Plaidophile

Late at night, one of my cd towers fell over, spilling its contents over my living room floor. I started to gather them up but then I decided I'd rather go to bed.

Another post to the internal for-sale mailing list, received to much critical acclaim. (I really wish I'd preserved my original one from a year ago.)

Sent: Monday, May 08, 2006 11:02 AM
To: for-sale
Subject: The circle of boxes continues

Boxes to boxes, rust to rust. I'm finally unpacked from my last move, and so the black-market trade in used/abused moving boxes must continue. I have about 15 boxes, mostly small/medium size. Several of them have gotten quite beaten up from going through the rigors of for-sale multiple times. I'm tempted to just throw them all out, but then they look at me with their dewey eyes and say, "No! Surely we can be handed off on another Amazon employee yet again! We want to liiiiiiive!"

I feel so bad just throwing them out, especially since I also have some unused (albeit yellowed, and not very much) packing paper, also the result of a gradual process of attrition like the polishing of stones along a rocky beach.

Moving boxes have developed their own ecological niche, and so it would be cruel and inhumane to not keep their constructed biosphere alive, even if there's nothing inherently biological. It's more of an emergent property, really. Perhaps it is more like an economic model, or meta-life. In any case, its fate lies in your hands.

In any case, the boxes and paper and sense of godlike power can be picked up in Ballard.

Posted to the internal for-sale/i-need mailing lists.

will + not → won't
not + ever → never
will + not + ever → won'ever

should + not → shouldn't
(anything) + have → (anything)'ve
should + not + have → shouldn't've

I + would → I'd
would + have → would've
I + would + have → I'd've

he + is → he's
is + not → isn't
he + is + not → he'sn't

I was trying to find my way to Peter Jackson's gaming party somewhere in the middle of nowhere near El Paso, TX. Because the people I was with were being totally unhelpful, I decided to try to find my own way instead.

I was running through some random corn field when I met Cherry.

Told in the third person.

3/9 Some minor edits, and fixed some dialog where the original speaker told me the exact words he used.

(This would be a comic, but I don't feel like drawing lately. Meh.)

So, on the subway on the way to work, I was standing in front of a woman who had a duffel bag and a soft pet carrier. Between these two vessels she was juggling perhaps half a dozen young kittens, wiping their eyes of cruft and otherwise consoling them.

She put most of the kittens into the duffel bag, but left it open so they could peek out. One of the kittens, obviously her favorite, she kept in her jacket. She talked to this kitten all the way to Union Square.

One spring sprung,
The other undisturbed
One mammal sleeps well
The other lays perturbed

The mouse hangs around my kitchen,
wondering whether it's safe to eat the peanut butter
on the two loaded-and-wound traps.

I look over, see it sniffing,
whiskers quivering with anticipation.
I wince and look away,
bracing myself for the snap and crunch,
not wanting to see the dirty deed or its aftermath.
Like the spring I am tightly-wound.

My heart freezes for a short eternity.
There is only silence.
I look back over, and the mouse has not tried to eat.
It has won, for now; It will survive another minute.

But there he was, calling out to me, capturing my attention from the periphery.

I approached, and shifted my weight uncomfortably, unsure if I would be able to do it again after so long. I removed my shoes, and braced myself for unknown pain.

I began to feel the rhythm burning in my veins, and knew this was my only chance for a while. I accepted the man's offer, and got ready.

I took a deep breath.

Nigritude: blackness; the state of being black.

Ultramarine: A vivid or strong blue or purplish blue.

In various Discordian texts (such as the Principia Discordia and the Illuminati Trilogy series of novels), much is made about "fnords," words which are supposedly displayed constantly by agents of the Illuminati but have their existence denied, to the point that everyone supposedly both writes and reads the words without noticing it.

Of course, the Discordian texts are just humorous fiction, a parody of relgion intended to keep people guessing, based on just enough shreds of truth to make people feel uncertain and, hopefully, to question the information they're fed.

However, although it's not quite the same, there are still fnords all around us, little snippets of information where we've been drilled into not knowing them, when really those bits of information never existed to begin with.

Those of you who are struggling to find that unintended thematic content in a work of literature will probably appreciate this thing I wrote quite some time ago for Everything2, rescued from the bowels of archive.org:

Super Mario Brothers: A Literary Criticism

So do you save the world and get the girl
at the end of every day?
Are firefights and men in tights
all the games you play?

If life were like a movie,
would you be the hero guy,
or would you be the villain?
If so, you're gonna die.

Men are from Mars,
And women from Venus
Even the ones who were
Born with a penis