CAPITALISM IS THE NEW JINGOISM.

"THERE'S NOTHING SADDER THAN AN EMPTY STORE SHELF" IS THE MOST PATRIOTIC STATEMENT MY FATHER'S EVER MADE.

Blurhggle Gurggle durggle mrgle.

Woo hoo sequential-art-pictures! Daily Gems from Wondermark, Bunnycomics.com, Penny Arcade, and xkcd. Enjoy.
Also re: the penny arcade comic, it turns out some people that are not necessarily his press secretary care about this. Further proof that Americans, or a sub set of Americans that are persistent enough to be named a constituency of the news media, have completely lost their shit. The president is supposed to represent you in an exclusively legislative capacity. It is not a big deal if he smokes, plays Playstation instead of Wii, (or vice versa) or uses a digital media device that one giant software company made to compete with another giant software company's extant digital media device. Stop reporting on this trivial stuff. Barack Obama is going to turn radioactive waste into lime jell-o and I don't want future historians to figure out that he was just a man.

I will say this Once.

There may be more than one way to skin a cat, but there is a single way to comb one out: The Exchange of Pain.

The Best in Communication:
Answering Machine Message: Hey baby, you want some sausage? Well that's too bad. The sausage is out and you're gonna hafta settle for the beep.

Out-of-context Text Message: So I'm screening my calls and if you want to talk to me or hang out you need to e-mail me before.

General Catch-All Question: (2 years running) What the Fuck?

Into the Black Hole: Homework until Eternity

I went to Octoberfest at Penn Brewery, which means German bands, dancing, yelling stories, and the coolest hang-over I've had since I turned twenty-one. I watched the tale end of the debate, not drinking water, and fell asleep on a sweet couch.
In the morning, there was puking.
Then the puking of water.
And now my clavicle hurts.

So I didn't get much done this weekend, which is fine.
Lots of coordinating and sorting things out. A couple Ideas of import.
I just have to read "The Woman Warrior" and a couple essays for Tuesday.
But my collected syllabi are totally not cool and we aren't talking anymore.

An 85% True Story

Still w/o power/powerless to regain power. This makes a week. I feel profligate and subsequently blonde. (I read meditations in an emergency.) I wish I had a camp and a bonfire. AEP has told me, kindly at first, that the black out takes priority for some reason. I don't understand. My problem existed before and is easily fixed, but they do not have a person to spare. I would love a steak. I read an article in an old Esquire that extolled the virtues of olive oil when sautéing vegetables and the evils of it when applied to the searing of flesh.
Yes, I would still like steak by any name. It is still savory and delicious when paired with potatoes and dark beer.
Yes, I read Esquire. Intermitently. I have selection criteria.
-"This way Out" tells a funny joke. Last time I bought one the joke was "How the top 1% lives." (Genius sex is like regular sex, but with footnotes.)
-WTF is on the cover. Last time it was Robert Downey Jr. (Appaerently he smokes cigarettes now. Camel "straights," which is hardass for Camel Non-Filter [he is in AA. It is okay.])
-WTF does Chuck Klosterman think? Last time he was puzzling out a question of international opinion. (There was also a... [small encapsulated thing that has nothing to do with the article but kind of does and also kind of looks like a chart] showing four covers to "Killing yourself to Live." The American cover was what you'd expect. The Italian cover was the same but had an introduction by someone else. In French, the essay is still called Killing Yourself to Live but the cover is like flash tattoo art with KISS skulls and a steaming car. The German cover is austere (black with bright text) and the title is "An 85% True Story." Awesome.)
-Will I be able to use this for reference in the future? Last issue contained the above mentioned searing and sautéing instructions, as well as some decent recipes. Also a rubric for evaluating the size of my (metaphorical) testicles.
My criterion are rarely fulfilled, but 3 out of 4 is good enough when the wallet is thick. (with paper or digital paper-proxies.)
So I bought an issue of Esquire yesterday because what else is there to do. This issue is the 75th Anniversary of Esquire.
√ This Way Out contains 75 years of retractions and corrections including a startling revelation that Frank Sinatra did not have a cold for [some interview he did with Esquire] but Chlamydia.
√ The cover is "75 years of Esquire" but offers 75 influential people of the 21st Century. (It's a very forward-thinking issue.) They also continue to promote an electronic ink edition of the cover. The "American Diaspora" article even interviews the fellow who helped invent it. (Esquire is apparently manned by turds.)
√ Chuck Klosterman writes a timeline for the next 75 years of history. (Robot vs. Animal war. Moon colonization by necessity. Simulated experiences of phone sex, death, and whole lives. McCain, Obama, a blogger named Digger True, and Tom Brady become president. Jamie Lynn Spears becomes Prime Minister of the West Coast. "It turns out that smoking is kind of good for you.")
-No good reference material. Several Fashion people write blurbs on the future of fashion beneath their piled up hand bags, trench coats, over coats, and button-downs.

