The Truebeliever Socialist

The Truebeliever Socialist is a misfortunate soul indeed.

The first subjective experience of the Truebeliever Socialist, informative as well as formative, is lack. Loss. Absence. Insufficience. Inadequacy. Failure. There's smarter kids than him. There's faster kids than him. There's prettier kids, taller kids, there's others better loved, more successful, easier going, cooler dressed, he's just not the best there is! Not even by a long shot!

The second subjective experience of the Truebeliever Socialist is indignation. The cooler dressed kids aren't also taller! How dare they! The easier going kids aren't necessarily and always also the better loved! HOW IS THIS POSSIBLE! The smarter kids aren't consistently the more successful, how unfair! The whole world is wrong, offensive, ill wrought, misorganised. It is full of HyPoCrIsY!!11i

The third subjective experience of the Truebeliever Socialist is, in a word, socialism. All those not-as-X kids should band together, and fair-enize X! At the very least keep telling the coolest kids they're not the tallest kids! Maybe it does something. If those evil cool kids weren't completely evil hypocrites it would do something, it's self-evidently important to the Truebeliever Socialist so how could it be utterly irrelevant to anyone else ?!

As you can imagine, the Truebeliever Socialist is ripe for a lot of disappointment. First, Hitler came along and promised a world in which there won't be injustice anymore, as a thing, categorically. No more unfairly taller kids than him, no more unfairly cooler kids than him, no more unfairly anything. Hitler sold perfection certificates, the Truebeliever Socialist bought his, and then... well, it turns out Hitler scammed the poor Truebeliever Socialist. Hitler's certificates of adequacy, sufficiency, success etcetera turned out hollow! He betrayed the holy hopes of socialism nourished in the very heart and soul of the TSii!

Then Stalin came along, and seemingly he made the same promises : that the gaping void, the existential anguish of the TS is going to be resolved. Stalin promised group solutions to individual problems, and the TS bought. And then Stalin turned scammer too! He... also betrayed the high ideals of socialism, specifically that highest ideal of all : that somehow the inadequate marauding moron might be rendered adequate by some changes applied to the world. Some sort of systematic approach whereby individual lack can be remedied. Even taking potions would be acceptable -- they're, in the contorted logic of narcissism, still external.iii

Then all sort and sundry scammers and con-men came along, all making always and forever the same promise, with always and forever the same end results. But the Truebeliever Socialist always buys, because he has this magical ability, to write himself the 0-cost option to buy such nonsense. He can do this, he has the authority to buy into "solutions" to "the problem". On his own and of himself, why not! Freedom!

As it turns out, the "liberal democracy" thing was bunk! Hayek also lied, just like Obama & Hitler ?! The "worst" don't "get on top", like, ever ?! And the Pick-Up Artists also lied, there's no mechanism "to make women [???]" outside of the very women in question ?! There's no fixing the world from without ?! There's not even any potion or anything ?!

The poor TS is always such a victim. The definitive victim, you could say, and you can also smell him from a mile away, too! Whether he's being victimized by a very personal take on "what the rules are" as to "how debates work" or "what will happen in the afterlife" or "what media companies are for" or "what academia is about" or "how modern democracy works" or "what the police is for" or anything else -- it's always a safe bet the TS's being victimized by that one true (if antique) source of all stupidity : pretense.

Ultimately, the pretense that

[...] and a John who, even if only four letters long, is still quite as great as any Mircea come from afar.

But what can you do ? Because it's quite clear what teh Truebeliever Socialist would do.

———Just in case you were wondering why "hypocrisy" is such a central trope of pantsuitism, look no further : it's their second subjective experience. Second! Of course it's fundamental, in unreflective cvasi-intellects ordering works by timeline. [↩]What, it sounds like "transsexual" ? Well, guess what... [↩]And yes Eli Lily & co got rather closest to "fixing the world" in the TS sense, which is why they earned all those dubaloos. [↩]

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Category: Cocietate si Sultura

Monday, 25 March, Year 11 d.Tr.

The TMSR-OS implicit clients

In continuation of the ongoing discussion (both on my lord Verschlimmbessert's own blogi and otherwise in the forum more scatteredly directly), it seems to me the implicit downstream dependentsii upon the TMSR-OS artefact would be preciselyiii the following list :

TRB ; which however can not possibly continue as is, but must be split into an 1.a, wallet manager, which produces signed transactions out of parametrized requests, and an 1.b, more or less equal to today's trb, which is a network listener. Basically there must be a trinque-style human-powered diode introduced between the two parts which the power-rangers' bitcoind notion welds together, deliberately (if disavowedly) to ensure the doom of all things nice and good. It is entirely false that the wallet "needs" the network listener in the absolute, constant and plainly idiotic way which then drags in "must be always online on swiss cheese hardware so USG and it's agents can touch it whenever they feel like". The wallet needs some bits and pieces from the listener now and again, but only upon operator initiation ; nor are they that large or complicated or difficult to safely provide -- the listener providing "signing primitives" for any arbitrary transaction it ever hears is trivial enough to do, and should therefore be done.

