I'm currently working on a number of projects, literary and bloggerary, so I have nothing to contribute tonight. In lieu of real content, here is a fantastic video by a new band this blog heartily endorses, the1921a, whose debut album ('21a) can be purchased through the sidebar (Working Performers of America; follow the store link). Enjoy, and if you like what you hear, please support this group.
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Saturday, May 31, 2008
Friday, May 30, 2008
Louis' Tips On Etiquette
Aging baptists will not see the humor in your demands that they call you "Love Messiah", and are even less amused by your threats to demonstrate your powers.
Thursday, May 29, 2008
Die, Horsie, Die!
So, I'm writing you now from my new MacBook laptop, which is as awesome as a blowjob with the balls cupped, with the balls cupped, dammit! (Sometimes you have to remind people.) Of course, it's most likely already fubar after frantically downloading several dubious applications in order to rip my iPod onto this thing, but c'est la vie.
Anyway, my reason for writing this is that something actually happened to me worth writing about. It all started when I was driving home from my grandparent's house (the generous source of my new puter), and I accidentally cut off some dicksack in a fire engine red Ford Mustang (the new Mustang, mind you, not the kind I'd actually feel bad about cutting off). This cum guzzler decides that, instead of merely allowing my transgression to pass by unanswered, he'd tailgate the living shite out of me and hurl insults into my rearview mirror. Noticing this had little effect on a superior being such as myself, the lesser ape decided to, as they say, take it up a notch. He revved his engine into the five or six thousands and ripped up to my side, arms flailing, mouth foaming, and spewing a general air of psychotic danger my way. He then, in what might be the quintessence of road rage, began rocking violently back and forth between his lane and the inside of mine, threatening to run me off the road. What is one to do in this situation? Look for divine providence, that is what.
Ahead of us in his lane was a massive pick up truck moving considerably slower than the two of us, and I saw my opportunity. I sped up to ninety, and slammed at my brakes when I got along side him. Boxing the monkey in the Mustang out, I prepared my ammunition. I had three chances: a can of Coke, and some kielbasa and potato salad from my Grandmother. He played into my hand and moved to my rear, nearly touching my bumper with his and continuing to flail and scream in pitiful anger. First the Coke. I hurl it over my shoulder and it glances off his hood. Seeing that that did no damage (except to his paint job) I decided to throw the tinfoil full of kielbasa next. Right off the windshield, but to no avail. And then glory. I opened the Cool Whip container full of greasy potato salad and sent it his way. BULLSEYE! The salad splattered all over the windshield right in front of his face, and he swerved into the breakdown lane. He may have went off the road, but fuck if I care. I gunned it again and got as much distance between me and the rabid baboon as possible.
And the moral of the story? Well, there are two. One: people in late model Mustangs are most likely douchebags, so be vigilant around them. Two: kielbasa is not an effective projectile, but is very tasty, so don't throw it; eat it.
-Barnes
Hero for the day.
Fun fact: Did you know that Tim Roth (Sir-Bleeds-A-Lot in Reservoir Dogs) named his children Hunter and Cormac, after his favorite authors?
Words of wisdom.
"Mmm. Very pretty."
-Igor Stravinsky, upon hearing one of his pieces.
This quote comes courtesy of my new music theory teacher, whose father apparently knew Stravinsky. Imagining that quote in a thick, possibly senile Russian accent makes it all the funnier.
-Igor Stravinsky, upon hearing one of his pieces.
This quote comes courtesy of my new music theory teacher, whose father apparently knew Stravinsky. Imagining that quote in a thick, possibly senile Russian accent makes it all the funnier.
Tuesday, May 27, 2008
The virtues of the Populist: A Restatement
Some time ago, I posted a brief defense of socializing with the masses that generated a small amount of controversy among people who are opposed to such things. I'd like to clarify my views on the solitary life, to put a stop to any misconceptions that might be floating around these mighty internets.
