Thursday, October 30, 2008

The Moon's Lament

Little wet ones commit little wet deeds in my name and in my light and if I could frown my face at them, I would. They abuse me with poems and songs and I abuse them with tides. Still I am their Man and their Woman and their Night and their Love. These delicate little wet ones of mine: they think they have souls, but don't they know? Beauty is a lie and love is a symptom of death. We've known this forever, we the stars and the moons and the planets and the galaxies. We've spied across the eternal void and seen the truth of space and time: everything is alone. All stars know this.

Well, most of them do.

A senile sun sometimes falls for a brilliant neutron star haloed by rings in all the colors that don't have names. Or a crazy quasar finds fancy in the fires of some distant mist; a billion-billion stars beheld as one. And a confused comet is occasionally smitten by the glow of a constellation in whose lights shine the finest visage of Creation. Such old fools have dared to burn their light in Love. Such have swelled with their sick delusions, and such have shone with the nova of their foolish devotions. They all now feed their singularities on black space. Any sane celestial body knows: everything is alone.

I've chased around the heavens of my world forever and I will forever renew my circuit with a winking eye to the little ones. I wink to let them know, "You are alone." I wink to let them know, "Look elsewhere for you gods." There's nothing up here but sensible spheres and a few crazy stars.

- Earth's Only Moon

More Prematurities

I am bald. Again. Had to get two haircuts: the first lady couldn't bic it. Even the second guy didn't use a razor, so I've got stubble. Should have hit a barber shop. I may razor it myself (with help, I imagine). Was going to do an Uncle Fester costume, but the party tonight is no-costume. I KNOW! Also got a cool new hat to keep my baldness warm. Summer is a little chill thus far. I miss New York.

Passive aggressive people can go fuck themselves.

Wednesday, October 29, 2008

Running Out

The hot water in the shower always runs out just as I'm about to come. VERY ANNOYING!

Thursday, October 23, 2008


There are two things I want to cover. The first is an inspiring sentiment. The second is an angry rant. I'm concerned that the warm fuzzies are going to drain my bile, so I've drawn up an outline to keep me on track:

  1. Nice stuff.
  2. Shit talk.

The Nice Stuff

I think of myself as a romantic. Some who know me may find this counterintuitive, but love has guided much of my life. I value those I love more highly than anything. I was just having a conversation with my sister who asked if love made my life worth living.

This seems to be the prevailing opinion of life and love in our culture: that the former's worth is contingent upon the latter - or that such is the ideal relationship between the two. True love awards true worth to one's life. This philosophy finds employment at ever level of art and common talk. Our role models on the subject kill themselves to escape loneliness (and their reunion, a Shakespearean audience must have believed, was in Hell). It seems to be the final verdict of Culture that love is the scale on which life is weighed.

Fuck. That. Shit.

It is life which gives value to love, not the other way around. I have much love in my life, and that love enriches me, but it does not define my worth as a person. Just the opposite: it is the people - me, my friends, my family - who give worth to the love we share. My connections with my friends are special because my friends are special. They are worthy. To suppose that my loving them is a gift of worth to their person is insulting. That is not love - that is pity. I do not pity my friends for being my friends; I love them for it. And it is their exceptional value which gives that love its worth.

The Shit Talk

I am fucking tired of apologizing for agreeing with Ayn Rand. I don't agree with everything she says. There are things about her and her fiction I can barely stand. I'm not an Objectivist. But I think she's right about a lot of stuff and it pisses me off that I have to preface any reference I make to her or her ideas with some kind of apology. Like the 2nd, 3rd, and 4th sentences of this paragraphs. Why did I write those? Why did I feel like I had to qualify my support for her ideas? Why do I feel like people are going to shit all over me for being a selfish prick if I mention the woman? Maybe because they would. I was at a presentation recently on ethics where it was taken for granted that self-sacrifice is the unquestionable pinnacle of ethical behavior. I didn't say anything but I wanted to scream. Ug.

Anyway, that's the sentiment and the rant. If I one day find myself a Marxist, then this post should provide a good chuckle. Until then, take me DEAD SERIOUSLY.

My hubris is designed to enhance the irony of my downfall.

Tuesday, October 21, 2008

Things I Fucking Love, Vol. 7

The Daily Show.

Monday, October 20, 2008

Oh, K!

Sam's mom brought me back some American Special-K from The States. I am elated. Special-K is my favorite cerial and the New Zealand variety is subtly different. Sam's dad also saved us some Krispy Kremes from his trip to Oz. They obviously weren't straight out of the river of boiling fat, but what can you do?

Saturday, October 11, 2008


I have recently noticed a larger percentage of white hairs on my scrotum as compared to the rest of my body. I suppose that is preferable to other genital prematurities.