A replacement ircd, together with a replacement irssi or xchat or whatever it is. This'd be the prototype gossipd (and no, none of this is some kind of invention or to any degree novel, the #1 above has been under idle engineertard "discussion" for just as long).

A-M-P (of LAMP fame), as a general purpose publishing support toolkit, web or otherwise. As discussion brought out, the M could perhaps be swapped out ; the P probably not (not just because python fucking sucks in and of itself, on its own merits ; but also because its community is toxically idiotic beyond any known measure, perhaps outside of wikipedia). This is a large hunk, granted, but it is also not avoidable, and especially not on the basis of spherical chicken arguments issued from beings an engineer.

Eulora, which is, other than an MMORPG, also an alternative A & P above ; I am not against it being reused that way, and I certainly have been very carefully constructing it in that direction and for many years now ; but that's not to say it's anywhere near there.

TMSR-PGP, which is a shorthand name for a more complex bundle consisting of the tools needed to hash, to V, to encrypt and decrypt etcetera. It's needed by #1, it's needed for the dev-env, it's needed.

Some kind or manner of coreutils, because I'm not using a box that can't pipe & tee + sed & awk & grep for anything other than target practice towards the garbage heap ; with these along also some packaging of gcc including a working glibc because from what I hear most nobody will same-as-above on a box that can't reproduce its bytecode from sourcecode.

That's it and that's all, the legitimate and for that reason possible-in-the-future uses for a computer definitively enumerated : you can publish with it, you can hack with it, and that's the fuck it with it already! You can't pantsuit with it, nor should you.iv

On to the rather burning question of graphical interface as oft construed : #4 practically needs it, even if "not necessarily" ; that I'm all for some people, sometime, somewhere making themselves a text-only client, I'm just as all for my using links as a web browser when I'm too curmudgeony to simply curl pipe grep, aite ? Then its presence there probably drags it in somewhere for 3 in some aspect, because what am I going to do with all these Trilema headers, throw them out ?v and from there on it spreads, because, again, I've been playing vidya on my motorcycle with a 32 inch curved monitor attached, all the everything set to maximum and yes, virtual worlds look good these days. What "throw it out" ?!

We came to use Bitcoin and we ended up redesigning computing because what the fuck already, why is everything so broken everywhichway anyway!

———Some thoughts about the situation in TMSR ; Yet more thoughts about TMSR OS: OS-Making Exam-Taking. [↩]Yes, this is what a dependency is : things downstream that depend upon whatever it is you're doing ; not vice-fucking-versa, like in the pantsuit dream. [↩]Precisely in the sense that the elements may take clarification or refinement, but the list itself is complete, there's no new elements available to be had. [↩]Nor do I care if that's all you can, know how to, or want to do. Fuck you. [↩]Nobody in the entire world, nobody in lo these many years managed to gather a collection that can even vaguely compare to that artefact of finest human cognition, what the fuck "throw it out". I'd rather throw out computing. [↩]

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Category: Bitcoin

Thursday, 28 November, Year 11 d.Tr.

The Tale of Three Soups, or Goodbye Minsk!

The items above depicted carry really amusing names in the menu ; the thing on the bottom's for instance called a fridge.

Bring me all of your paes!!!! I r need them! FOR TO NOM THEM!

I NOM THEM : PAES!

Above, a barrel o' cvas.

Below, a barrel o' laughs.

In the Minsk central market, the vendors got the drop on you! Fortunately for everyone involved, they also have fine delicious for sale. I totally scratched my cherry itch in Minsk, fifteen or so pounds later.

Cafe Milano is a fine observe(&mock) bypassers spot. I heartily recommend it.

Also a decent "go ask her if she wants to have a cup of coffee" spot, I guess.

Malinawka metro station, on the opposite side of where the Central cemetery is (Barysawski Trakt), on the other line from the one taking bipedals to the stench (Awtazavodskaya line). The cosplaying cuties are there doing something or the other in regards to the trains, it's just not clear exactly what.

And this is the horror. Just... more of this same thing copy-pasted in all directions indefinitely.

