A Random Image

Archive for September, 2001

|| September 18, 2001 || 11:01 am || Comments (0) ||

Look, ma! I bear a certain resemblance to these philosophers:

1. Kant

2. Sartre

3. Spinoza

4. Mill

5. Epicureans

6. Aquinas

7. Ockham

8. Bentham

9. Augustine

10. Prescriptivism

11. Nietzsche

12. Stoics

13. Aristotle

14. Rand

15. Hume

16. Noddings

17. Hobbes

18. Plato

19. Cynics

|| September 17, 2001 || 12:06 am || Comments (0) ||

WTF?? Someone sent me a link to anime pr0n.

|| September 16, 2001 || 11:54 pm || Comments (0) ||

Four Dogs

Four men were bragging about how smart their dogs are. The first man was an
Engineer, the second was an Accountant, the third was a Chemist, and the
fourth man was a Government Worker.
To show off, the Engineer called to his dog. “T-Square, do your stuff.”
T-Square trotted over to a desk, took out some paper and a pen and promptly
drew a circle, a square, and a triangle. Everyone agreed that was pretty

The Accountant said his dog could do better, and said, “Slide Rule, do your
stuff.” Slide Rule went out into the kitchen and returned with a dozen
cookies. He divided them into 4 equal piles of 3 cookies each. Everyone
agreed that was good.

The Chemist said his dog could do better still, so he called his dog and
said, “Measure, do your stuff.” Measure got up, walked over to the fridge,
took out a quart of milk, got a 10 ounce glass from the cupboard and poured
exactly 8 ounces without spilling a drop. Everyone agreed that was great.

The Government Worker called to his dog and said, “Coffee Break, do your
stuff!” Coffee Break jumped to his feet, ate the cookies, drank the milk,
dumped on the paper, sexually assaulted the other three dogs, claimed he
injured his back while doing so, filed a grievance for unsafe working
conditions, put in for Workers Compensation and went home on sick leave.
Everyone agreed that was really typical.

|| September 15, 2001 || 7:02 pm || Comments (0) ||

jekyll in you

brings out the wired in me

i have no defense

i’m all that you see

the night is a bomb blast

the night is on fire

sing with me in the gasoline choir

and you say you want to change our minds

i’ve paid for your belief with mine

of all the bravest stands in time

you stoop so low you’ll never rise

// Bush, “Bomb”

|| September 15, 2001 || 6:45 pm || Comments (0) ||

Ahhhh….I am the recipient of a hit on my most favorite search thus far:

body soul zen beth
Prolly someone was looking for the site of Beth Rigby, who (as I feebly understand it) is some sort of dance/yoga/zen guroid. Not that I’m making fun. Or anything. Or anything at all.

Anyway, I am number seven on the list for that particular search on Google. What’s funny is if you click the link for similar pages. The #3 link returned is for Capsela, a product that I have never purchased, owned, supported nor endorsed. Hell, I didn’t even know it existed. How do these things happen, I wonder?

Why do I spend my time following such stupid links and wondering about such trivial stuff, I wonder? Perhaps because “Young minds come alive as they improve problem-solving and other developmental skills.”?

In other news, today has been a really Bush day. I’ve listened to every one of their CD’s at least three times, ’cause Maxim is away and I can.SOMEBODY COMMENT, DAMN YA. I am boring even myself.

|| September 15, 2001 || 1:15 pm || Comments (0) ||

There have been times when I was conversing with someone online that something I said was totally misunderstood because of lack of tone or inflection. The people that are developing this say that it will help immensely in that arena.

|| September 14, 2001 || 11:46 pm || Comments (0) ||

I was eight years old when the American hostages were taken in Iran. This is the first memory I have of being conscious of world events and our part in them. I thought of those people often….more frequently than most eight-year-olds, I imagine. I asked question after question of my parents, and to their credit, they were quite honest with me.

To an extent, Ayatollah Khomeini fascinated me. I marvelled at how someone who looked so granfatherly and biblical could be so unrelenting and heavy-handed where other people –people who had families and lives and were so far away from home for so long– were concerned. And why did he think that a few lousy bombs mattered in comparison?

One day in the midst of all my ruminations about the whole situation I drew a picture of Khomeini and in it I gave him blue eyes. The eyes were kind of squinty and were devoid of compassion, but they were blue….perhaps to remind me that he was a person, just like me, and not some great infallible presence that held sway over the people that controlled 52 American lives for a time. With the help of a little artistic license, I garbed him all in white, his caftan and turban matching his beard, the little patches of gray representing folds in the cloth. No boogeymen here….

At the time, I had a set of bunkbeds in my room. I found it quite fun to have them all to myself; I randomly moved from the top bunk to the bottom and back again to pass my sleeping hours. Upon drawing my picture of the Ayatollah, however, I began to camp in the lower bunk nightly so that I could look up at the colored-pencil image of him, which I had carefully taped to the bottom slats of the upper bunk.

Each night I would stare at the picture, beseeching Khomeini silently to give the word and let the people from the embassy go. I directed every ounce of the power of my thoughts at his being. I would ask God to please bend Khomeini’s heart and then would expend every ounce of compassion and pleading in my own trying to somehow connect with the man on a subconcious level. The power of absolute belief, the courageous defiance of a staunch faith. I possessed them both.

I bought a skein of yellow yarn with my allowance. Each Sunday afternoon, I would cut five equal pieces from it and have one of my parents tie a bow on each digit of my right hand. Each weekday I would remove a piece of yarn before my nightly bath and place it into a shoebox and then make a hash mark on the inside of the lid. I do recall sighing a lot as dirty yellow bits of fluff gathered in the cardboard home and pale rings formed around the base of my fingers.

Give me a face now. My skills with colored pencils haven’t much surpassed those I had in second grade, but I would sit and form the lines nonetheless. Give me the image of the person that for sure engineered this thing so that I can garb them in white and see them as a person and stop being so angry and so afraid for my own children, who are the same age at this tragedy as I was at that one.

And God help them and God help me, because right now all I see is some entity void of any real structure, swathed in the red of their own blood and drowning in hatred.