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Hello, my name is Judas Gutenberg and this is my blaag (pronounced as you would the vomit noise "hyroop-bleuach").
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to read, save and be desired Wednesday, September 24 1997 the skill known as reading
oday was a five o'clock day, and from the temperature of the air, it could well have been November. A five o'clock day is one that is cool and overcast such that one never can tell what time it is. You don't have five o'clock days in the summer, so I'm taking this as an indication that the summer is officially over. On one occasion this afternoon as I sadly considered the matter, I looked over at the clock and it read "5:00." In the Kappa Mutha Fucka living room this afternoon, Matthew Hart and I discussed literacy and the ability to read. Matthew passionately expressed his view that knowing how to read, reading all the time, and reading well, are all essential skills. Both he and I have a number of friends (both here and elsewhere) who are poor readers, not because they have learning disabilities, but because somewhere along the line "somebody dropped the ball" in their education (as Matthew put it). I asked Matthew if his parents read to him a lot as a child. "Oh yes!" he assured me. He would sit in their laps and follow along. I had the same experience in my childhood. That's the only way to really teach a child how to read. But as I said, lots of people, many of them obviously intelligent, can barely read. For example, my old Oberlin girlfriend, Leslie, read so poorly that I used to read her college text books to her.
what my father does
t's been my experience that most people are concerned about the environment, almost always for selfish personal reasons. They don't like toxic waste incinerators near the schools that their kids attend. They don't want to have to boil their water before drinking it. They hate to see litter as they drive to work. Many people go a little further, and are concerned about the place in which they live. They hate urban sprawl, they entertain doubts about the wisdom of adding lanes to congested highways, and they are dismayed to learn that the hummingbirds will be less numerous next summer. Then there are those, only a handful in number, who believe the world is being killed by a plague called humanity. They seek to preserve what little is left, and they call for draconian measures to reverse the destruction. These people are known as radical environmentalists. Everyone from Bill Clinton to Rush Limbaugh denounces them and says they're crazy, that the world is doing just fine and could maybe use a few more doctors, lawyers, anorexics and Bangladeshis. My father is a radical environmentalist. My father, Dr. Robert F. Mueller ("Bob") is a familiar name to anyone in the forest protection movement. He began his environmental career as a NASA scientist, studying river siltation from satelite photos in the late 60s. He went on to join Earth First! in the early 80s and to write many articles on forest protection and ecology. His major successes include stopping I-95 at the Beltway near Washington D.C., being the author of the only official government anti-nuclear-energy publication, and protecting several small tracts of wild lands. However, like all environmentalists, he's experienced far more failures than successes.
In all my adult years prior to working at Comet, I was blissfully unemployed. My parents provided for my every need, and in exchange, I gave them my special talents. I served (and occasionally still serve) as my father's lackey, typing his papers, doing computer graphics, and helping out with biological surveys (I am a skilled botanical taxonomist). At other times I helped my father with doing more radical things. Strategic sabotage, adopt-a-highway-defying littering, and a variety of fun prankish things had a way of happening whenever the vitriol against the machine grew uncontainable. Not that we played a role in any of that mischief. SEDGThese days, the Shenandoah Ecosystems Defense Group (SEDG), a local radical environmental group consisting largely of UVA students, is in close co-ordination with my father and his Staunton-based group, Virginians for Wilderness. A few weeks ago SEDG expressed interest in having help with their web page, and my father relayed this information to me. After all, I maintain the Virginians for Wilderness website as a nook within my own site, and my father claims it has helped him spread his propaganda. To appease my father and repair my dented karma, I agreed to help SEDG.
Including me, 11 people attended the meeting. In Staunton, that would have been a big crowd. In the slightly more enlightened community of Charlottesville, such large assemblages of radical environmentalists are not terribly uncommon. Naturally, most SEDG members are hippies more or less. I had the shortest hair there, even though I could badly use a haircut. There were a number of attractive flat-chested hippie chicks there. For me there's something particularly erotic about hippie chicks, especially idealistic hippie chicks. They're naïvely sensual and effeminate in a way that none of the girls I associate with ever are. But I digress. I knew two of the SEDG people. One of them is Kirstin the überhippy (as I called her once before in these musings). She lives over in Abundance House with Cory the Coffee Cart Girl. The other is Jerry, one of Jenfariello's housemates in the Brick Mansion in the 'Hood.
I kept pretty quiet. I'm shy and reserved around new people, preferring to say only extremely witty things when I talk at all. For example, when the SEDG people started engaging in joking speculation about whether or not cum was vegan, I piped up, "You have to consider the suffering of the animal that produced it." The pot-luck dinner (to which I made no contributions) was entirely vegan of course, as are all pot-lucks over at Kirstin's Abundance House. For the most part I found it rather bland, though I usually like vegan food. I usually like all food, as long as I can have lots of it.
When the meeting was over, there was a little more socializing, but even this was entirely focused on environmental things. There were to be no more debates about whether or not cum was vegan. I excused myself and rode my bike back home to Kappa Mutha Fucka. affirmation hunger
s I sat in the living toom, there were weird clunking noises coming from Matthew Hart's room. Angela's Cadillac was still parked on Observatory. Hmmm...
I'm a little concerned that Matthew might be rushing into things. When you've been thoroughly stabbed in the back and left behind like so much garbage, it's a natural reaction to seek affirmation of your desireablity. I know I've done it, and it makes me feel cheap to this day. After my pre-work nap, I came down the stairs to find my old housemate Elizabeth and her "friend" Franz hanging out with Monster Boy. What a pleasant surprise! When Elizabeth talked and joked and subtly mocked Monster Boy and me, I realized that I'd missed her. She's really very funny. I don't know about those bleached dread locks though. Get a sense of what I was like exactly eight years ago today.
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