photographicallyinclined
New photos... these are from my trip. =) Once again I've used Facebook to host them to save me grief.
Here's one:
Click here for more.
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New photos... these are from my trip. =) Once again I've used Facebook to host them to save me grief.
Here's one:
Click here for more.
Alright guys.
I've said plenty about electronic voting and it's ridiculous stupidity over and over again.
Here's a bit of fun for all:
Programmer testifies in 2004 to designing vote rigging software.
Oops. I forgot to mention that I'd be out of town.
Well I'm back from the Maritimes, and regular service will resume shortly. Right now, since I've driven a ridiculous amount this week, I just want to pass out.
This is a test. The blog is acting up on me.
So I just spent all my refund money.
Oh, I guess I never mentioned that. I got stuck on a bus for 7 hours without air conditioning or openable windows. Fucking Greyhound. I'm never riding that shit ever again.
Anyway.
A story.
She said she was closing.
It wasn't anything much, she was simply a waitress at a new bar. New faces, new people. And a bet almost transpired that night. Thank god I didn't take it.
LIke I said. It wasn't anything much. A new lounge we'd headed to after a friend disapproved of one of our favourite pubs.
That is to say that there was no patio, and no smoking of the devilsticks could be had.
So we went to a bar.
"Off the top of my head," she said, holding a sheet of paper that listed the scotches the bar carried. She being the brunette that so kindly served us drinks.
Off the top of her head, she said.
So I had to. How could I not? It was nothing I'm throughly accustomed to, I assure you, generous reader. I am not in the habit of being a total arse.
But hey. The night was young, the scotch was good, and I'd an earful of the craziest stories I'd ever heard.
And I was feeling good. I was spending refund money. So in a sense, free money.
Free money that was garnered from seven hours in a fourty degree hell, but nonetheless, free money.
Anyway, back to the lady in question. It wasn't that she was overly attractive. It wasn't that at all. It was just that, at the time, I was feeling lonely, and deprived of my favourite vice.
Deprived, and not altogether completely in my right mind. After all, I'd spent the day reading Tom Robbins. One believes in all the shit possible after such a read.
And she was there. Reading off a list of scotches in the worst pronounciations possible. Off a sheet. No, I correct myself... she was reading off a sheet that happened so to be her head. It was so ridiculous I had to do something. And that something, of course, was to make a swing and a miss.
What my friend could possibly be doing with a mind full of baseball aphorisms, I cannot guess. But it works. I struck out that night.
Dear god, let me never touch baseball aphrorisms with a ten-foot pole ever again. That is the domain of white folk. Of which I hearedly do not count myself among, despite what all the asians might say. I'm a man of the world, damn it. I belong to no culture.
It wasn't much of a travesty. After all, I'm drunk, morose, and in no mood for any ridiculous thing I might regret the next morning.
Yet, I am.
Maybe because I'm feeling old. Out of it.
Replaced by another pitcher from the dugout, so to speak. One that isn't entirely me. One that's not entirely who I was.
Perhaps it's because I just finished Tom Robbin's Fierce Invalids Home from Hot Climates... but I bloody feel old. A lecherous old man.
A professor whom I'm very fond of, actually, whom I might consider a lecherous old man, reminds me of myself in this state of being.
It's not entirely pleasant, as much as I admire the old coot.
There's something to be said for virginity, a little thing I've lost ages ago and repeatedly pummeled with my antics. Pummeled into a fine pulp, suitable for making virgin juice. Sans Stoli.
The sense of exploration, of innocence lost to the passions of love, of simple childhood is a faculty that I often miss.
Not so often as to cause any difficulty with my current appreciation for the passions of the flesh. The combat veritas, so to speak, of the bedchambers.
"Coito ergo sum!" said the wise man.
I have sex, therefore I am!
And why not? It's a defining characteristic of human beings to fuck whenever possible to forget their woes. Most animals have a mating season, a mating climate, a place in which to, simply speaking, fuck.
We, on the other hand, fuck anywhere. Everywhere. Anytime. In the dead of winter in a car. On the street. In a theatre. In a restaurant bathroom. On the kitchen counter. In a bed. Behind a bar.
It's wonderful to be human. And yet we deal with such social interactions such as the imbibing of alcohol to loosen one's faculties of tact. Of romance.
It rained yesterday. Perhaps it is just I, but there is something profoundly erotic about lightning and thunder. The power of the Gods, so to speak. Gods that, by the Hellenic tradition, fucked like rabbits, with immortal and mortal beings alike, and drank as much ambrosia daily as cognac imbibed by Churchill in a year.
The upside to ambrosia, perhaps, is that there is likely not to be a hangover.
Do animals, that is, the beings that are not human beings, find storms as erotic as I?
And do waitresses, that is, those that are too incapacitated in the faculties of the mind, find such primeval cues sensual? Or are they so far seperated from both intelligence and developed eroticism as to not understand such a beauty?
Or, if animals do find such events erotic, are they simply seperated from all reality?
I cannot conclude this tale with a quip of any sort that would make this truely profound. After all, I am not profound, merely a jackass who touts his intelligence as being the be all and end all of all things.
So I shant end with a quip, but simply an adieu, a farewell, to those of the world that appreciate pure eroticism, whether it be animal instinct or human development. I care not which, but as I regard it, the innocence of pure eroticism (itself being a paradox) which manifests itself even among children and their mindless games (of which, I am not ashamed to say, make for good bedmanners), as a treasure.
"A lover asked his beloved,
Do you love yourself more than you love me?
Beloved replied, I have died to myself and I live for you.
I've disappeared from myself and my attributes,
I am present only for you.
I've forgotten all my learnings,
but from knowing you I've become a scholar.
I've lost all my strength, but from your power I am able.
I love myself...I love you.
I love you...I love myself."