would seriously reconsider making this committment to such insane assholes as this man.

Seriously reconsider. Although, I would miss out on inspections, which in a sick way are actually kind of fun. Personal grooming and your uniform must be impeccable, and at any moment you may be asked a question like "What's your fifth general order?" and you have to respond "Sir, this midshipman's fifth general order is (insert GO5 here)!" They usually take place in our SDB's, too, and I don't at all mind looking that sharp.

According to the most recent Depressing Poll™ by CNN, no matter who the Dems field this coming election, Bush wins by 3 percentage points. How? I can't even begin to understand. It must be some form of intense self-hatred that's afflicted half this country. Seriously, we deserve better.

Onward to sleep, perchance to awake tomorrow without feeling crappy.

Well, Aisling is upset with me because I called her from a coffee shop using my CELL PHONE. This after she gave me an article about the rudeness of people who call other people from coffee shops using their cell phones. The thing that truly bugs me about other people using them is how loud they seem to think they need to be. I am mindful to carry on any cell phone conversation in a normal tone of voice, so that the disruption to others would be no greater than if I was talking to someone who was physically present. I also limit my time on air to about a minute, and it's never a social call. I need information, I get it, I thank the other end and hang up.

Lost in Translation is well done and sufficiently different from the mainstream that going to see it was a real pleasure. Bill Murray's ability to express complete, boundless sadness is worth every penny they paid him and more.

Everything in it's right place...

I really don't like paying bills. It requires effort that I rarely feel like expending, what with my sick PT schedule and academic responsibilities and the occasional need to sleep. Hm. Out of 512 physical megs of RAM, I have 36.3 remaining. There are 9 applications running including the finder. I have to work an overnighter tomorrow. I told my workstudy that I'd be coming in this evening, but I have to do laundry then go to drill team practice and finish up some calc homework and probably read a lot of my WWII book, too. And call my dad about a tuition payment that's already a week late (not his fault, mine). This morning at remedial PT all I could think about was the Cowboy Bebop episode "Speak Like a Child."

I guess that's about it. I'm floating down the river...

There's a large inter-unit competition coming up at Cornell University in November, and our Anytown unit is gearing up. MEC competitions, Drill Team, etc. It promises to be a good time for all, and this year the boys in charge are riding us to bring home a few trophies. Hu-rah!

Perhaps I should announce when I leave a room, because I've noticed lately that whenever I walk away from someone, they continue to converse with me when I'm not there. Is this rude on my part somehow? I am sort of quiet that way. But honestly, don't you think it'd be worth checking to see if the person you're addressing a comment to is still in a position to hear you? Hmph.

Saw the original "Texas Chainsaw Massacre" the other night with Tak. It was funny, in ways I didn't expect. I also won a DVD edition of the movie with - no lie - a Blooper/Outtake Reel. That combined with "Shaolin Soccer" shall make an excellent movie night.

I love it. Cigarette makers are sponsoring adverts that state in clear English "Cigarettes are addictive and will give you cancer. You are at high risk for death. Go to this website for more information on your hideous fate if you use our products." But to smokers, it doesn't make a damn bit of difference. Phillip Morris's bottom line won't be hurt in any way. It's the death instinct turned inward. Why don't people understand what they're doing to themselves and others? There are few bigger turn-offs than yellow teeth, bad breath and a hacking cough.

This is damned scary. How does this man O'Reilley still have a show?

This defective organ of mine might just earn me a medical discharge. A few short months into the service, and a minor case of a non-fatal disease could end it. But you know what? There's jack-all I can do to change this fact. BuMed will review my case, and determine if I should continue, and that will be that. No personal appeals, no procrastination, no nuttin' is going to make a bit of difference. So I'll sit here and watch the rain, and continue to live my life.

Ever get the feeling that you're in exactly the right place at the right time in your life? That's me, at Anytown University, right now. It's sort of indescribable, not in the amazing fantastic sense, but the mysterious mystery sense.

Things have certainly quieted down around the ROTC unit as well. 4th class might finally be said to have their feet under them, and while I might have dug myself a bit of a hole academically I feel that I'm in the Swing of Things like marching drills and squad responsibilities. We're actually getting to know each other, too, which makes things far less awkward. Now if only I could get that PT score up...

Today we watched a video that was really scary. It was put together by the crew of a VFA that was deployed to Operation Iraqi Freedom, available on DVD, and it showcased what the men and women of this Hornet squadron did day in and day out. Essentially, they flew planes and dropped bombs. Oh, and fired missiles. This bit was okay - what scared me was the soundtrack. I really wish I had some way to copy these songs into the blogsphere, because each one was like a handcrafted personal Fuck You to human decency and common sense. At certain points in this country song, which included a line that sounded something like "you hit us in the face, but now we can see out of our black eye, we're gonna lite you up like the 4th of July" they interspliced shots of the WTC being hit by jetliners. It sounds really shitty, but parts of it looked exactly like that al-Qaida recruiting video that we're so fond of mocking.