So you thought bringing the masses out "to light" was a good idea ? Why did you think this ?

But moving on : Pyatrowshchyna. You see where I'm going with this ?

And it's time to say good-bye to Minsk!

It's not altogether a bad place to visit. The food's great in the sense of ingredients, that you then prepare into actual food yourself ; there's no fine dining available anywhere. The girls are okay, in the sense of tall-ish and very slender ; they'd probably make wonderful wives to someone, and this'd probably work out a lot better for them if all the someones willing to take one wife weren't also exactly the someones ready to go into the bottle. The scene as such (any kind of scene) is entirely absent, nor its absence perceived as problematic by the locals.

Belarus, in a word, slumbers, dreaming a wonderfully simple dream all by itself, captive in solipsistic imaginarium. A different dream from the pantsuit version it may be, of course, and yet a dream it stays nevertheless. You obviously can take these raw ingredients and fashion them into a whip, if you can be arsed. I can't be arsed.

And here we come upon the outskirts of... Kiev, or as the locals seem to call it, Kyiv (there's at least half a dozen other possible, equally official, equally ubiquitous appelations, transcriptions, renditions and notatins for the relatively simple concept of "what the fuck do you call this town"!)

I enjoy comfortable quarters, widely cast nets and generally speaking sprawling infrastructure already on the ground ; thereby I've already amassed more besplendent gems of interestingly fascinating in my day-long history in this country than just about any of the locals can summon up, at all ; but we shall talk in a future installment about such things -- I have to take these sluts out for breakfast before they start gnawing on each other's arms in earnest.

Ta-duh.

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Saturday, 27 July, Year 11 d.Tr.

The "State of the Vidya" Address.

As you're perhaps aware, I was recently the only guy with a girlfriendi to ever sit down in the (very relatively) upscale vidya corner of the second saddestii mall in The Cultural Capital Of The European Unioniii. What a mouthful!

The context was very heavily competitive-sexual, if I recall, chiefly because a whole pile of pretender nonsense. So then... let's try and stick to these broad themes, why not.iv

This therefore will be a lengthyv article describing -- in no particular order but writ large and thickly underscored (in glitter) -- all about how my vidya comes alive at night and fucks your momster.vi

To begin where we left offvii :

mircea_popescu all joking aside : the best answer i could produce for the http://btcbase.org/log/2019-06-01#1916471 question stands as "choose between steamos and ubuntu", which in plain terms is "do you wish to make your computer a supernintendo and buy virtual cartridges for it ? or would you rather make your computer a mobile phone ?"

a111: Logged on 2019-06-01 11:34 mircea_popescu hmm, so since i'm building a gaming station... what's the republican notions for gfx-heavy os ?

mircea_popescu i chose the later, because... here's the problem : there's no because, properly speaking. "oh, hurr durr i want to own my games" wtf does this mean in a net context ? yes, i still have and still play homm2 / mm6 / gothicviii / whatever. but how the fuck are you going to meaningfully save a multiplayer game ? should they send me the server too ?

mircea_popescu there's no fucking difference. i expect to pay ~something~ because i don't expect anybody can just photosynthesize games into existence. i would like, of course, to have a say in how that money is spent, so that i don't end up paying 99% of my money on ever-greater-pixelcount textures, support for 4k px wide monitors and other such joys. but... wide franchise amirite, you know from the get-go that idiocy's gonna rule all things and you can't expect game makers to solve problems fucking "our democracy" altogether hasn't managed to even verbalize or conceptualize, let alone even take the first steps towards solving. so as a factual matter, i expect ima pay something, and i expect it'll be entirely meaninglessix. in which case, da fuck do i care whether it's a mobile phone and you "own the games" or a nintendo and you "own the cartridges" except... well, you know, you virtually own them.

mircea_popescu anyways, so having unsubstantiably chosen to make the box a phone, now we gotta pick a ubuntu. leaving aside the "manuals" and "with luck everything will just work" lulzies ("Achieve your AI ambitions quickly, reliably and cost-effectively. Multi-cloud operations for the full enterprise AI stack "), the choice comes between Ubuntu 18.04.2 LTS (LTS stands for long-term support -- which means five years, until April 2023, of free security and maintenance updates, guaranteed.) and Ubuntu 19.04 (comes with nine months, until January 2020, of security and maintenance updates.)

mircea_popescu what the fuck sense does this make is anyone's fucking guess. why the fuck would you ever review the os on a box ?! this is the fucking definition of the os in the first place -- that part of software that DOESN'T need to change. it hugs the hardware and is changed with the fucking hardware. the name for software that changes with the user's pubic hairdo fashions is USERLAND. why the fuck am i... o look at that, there's 1.9 GB to download! the OS!!!! is two gigs. and of fucking course it's coming down a trickle pipe, so it was a 10 hour download when it started, half hour ago, then moved to 15 hours as i started ranting, and by now it's claiming to be done in 35 hours.

mircea_popescu who the fuck ever heard of such nonsense ?!