I spend most of my free time alone. I specify "free time" because I must work to support myself, and, though I am on a hiatus, I am a student. Time spent at work and at school is time necessarily spent with people. When I am free of such things, I am most often to be found studying, reading, writing, and of late, translating. I have filled dozens of journals with solitary musings; I read rabidly, and though school has forced my output to dwindle, I write short fiction regularly. My time alone is some of my most valued, especially given its unfortunate infrequency.
The amount of time I actually spend with people is by far the less. On Saturdays, I usually see Barnes and Louis. Sundays are spent with assorted friends at restaurants and coffee shops. Once and a while, I'll get together with some people during the week, but other than weekends, I enjoy my time alone.
The fundamental difference between the renowned cave-dweller and me is that I enjoy solitude for what it offers, not for what it can shield me from. I am not a misanthrope. I have always enjoyed a general and abiding love for humanity, even if I dislike several of her constituents. Most people are fine by me, and when I emerge from my solitude I enjoy spending time with them. Solitude wrought from hatred is hardly the Thoreauvian ideal. The Man himself enjoyed the company of the simple woodcutter and the passers-by through his woods. Of course, referencing great men proves not a thing; but the point ought to be made that when one values solitude because one hates humanity, the actual merits of being alone are smothered.
It should also be noted that humanity is what makes solitude possible for most of us in the first place. Without the innumerable benefits conferred upon us by existing in a functional society, we would not have the books to read or the pens with which to write or the food to sustain us while doing both. Thoreau built his home with supplies from town, and sold his beans for a profit there. Without extraordinary effort that would likely detract from hating the world, effort that would include cultivating the land, building a home, and dozens of daily chores; without that sort of effort, solitude would be impossible if it were not for the hated many. The paradox of hating those who feed you would be funny if it weren't just sort of sad.
Have your solitude, gentle reader, and enjoy it. Be warned, though: excessive solitude has been known to cause misanthropy, a bloated sense of self-worth, and the delusion that feuds with your computer screen are meaningful.
I spend most of my free time alone. I specify "free time" because I must work to support myself, and, though I am on a hiatus, I am a student. Time spent at work and at school is time necessarily spent with people. When I am free of such things, I am most often to be found studying, reading, writing, and of late, translating. I have filled dozens of journals with solitary musings; I read rabidly, and though school has forced my output to dwindle, I write short fiction regularly. My time alone is some of my most valued, especially given its unfortunate infrequency.
The amount of time I actually spend with people is by far the less. On Saturdays, I usually see Barnes and Louis. Sundays are spent with assorted friends at restaurants and coffee shops. Once and a while, I'll get together with some people during the week, but other than weekends, I enjoy my time alone.
The fundamental difference between the renowned cave-dweller and me is that I enjoy solitude for what it offers, not for what it can shield me from. I am not a misanthrope. I have always enjoyed a general and abiding love for humanity, even if I dislike several of her constituents. Most people are fine by me, and when I emerge from my solitude I enjoy spending time with them. Solitude wrought from hatred is hardly the Thoreauvian ideal. The Man himself enjoyed the company of the simple woodcutter and the passers-by through his woods. Of course, referencing great men proves not a thing; but the point ought to be made that when one values solitude because one hates humanity, the actual merits of being alone are smothered.
It should also be noted that humanity is what makes solitude possible for most of us in the first place. Without the innumerable benefits conferred upon us by existing in a functional society, we would not have the books to read or the pens with which to write or the food to sustain us while doing both. Thoreau built his home with supplies from town, and sold his beans for a profit there. Without extraordinary effort that would likely detract from hating the world, effort that would include cultivating the land, building a home, and dozens of daily chores; without that sort of effort, solitude would be impossible if it were not for the hated many. The paradox of hating those who feed you would be funny if it weren't just sort of sad.
Have your solitude, gentle reader, and enjoy it. Be warned, though: excessive solitude has been known to cause misanthropy, a bloated sense of self-worth, and the delusion that feuds with your computer screen are meaningful.
Monday, May 26, 2008
In loving memory of good PSAs at the theatre.
