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.