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.
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Jesse Helms and Pat Robertson, as well as most Americans, believe that lesbians and gays are reproductive freaks.
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Part of humanity's success has always been the diversity of survival techniques employed by its individual members. Billy Joe's reproductive strategy, to plop out the kids, live fast and die young, works better under some circumstances where the Clarence strategy fails. For example, in periods of plague or social upheaval, waiting around to be wealthy and wise before reproducing is an unwise strategy.
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.
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As we stepped out into JPA, we could see, a few blocks to the north, an apocalyptic assemblage.
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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.
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It's as if they have an overall Shakeresque attitude of forebearance towards things that go in their mouths.
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Cory rooted around in the refrigerator and produced an assortment of bowls and pans with various vegan dishes. The most intriguing of these was a so-called "gluten roast"; it looked a little like roast beef, but was actually a sort of dense rubbery bread. The food was filling and diverse, but it was kind of bland. I've noticed that the Abundance House vegans are timid about seasoning their food. It's as if they have an overall Shakeresque attitude of forebearance towards things that go in their mouths: that flavour itself is in some way as "sinful" as meat. In my humble opinion, if someone is going to avoid milk and meat in their food, the only possible pleasure remaining is seasoning. Lots of seasoning. That's the key to good Indian food after all.
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.
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Say what you will about Auschwitz, it probably had a better view.
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Monster Boy told me about his new place. It's a dismal little studio apartment in a complex of identical apartment buildings in a souless "neighborhood" behind the K-mart up on 29 North. Say what you will about Auschwitz, it probably had a better view. And, since Monster Boy no longer has a working car, he's forced to car pool and beg rides from friends on days when it's too miserable to ride a bicycle. And it's a fairly long bike ride from K-mart to the University Hospital (where he still works as a sterilization flunky).
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.
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Those who grew up on vinyl (me, for example) think of old music as full of hiss, pops and slow, danceable skips.
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After the movie, we smoked some pot. I hardly ever smoke pot these days, but when I do, I enjoy the careening energy and meticulous intensity it gives to my imagination. I find myself proposing theories to explain things that I never seek to explain while "straight." Perhaps because I was so comfortable with the people with whom I was hanging out, I was very vocal about my ideas as they came to me. One idea concentrated on the way musical recordings age on different media. I said that the "sound of old music" is different for different generations. Those who grew up on vinyl (me, for example) think of old music as full of hiss, pops and slow, danceable skips. Those who grew up on audio tapes (many of my friends) think of old music as warbly, occasionally muted and even (at times) backwards. In the future, old music will be on CDs and skip super fast. These views of "old music" change our perceptions of the past in the same way as photography. I think of the 20s as herky-jerky and colourless because that's how films were then. I think of the 70s as shrouded in veils of yellow, since most photographs from that period are overly yellow for some reason. Of course, when I was there, it was as crystal clear and virbrant as 90s technicolor.
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I claimed that some of the best swamis can take their amputated arms and place the bloody ends hard against their foreheads and command them to flex in that position.
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Of course, I was also being just plain silly, talking about outrageous masochistic acts performed by Indian "swamis" (I really meant "sufis"). I said, for example, that on some festival days swamis gather in the center of the village to demonstrate their incredible psychic powers. Some, I claimed, chop off one of their arms and then place them back on the stumps and command them to move, and often "they do." Further still, I claimed that some of the best swamis can take their amputated arms and place the bloody ends hard against their foreheads and command them to flex in that position. These "swami tales" were all ideas I first heard from a manic semi-lunatic named Craig Stehr, one of my Dad's old eco-radical colleagues.
I spent the night at Abundance House. Yes, I did.