I don't know if my local theatre is the only one to do this, but before every movie an animated sequence of frogs singing to the tune of "Heard It Through the Grapevine" comes on, telling us the usual about cell phones and smoking. It was cute at first, but now it makes me want to eat glass.
So, to alleviate the pain, here are two brilliant PSAs that came and went, forgotten by most.
Popout
Popout
So, to alleviate the pain, here are two brilliant PSAs that came and went, forgotten by most.
Popout
Popout
Friday, May 23, 2008
A lunatic we most certainly do not endorse.
In the past, we have officially endorsed a man who has sued everyone, a man who believed that doing hard drugs and driving fast might help cure AIDS, and, twice, Gary Busey, for reasons that need not be explained.
But this. This, even we won't endorse. A man named Edward Smith has admitted to copulating with 1,000 cars. His current girlfriend, Vanilla, is a white Volkswagon Beetle, though he still occasionally makes time to plow "a 1973 Opal GT, named Cinnamon, and 1993 Ford Ranger Splash, named Ginger."
But fear not: he is not, he says, sick. "I'm a romantic. I write poetry about cars, I sing to them and talk to them just like a girlfriend. I know what's in my heart and I have no desire to change."
The Monkeys actively support the fucking of strange orifices; we acknowledge that people are attracted to different things. Barnes likes women. I like men. Louie is questionable, but he is probably attracted to women, though there is considerable evidence to the contrary. So we accept that one may like cars. Hell, in my own way, I consider abusing a tailpipe to be the highest of callings. (Ha, ha.) (Get it?) (It's okay if you don't.) But beating the bishop to a Herbie movie is just not an acceptable way to pass the time.
But this. This, even we won't endorse. A man named Edward Smith has admitted to copulating with 1,000 cars. His current girlfriend, Vanilla, is a white Volkswagon Beetle, though he still occasionally makes time to plow "a 1973 Opal GT, named Cinnamon, and 1993 Ford Ranger Splash, named Ginger."
But fear not: he is not, he says, sick. "I'm a romantic. I write poetry about cars, I sing to them and talk to them just like a girlfriend. I know what's in my heart and I have no desire to change."
The Monkeys actively support the fucking of strange orifices; we acknowledge that people are attracted to different things. Barnes likes women. I like men. Louie is questionable, but he is probably attracted to women, though there is considerable evidence to the contrary. So we accept that one may like cars. Hell, in my own way, I consider abusing a tailpipe to be the highest of callings. (Ha, ha.) (Get it?) (It's okay if you don't.) But beating the bishop to a Herbie movie is just not an acceptable way to pass the time.
Thursday, May 22, 2008
The root of the thing.
Today I read about a New York club called The Moth. The Moth is a New York club that hosts storytelling sessions, something rarely heard today. Just the word storytelling immediately brought back a slew of memories to me, and made me realize just why I became a writer.
When I was young, a professional storyteller came to my school. He told quaint, childish tales involving goblins, giants, and fights over cauldrons of mead. He was clearly a master of the art, because he held my entire class spellbound as he spoke of things our tiny minds couldn't possibly comprehend. It was his inflections, his put-on voices, his gestures and exaggerated expressions that told the story. He was the embodiment of the root of all storytelling, a hybrid of actor and author.
After that, me and a classmate began to tell stories of our own. We weren't ready to spin our own tales just yet though, so we tried something new. We had read all the old "choose your own adventure" books ("Turn to page 153 if you run from the werewolf") and decided to create our own interactive adventure. We spun loose tales and scenarios, then allowed the other to guide the story. We were forced to improvise as we went, writing the story together as we went on. One would describe the scene, the actors, the conflict, and the other would decide what to do.
That, right there, was the start of my fascination with storytelling. I'm tempted to bring such a thing back, though maybe not in that form. The art of storytelling seems to have been lost, and I'm surprised it hasn't been mourned much.
