I WANNA MAKE A SUPERSONIC MAN OUT OF YOU.
Alright. Let's do this, Cobuniji. You're not gonna get a single pause out of me. I'm going to go one-handed as I down my coffee. Two-hundred degrees, baby. It's on. Uninterrupted.
Here it goes:
Right, okay, so, it's been awhile since I've written, but I promise I've got some good stuff. Promise.
Let's start with the Anathema of Zos. Funny thing about loving someone with a brilliant mind is you occasionally find yourself in these Hot-for-Teacher moments where you wind up fantasizing about someone's sexy brain in addition to their rather stellar looks. Reading the Anathema of Zos was one of those moments. Awhile back, I took the time to read Thus Spoke Zarathustra, which I find exceptionally similar to the Anathema of Zos in composition and voice, though perhaps not content. Thus Spoke Zarathustra is a Nietzsche number that - among other things - is essentially a book of views that could possibly help someone survive a world in which there are no gods. It essentially says that man's highest goal should be furthering itself and achieving its most loftiest and nameless of goals so that it might one day surpass itself. I mentioned it in that Transhumanism discussion.
The Anathema of Zos is a little different. It - from what I've gathered because such texts are rarely linear and uh, what's that word. Literal - is a text essentially advocating balance and self-love in the form of an angry rant delivered by Zos, an enlightened goatherd of sorts. It's kind of like Ayn Rand meets some kind of pseudo-Taoist mentality. This pseudo-Taoist mentality is a basic principal in the occult, spoken fondly of by Emily as the "old rule of As Above, So Below," and familiar with most as Newton's Third Law of Motion, though it's applicable to a wide-range of topics. Give it a read if you don't mind words like, "Excrement," and other kind of funny insults. If you can say "You spoony bard!" with a straight face, you're probably solid.
Don't stop me, don't stop me, don't stop me no-
Right. New topic. Let's do this. Call-signs.
In the Military, you're given a typically un-affectionate nickname called a Calls-sign that's used to address you in shorthand while working. Today, on the way to the airport at 4:00 AM to send my mother off to Japan to visit Tara, we've gotten to hear a few of the many, many terrible code-names my Father works with, such as:
- "Growler" - an Intel soldier who's exceptionally sharp and intelligent, but notorious for having- well, it required a bit of back story. As it seems, there's a small, closer-to-everyone restroom, and there's a further restroom that's much larger. It is given courtesy that you use the larger, more-distant restroom in the event that you have to crap at work. Growler did not know this, and casually detonated the closer restroom, which is smaller and unventilated, ruining it for anyone who had to pee and didn't want to go the extra distance. He was given the Call-sign as a punishment. It's the technical term for a "shit so forceful it requires vocal accompaniment."
- "Wedge" - you already know Wedge. Wedge is a LARPer who is exceptionally overconfident in his abilities. He opted that his Call-sign be 'Maximus,' because it was superlative, just like him. That didn't happen. Instead, he was called a tool. The simplest tool is a Wedge. It stuck.
- "Spork" - You'd probably wondered why I mentioned Wedge, when you'd already heard of him. That's because Spork was named in parody of Wedge. Spork is really good at what he does, and what he does is a very broad topic. However, he's a bit of an ass. Being an utter tool, but immensely useful, he was dubbed Spork - "the most useful tool."
- "Moai" - Moai's sort of funny. You're probably imagining that he's some sort of gruff, unshaven Hawaiian with lots of cool Hakka tattoos or something. No. In fact, it's kind of sad, really. As described to me, Moai is a poor bastard with an "exceptionally massive skull." He's got a big head. Moai is term for the statues of massive heads at Easter Island.
Right uh, wait for it, wait for it, I've got something else. I've just got to think. I uh...Wait for it.
I've got an oddjob today. I'm excited. It's a chance to recoup the eighty bucks my derp square-off with the U.S. Postal Service cost me. I'm kind of excited because I've been practicing some silly doodling and I'd like to give it a shot on some postcards or something. I always get all the letters I want written put-together when I'm oddjobbing because I never have anything to do on lunch-breaks. I just kind of sit there awkwardly. In rare cases, there's coffee but I'm running on empty. I've got like, just enough grounds to cover the red plastic at the bottom of the can. Mostly.
On the other hand, this particular drum of coffee lasted me like, forever. It might be because I got a drum of cheap Maxwell House sometime between getting it. Funny thing about Maxwell House, actually.
I'm really fond of pens. Particularly pens that don't screw up. The military issues a specific pen for use. It's a black retractable pin with a metal clasp in the middle and "Skilcraft - U.S. Government" stamped in the middle of it. They're pretty durable. I've actually seen people loosen the ink in them to keep using them by holding lighters to their tips. I'd run out of ink in the one I use for letters and was curious to get more, when I'd given a look into Skilcraft as a company. They're actually a Disabled Workers community. They make just about everything the U.S. Government issues the military: uniforms, clocks, pens, playing cards, notebooks, flash-light fixtures, and yes - even Maxwell House coffee.
I thought that was pretty bitchin'. Hell yeah, U.S. Government, giving a perpetual supply-and-demand for disabled workers. You done me proud.
And crap, that leaves me short a topic. Uh. Wait for it. Saytr-...er, Satyrs.
