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August 28, 2003

Sweet Anodyne Bliss!

O Joyous Color!
O Analeptic Light!

I come to you, humbled.
My Subfusc Soul
Dithered, withered. Whither?

Your firmament dun
but heavens chromatical.

Sweet Succor speaks to my thirst.
Beautiful fonts align to my needs.

Calumniating masses blather
Besmirching idiots living in ignorance
95% dun.

I fear I sully your grand displays
and remake them in my own blogful image.

Fantasizing reality with you, beyond me.
Your importunity is a blessing to all, save my wallet.

Save my wallet!

Images of loved ones, dear ones ,
friends and friends and friends
Must be seen on cubit-sized LCDs

Oops, did i close those windows afterwards?

Apple Store!
O Hoary Bane!
O Lenitive Light!

Lead me into Thy Graces.
Take my money, Please.

Amen.

August 26, 2003

Duel Summer

Since Soonae and Jong have been so good to me, such good friends for so long, it's nice to be able to do a significant (to them) favor in return. To that end, I am sitting at the Il Piccolo Cafe on Broadway in Burlingame, a town about 20 miles south of the City.

They needed to take their car to the Saab dealer down here for a service appointment, so I drove it down, dropped it off, and walked about a mile and a half up California Drive to this cafe, because I found out that it also had surfandsip.com, my regular cafe internet provider. Woo hoo! (Do you think I'm addicted to internet connectivity? naaah.)

My observational faculties are akin to a lint brush. Things that I see just stick to my memory. I don't know if it's exactly a photographic memory....maybe eidetic is a better word. Things fly at me in great detail, and the walk up here, past shops, apartment buildings, homes, an almost-precious downtown area, was no exception. I thought of a lot of things, largely contrasts to San Francisco. I may live in San Francisco, but it inhabits me.

Objects, smells, tastes often evoke memories, comparisons...a yard gate, the kelly green snakecoils of a garden hose, brown leaves fallen on a gravel driveway. Ancient garage doors. Dilapidated carriage house on top of those garages.

Lumbering beasts of large cars in driveways or better, those leviathan creatures sitting quiescent in a garage. The word B O N N E V I L L E in individual metal letters riveted to the rear left quarter panel of my aunt's 1965 Pontiac Convertible. Midnight blue. White top, white vinyl interior. The high-beams indicator was the silhouette of an indian (now “Native American”) brave in glowy blue. The chubby labored look of a whitewall tire pressed against the concrete slabs of my Uncle George & Aunt Ann's driveway next to their chocolate-brown ranch house in a subdivision of Piscataway, NJ.

Further back, to the selfsame Bonneville parked on the macadam in front of Nanny & Giggi's garage on Vaughn Street in Luzerne, PA. My great-grandfather still alive, but very old and unable to make the stairs to bed, so I always saw him sitting on the edge of the sofa in the middle room. A sofabed like they used to make sofabeds, where you ratcheted up the bench and the whole middle tilted back until it clicked, you returned the bench to its original position, and you had a flat surface approximately the size of a full mattress.

My very first memory, as i recall it now, is that old man hunched forward at the edge of that sofa, which always remained in its “bed” configuration. The man died in 1967, when I was three years old.

So. Having hit the absolute beginning of my vast storehouse of memory, I head back to the present, picking up speed along the way, like the flurry of clips in the title of the last WB episode of Buffy the Vampire Slayer (“The Gift”).

I'm back in the present, or more specifically, in the Now, just in time to be standing in front of HighwayOne Auto, where sits a white-on-white 1960 Cadillac Fleetwood. I laughed out loud. The lumbering leviathan had nothing to say.

Keep in mind, here, now, that I'm not talking here about memory associations, I'm talking more about a waking dream, where your conscious mind is drawn almost completely apart from what your senses report, an internal safari that is beyond reason, beyond rationality. An existence which does not exist.

I have no defense against such episodes, just as Adam Hoskins has no defense.