When I was young, a professional storyteller came to my school. He told quaint, childish tales involving goblins, giants, and fights over cauldrons of mead. He was clearly a master of the art, because he held my entire class spellbound as he spoke of things our tiny minds couldn't possibly comprehend. It was his inflections, his put-on voices, his gestures and exaggerated expressions that told the story. He was the embodiment of the root of all storytelling, a hybrid of actor and author.
After that, me and a classmate began to tell stories of our own. We weren't ready to spin our own tales just yet though, so we tried something new. We had read all the old "choose your own adventure" books ("Turn to page 153 if you run from the werewolf") and decided to create our own interactive adventure. We spun loose tales and scenarios, then allowed the other to guide the story. We were forced to improvise as we went, writing the story together as we went on. One would describe the scene, the actors, the conflict, and the other would decide what to do.
That, right there, was the start of my fascination with storytelling. I'm tempted to bring such a thing back, though maybe not in that form. The art of storytelling seems to have been lost, and I'm surprised it hasn't been mourned much.
Wednesday, May 21, 2008
Goin' Out West
As I walked by the stingray sheriff, a cigarette fairy handed me a smoke.
In any other context, that sentence would be a sure sign of mental illness. At St. John's college in New Mexico, however, it is merely an accurate account of an average day. I've always been hesitant to write accounts of my daily activities, for fear of this blog becoming little more than an online journal. I left that sort of writing to Cam, and after visiting the smoky bastard I can see why he would want to.
St. John's college has been described by Cam already, so I'll spare you any talk of its curriculum or campus. What I will tell you about is Reality, a three day festival of psychotic bacchanalia that I can only hope awaits me in the afterlife.
The plane ride down was, as expected, long and dull. I noticed that the closer one travels to the midwest the more the landscape seems governed by cubism, as opposed to the northeast's impressionist sensibilities. I was shocked upon landing in Denver to find that the city itself didn't seem to exist, and that the airport was surrounded on all sides by empty farmland. The flat, artificially cultivated landscape has a strange effect on a man, crushing all spirits and giving one the impression of isolation.
Arriving in New Mexico, however, the landscape changed from dull to awe-inspiring. A vast stretch of desert lay outside the airport, terminating in a horizon made of soaring snow-topped mountains. An ominous rift of clouds hung over the peaks, something I learned was normal for the region.
After a short ride in a shuttle bus, sitting next to some sort of robed holy man, I arrived at the campus. Cam was waiting for me, visibly twitching in anticipation of the cigarettes I surely had brought with me. A quick tour of the campus commenced, followed by some illicit purchases and a blurred sort of night.
The next morning the fairies appeared. Fairies were students wearing fairy wings who wandered here and there dispensing cigarettes and other illicit substances to any who asked, free of charge. Already, it seemed, glorious things were afoot. I was introduced to Jake Faulkner, who Cam mentioned in a previous post. Jake, despite hailing from Los Angeles, had sculpted himself into a relic of times long gone, an artificial southern blues man with an affected drawl and a pompadour. He was the man in charge of the music for the festival, which I cannot praise enough in writing. Instead, I'll simply direct you to the music itself, which was the rhythm the festival followed.
Patrick Ferris, a man I passed a flask of bourbon and immediately became good friends with. He was the most personable of the bands playing, and was frequently seen wandering late at night with a six string in his arms, serenading the assorted students who were already to stoned to appreciate the thing.
Matt Taylor and His Laurels, a troupe who performed a series of heartbreaking folk anthems and assorted Americana. The audience seemed disappointed that the music wasn't rhythmic enough to bounce around to, and harassed the poor fuckers on stage. The band seemed to be in a foul mood for the rest of the festival, and did some serious damage to my flask whenever it was passed their way.
The 1921a, a pounding band whose genre I really can't put into words just now. They clearly took a lot of influences from Tom Waits, something that wasn't all that surprising once I learned that Jake produced their records. It was during their set when the bourbon hung heavy in my gut and the amphetamines began to tighten my veins and blur my vision, then I realized the gravity of what was going on.
