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archived goatee
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One of the urinals on the third floor of LCS is clogged. First, someone wrote on the top of the white porcelain "Do not use, drain is clogged." I stood before that urinal staring down at the blue handwriting a few times before retraining my autopilot to opt for its neighbor. A few days later, someone used clear packing tape to cover the front of the urinal, I suppose the blue text wasn't enough. A week later, I noticed someone laid a paper towel over the top strip of tape (like one of those stickers they put on glass walls and doors so people don't try to walk through them). I couldn't help but start laughing — hoping no one would come in to find me standing there giggling like a fool. Clearly someone did not disengage their autopilot before letting loose upon a cloaked deflector shield.
There's a lot of crap going down with respect to digital music and copyright. As usual, the industry (RIAA) is trying to thwart technology because they fear change. Or rather, they've played a useful market intermediary role, but that role is now threatened by better technologies. Instead of innovating they try to bolster their position by building into the technology the market inefficiencies they previously served, like region encoding in DVD. Actually, I'm going to try to go to the Signal or Noise? event over at Harvard tomorrow. Not that I'm interested in the policy debate all that much, (I've given up on it, simply: RIAA sucks), but I do want to see Chuck D, They Might Be Giants, and DJ Spooky.
In the meantime, my officemate from Japan and I continue to jam to his 5Gig collection of Japan Pop, including BriGri, Every Little Thing, and Utada.
I've been reading Woodcock's " Anarchism: A History of Libertarian Ideas and Movements." It is providing me with the a better historical background of the movement, but it's — rather dry or in Woodcock's own words, somewhat "unremuneratively arduous." Fortunately, I have The Radicalism Handbook by my side as an extensive and concise reference.
One of the difficulties in reading Woodcock is that I'm not terribly interested in biographical factoids; I do want to come away with knowledge, but more so with understanding. Unfortunately, those insights I do manage to obtain about folks like Bakunin frustrates me. I have little sympathy for socialistic utopias or violence, though my interest did heighten once Woodcock turned to Kropotkin and Tolstoy. However, when I look back upon the radicals of of the 18th and 19th century, I wonder about their naivete. Lauding the farmer for what he does not have is like congratulating a slave on meeting his Christian obligation of service. Granted, some (like Thoreau or Kropotkin) prefer the simple life, and I am sympathetic. But to assume that the poor farmer, when given the choice to live like a king would refuse to do so, is absurd. As is the idea that humans are not prone to selfish behavior, "From each according to their ability, to each according to their needs." Please! All such social systems are bound to failure if they do not structure themselves so as to thrive in a worst case scenario: greed. That's what competitive based capitalism is about, society (or some section thereof) does thrive in the face of a human vice. Unfortunately, what America has forgotten is that prospering in the face of that vice is not an end in and of itself. We should still strive and encourage selflessness and integrity; we should not applaud greed and consumerism. We can't predicate selflessness as an assumption of our society; we should make it our goal.
Sunday evening David and I rented "Instrument," a documentary about/by Fugazi. While watching the film two things reminded me of my anarchistic musings. First, Ian MacKaye was in Minor Threat and Black Flag, and of course the black flag is the flag of anarchism. The less trivial synchronicity was the interviews of kids outside of a Fugazi show. The "normals" had thoughtful things to say; the punks were inane. Again, there are no classes as objects, merely people who are privileged (and exercise autocratic power to keep it that way) and those who are not. There are no such things as a punk or normal, merely those that are the kind and thoughtful, and those who are mean and stupid.
A charge has been building up in my laundry basket. I'm not sure what it is (perhaps my sexy underwear) but when I reach down into it the hairs on my arm look like the fuzz of a mini-cactus. When I carry the basket up the steps, I can feel the buzz in my eyebrows. This weekend, my favorite shirt was sticking to me like the woman's skirt shown in commercials during daytime soap operas.
I took a typing break and ran across the street for some of those silly anti-static sheets and spray. I don't like the sheets (nor most detergents) because while they are supposed to smell "fresh," they make my nose hurt (as do perfumes). But I can't deal with my t-shirt hanging on me like a soggy rag any more. And the spray actually works! Like magic. I always wonder what modern day artifacts would I take back in time so as to impress the unlucky denizens of that period with my magical powers. This might be one of them.
This weekend I went into the 99¢ store in Central Square to look for striped stockings, instead I found myself startled by the store security guard.
"Dude, you're a pig now!?" Ben was a high school punk I knew from the pit. Many of the kids there are shallow and jerky, but Ben always struck me as good-at-heart, even if naive in a youthfully exuberant way. "Yea, well I graduated from high school and needed a job."
I responded, "That's good. Money is money and a job is a job." But I wondered how he could take that loud, peppy carribean music they play there constantly. I also wondered if he busted anyone yet. I asked Ben if I could take some photos and he struck some authoritarian poses while the boss-man behind the counter looked on incredulously.