I'm not sure I want one.

Happy Birthday to Her

I wish to make a wish.

I wish a very Happy Birthday to one of my oldest, dearest companions in all the world, Marti Lawrence.

She and I have lost touch, almost completely over the past 8 years or so, and I find myself wishing also to replace the regret with action, starting now. Starting here.

I dreamt two nights ago that I answered my senior HS year homeroom class door (she and i graduated together, were class officers together), and Marti was standing there. I was not shocked in the least, even though even in my dream I knew it had been a very long time since I saw her in the flesh. She was not surprised, either. I was not alone, but I do not remember who was with me. I think it was someone from my present.

I smiled at her, and hugged her. I told her I was on my way out, though. That I could not stay and talk. I remember assuming I'd see her later in the day. She said, “Okay.” And then she reminded me that it was her birthday coming up soon.

Well, that day is today.

Marti has always been a strong person; strength in people like her, strength like that, is something to be reckoned with. If Marti said she'd get to the bottom of something, you better pray you're not the one at the bottom of that something.

I have always had strong women as friends. Always. I have never had a fag hag. I count all other configurations of gender and sexuality as friends, too, but it's the strong women...Soonae, Lisa Y-Z, Judy, Felicia, Jeanome , Lisa J., Lisa C., that I feel most companionable with.

I miss Marti. I miss her in ways that might require dozens of pages to describe, but in a way that you would instantly understand if you saw me with her.

She and I shared a love of Billy Joel, and there was no more beautiful a sight than looking over at her in my convertible, the wind blowing her blond hair about, and no more beautiful a sound than the happy joy we always managed to find and express.

There's magic in a wish. I do not wish lightly; I do not wish with frequency. But she deserves all the magic on her birthday. And every day.

Haikuesday!

Movies

Usta be bad sound
and bad seats without headrests
Usta be flat floors.

Now, Zow! Stadium
seats! And Dolby Digital!
Screens you fall into.

Imagination.
Less needed at Metreon.
Still magical, though.

Six-dollar sodas
And “Golden Flavored” popcorn
Goobers, anyone?

I LOVE the movies,
Gleeful escapes in the dark.
Sugar rush, woo hoo!

Scott and Crash share this
with me. We three need to go
to see a chick flick.

We'll laugh and we'll cry.
It'll become a part of us!
We'll even hug, brothers.

Imagination.
Still alive and well in film.
and in us as well.

August 23, 2003

Grease. Word.

  • • At the beginning of the film, John Travolta actually says, “No, it's just the beginning.”
  • • John Travolta is all about the hips. ALL about the hips. NO ONE moves like him.
  • • My first notion that I wasn't into girls was when I didn't have a reaction to ONJ with ratted hair.
  • • Apparently, “shit” and “tit” aren't permitted on broadcast TV, but “pussy wagon” is.
  • • Stockard Channing is !@#$# INSANE in rollers in Beauty School Dropout.
  • • I used to be Patti Simcox, but I got over it.
  • • I have lied about how much I liked Grease 2.
  • • I will probably go see Grease 3 when it comes out.
  • • I think every relationship should have a private funhouse and every home should have a Shake Shack.
  • • I have owned the soundtrack on 8-Track, Vinyl, CD. I now own the movie on DVD.
  • • Every time I see Frenchy, I just see Didi Conn singing You Light Up My Life.
  • • ONJ's hairdo in the last scene is just a curly version of her hairstyle at Thunder Road.
  • • I still get huffy when ONJ doesn't get to win the dance contest.
  • • Grease was the first movie I ever saw in the theater more than once. I saw it twice.
  • • Grease 2 was the second movie I ever saw in the theater more than once. I saw it five times.
  • • The second time I saw Grease was in the old Kingston theater, which had a stage, and during Sandy, John Travolta looks like he's actually ON the stage, sitting on the swing.
  • • The hotdog jumping into the open bun on the drive-in screen makes me feel funny-in-the-tummy.
  • • Nostagia is a weapon.