In the end I picked Ubuntu whichever, one of the two, and upon booting the box I quicklyx discovered that... well... you can just download the Steam client, there's really no point, no benefit, nor much thought put into the whole OS thing. Merge si asa.

And after discovering that I further discovered in even shorter order that... no seriously, there's nothing the fuck there. Looksy :

Leaving aside how Valve's contribution to worldxi affairs seems to be the production of a deeply fucked in the head browserxii : I looked through all of those, and yes I do mean all of those. Not like it takes much to examine a coupla hundred items, you realise ?

There's nothing the fuck worth the mention, besides Dead Maze (which is a browser game anyway, you need Steam for it like you need Steam to get laid), a shitton of DOTAs (which are the hunchback demiurge's gift to gaming, they principally exist to keep insufferable junior-high age morons off everyone's lawns) and, I guess, Albionxiii there's literally nothing there.

But let's leave this open, why not. If anyone ever hears of an actually good game on Steam, such as to justify having a whole fucking "platform" on account of it, please, let me know. So far the best description I can think of for that bondogle is "Windows 3.1 returned from beyond the grave".

Moving on to greener pastures : Nutaku actually has a few interesting titlesxiv (among oodlebunches of "idle" gamesxv and assorted glorified dreck). List time :

I. Cosmic Shock League, easily the best game I've seen so far during this adventure, takes the familiar tile swap mechanic (Candy Crush, possibly world's most successful video game to date, yes > Tetris) to a whole new level. Here, let's start with an image and I can then explain :

So : on the bottom, your stone well ; on top the enemy's. The object is the same old "to form as many combinations as possible", and yet :

Whenever you match some stones on your board, they shoot at the enemy's board, potentially destroying some of his stones. If this happens, the remnants will hurt his HP a little.

Your stone well flows upwards, the enemy's downwards. Because better combos tend to accumulate towards the bottom of a well, your most valuable creations have a better-than-average chance to be destroyed by the enemy before you can use them. This adds a first layer of strategic depth to competitive play.

There's a (lengthy) list of heroes ("mostly" girls... ya know) whom you can "seduce" into joining your ranksxvi. They're all color-associated, they all have specific skillsxvii they can unleash once their bar gets filled (through the matching of color-appropriate stones). The usual mechanics of upgrading, tiers of quality etcetera are all involved.

Once their bar is filled the first time, heroes must be deployed on the field. This means you can no longer match the stones under them ; it further means that they soak up a significant amount of damage (the hitpoint figure under their icons) protecting stones behind them. However, should they get killed not only will you not be able to use their services again that game (which is quite crippling) but they'll also pass on to you the damage they had soaked up. So... do you want them in front where they can protect stones or in the back where stones protect them ?

I must say I'm quite fucking impressed.

II. Cunt Wars is doing more towards cunt integration, here, have some samplers :

It's a quick and angry card trading game typexviii. Honestly I prefer this quickness, even if it comes with simplicity -- or rather, because it does. This field tends to be overrun by the sort of broken thinker who will "fix" fundamental problems by adding complexity, so that the problems have somewhere to hide. I remain unpersuaded ; for all the pretense of afficionados, the genre does not benefit from the extremely wankish intricacy they tend to favour for transparently obvious psychological reasons. To put it more formally, strategic depth comes from mathematical analysis, not from careful fitting of constants and parameters. It's a matter of limits, not a matter of values.

Be that as it may, there's not much better on all of Steam than Cunt Wars. This is evidently saying a lot ; I'm just not terribly sure what exactly.

III. Sabers Edge is also good. The core mechanic is chainingxix rather than stone swap, but the game itself is quite well made. Here's a screenshot :

I would propose the (entirely spurious, by the way) chicks painted on either side of the tablet emulator are remarkably representative of the game altogether. They're not the worst examples of their kind, are they ? Overstylisized to all hell, and not necessarily in the best of ways, this is Saber's Edge exactly : overdone to a remarkable degree in places, yet with shocking stumps and strangely neglected sharp corners leftover (really, that arm is that thin ?!).

