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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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vegan leftovers Friday, November 28 1997
or a mousepad, I use a 14.4 kilobaud faxmodem. It has just the right surface, that pebbly plastic so often used in the manufacture of computer equipment. In the bathtub today, I was thinking about the evolutionary advantages of being socially awkward, insecure, or shy. A theory I've been developing for some time has it that socially awkward people have a greater chance of spawning more successful offspring than socially advanced studs. Think about it. If you're insecure and keep to yourself through all the adolescent phases of the dating game, you've got to be doing something else, advancing in other respects and saving yourself, as it were, for later. While Billy Joe Stud has three girls pregnant and reads on a 4th grade level, Clarence the Geek is wrapped around Russian novels and C++ for non-Dummies. He might be reviled as a loser, but he's definitely not caught in a rut. Billy Joe's kids won't go to college; they'll probably drink and smoke their way to an early grave. Clarence won't just go to college; he'll graduate into a six figure job and his kids will live to rule the world. On some level, this dichotomy of lifestyles has probably existed since ancient times.
I always have an eye out for the evolutionary basis for human characteristics and "failings." I've reverse-engineered baldness, for example. But why are some people homosexual? Jesse Helms and Pat Robertson, as well as most Americans, believe that lesbians and gays are reproductive freaks, the veritable mules of humanity. I have a different opinion. I think that societies have probably benefited from the presence of gay members. Perhaps the mutual sexual bonding of men, for example, leads to better warriors, to better defense of the homeland where the breeding can take place. The ancient Greeks seemed to think so. Such bonding probably kept American losses down in Vietnam.
napped until 7:30pm, at which point there came a knocking on my door. It was Cory the Former Coffee Cart Girl, dressed in a long pinkish-white slip, out on a walk on a warm and windy evening. She invited Deya and me to come back to Abundance House to partake in leftovers from a vegan Thanksgiving. I was very hungry, so I was happy to go. Deya, of course, saw fit to stay at home. As Cory and I approached Jefferson Park Avenue (JPA), we saw police directing traffic and burning flares. Something was amiss. Then, as we stepped out into JPA, we could see, a few blocks to the north, an apocalyptic assemblage. Numerous firetrucks, police cars and ambulances were parked at weird angles in the street, lights flashing monotonously. Gawkers stood and watched. Stout fire hoses crossed the street in urgent lines to fire hydrants. Then we saw it: one of the upstairs rooms in an apartment complex was burned out. We walked right by the place on the sidewalk, thinking nothing of it, but some hauncho guy felt the need to shout at us to "get out of there" as if the thing might go supernova. We turned down Shamrock and continued towards Abundance House along the railroad tracks. The tracks are the most straightforward route to almost everything in Charlottesville, but they make for difficult walking and impossible biking.
Kirsten the Eco-Radical arrived with Monster Boy; they'd just been over to Kappa Mutha Fucka picking up some more of the latter's stuff, including a large black paper maché pig's head. I hadn't seen Monster Boy much since he left Kappa Mutha Fucka. As you might recall, my attitude towards him wasn't particularly positive when he departed. But times have changed, and character flaws that once bothered me seem trivial in comparison to others. The fact that Monster Boy is stingy and selfish doesn't trouble me nearly as much as it used to, now that I'm so concerned about Matthew Hart's selfish neediness.
I was feeling overly full from all that vegan cooking, and just wanted to lie down and rest. I wasn't really happy until Kirsten, Monster Boy, Cory and I went upstairs to Franz's room to watch a movie. We saw Gift. It's the sad and nostalgic tale of what weird things happen when Perry Farrell, the lead singer of Jane's Addiction, comes home to find his girlfriend dead from a heroin overdose. The thing that most struck me about this movie was that there's something very familiar about Perry Farrell's weirdness. I see it in almost all of my friends: the compulsion to collect, assemble and display dolls and kitschy religious crap; the casual use of drugs; and an overall failure to appreciate the relevance of money. These traits are extremely widespread in the youthful underground, but they aren't acknowledged in any mainstream media outlets. Society appears to be in denial about us, which is what we've known all along. So we are driven to shake up the culture in our own small ways. So I'm driven to write these musings. As futile as it is, it's probably the best thing I can do.
I spent the night at Abundance House. Yes, I did.
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