August 22, 2003

The Moon is in Ca-Ca

Firewire ports on my G4 Cube dead. Big TV dead. Clothes dryer near-dead. Got a flat tire on Vespa South of Market last night. Spent this morning pushing it 5 blocks to the scooter shop. On a good note, even though I had left it in a restricted zone, it was not towed nor was it ticketed. I did that with my mind. Swear to God (of Biscuits), I did. But just in case, praise Jesus.

August 21, 2003

Family Valued

I have written before about the nasty funnel of rage who is soon to be not anything-in-law to me. And my opinions on her behavior still hold. And I still cross all available appendages (don't snicker at me) in hopes that the clear culling of her from my family happens as soon as possible.

But I have yet to comment fully on the positive side of the experience, and the new angles of vision afforded to me by the legal, familial and now geographical separations.

My weekend in Seattle, at the NX4 gathering, was a lesson in positivity. 150 or so men who were all lovely to one another, friendly, warm, convivial; who said hello rather than looked away or down as they passed; who took chances on other people returning kindnesses; who, as a group prioritized good will above selfishness, meanness, coldness, insecurity.

And the thought struck me just yesterday that I've experienced this in abundance, all my life, from one set of people who have always been there for me, and in whom I have faith will always be there for me. As I will be for them: my family.

My mother once gave me a sweatshirt that said read “family is a group of people who love each other.” Simple as that.

As gay men, we take that to mean we have license to define family however we see fit. And we do. And this is a good thing.

But do we spend so much time in defining our own families by the friendships they contain?

I think of my father sometimes as a friend with whom I can talk about cars and movies and architecture with, whose encyclopedic knowledge of those things astounds me.

I think of my mother sometimes as a confidante for those things only someone who has known me for 39 years would understand.

I think of my older brother, the one whose life has been inverted, up-ended, imploded, exploded as a friend who challenges my opinions, for better or worse, but who I know will never let argument create distance.

And my younger brother, Sam. He was my first friend in the entire world. We have always been as close as twins, even though now he stands a good half-foot taller than I. We used to be able to wear the same clothes growing up. Once he knocked a front babytooth of mine out with a whiffle bat. We talk often, still, and in many ways he is the most regularly familiar one to me of anyone. We don't talk about the closeness too often, because it's a given.

With him and with all my family, the trust that we'll each “be there” for the others runs so deep that we take it for granted. That sounds like we don't appreciate what we have. On the contrary, the assumption, the trust, the faith of it is so comprehensive and so fundamental that to make it conscious would only cheapen it.

I have a large family here in San Francisco, comprised of good and talented and funny and lovely friends. That much is obvious to anyone who gets to know me.

But more people should know that I have a small circle of friends, mostly back in Pennsylvania, comprised of good and talented and funny and lovely family.

August 20, 2003

Blogs and OS X

I have been doing some investigating into blogging backends, and have spent a lot of time talking to GeekSlut about things (he's quite the insightful—and inciteful :)—smarty), I decided to just jump in with some stuff in the development of a Mac OS X blogging client.


I've gotten MT installed locally on my iBook—imagine an eensy, glossy-white laptop that just happens to have perl, apache and mysql available—and I just today figured out how to talk to MoveableType from Objective-C.


I know this is waaaay nerdy for most of you, but here's the gist of it: all you Mac folks out there who are blogging, especially the ones who have tried something like iBlog and “get” the Macintosh-y goodness of it, and especially the ones who are already using MoveableType on the server side of things, PLEASE EMAIL ME!


I would like to know what kinds of things you like and don't like about your current blogging pattern.


Keep in mind that this will be ONLY for Mac OS X, for Jaguar and later. No Windows thing planned, no OS 9 support. In fact, likely by the time this gets done, it will be Panther only.


Ostensibly I can generate mailing lists on my email host, and may end up doing that, but I'd SERIOUSLY love to get feedback (and eventual beta-testers, but that is quite a while in the future).