As far as the chaining mechanic is concerned, however, I would say this is one of the better implementations. For instance : the stone that needs to pee (leftmost column, 2nd from bottom) is a linker, permitting you to get the other players in on your turn ; the stone immediately under it is a skill activator. The coin purse looking stone's a loot item, you want to clear under it so you get the 500 gold pieces. The saber and the pistol are direct damage stones, the octopus and the shards thing do whole team damage, there's enough strategic interest here to keep one occupied a few pleasant hours.

IV. Honey Crush is a rather frank Candy Crush rip-off, with some arguably interesting bells-and-whistles added in a stiff sauce of unpleasant graphics.

And that'd be pretty much... it.

Here I sat, and for a whole day dug back and forth through the accreted pile of the bestestmost on offer in virtual promiscuity and online playful sexuality. For a good chunk of that day my slaves sat behind me, and watched, and we made merry. The only conclusion available, sad as it may be, is that by and large the virtual, the simulated, the imaginary, the unchained-from-constraints-of-reality fails to keep up!

The problem of the simulacrum is none other than, simply, modestly, "nobody could have predicted"-lyxx its ultimate failure to cope with reality. Howsoever super-duper, however advanced, however technological, however introduced, reduced, maintained, insinuated, adjusted, it ultimately fails to interest.

In a word, I would say the strategic mistake of game makers was to eschew ludens for simulans sometime with the turn of the millenium. This choice has produced no payoff. This choice is an utter and complete dead end.xxi

The remaining question would be, "if people do not play anymore, in what sense can they be called people anymore ?". From one perspectivexxii the answer's a very round and resounding "no". Let's hear it then for the "other", supposedly, perspective -- because it seems to me even the crickets are fading out.

The current State of the Vidya would be that as the hardware became cheaper than ever, the unpleasant observation that "the people themselves" have actually nothing whatsoever to say became ever more difficult to eschew. And it's not just the state of the vidya, either.

———Hey, my slaves have girlfriends (as in, girls they fuck) -- which thereby are my girlfriends. That's just how slavery works, deal with it. [↩]The saddest mall en titre would be this sad atrocity leftover from the 2000s (Iulius Mall).

It is a sort of "the mall that Jack built", incomprehensibly constructed upon itself (unhelpfully if very typically bereft of the most basic navigational aids, such as a Roman floorplan, or even a fucking map, anywhere) that's regularly encountered with the air pumps turned off (such that spending a half hour inside the suffocating perimeter delineated by glass doors very much approximates living in the United States -- the mostly Miami-bound locals eminently don't seem to care at all) and otherwise consists of nothing but wrong planes that completely defy further description, shitty shops specializing in selling Boggle through the offices of exceptionally slow if unremarkably (in context) opinionated old women and so forth.

Oh, and there's construction work incessantly ongoing.

Oh, and the access path, well hidden as it is, requires you to traverse multiple workyards, carefully single file past, around and in between heavy machinery... I can't imagine anyone whose culture these orcs are so very ineptly appropriating could even recognize the item for what the locals pompously label it as.

It's a potato picturetaker/scryingstone, what can I tell you. [↩]No joke. [↩]Certainly pissing off the multitudes comes with no appreciable drawback, as experience has amply shown over the decades. [↩]I should hope by now nobody is about to take such warnings lightly ? [↩]I mean, I could simply write an article about how "hey, happened to try a console game for half hour while killing time at the mall, and it made me feel like trying on gaming again", all simple and modest and normal-like, but... seriously, what'd be the fun in twat ?

O hait... [↩]For the very curious : the system in question's an AMD FX-8370 mounted on a Gigabyte 970A (also known as a motorcycle). The video card's a Palit GeForce GTX 1070 that weighs significantly more than the whole CPU-motherboard assemblage (and, I suspect, draws more wattage). This goes via HDMI to a Samsung CF391 32" monitor. That'd be ~all, besides 4x8 GB ram sticks and some Seagate whatever.

It is remarkable to me that the a top of the line gaming station can be had for significantly less money in nominal terms than twenty or so years ago, which is the last time I did this. Inflation easily ate another factor of two (more like five) in the interval, meaning that the hardware support for vidya has reduced in price a degree of magnitude while I wasn't even looking! Fucking unbelievable, what can I say.