For the first time in a while, I was really and truly surrendering myself to a good time. Sure, I've been known to have a drink with Cam and Barnes on a regular basis, but it can't be said that a drink constitutes complete revelry. Down there in New Mexico, I completely obliterated myself and surrendered myself to the spirit of the thing. The fact that I did so without a sex drive is notable as well, since most of my fondest memories generally feature my cock in a prominent role. I remember standing in a bathroom as the music pulsed outside, prodding the organ with a sense of grim surrender. The amount of chemicals in my bloodstream had rendered me almost a eunuch, and yet I felt more alive than ever.
The party went on, coming to a sort of apex when the campus's resident occultist decided that I was the physical avatar of Dionysus. He seemed disappointed when I never got around to participating in a traditional invocation of the god, but I had heard of his fondness for sex magic and thought it best to keep a safe distance.
The weekend ended and I slumped back on the shuttle. Even during the maddeningly long flight home, slipping in and out of sleep and rubbing my forehead, it was clear that something glorious had happened.
Oh, and before I finish, the stingray sheriff was just that. Someone had made a giant stingray from assorted bits of plaster and paper and painted a sheriff's badge on it, for no good goddamn reason at all.
In any other context, that sentence would be a sure sign of mental illness. At St. John's college in New Mexico, however, it is merely an accurate account of an average day. I've always been hesitant to write accounts of my daily activities, for fear of this blog becoming little more than an online journal. I left that sort of writing to Cam, and after visiting the smoky bastard I can see why he would want to.
St. John's college has been described by Cam already, so I'll spare you any talk of its curriculum or campus. What I will tell you about is Reality, a three day festival of psychotic bacchanalia that I can only hope awaits me in the afterlife.
The plane ride down was, as expected, long and dull. I noticed that the closer one travels to the midwest the more the landscape seems governed by cubism, as opposed to the northeast's impressionist sensibilities. I was shocked upon landing in Denver to find that the city itself didn't seem to exist, and that the airport was surrounded on all sides by empty farmland. The flat, artificially cultivated landscape has a strange effect on a man, crushing all spirits and giving one the impression of isolation.
Arriving in New Mexico, however, the landscape changed from dull to awe-inspiring. A vast stretch of desert lay outside the airport, terminating in a horizon made of soaring snow-topped mountains. An ominous rift of clouds hung over the peaks, something I learned was normal for the region.
After a short ride in a shuttle bus, sitting next to some sort of robed holy man, I arrived at the campus. Cam was waiting for me, visibly twitching in anticipation of the cigarettes I surely had brought with me. A quick tour of the campus commenced, followed by some illicit purchases and a blurred sort of night.
The next morning the fairies appeared. Fairies were students wearing fairy wings who wandered here and there dispensing cigarettes and other illicit substances to any who asked, free of charge. Already, it seemed, glorious things were afoot. I was introduced to Jake Faulkner, who Cam mentioned in a previous post. Jake, despite hailing from Los Angeles, had sculpted himself into a relic of times long gone, an artificial southern blues man with an affected drawl and a pompadour. He was the man in charge of the music for the festival, which I cannot praise enough in writing. Instead, I'll simply direct you to the music itself, which was the rhythm the festival followed.
Patrick Ferris, a man I passed a flask of bourbon and immediately became good friends with. He was the most personable of the bands playing, and was frequently seen wandering late at night with a six string in his arms, serenading the assorted students who were already to stoned to appreciate the thing.
Matt Taylor and His Laurels, a troupe who performed a series of heartbreaking folk anthems and assorted Americana. The audience seemed disappointed that the music wasn't rhythmic enough to bounce around to, and harassed the poor fuckers on stage. The band seemed to be in a foul mood for the rest of the festival, and did some serious damage to my flask whenever it was passed their way.
The 1921a, a pounding band whose genre I really can't put into words just now. They clearly took a lot of influences from Tom Waits, something that wasn't all that surprising once I learned that Jake produced their records. It was during their set when the bourbon hung heavy in my gut and the amphetamines began to tighten my veins and blur my vision, then I realized the gravity of what was going on.