Mac bloggers unite!

August 16, 2003

Sublimity?

There is nothing quite so sublime, really, as knowing your emotional place in the world. Of knowng that you can have powerful attractions to one man but still always remember that there is The One who holds a monopoly on your emotional future.


You walk around, in a drunken stupor, on a horse ranch, in rural Washington State, and you notice that sex that is happening all around you, and there'a a man next to you—right next to you—who's so attractive to you that you beiieve for that moment that you're not attached, that he's not attached, and that the world is only about Right Now and the Universe Says So and That's That.


You find that real life, of the Accident feelings and urges and wonts cannot ever add up to the essential need to be with that other Essential Someone.


Easy sex, readily available on a singular weekend such as this, doesn't enter the picture plausibly, even when The One is a few hundred miles away.


And it's not about promises and it's not about commitment and it's not about expediency or sexual devotion, it's about where the heart decides that the body must obey.


It's about remaining a Gestalt, a whole where desire and devotion remain interdependent, where liking is driven to loving and the physical can do nothing but follow.


It's about totality. It's about synchronicity. It's about the singular compass-heading that leads you to the one you believe you simply belong with, you believe will join you in strengths instead of weaknesses.


The One who will make you whole when you are already whole, complete when you are already complete.


The One who will show you a better you and who, by fiat, helps you make the Universe make better sense.


It's about knowing you are significantly more With, and diminished Without, and appreciating that the difference is too great to ignore.


It's about knowing the rightness of your path and discovering you are unable to deviate from the path.


I know there's a word for this.

August 14, 2003

The Bluest Skies You've Ever Seen

In Seattle.

Name the singer. And the TV show. Dare ya. Nyah.

I'm off to Seattle, or at least near it, for a long camping weekend. Writing will continue, of course, but posting won't resume until likely Monday.

Cheers!

August 12, 2003

Haikuesday, a Memorial.

Gregory Hines.

Rare fluidity.
Discrete steps into motion
Stepping steps no more.

Flashy smile, warm though.
Body articulations
Humanity shown.

It's not in footfalls
Instead, in the in-betweens
Frictionless journeys

Rest well, Mister Hines.
Dance in all our forevers.
Glimpse the infinite.

August 11, 2003

Cluster-Blah

So this afternoon was crap. Not horrible, just a few things that added up to a big fat “well, HELL”.

The phonescreen for a job didn't happen because of scheduling problems on their end; then my big-ass TV died for the 3rd time in its 8 yrs; and I had a minor scuffle with my favorite.

Things are good with him and me, though. The TV ain't fixed, and probably won't be for a while...and I'm certain the phonescreen/interview will happen in short order.

Not the end of the world, or even the end of the street (I have no idea what that means), just, well, there it is. A big, fat “well, HELL” of an afternoon.

Logjam's clearing?

So, I have a phone interview today for a very good job. This after nearly a year of not even getting responses back for jobs—it's that sucky, job-market-wise, out here.

It's a good fit for the job, and I'm very good at making my intended impression on folks.

All the same, wish me luck!

August 08, 2003

No Reason to Reason

Critque is such a rational response. It's also kind of one-note, boring.

So, rather than harping on the Benighted One, I'd rather consider those things which are orthogonal to logic, those things which obliterate reason. Fear, panic, doubt, rage are all things which fit the bill, but they're pretty much one-note as well.

Consider Joy. Consider also memory, smell, tricks of light.

Last month, I went with Jerry to the Half Moon Bay Nursery, a great place for all sorts of amazing plants (amazing to me, some of the stuff that grows in the Bay Area, even after ten years here) and ideas for home and yard. I went along just for the ride, but ended up bringing home a large tomato plant, already potted in a large pot, already staked to a support cage. I could have done all these things myself, but it ended up being cheaper to buy it already-done. Go figure.