And yes, I'm aware the interweb's full of stories about how "the CPU is 200-odd Watts while the motherboard's about half that" and so this isn't a possible config -- and hey, maybe that's even true, in some other cases (perhaps older motherboard ?). Nevertheless, it is not my experience with my particular board. I had the item laying around, I figured "what the hell, let's see" on the very strong basis of "who even cares, it's like a hundy, if it falls down I can just get a 990 or whatever". Yet so far I've seen the CPU taking on 7.5 7.4 7.1 load averages without either catching fire or shutting down, and as far as anyone can tell it is operating at its intended 4.4GHz clock frequency. What can I say, to avoid saying "the internets lie" ? You go ahead and say it for me. [↩]Ever killed Garond, btw ? [↩]Have you noticed this difference, between meaningful payment, that nourishes and grows an ecosystem and meaningless payment that just supports the idiocy empire ? [↩]Not so quickly. First it had to download a further half-GB junk ; then it downloaded Steam, then Steam itself wanted a quarter GB of junk. If I weren't sitting on a fat pipe this'd have come to tears in short order.

And by the way, why the fuck is a crank the visual representation for something called "steam" ? Is this by reason of the nutrients that plants need or something ? [↩]This "world" thing might very well be an overstatement -- the twelve million they claim (and I have little inclination to take any USG agency's claims of this nature at face value) is an understatement of the gaming population any year after 1980. There were more than twelve million kids playing games off deck tapes back in 1989 by a damn sight, yo! [↩]Picking among a rich list of shit : their implementation of an url bar is... uneditable, so that inept stuff like https://store.steampowered.com/genre/Free%20to%20Play/#p=5&tab=ConcurrentUsers sits there unpunished, and if you want to go to page 12 you gotta click and click and click, nevermind "url hacking", god forbid. %20for%20the%20win!

If I didn't dislike Joel so very much I'd quote here his story on how Mozilla died the first time around. [↩]Which... whatever, it's a remake of ye olde Everquest 2, up to date. The graphics are pretty and the immediate interactions reasonably polished, but the economy's ever as fucking broken every way to China as always. It's like looking at live trilobites. [↩]Note that the titties are mostly bolted-on, tittilation's not usually a plot device. The usual process through which these folk seem to make "an adult game" is by taking some innocent game on its own devices eminently fit for 12yos and adding some (often crudely drawn) cutscenes, splash screens and backgrounds more in the vein of their interest. [↩]Some of the most offensive stupid shit ever! This was a novelty parody item in the 90s, "self-playing RPG", mostly intending to satirize the low effort products of inept developers piling fedex quests meaninglessly atop each other -- but, as is the fate of all parody, the god damned leeches stuck to it and now they're turning them out by the bushel. Cuz whatever, "it's easy" holy hell...

There's no teaching by satire when confronted with committed lowest-possible-effort players, because they'll just take the failures satirized as a new upper bound in life. [↩]This comes with the mandatory if spurious "gallery" mechanic, whereby as you level them up they "unlock" hentai drawings, as fucking if one can't just peruse a collection if so inclined. But whatever. [↩]Let's review my set (seen on the left). From top to bottom : first one freezes 7 random enemy tiles (so they can't be used at all for one turn) whenever her bar fills ; she further freezes a random enemy hero on deployment, and on death also. Yeah, she's epic. Second one spawns hp-giving overlays on a 2x8 set of stones in the middle of the board. Because yes, stones can get overlays, what, problem ? Third one throws two grenades, each doing a hefty chunk of damage on a 4x4 set of squares. This is absolutely invaluable in PvE situations because she throws over any barricares, has won more campaign games for me than any other. Finally, the fourth sprays a sorta bazooka everywhere, hitting lots and lots of stones for significant damage.

Both the top ones are blue, and both the bottom ones are red, meaning I'm wasting my time breaking yellow or green stones ; but also correspondingly that I get twice the benefits from breaking blue and red. This then adds yet another layer of strategic depth, because are these trade-offs worth it ? [↩]You know the kind, where there's 3 to 5 lanes, and you plop down cards that have an attack value, a resistence value, and some special effects -- whoever dominates a lane gets to attack the opponent directly and drain his HP to eventual death. It's supposed to be all creative and fascinating and whatnot, but in practice it turns out there's just not that many things one can do -- give bonus attack to cards on either side, maybe some add-on conditional damage, DOT, whatever. [↩]Also played with stones in a well, but usually the geometry's hexagonal rather than the universally square swappable tiles. The idea is that you form the longest chains you can (and, obviously, try to leave the board in such a shape as to make your task at forming long chains next time around as easy as possible). [↩]Nobody excepting, of course, absolutely everyone -- starting with the Latins. [↩]A dead end, but not merely a dead end. A very familiar dead end, a most comfortable dead end, entirely reminiscent of the mental structure producing and justifying Obama's losing bets on "alternative green energy" or more broadly USG.blue's all-in bets on "Artificial Intelligence", pedestrianly redefined from its early Minsky-Chomsky roots into a trite "systems of really really many linear equations with really really numerous variables hidden behind very small parameters". There's a certain something uniting all these "excel spreadsheets in space" attempts at eschewing the actual problems of interest today.