Creative dinner experiences: I'm tired of eating out. I've cleaned my home out of Peanut Butter Cap'n Crunch, milk, (only threw out half of it) butter,(wasted) a pound of corned beef,(total loss) yogurt, sugar cookies, and pickles. I have 8 packages of S'Mores pop tarts and some Fiber One bars, as well as a package of kielbasa, beer, liquor, and maraschino cherries. Last night I bought a small package of lox, triscuits and cream cheese, which fuctioned as dinner and lunch, yesterday and today, respectively. I do not care for Salmolux lox. Tonight I will find a raccoon or other small mammal and grill it outside of AEP's office using fell branches and gasoline. It will be awesome and not rabid.
I have managed to finish my applicaton to TfA and a short story. Further proof that blackouts are awesome.

'Beauty is truth, truth beauty,'—that is all/Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.

In class exercise: 30 words or less. Define the word "Skeptic." Just your working, go-to, this-is-how-I-use-this-word definition of "skeptic." 5 minutes.
1
2
3
4

5.


Okay. Fingers away from keyboards. No one googled a definition? What'd you come up with?







I have "someone who is critical of a/some subject/subjects. A detective. A scientist."


Don't worry, my definition is wrong.


OED has four definitions. They're really long-winded but:
1. someone who, like pyrrho, doubts the possibility of real knowledge, and subsequent claims to such
2. A critic, either in a specific field or in general.
3. someone who doubts the possibility of knowledge in the supernatural, specifically Christian supernaturalism.
4.someone who has yet to reach a conclusion, but remains a seeker of, and believer in, truth.

Is it possible then, that skeptic means nothing? I mean, it seems like 4. is opposed to 1. Maybe it just means whatever we think it means.
And yet, Logic was made by 4's to prevent 1's from wasting away worrying about what would happen if they were found out for 3's. And yet, 4's depend on "skeptic" meaning 1. and not 2,3, or 4.

And that smells.

Why I Prefer Complete Creative Control

Why I Demand Complete Creative Control
(or Further Proof I have No Friends that are Men)

I brought my bed up from Pittsburgh today. I did it myself. Seriously. Threw a box-spring and a mattress on my back and moved them from Pittsburgh to Columbus.* I realize this entry is just text so you can take me on my word that I am totally flexing right now.

Maybe I wouldn't have to do this if I had a friend with external genitalia. It occurs to me that this isn't the kind of thing you ask of ambiguosly-gendered-friends-who-will-help-me-because-they-love-me, or man-friends-who-I-can-extort-help-out-of-through-extensive-use-of-the-word-"Should," but casual-acquaintances-who-will-accept-token-rewards.** Incidentally, that brings me nicely to my point. I like doing things by myself. I didn't ask for help moving my stuff because it makes me feel good.***

Even if I were in a rewarding business relationship,**** I'd probably demand some sort exclusive project.***** Maybe putting together a series of shorts would be neat. I don't think I can be trusted to stick to an outline/make an outline. I'd definitely end up telling a penciller/set designer/prop designer that "this is wrong, all wrong" several times. And then I'd get stabbed with a pencil/chisel/clay knife. And I don't think I could fault them for it. So I write, and write in genres that will never require working with other human beings, because it's better that wa-- because I demand complete creative control.