So the first thing I did, as you are supposed to do (it's Oral History as much as anything), I 'suckered' the plant on each existing shoot below its first fruit-bunch, those clusters of pretty yellow flowers so at odds with the jagged green shapes of the plant. I came into the house to wash my hands and caught the smell of the plant on my hands. It's a mustard-y tang and one that your first reaction to is to get away from. But I smelled it again, because I wasn't a 39 yr old San Franciscan in 2003 anymore, I was four years old, in Pennsylvania, with my great-grandmother in her garden. Morning air, ankle-bites of dew as I walked through the plants, an oblique sun throwing long shadows—I didn't understand at the time how my shadow could be longer than I was tall!—my great-grandmother in a cotton floral-print housedress carrying a metal bucket.

Great-grandmother, “Nanny” we all called her, taught me to make apple pies when I was three. After she died—when I was six—I was the only one who could teach my mother how to make them like Nanny did. I remember noticing whitish marks on my finger nails, asking Nanny what they were. “Flour”, she said laboredly, as she rolled out a piecrust across her kitchen table. The marks, I was to discover later, were just plain old scuff marks.

But to this day, like this morning, whenever I think about her, I look at my fingernails. And of the hundreds of times this has happened since the woman died in 1970, every time there has been at least one scuff mark that I could look at and think, “flour”. She exists, and she is with me.

Coal stoves, the coal chute and coal bin in her basement. Burning the “hairs” off of chicken parts over the gas flame of her “new” stove. Psyanki. Delft-blue of her china pattern. Big, rounded “ice-box” with an enormous lever-arm handle. The overripe, shriveled plum inside that fridge that prompted me to tell Nanny that it matched her shriveled skin.

She laughed and told everyone what I had said. Encouragement for candor? Can I thank her for my hallmark, trademark bluntness? I like to think so. I thank her for so much anyhow.

I often think of the three generations of ancestral women—Marie, my mother; Mary, her mother; and Tekla/Teresa, Mary's mother—as the Three Graces of my childhood and adolescence, examples of the beauty, charm and grace of being Alive within your own life.

Love exists because I have seen it, touched it, known it. More than five senses exist because love has illuminated those faculties and, in kind, those faculties make love that much more real when it happens.

Existence exists? Who cares. The things atop it are real enough. Intuition, anecdotes, outsized reactions to minutiae, the play of light and imagination. Creativity. JOY.

No reason any of that should exist, but it does. The pinnacle of human achievement is in the Irrational. I know this in my bones, but I can't prove it. Proof is a rational thing.

And logic is a pretty flower that smells bad.

:8)

August 07, 2003

Existence Exists

I would not have continued on with the objectivist argument had a good friend of mine, whose opinions I respect considerably, not challenged me on my opinions. I could go on all day about it, but it turns out I don't really have to. Objectivism is single-rooted, so all that is required is to challenge the validity of the one root—and objectivism's self-inconsistent relationship to that root—and the whole thing falls.

All double-quoted text is from Ms Rand herself, from a Playboy interview in 1964.

“It begins with the axiom that existence exists, which means that an objective reality exists independent of any perceiver or of the perceiver's emotions, feelings, wishes, hopes or fears. Objectivism holds that reason is man's only means of perceiving reality and his only guide to action. By reason, I mean the faculty which identifies and integrates the material provided by man's senses.”

She starts with an axiom? An axiom, in a proof, is something that you take to be true without question. The Rational Apologist is asking us to make a leap of faith. Irony?

She goes on to say that the only perception we have is the rational mind, but then admits we obtain information through our senses, not through our rational faculties. Which is it? If we are beholden to our senses, and in fact trapped by them, how can we know, one way or the other, if there exists an objective reality outside our senses? And if so, what worlds exist that our senses cannot detect? Does 'green' exist for the colorblind? Is infrared pretty?