Undeniably there's something more there than mere coincidence, merely taking the wrong turn as any traveler on any road is wont to sooner or later do, merely having chosen a strategy at random that never paid off. Rather, it seems to me, this was the stuff that they wanted to work. The stuff they needed to work. Turning this matter on all its facets, I can't escape the -- barely intuited yet omnipresent -- impression that what's actually hiding under the phenomenological detritus is the very scary grin of the fundamental failure of the Empire.

The simulacrum simply doesn't fucking work, yet again. Wut do ?! [↩]"One perspective" is one possible way of referring to the only possible, and therefore universally obligatory perspective, why not. [↩]

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Category: Trolloludens

Friday, 07 June, Year 11 d.Tr.

The squares, and the holes.

So is Ginger your friend ?

Um... I mean sure, we're friends. But she's really my hole.

What does that mean ?

Oh, it's really complicated.

I'd really like to know.

Ok, it's like this : I'm a rich girl, right ? I mean, just look around. So it wouldn't be right for me to marry just some like random scumbag or you know, nobody like that. Besides, Daddy has a lot of business partners and things, and sometimes it's best if your daughter marries the right guy for the business, you know.

So you'll just marry whoever your father picks for you ?

Oh, sure. Of course. Who else ?

I don't know. Some girls want to pick their own husband.

Now that's just silly. Why would they want something like that ?

Maybe they think they know better, make sure he really likes them.

How could they know better ? It's so much work, you have to look at so many things... do they also run their Daddy's businesses for him ?

Some do, sure.

And how old are they ?

What do you mean ? Every year they're a year older, it changes with time.

Yes, but when they marry.

Oh, I... I guess about thirty or so.

How does that make any sense ? I'm seventeen, I already told Daddy I wanna be married. He said maybe a year or two.

What did you say ?

I told him ok, but please more a year than two.

How come ?

I started having dreams at night. I dream of being all swelled up, and having a weight in my arms, and suckling... you know, it's time.

Aren't you too young ?

When you start getting the dreams, you're already too old. That's what all the Ladies say.

What do you mean, the ladies ?

You know, all the married Princesses.

So your father's looking for a husband for you ?

I'm sure he was looking for many years now. All his partners, too. They knew he had a daughter when I was born, they knew I'll grew up into a fine Princess for one of their sons for almost twenty years now. They must have figured some things out.

Then why does it take a year or two ?

I don't know, it's Daddy's business. Maybe he has to pick. Or maybe he just thinks I should suffer.

That's okay with you ?

Sure. He's my Daddy, anything he says is okay with me.

For how long ?

Haha. Until I get married.

So then... maybe he just doesn't want to lose you yet ?

Awww, that's so sweet. Yes, maybe he doesn't.

But... wait a second. The way you describe it all... shouldn't you be a... hm... a maiden ? When you marry ?

What's a maiden ?

You know, a girl that's never had... I mean...

Like a virgin ?

That's it.

Oh, of course. Absolutely. Oh my god, I could nevert insult one of Daddy's friends like that. What do you mean, make a cuck of his son ?! I'd die of shame first.

So... so you're... you're a....

Of course I am! Untouched like the day I was born.

But I mean... at all ?!

Not at all! Not my lips, not my tongue, not my vulva, not my rectum, not between my thigs, no single finger, never, nowhere. Really, I caught a glimpse. Twice. But I don't even look. Some of my friends look, they say it's ok to look, but... I don't know. They say it leads you into worse things, I'm maybe not as strong willed as them, so I just don't.

So you never had a boyfriend ?

Haha what. Am I so ugly ?

No, not at all, absolutely not. You're gorgeous, simply breathtaking.

I heard that before. So I've had lots of boyfriends. I've had... three... five... nine... I've had ten boyfriends. That's lots isn't it ?

Kinda is... especially by seventeen...

Yeah huh!

So you never were friends with them for very long ?

Oh, depends... with Joey for instance for a whole year, we split on the aniversary.

How come, did you argue ?

Oh, no. He just wanted to try being with other girls, you know.

Were you very upset ?

I wasn't upset at all, why should I be upset ? So many boys kept begging me to be their girlfriend...

But didn't Joey try to...

What ?

You know... do things.

What do you mean ? We did things all the time.

But I mean... sexually...

Oh. That too, of course.

Of course ?!