For the first time in a while, I was really and truly surrendering myself to a good time. Sure, I've been known to have a drink with Cam and Barnes on a regular basis, but it can't be said that a drink constitutes complete revelry. Down there in New Mexico, I completely obliterated myself and surrendered myself to the spirit of the thing. The fact that I did so without a sex drive is notable as well, since most of my fondest memories generally feature my cock in a prominent role. I remember standing in a bathroom as the music pulsed outside, prodding the organ with a sense of grim surrender. The amount of chemicals in my bloodstream had rendered me almost a eunuch, and yet I felt more alive than ever.
The party went on, coming to a sort of apex when the campus's resident occultist decided that I was the physical avatar of Dionysus. He seemed disappointed when I never got around to participating in a traditional invocation of the god, but I had heard of his fondness for sex magic and thought it best to keep a safe distance.
The weekend ended and I slumped back on the shuttle. Even during the maddeningly long flight home, slipping in and out of sleep and rubbing my forehead, it was clear that something glorious had happened.
Oh, and before I finish, the stingray sheriff was just that. Someone had made a giant stingray from assorted bits of plaster and paper and painted a sheriff's badge on it, for no good goddamn reason at all.
Tuesday, May 20, 2008
Friday, May 16, 2008
Haha, he said, "Jew."
Alright, so I guess I have this thing to myself for the next few days, and rather than dissappoint our three and a half dedicated readers, I figure I'll put something up.
Here is an article regarding Einstein's feelings on religion. You know, Mr. Science-Without-Religion-Is-Lame?Well, apparently he has some more interesting thoughts on the subject.
Sorry Semites.
-Barnes
Here is an article regarding Einstein's feelings on religion. You know, Mr. Science-Without-Religion-Is-Lame?Well, apparently he has some more interesting thoughts on the subject.
Sorry Semites.
-Barnes
Going Dark.
Notwithstanding any possible contribution from Barnes, the monkeys will be silent for the weekend. Reality is upon us. For the next three days, Louis and I, along with most of the college, will be making unhealthy decisions involving synthetic hallucinogens, poorly-cut nose candy, bourbon, and, on Saturday, a fresh batch of wormwood-infused Absinthe. We will emerge on Monday--disfigured, but alive--if nothing goes horribly wrong.
Until that time, enjoy the mellifluous tones of a young Tom Waits performing "Eggs and Sausage" on the Mike Douglas Show;
Popout
Until that time, enjoy the mellifluous tones of a young Tom Waits performing "Eggs and Sausage" on the Mike Douglas Show;
Popout
Wednesday, May 14, 2008
Anywhere I Lay My Head
...is now listenable!
I'm still in the shock faze, I think. It's just a bit jarring to hear Tom Waits covered with that sort of voice. I'm sure I'll have plenty of opinions later, but for now I think I need a few more listens.
Her voice is a lot different than I would have imagined, anyhow.
I'm still in the shock faze, I think. It's just a bit jarring to hear Tom Waits covered with that sort of voice. I'm sure I'll have plenty of opinions later, but for now I think I need a few more listens.
Her voice is a lot different than I would have imagined, anyhow.
Tuesday, May 13, 2008
The quick guide to leisure.
Despite all my talk about debauchery and the like, I am and always have been obsessed with productivity. If I go through a day without writing at least four pages of the novel, I'll end up depressed and anxious. Lately I've been very productive thanks to my new favorite coffee shop, so I feel comfortable indulging myself now and again.
Since I've already given you an idiot's guide to keeping yourself productive, I think it's time the Dionysians gave their rebuttal to the Appolonians. (Nietzsche reference, +20 pretension points!)
1. Set aside some time every now and then when you will be free of any responsibilities or obligations. I do this by writing like a mad bastard in the morning and lounging about all afternoon if my work schedule allows it.
2. Occasionally indulge in some less-than-legal substances. Drinking doesn't fall into this category since it is a social substance, and can be vital to one's mental health. Also note the word occasional here. Doing a bit of the hard stuff now and then can be wonderful, but the leisure comes to a screeching halt when you're shivering under a bridge sucking off hobos for your next hit.