Then, when asked about religion and its constructive value: “Qua religion, no -- in the sense of blind belief, belief unsupported by, or contrary to, the facts of reality and the conclusions of reason. Faith, as such, is extremely detrimental to human life: it is the negation of reason. But you must remember that religion is an early form of philosophy, that the first attempts to explain the universe, to give a coherent frame of reference to man's life and a code of moral values, were made by religion, before men graduated or developed enough to have philosophy. And, as philosophies, some religions have very valuable moral points. They may have a good influence or proper principles to inculcate, but in a very contradictory context and, on a very -- how should I say it? -- dangerous or malevolent base: on the ground of faith. ”

Ummm...her own axiom. Hello. But she says, quite absolutely, that she doesn't believe in God. Contradiction. In any closed system, axioms ARE god.

And,arguably, religions are LATER forms of philosophy, not earlier ones. I don't slight her on that one; the concept of memes and their propagational viabiility did not exist in 1964.

And finally:

“PLAYBOY: Can't Objectivism, then, be called a dogma?

RAND: No. A dogma is a set of beliefs accepted on faith; that is, without rational justification or against rational evidence. A dogma is a matter of blind faith. Objectivism is the exact opposite. Objectivism tells you that you must not accept any idea or conviction unless you can demonstrate its truth by means of reason. ”

Prove an axiom. Any axiom. And I will take it all back.

Promise.

My friend Vince, when I described Objectivism to him, showed him the Rand Playboy interview:

Vince: My problem with it is, that I actually prefer to think for myself, and prefer to take responsibility for myself Jeff: well, objectivism supposedly advocates being reponsible to the self. Vince: perhaps to the self, but doesn't sound like FOR the self.. there is a difference

Amen, Sister.

August 06, 2003

An Artist in Copehagen

A young family from Copehagen.

An artist doing sketches.

He’s from here, but lived everywhere. His father was Indian. He has a friend in Sweden he will visit later in the year.

He is sketching the couple’s young boy and offers him candy. He talks with the couple. The woman asks to see what he is drawing. He shows her. They talk, and the artist promises to come visit them when he travels to Europe.

The woman complains that the boy will not sit still long enough to be properly sketched and painted. The artist promises that he will draw the boy when they meet again in Copenhagen.

The family slowly approaches, one by one, as increasing familiarity somehow also increases curiosity, or at least diminishes the barriers.

The artist asks the boy his name. The boy does not understand English, may not understand any language yet. The father understands some English, but less than the young woman does.

His name is Julius, the father offers, Conqueror of the World. The artist laughs as the parents laugh, together.

The artist has managed in glimpses and starts to capture the face of the boy. He apologizes and insists it is just a quick sketch, even as he hands the sheet of paper to the family as a gift and a promise of their future meeting in Copehagen.

August 05, 2003

Haikuesday!

Andrew Sullivan, in his “I'm Camille Paglia, but without the testicles” style, wrote weakly and incorrectly about the bears.

My friend Matty & my friend Aaron got their picture on gay.com in an article about bears.

A few weeks ago I wrote about Lazybear 2003.


It's a very beary Tuesday!

“Woof, Grrrr,” go the bears.
Personal space not allowed!
Grope, Sniff, Paw, Grab, Grope.

Body Politics!
Don't need no stinkin' muscles.
Castro Clones passé.

We don't look like them.
You don't have to look like them.
Instead, look like us!

Facial hair aspired.
Gym memberships not required.
Flannel is desired.

Deodorants, no!
Natural is the way to go!
Don't shave it off, yo.

Say no to nair, Bear.
No razors below the neck,
and sparely above.

“You know, God's a bear,”
overheard at the Lone Star.
Can't make this stuff up.

Bears are quite jolly.
Bears are very welcoming.
Good thing I'm hairy.

Others could learn a
thing or two from the bear camp.
They're a lovely bunch.

The bears could also
learn some things from the others:
Smooth is not a sin.

Healthy can be good.
Morbid obesity bad.
All should be welcome.

Hug a bear today!
Read some from the Book of Woof.
Just be yourself, Grrrr.

August 04, 2003

Pulpitry of the Penis

Andrew Sullivan is a turd.

