Sunday, March 28, 2004

in other news of the day.... *I painted my (blogging) office a color called coconut husk.  It used to be stark white and filled with junk and just wasn't a fun or comfortable place to hang out.  Now I cleaned it up and got rid of the crap and painted it this dark, earthy green color.  My plan is to make it into a Hemingwayesque writing parlor.  I even got a couple things at Pier One to help the transformation: a carved elephant, and a woven African looking basket. Now all I need is: a pair of elephant tusks, an antique bush rifle, a crockadile hide, a giant, oaken carved chest, various bottles of Scotch whiskey, a brass compass, and one of those RCA Victrola gramaphone's that the dog is looking into. *Whitney came over to do the final possession exchange.  She brought her cute little puppie named Jake.  She said she was sorry for cheating on me.  We hugged and then ended up hopping in the sack together.  I gave her a pretty good spanking but I really wasn't that mad at her for some reason.  If couples could trust each other to cheat just enough in just the right way then everyone would probably be a lot happier anyway. She asked if she could do anything to help make up for it.  "You could help me paint my office," I said.  I gave her a roller and a tray of coconut husk and put her to work.  We finished painting the office around 4pm.  There was just enough paint. Then Jake took a shit on my carpet. *Whitney and I got burgers at the Chattaway.  I saw some scruffy, hipster, artist/musician friends of mine.  The musician guy, Johnny, was just back from that big music conference in Texas.  If he makes it, I better fucking make it, I thought. I saw this other girl that I tried to date a couple years ago.  She is sort of like a female version of the crockodile hunter.  She majored in zoology and then went to Africa for some real world experience.  I guess she loved it untill a local tribesman snuck into her tent and tried to rape her.  I forget how she got away or whether she did. I took her on a date once and she warned me not to try to kiss her.  Then I got drunk and tried to kiss her anyway.  Then she didn't want to go out anymore.  She's kind of a strange girl.  She's got sunbaked freckly skin and long blonde hair.  She would probably like my Hemingway parlor when its all finished.  Her name is Reanna.  Her mom was a Fleetwood Mac fan.  I had no idea what they were singing in that Fleetwood Mac song until I met Reanna. Reanna told me that a lot of elephants in captivity are schizophrenic. "I didn't even know elephants could be schizophrenic?" I said.  But apparently they can. Reanna got very angry if I used the word "retarded." She found that very offensive and un-pc.  Reanna had this cool walking stick that she took around with her in the back of her pick-up truck.  I think the stick may have been from Africa.  Or it may have just been from around here.  But when she wouldn't see me anymore after I kissed her when she told me not to I thought about taking her walking stick and breaking it over my knee. But I didn't. Anyway, before I left the Chattaway I walked up next to Reanna and stood over her, preparing to say, "hi, how've ya been?" But she was busy talking and she didn't notice me, so I just thought better of it and left with Whitney. *I spent years in the art scene around here trying to really learn something about art and artists.  I painted a lot of paintings and acquired a lot of artwork from friends.  Now I pretty much think that all the artwork that me and my struggling friends made sucks.  I'd rather buy carved elephants and woven baskets from Pier One. 9:49:48 PM    comment []

mind control Back in my USF days there used to be a bookfair every Tuesday outside of Cooper Hall.  All the local booksellers would set up a card table or two and try to make some money off the college kids who were wandering around with credit cards or unspent beer money. There was more than just books for sale at the book fair.  There were Bob Marley t-shirts and pot pipes and Guns n' Roses posters etc. But there was one table that stood out among all others to me at the fair.  At this one particular table there were two very intense looking dudes sitting and watching the students go by, eagerly waiting for anyone to take notice.  In front of them they had this strange little scientific gizmo with an l.e.d. meter on it and a couple of tin can-looking things attached to it by short wires.   In front of the gizmo, taped to the table was a sign that said, "free personality test." (I know, me and the personality tests--not a good mix).   They only had one book for sale and it was called Dianetics.  This was the Scientology table, and the they were looking for fresh recruits. Now I've always had a powerful curiosity and contempt for Scientology because of all the things that I've read in the paper: they're a mind control cult; they soak you for thousands of dollars with their "coursework;" they intimidate their enemies with extortion and blackmail and spies;  they even brought the IRS to its knees.  Here they were at USF, trying to suck unsuspecting students into their fold.  Every Tuesday I would pass this table and I would get kind of agitated. What could that stupid, bogus little machine do? I would think.  They could never control MY mind.  I'd just like to see them try.  I could outsmart all of them. But the Scientology table kept gnawing at me week after week, daring me to stop.  Finally, I did stop.  I had my girlfriend, Melissa with me at the time and I played it like it was one of those booths at a carnival where you swing a giant mallet and try to ring a bell and show your girlfriend how strong you are. "Let's see what the heck this is all about," I said with a lot of sarcasm and swagger.  "What exactly is this little gizmo, here?" I asked the intense and bespetacled Scientology guy. "It's an e-meter," he said very matter of factly.  "It measures the alpha waves of your brain.  Why don't you have a seat?" "Okay, I will.  This should be good," I said to Melissa.  "Now what do I do?" I said to the Scientology guy. "Take the conduits here," he said pointing to the tin cans," and hold them firmly, one in each hand." "Okay," I said, already feeling a little nervous and defensive.  The Scientology guy adjusted the gizmo in front of him.  He looked down at the little meter and then he looked up at me.  He looked directly into my eyes with his intense gaze. "Now tell me," he said, "what kind of problems are you having in your life?" "Problems?" I said. "Yes, problems.  You know: issues, troubles, mental and emotional things." I could already see where this was going.  He was going to try to dredge up my weaknesses and then exploit them to control my mind.  Well, I wasn't going to fall for it. "Well, I'm pretty happy, really.  I like going to school and studying, and I have this nice girlfriend here.  Everything is pretty good with me.  No serious problems." This of course, was already a lie.  I was essentially a lonely person that didn't know what he was doing with his life. The Scientology guy scrutinized the gizmo and its meter. "What were you just thinking right then?  I got a very strong reading." "I wasn't thinking anything," I said, chuckling kind of nervously and looking up at my girlfriend.  She had kind of a worried look on her face. "There it is again!" the Scientology guy said.  "What was just in your mind?" At that point all sorts of things were bubbling up: I get depressed.  I never make any  friends.  I can never focus on one goal.  I never finsih anything I start.  I don't know what I want in life.  I don't know who I am! "I'm getting a very strong reading now.  Tell me what you're thinking." "I'm not thinking anything!" I insisted  The scientology guy was looking right into my eyes while I lied about what was in my head at that very second.  My voice started to crack.  My face actually started to tremble.  Little muscles in my cheek were wiggling and spasming from the confrontation. "Maybe I should go and leave you alone?" my girlfriend said. "DON'T BE RIDICULOUS!" I said. Finally I released the tin can things and dropped them on the table. "This obviously just isn't working," I said, trying to gain back my composure. The Scientology guy just straightened his machine and readied it for the next testee. "This may do something for other people, but it just didn't do anything for me," I said.  The Scientology guy just nodded.  I took Melissa's hand and grasped it and retreated into the book fair among the Tom Clancy novel's and Led Zeppelin posters and dream catchers and pot pipes.  When we were a little ways away I looked back over my shoulder.  The one bestectacled Scientology guy was sitting next to his partner behind the gizmo, and the Dianetic's books.  They were both looking my way and nodding and saying things I couldn't hear.  I turned away and never got near the Scientology table again.   10:27:53 AM    comment []