*I used my truck most of the way.
**Token rewards include beer and buttsex, in that particular order. I love the alphabet.
***Good- tough, accomplished, desirable, et cetera.
****I'm thinking of comic books, but I'm sure the production of any media would work fine here. I'd make a fine partner in a smallish business or something. Focus: Creative.
***** Totally not a metaphor for long-term, committed, blah, blah, blah, romantic relationships. Except the inevitable failure part. While I've only driven two women to point sharp objects at me, I'm positive my child-rearing skills are limited to vehicular assault.

Comfest.

Comfest is this week. I'll try and be there.

Roadblocks:
1. No more bike, must take bus or hoof it.
-will totally eat ribs to celebrate hoofing it.
-limited benefit to health in hoofing it.
-will probably end up shitting in a portajohn, or in some other awesome public place if I hoof it.
-taking the bus.
-sweating/ covering other people in my sweat/ exchange of sweat, w/o sex fluid exchange is a bit of a let down. maybe next year they'll have a bus and an orgy bus, which i will never, ever ride, but maybe they can use the proceeds from the orgy bus to turbocharge the AC on the mundane bus.

2. Comfest is the site where, two years ago, Sara began this tradition of changing posture, avoiding eye contact, or steering herself off in another direction altogether to stay away from geographies that'd necessitate a conversation with me.
It makes my heart race every time it happens.
In that two year lull since I've moved in with Brian and Bean, and now that I'm moving out, I've talked with Sara once. Bean and she were going to a show and there was conversation about her family, her new tattoo, et cetera. I was directly addressed.
"and now my sister's on MySpace," she said, "and you should see these pictures, Elliot. It's scary. I'm not ready for my sister to be a hussy."
Immediately after she left with Brian to meet some guy by the airport, it occured to me I should have said something like "fuck you, if you see me walking down the street you cross it so you don't have to talk to me, and I'm not going maintain this charade in the interest of our mutual friends," but I didn't. It also occurred to me that I could have said "gee, your mom must really hate the internet considering how its absorbed your brother and your sister." But I usually want to follow that up with some comment about hero worship.

Instead, I just said "uh huh" and acted like I wish interested in a video game or something on my laptop.
Admittedly, I became a little helpless at points. I was left in a house with two dogs and I didn't deal with it at all. I projected. Our roommate had a friend that was a kleptomaniac, and I subsequently didn't trust the rest of them. I projected that too. I didn't like her boyfriends, and suspected she'd been doing the same drugs as my dad when she didn't come home for days at a time. If Freudian psychology is detectable under some sort of special lamp, Sara would have been lit up like a pubescent boys bedspread.
I'll also admit that, after two years, I can see how things haven't cooled. In the midst of this moving thing, I've called Sara twice, bringing my attempts to contact her up to two in the course of a year. And then there was the "I need my W-2" call which ended up being delivered covertly when our old roommate didn't know where it was.
Maybe I'm just picking a scab.
That said, look at this: I sent her a text message asking if she knew what our old landlord's contact information. I never got a reply. And then when I left a voicemail asking if she still had a table I'd left behind, and I got a text message back:

Im not a storage facilityto
be used at your
convenience. Please quit
contacting me. It upsets
me. Thanks.

So I guess that's the end of that. When someone postures...hemm... when someone tells you that it makes them feel bad to hear you voice instead of just saying "no, i don't have your table, don't call me," you realize you've exhausted to possible emotional experiences from that person.

Maybe going to Comfest is a step/the first step in the long labor of moving on. I'll buy that. I could just bring that big brimmed hat I have and a grocery bag, because that hat can't get wet.

Who's playing tonight?