Last time I thought about my age seriously was eight months ago, on my birthday. I wasn't very concerned with my age actually, just bitching about relationships. (It's amusing to note that more than half a year later, not much has changed.) I have no problem thinking of myself as 27, 30, 40 or 70 even. I've always seen myself as an old man. But yesterday I overheard someone speaking about a security program that would authenticate users based on the how fast they type in their password. I piped up, "I wrote a program that did that ... 8 years ago!" During the quick mental calculation I figured it felt like 4 years ago, but I realized this was back on a Commodore64, a long time ago. But it couldn't be longer than 8 years! But eight years couldn't be right. I used a Commodore in the 80s, in highschool! I wrote that little hack 12 years ago! That feels more bizarre than imagining myself as an old man. I find that this distance from my past is more alarming than the speed at which the unkown future is approaching.
Last night I had dinner with some "friends," the Harvard Atheist Discussion Group. Warren gave an interesting talk on population and fertility rates. The world's fertility rate is decreasing and the industrial world's rate is below replacement levels. I don't believe we are at risk of over-populating. In fact, the question is how will the decreasing population trend affect the economic and political structure of society? An interesting aside is the effect of a widely deployed male birth control pill. Population rates would plummet.
After dinner the group walks over to Chili's for dinner. Everyone is fairly well read and intelligent, a few are brilliant. It's one of the few times I get to let loose in philosophical and political discussions. It's like play, people appreciate what you say if it's informed, clever or witty, but they don't take it too seriously. However, I don't argue positions I don't agree with. One fellow's schtick is to be a mysoginistic, racist, social Darwinist — sort of in jest as a devil's advocate, but not quite. I actually felt embarrassed to be sitting at a table with him as the waitress would pass by. Also, I'm the only vegetarian. If it ever comes up, there's no hope. I've seen these people tear apart vegans for fun. I mentioned being a vegetarian and someone asked me if it's for health reasons, they could understand that, but not any ethical concern. Someone else followed with the typical alpha argument, "If I can kill it and eat it, then I'm the superior animal." I then hear the anecdote that every vegetarian loathes, how someone caught a hypocritical vegan eating a milk chocolate candy.
I don't hide the fact that I'm vegetarian trying to be as vegan as possible, but I don't proselytize either. The frustrating thing is that I feel I should! But it's depressing and I don't think it makes a difference. People are so set on merely bolstering their existing preferences and prejudices. However, I do appreciate when someone asks and takes interest in the issue. Even if they say, "I don't think I could do that, but I see your point." That makes me feel decent.
On a happier note, a friend who came to the U.S. after the Tiananmen Square Massacre recently passed her citizenship exam and is being sworn in on Valentine's day. As bitter as I can be about America, this gives me the warm and fuzzies.
Oh, also thanks to GoateeStyle for the four goatee ranking!
While I'm an atheist/agonistic, I still consider myself a person of faith — though I do carefully define and qualify the term. That aside, I even miss a few things from Catholic dogma. When I feel truly disgusted and sickened by acts of evil, I hope there is some place and time when these people get what they deserve. When I'm very upset, it's a retributive hell. At other times, I just hope they could see what they've done, understand, and repent. Of course, the problem with Christianity is that by some interpretations I'm going to hell myself! But I figure while we can't all agree on what is good or bad or how hot hell should be, many of us agree that wrongs should be righted, and the good rewarded.
The other thing I miss is prayer. Actually, I don't miss it, I have methods of faith, but I miss what it meant to talk about prayer. In claiming faith as a personal right and exercise, I've lost some of the context in which to publicly speak about difficult things. For instance, when wishing people well or giving consolation, "good luck" is inane and "I'm sorry" seems inadequate. "You are in my prayers" is expressive because it is clear the issue not lightly dismissed. Instead, the speaker will spend some time and positive thought on the issue, sometimes the only thing one can do, but important none-the-less.
When I became an atheist, my mom would frequently say, "I will go to church and pray for you." I deeply resented this. It was as if she was trying to colonize my sense of spiritual independence and integrity through some act of voodoo. Now when she says it, it's not quite as passive aggressive. If she tells me she'll pray for me, or do a Novena, I generally say thank you, I appreciate the thought.
It wasn't my intention to go out again, but I was bored and lonely and was playing dress up while messing with my hair. Once I was satisfied with the look, I couldn't let my outfit go to waste! However, walking about town as such is always a bit awkward; some meat head might hassle me. One of the benefits of having a girlfriend to walk with is that it lends an air of heterosexuality to my person even though I'm dressed oddly. While I rarely have trouble in Central Square, you never know. So on the walk I look straight ahead, ignore comments and avoid eye contact if I sense a stare.