Sorry, was that too vulgar? Let me try again: Andrew Sullivan is a pedantic turd.

In a recent Salon.com piece, Andrew Sullivan discovers bears. He gets almost every point wrong, but that's beside the point here. It's all good; everyone should know as much as possible. Education is a good thing.

These are tough, tough times for Andrew. His conservative president “comes out” as a social engineer after all, taking the worst of conservative politics and the worst of the liberal excesses and combining them into one mean-spirited, greedy push to piss in the pool of general good will. The President thinks this kind of education is a good thing.

Then the Pope in Rome “comes out” against homosexuals. Comes out? Andrew is learning this just now. Again, education: a good thing.

What makes Andrew as insufferable as the old man in the dress, and the tedious good-old-boy-asskisser in Washington is the large effective radius of his voice. Thousands read his daily attempts to find for himself a comfortable, less chafing position as he rides roman through life on the twin horses of who he is (gayboy in bondage) and what he is (Catholic in bondage—please forgive the redundancy).

However, rather than finding a way to let one of the horses go, or just stop altogether so he can see where he is, where he has been, he spends most of his time trying to coax his readers and the rest of the world into line, so that he has to steer less, so that he hurts less, so that he can talk more, unimpeded, the good of the readership and the resultant configuration of the world be damned.

I don't think he does it intentionally. He seems to have to work very hard to be who he thinks he should be, a good catholic boy, a fiscally responsible man. A shepherd. I just think he has no mental bandwidth left over.

Andrew Sullivan, and the Old Man in the Dress, and Dubya, all suffer from the same trickle-down bullshit, a diarrhea of the ego that makes them cranky and makes them believe that, by simple extrapolation, what's good for them is good for everyone.

Andrew enjoys being a Catholic with all its attendant pageantry and theater, that much is certain. He enjoys it in the ways my Catholic mother warned me against, what our parish priest growing up warned us against: Pride. The individualistic pride that comes with being a member of the longest running revue in Western Civilization. We were taught that God is an Absolute and that in the face of that, humility must be maintained. Nothing is equal to—much less greater than—the Infinite, right? Education. Lessons. Good stuff. Good math, at least.

Well, the hunchback cannot see his own hump, as the old wisdom goes. The Pope and the Prez don't approve of Andrew's Hump.

Education is a mirror and a lens. As a lens, it focuses on the past, the present, the future, to show you your place in time, your place in the world. As a mirror, it shows you what you are, who you are and who you have the potential to become.

Andrew wants to educate and sophisticate us non-cognoscenti. The Pope wants to remind us of the Old Lessons: nothing new under the sun when your patent & copyright portfolio is as huge as the Church's. The Prez wants you to learn that his people are better than you and have earned their special status.

Look at Andrew's description of himself: fiscally conservative, socially progressive.

Social progress comes from unlearning all of those things we “learned” too quickly, too soon or under duress. Xenophobia. Voting with the stomach. Fear. Self-loathing. “Nice” equals “Good”.

It's a big syllabus, and even a much more modest education program would consume significant resources. All education efforts do. Always.

That's where Andrew hides his lie. His big, fat, almost-objectivist lie. He wants people educated to the script of his Play for Today, but he doesn't want those efforts to cost him. The hubris of objectivism and “I've got mine, you go get yours” weave through his words, choking off the truth of the matter.

Society emerges from us all, each and together and even when we're at odds. We make it all happen. Society is, by and large, a self-sustaining organism which has evolved its evolvability, but it is steerable. Civil rights. Women's rights. Emancipation. Miscegenation.

Mr. Sullivan wants us all to take our hands off the wheel, even as he guns the engine and tries to downshift.

And he's doing it all by remote control, of course. He's a smart fellow. Smart enough not to get in that car, anyway.

Ayn Rant

I just got an email from someone who liked my Sullivan entry, but found my references to Objectivism “interesting”.

He also sent me a link to a 1964 interview with Ayn Rand.