3. Save up a bit of cash and buy something extravagant and unnecessary. This can be a gourmet meal at a good restaurant, a bottle of wine usually reserved for connoisseurs, or a good cigar. What's important is to enjoy these things once in a while. Many people spend their whole lives whining and wondering how such luxuries are, but a bit of saving can bring the experience to your broke ass.
4. Buy some good clothes. This may be my inner gay man speaking, but there's just something empowering about owning at least one set of well-tailored clothes. There's no need to go overboard here and buy 300 dollar jeans, though. Head to a thrift shop, find something good and/or strange, and get it tailored to your fit.
5. Travel. Vacations, I feel, aren't just a luxury, they're a necessity. Everyone has an urge to travel, no matter how deep down, and this urge like all others needs to be satisfied. A change of scenery is what you're looking for here, and a town where no one knows your name. There's nothing quite like leaving your familiar stomping grounds to wreak havoc on the unsuspecting locals of some tropical paradise.
This post may or may not have been influenced by my imminent trip to New Mexico to visit Cam.
Since I've already given you an idiot's guide to keeping yourself productive, I think it's time the Dionysians gave their rebuttal to the Appolonians. (Nietzsche reference, +20 pretension points!)
1. Set aside some time every now and then when you will be free of any responsibilities or obligations. I do this by writing like a mad bastard in the morning and lounging about all afternoon if my work schedule allows it.
2. Occasionally indulge in some less-than-legal substances. Drinking doesn't fall into this category since it is a social substance, and can be vital to one's mental health. Also note the word occasional here. Doing a bit of the hard stuff now and then can be wonderful, but the leisure comes to a screeching halt when you're shivering under a bridge sucking off hobos for your next hit.
3. Save up a bit of cash and buy something extravagant and unnecessary. This can be a gourmet meal at a good restaurant, a bottle of wine usually reserved for connoisseurs, or a good cigar. What's important is to enjoy these things once in a while. Many people spend their whole lives whining and wondering how such luxuries are, but a bit of saving can bring the experience to your broke ass.
4. Buy some good clothes. This may be my inner gay man speaking, but there's just something empowering about owning at least one set of well-tailored clothes. There's no need to go overboard here and buy 300 dollar jeans, though. Head to a thrift shop, find something good and/or strange, and get it tailored to your fit.
5. Travel. Vacations, I feel, aren't just a luxury, they're a necessity. Everyone has an urge to travel, no matter how deep down, and this urge like all others needs to be satisfied. A change of scenery is what you're looking for here, and a town where no one knows your name. There's nothing quite like leaving your familiar stomping grounds to wreak havoc on the unsuspecting locals of some tropical paradise.
This post may or may not have been influenced by my imminent trip to New Mexico to visit Cam.
On Opposites
In order for two concepts or entities to be fundamentally opposite, they must be fundamentally the same. I mean that theism is the opposite of atheism because they are different sides of the same concept: ones relation to god or gods. Commensurability is necessary for this relationship. Paper, while very different from a puma, is not its opposite.
Such it is in life. In setting oneself opposed to something, one is inextricably linking oneself to that thing, and this relationship can manifest itself in many ways. For instance, if you claim to hate someone or something, you may be prone to spending most of your time railing against that person or thing, which is really quite the pathetic existence. Your thoughts become devoted to what you despise, and you turn into a mere shadow of your former self, bitter and irrational. A constant crusade is tiresome and dull, both for the crusader and the one against whom the crusade is being led.
Such it is in life. In setting oneself opposed to something, one is inextricably linking oneself to that thing, and this relationship can manifest itself in many ways. For instance, if you claim to hate someone or something, you may be prone to spending most of your time railing against that person or thing, which is really quite the pathetic existence. Your thoughts become devoted to what you despise, and you turn into a mere shadow of your former self, bitter and irrational. A constant crusade is tiresome and dull, both for the crusader and the one against whom the crusade is being led.
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