Let's go:
I've been on kind of a Satyr kick which is what got Anathema of Zos read, too, because while not a Satyr, Zos happens to be a goatherd, and a satyr is featured on the cover of the book. I've never been too much of a fan of Archery in the sense of Vidya and RPGs because I've always associated it with those obnoxious Peter Pan outfits. Y'know the ones. There's very few games that can make that work, and if they do, it's because they make it into a ranger's uniform, as it should be, instead of a ridiculous hat perched upon a tunic befitting of Zelda's Link. Satyrs are pretty sweet. I'd actually spent quite a while trying to dig up information on some game I'd played once upon a time that featured one with a crossbow. Instead of running, he kind of half-galloped with this bow pressed into his belly. I can't for the life of me remember what it was, but as I type this, I think it might have actually been the Gnolls from Warcraft III. I could be wrong, though, too.
...Hrm.
What else have I got? I could uh. Wait for it. Dark beer.
I spent awhile reading about dark beers, too. If you're not familiar, basically, if you use roasted oats in a long-run malt, typically cold-malt, you get a beer that's like, black. I was always fascinated by this because, while I don't drink (much or frequently. I have had a beer in the shower on occasion to assert my utterly lazy intentions for a few days off, I confess) I've recently begun to make these fashion pins out of bottle-caps, and the weird beer-section at the supermarket features all of these bizarre brands. They have a lot of pseudo-occultist ones that have really cool labels and utterly disappointing caps. However, Old Rasputin Imperial Stout has a cap featuring none other than the Mad Monk himself, Gregori Rasputin.
I've got to keep an eye out for that one. I know there's a Chinese beer, too, that features a bright red star. I should try to get that for Hjalmar. It'd be a good gift.
It's funny - just as my mother leaves, Hjalmar, too, has left on a trip. Hjalmar's headed out to Broccoli, a kind of annual get-together. I love seeing the silly crap they do; my favorite tale is Stoner-Octillory. Octillory is a silly pokemon, and while playing, one Broccoli attendant paused and exclaimed, "Woah. That thing is -seriously- stoned." At which point everyone got together and whipped up doodles of Octillory in a Rastafari get-up, complete with a bong and a casual "I don't care," in Swedish.
I'll never look at it in the same way. It's just perpetually got that reputation, now.
Kind of like Archers being Peter Pan.
Or Starbucks being the eternal safe-haven of obnoxious hipsters.
Or Khezu being perpetually relevant.
Or Brazilians and Pinoys being terrible, inarticulate gamers.
Or lists broken by many "or"s reminding me of that scene in FLCL where Mamimi talks about pandas with mean faces, sandals with pressure-points, and stale bread.
I'd taken a break to try and write something yesterday. I really wish I'd taken time to flesh-out the basics first. I tend not to think things like that out, and then I wind up recalling half-ways how difficult it is to include dialogue from anyone else beyond the narrator in a travel-log style set-up. I need to try and strike that half first-person set up that worked so well for me once upon a time in the days of auld lang syne, when I was a Writefag.
I might continue that endeavor, but I'm not entirely certain if I will. I've got some stuff I do need to handle, but I suppose first and foremost is my oddjob, which I'm about two hours away from.
I've officially received my New York State Donor's Card, which makes the solid one more time I have to donate platelet's much easier. On the fifteenth of May, expect pictures of Hijab-Phlebotomist with all sorts of cool details. If I don't catch her there, I'll seriously continue donating past the gallon-mark until I do, indeed, encounter her again. She was really cool. Old, but cool.
Which reminds me - I've been talking to Emily's mother on occasion. Boy, does she have some stories. It's really neat, actually. I can honestly say she's genuinely pretty cool to talk to, because she's always got either slick stories from the Seventies, or nostalgic stories about the people she's known who have since passed-away.
We've gotten to talking kind of regularly, and she asserts she's going to have a land-line put down sometime so that I can call for free, which will be slick, because I can finally stop wasting Emily's minutes in addition to getting my nostalgia-fix.
I've actually got to get on the phone later today with an assistance agency. The Government forms I'm handling are so convoluted that they actually have a help-line for implementing them. Which is really good, because there's so many government issuance-numbers that it simply expects me to know, and I simply don't. I mean, I would if I were handling them daily, but I'm not.
...Heh. That line makes me think of Nice Guy Eddie.
If I ever get an obnoxious Call-name, I hope it's either Mister Pink or Nice Guy.
Somehow, I think the chances of me getting a Reservoir Dogs reference for a name, though, are pretty slim.
Oh-! Shit! There's a topic! It just hit me.
Were Emily to get a call name? She'd be -Ganymede-.
No joke. Let me get you a picture. You probably don't have anything to compare it to, but she's got the same slightly-curled hair that Ganymede has, only it's strawberry blonde. Exact same build. And soft and Renaissance-Statue Proportion.
Seriously. It's uncanny.
All I need is Zeus to try and mack on her in the form of a
colossal Eagle, and it's a done deal.
I should probably be closing up. I'm kind of out of topics. So much for that whole Mister Fahrenheit bit. I'm sputtering out like a firework. Thanks for reading. I'm going to go run my two miles at the Gym before I suit-up to make myself an extra few bucks. Until next time.
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