Mind you, when I wrote the last entry, I had only a cursory knowledge of—and distaste for—Objectivism. It always struck me as something mean-spirited and lonely.

Turns out, unfortunately, I was far more correct that I ever wanted to be.

She was one cold bitch, so much so that perhaps death provided a warming trend.

Her responses are full of inconsistencies, conveniently nebulous edges and outright contradictions.

I feel sorry for her; I wouldn't have wanted to be inside that head. She is a classic case of someone who has lost the knack for being a Generalist. She took that to an extreme, believing that the so-called internal consistency of the framework of Objectivism somehow proved its correctness.

The effective radius of her voice just makes all that kinda sorta evil.

Just my Rational Opinion. Can I go to Objectivist Nirvana now?

August 03, 2003

Fucking Up

As in, “when” did the fuckup happen?

If you're like most people (and in most ways, I am), your fuck ups tend to be those times when you were not thinking, or you were thinking but you weren't paying attention. Or you were thinking, but your heart was making more sense, at a better clip, than your head was.

Regardless, it's understandable that you fucked up. Others will try to soothe you or ameliorate the negative situation. That's what friends and the wholesale-decent people do.

But suddenly I have hit upon a different kind of fuck-up. No, no grand new discoveries here. What I mean is that I've noticed something about a certain class of fuck-ups that deserve/warrant/klaxon-sound their own category: when you know better.

I'm not talking about premeditation. I'll leave verbiage like that to lawyers and to others who are so in love with the Letter they have no respect for the Spirit.

No, I mean when you know you're in a bad situation, when you've “been here before” and yet you continue to fuck up. AFTER the big, initial fuckup, you continue fucking up. There's that moment of choice when, while it's easier to continue fucking up, you know better. You simply do. Apply your own criteria for right and wrong. It's not about preaching Good and Bad here. It's about not only sensing that internal nudge your truthsense is giving you, but LISTENING to it as well. And then setting out to change the external world appropriately.

I have felt like a total fuck up many times, in both the Beforetime and Aftertime.

But I only beat myself up when it happens in the aftertimes.

In the beforetimes, you fuck up because you take a chance, a risk. You put your heart out there. Or your reputation. Your career. Whatever. It's just a chance you take. Your heart gets broken and you feel like a fuckup. Your reputation—such as it is, in my case—gets dented. Your career ends up in the mailroom because you don't know How To Succeed in Business. Life is life and Fair sometimes isn't.

In the aftertimes, though, you're just a shrew, or a prick, or a timid little rodent.

In the aftertimes, you know the guy's a fuckhead, incapable of the things you need from him, and you continue. You abnegate, you rationalize, you learn silence, you learn sanctimoniousness, you do everything but the right thing because you're a fuckup because you want the wrong thing: to remain with him. Ohh, have I been there. I was a fuckup.

You tie your reputation and your personal-brand to your career, and you elevate yourself relative to others not because you're genuinely better, but but because you've dehumanized THEM, made THEM to feel or appear less, categorized them into a group because you don't want to give any one person anything to call you out on. You don't want challenge, because only peers can challenge and you've just set out to convince the world you have no equal. I did this just a few weeks ago with my experiences at Lazybear. Round 'em up into a group so you can categorically dismiss them. And I learned my lesson in the same weekend. I learned that a group of people is not a Group of People, necessarily. A haughty pose set me up above the rest, and I was a fuckup. To my credit, I hope I have gotten it across that I know I fucked up and set the external world aright for myself.

“Face the universe with good intentions and your efforts will be rewarded.” I heard that in the unlikeliest of places, on a sci-fi show (Babylon 5), by a former fuckup of a character, G'Kar.

Hello, my name is Jeff and I have been a fuckup. And so have you.

Pat yourself on the back if you're a fuckup in the beforetimes because you have been contributing positively to the universe and to yourself. And find a friend to kick your ass hard if you're a fuckup in the aftertimes, before it's too late.