However as I passed an Asian woman returning home with her grocery bags I noticed something about the way she looked at me. She wasn't staring at my exterior, but addressing my eyes and smiling. I think she might of even thought I looked funny, but it was such a friendly, personable smile, that even if she was laughing, it was with me not at me because ... I couldn't help but smile, and then laugh myself.
Somedays you just know its just better if everyone keeps their distance. Yesterday, my throat and head heart, and I felt as if I walked within an aura of charged vibes. Any contact, and zap! On days like that, it's best if I keep to myself, but — unfortunately for the innocents — I was on the loose.
In the evening I met a friend at Ras before going to Manray. I was zonked and moody over my smoothie and I couldn't decide whether to go to the club. In the end, I went, but upon arriving my friend said, "hey, say goodbye before you leave." I grudgingly respond, "Ok."
In the front room I said hello to Sue and mentioned I won't stay long, maybe just 15 minutes as I feel like crap. She says, "Oh, stay for 30 at least." I testily respond, "I'll stay as long as I like." Yikes Joe! Then Ann teasingly gives me shit for not saying bye to her the past couple of times. Something about "losing cool points."
I didn't stay long, and I didn't say bye to anyone. I looked, made an effort, but as I told Ann, if I waited around, trying to find people, wait for them to stop dancing or talking with others, I'd never leave. Furthermore, as I always stress, I am not there to be social. That isn't to say I'm always anti-social, I like the option of being friendly. I'm always happy to meet someone but I refuse all social expectations in that context. I usually go to be grouchy, crabby and dance the demons out. And when it ends, I want to walk home alone without having to worry about who I say goodbye to.
Unfortunately, my crabbiness didn't limit itself to the real world. Earlier I had sent an email to Raul based on his query on the snot-list of, "Who's going to the Ray tonight?" Seems like someone asks that every day and then there's 15 me-toos! I asked, what's the point? I can see trying to coordinate for a party, movie, or brunch, but Manray? Raul responded that who is there may affect his decision. It's a social thing for him and I could then clearly see the disconnect with myself. Interestingly, the fact that someone is going has rarely (close to never) motivated me. In fact, it's the presence of someone that is likely to put me off!
A Friday night, a few months ago, I left early and passed by the promoter standing by the door. He thanked me for coming and asked if I had a good time. "Yea." He took my arm, gave me an unexpected (and odd) kiss on my neck and asked, "No really, did you have a good time?" With exasperation I responded, "Look, sometimes I come, sometimes I don't." So I apologize for being crabby, it's not my intention to be mean, but I reserve the right to do do my own thing there.
I guess I need to find a new hat, as the one that conveniently masked my identity (and subsequent social expectations) now identifies me.
"Terror must be maintained or the Empire is doomed." - (Evil) Mr. Spock.
I always rant against black backgrounds, but this design is funky fun! Appropriate to the icy cold winter nights of New England — in which I always fall and break my ass. Of course, this design wasn't my intention, I had a different, more muted design. But when I did a ctrl-a to select all the content in the editor, this is what the inverse looked like. In fact, if I now select this document, I see the original colors!
What is it that makes the inverse so compelling? When I watched the Justice League as a kid I marvelled at bizarro world; it had land fills piled high with gold coins, silver chalices, and diamond necklaces! (Sort of like Richie Rich's bank vault.) Cool! But I thought, if a necklace was garbage, then who would bother to make it? Was it some by-product that came out of peoples' asses? Plus, we are shown trash trucks dumping this veritable treasure into the land fill, but what's the opposite of a trash truck? Isn't there a bizarro trash truck? And wouldn't Bizzaro Superman be a woman?
Then there's the role of the goatee in creating the inverse. Given I was "fascinated" with Mr. Spock, the evil Mr. Spock was even more compelling, because, what's the opposite of logical? Or is logic the cool and neutral axis around which other extremes swing?
As a kid I was forced to go to CCD. For those that weren't indoctrinated, this is catholic evening classes for children in public school. I only ever really liked one teacher, the one that tried to save us by scaring the shit out of us, "Let me tell you that during these teenage years Satan is watching you, and he's got you by the balls, and any opportunity you give him, he's gonna sqeeeeze." He'd look to the girls with raised eyebrows as if to say, "I'm sure you got the point." We had great fun reading stories about Ouija board possession and listening to Black Sabbath backwards. Hell, if I had had more teachers like that, I might've ended up a holey roller. And I still like to listen to things backwards, I even developed a knack for sounding as if I can talk backwards.
Opposites and inverses are exciting. I think it's because contrast is appealing, it allows us to say, "on one hand... but on the other" It allows us to neatly partition the world; this can addictive to an obsessive person like myself. But I've also realized that most of life's ambiguities don't have opposites or inverses. What's the inverse of going about your life with some moments of excitement but largely bored? What's the opposite of a relationship that never really jells but you still say hi when you bump into each other: love or hate?
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