The cheesy war mongering music. Shots of your troops and future commanders in action, sticking it to the enemy. Exhortations from the fearless leader telling you your cause is just and "we will prevail." Flags waving in the background. It's all pretty goddamned insulting, not to mention sick at heart. That shit is not what America stands for, it's not what I stand for, and I'm putting everyone on notice that this is one officer that will not follow blindly along with the popular war mentality of the moment. America deserves more than that from the men and women who would serve her.

Our season of discontent begins. In any endeavour as challenging as training to become an officer in the USN, there will be those who fall out because it just isn't worth their time. 4th class began the year as one of, if not the biggest batch of recruits that our unit had ever seen, and there's been a slow trickle of kids who've left ever since. Many are expressing dissatisfaction with what they've been required to do thus far, still others are simply pissed that all these extra courses they're taking won't count for bubkiss when it comes to their degree. And who can blame them? This isn't a club or an intramural sport, it's a profession and there's a fuck-ton of responsibility that comes with it. You gots to crave responsibility as though you were some sort of zombie seeking the sweet blood-candy of deadlines and missions and authority and accountability and a host of other synonyms. There are times when I question my sanity, but in my darkest heart of hearts I know that I possess this quality, for good or ill.

Which means that I have to start digging myself out of this soul-sucking pit that Calculus has become. Some of the people in my class are doing all right, but a lot of us aren't, and the dividing line seems to be between those who have had calculus before and those who are new to it, as I am. I know that I can pull a C in that class, which will be just barely acceptable to the Navy, but the most frustrating thing about it is the idea that what's been up until now nothing more than an inconvinience (my aforementioned mathematical idiocy) is turning into a real handicap. Curse you, numbers!

Wonderful experience with the campus network this morning. I had to download a file of roughly 8.6 megs. Safari has this neat feature where it starts the installation process as soon as you've finished downloading, so long as the file is something like a dmg archive or install pkg. So I click on the link for the file, and the Safari download window pops up and says "Installing..."

Wait. It hadn't even downloaded the file yet! Or had it? Was it possible that this 8.6 meg package arrived on my desktop and executed itself between the time I let go of the mouse button and my very next breath? Doesn't that violate the laws of time and space in some universe-ending manner?

Wow. BTW, Ahh-nold looks to be the next Guv of CA. I suggested to my pals at workstudy the other day that we just plant a few hydrogen bombs along the San Andreas fault line and sink that rotten appendage to the nation. Next up is Florida, and to compensate I think we should grab Crete and the Grecian isles. We'd gain a permanent base in the Mediterranian, and all the olive oil our nation could ever need.

"What a bunch of worthless fuckwads."

Those were my exact words when, following an anouncement that the water cooler was broken and leaking copiously onto the floor next to a basket full of extension cords, everyone else in the room did nothing. Three other guys heard my numerous calls for help, but The Simpsons was on, and everyone knows that's far more important than anything. That's the first time in a long, long time that I've had any sort of outburst like that and meant it - most of the time I'm just a sarcastic bastard. I'm a little disappointed in everyone, including myself.

The writing bug has bitten, but I must spend it's energies upon a dirty Paper for my Freud class. This in itself would not be so painful if said paper were not due tomorrow, and I would feel a lot better about writing it up if I had an inkling of what my professor actually wanted. "Convince me that you're smart and that you've read and understand the material." Fantastic. No problem.

It's been a while since I went on a caffeine kicker, but that might just be necessary, despite the consequences it might have for my sleep schedule and not to mention the impact upon a certain malfunctioning internal organ. And now, I've wasted enough time stalling. Time for Work.

Anytown, like many towns, has a bus transportation system which purports to take people from a certain point, let us call it "A," to another place entirely, which we shall designate as "B." They use brutal diesel engines to accomplish this, which produce clouds of toxic gas and smoke that can fairly coat the unsuspecting. You can stand on the curb and watch as a thick brown soot issues from the exhaust pipe of one of these beasts. The wind blows it slightly away from you, and you can think "Phew, at least I'm not sucking that directly into my breathing organs." But it's a lie, and you know it. That cloud will do it's level best to kill you, although it is far too weak to cause permanent damage. It's reach extends far into the future.

The purchase of a mobile phone has greatly enhanced my availability, but if there's anyone out there who thinks I need to be more available for, I dunno, stuff, I'm not sure I know them. I like things to be portable; Pallas, my digital brain extension, my telecom gear, even my external speakers are battery powered and lightweight. Does this mean I'm afraid to put down roots for some reason? I'll have to ponder that one.