Well... Joey is a good boy, no ? His Daddy has a lot of money. How could I not show his son a good time ? I'd be ashamed of myself. Imagine, if Joey's Daddy went to my Daddy and said, "you know, your daughter's not really entertaining my son so well". What would Daddy say ? I'd be so sorry... I'd beg him to cane me really really hard to make it go away, and maybe it wouldn't even.

So Joey had sex with you ?

Oh, sure. Lots and lots of times. Every time he wanted to.

Every time ?!

Sure. Well, not like at the table or something... although we did that once, too. It was only Ladies there, and they said it's okay. They said it's very cute, actually. They also said my body's very beautiful, and I remind them of this Lady from their time. She's very famous for her good looks, they all defer to her in respect. I was shy at first about it, but it was very good. It's a cherished memory.

But... how is this possible ?! How can you be... how can you marry... if you've had lots of sex with your boyfriends...

What's the problem ?

It's not possible!

Why not ?

Because... look, it doesn't make any sense. To have sex, the boy's penis has to move inside of you, somehow, somewhere. And you said...

Ah, that. I have my holes, like every princess, don't I ?

I... I... yes, I'm sure you do.

So then, what's the problem.

I'm so confused...

I don't know why, it's really very simple, Joey just fucked my holes.

He did ?

Oh yes.

And your other nine boyfriends ?

Oh yeah, also. Especially the others, actually... they were later, so they fucked my holes really really hard.

Many times ?

So, so many times... Almost every day this year. What almost... like last week, Tuesday, we did it like I think seven times. Or eight.

All your holes ?

Well yeah, with something like that... he fucked all my holes like twice. Even more some.

But you're a virgin.

Of course. Didn't we walk about that already ?

I don't understand how this is possible.

What's the problem ?! It's me that's the virgin, not my holes. They're well used, poor darlings.

You're a virgin but your holes are well used.

That's right. That's what being a teenaged Princess is all about!

It sounds more like magic.

Haha. They say my Daddy's a magician! So yeah!

Is one used more than the others ?

I think so... maybe Sarah, I guess.

You have girl names for your holes ?

Haha what a silly question. The boys would be really weirded out if they had boy names. And everyone else.

Other people know about it ?

Of course. Everyone knows. How could they not ?

You're very open about it, huh. So what are they all called ?

Sarah, Ginger and Susannah.

Wait, Ginger ?

Yes, the girl you just met.

Ginger, the girl I just met, is your hole ?!

I said that, didn't I ?

So you mean... you named your hole after her ?

No I didn't name my hole after her, what sense does that make ? Ginger is my hole.

But... what sense does that make ?! Oh my god... oh god... you mean... when you say they fucked your holes really hard, what you mean is Ginger, the girl I met, she was there too, and they fucked her, instead of fucking you they fucked her ?

Yes, that's how it goes before the marriage. After you're married your husband fucks you, but before you're married your boyfriend fucks your hole.

Oh my god.

Yeah. It's wonderful.

It is ?!

Oh yeah.

So for instance when you said, at the table...

Yes, Joey and I kissed, and he fondled my breasts and held me tight and everything...

... and all the while...

... Ginger was sucking him off under the table. He had a great time, he said it was the best dinner ever. She's a great sucker, everyone says.

That's just unbelievable.

It's so great, you know... holding them while they lose themselves in your hole... they're so cute and lovable... it's just... it's the greatest thing. Plus they make faces and... you know, you have to suck that last breath, yeah ?

And that time Tuesday, when you said...

Yep, I held Susannah while he plowed her. It's great, you know, you feel the strength of his thrusts between your thighs, if you hold the hole from behind. And I sat on Sarah's face and held her ankles back so it hurt her. She had to kiss my ass and I didn't even let her breathe. You know when you pull legs back like that it hurts really bad where the inside is. I really made her suffer, I was so pissed off with her.

What did she do ?

She was just being a little bitch. But that's all bygones now, she apologized, and we made up, we're besties again.

So Ginger...

Ah, she doesn't like to fuck between the legs so much. She likes it in her mouth. She didn't do so much, mostly kissed his ballsack from behind and rubbed herself and the other holes. She's really good giving the clit orgasm, too! She has the perfect rythm for it.

So Ginger's like a human Hitachi wand.

What's that ?

You know, that large vibrator thing, looks like a wand.

What's a vibrator ?

Um... you never seen one ?

I don't think so...

It's this plastic thing that vibrates.

Like a massage piece ?

Yeah, but you put it down there...

Ew, that's unpleasant. Doesn't it feel unpleasant, the vibration ?

It is a little unpleasant, I guess... but it also gets you off.

Yeah, but...

What do you want, not everbody can be a Princess.

Well... they should be a hole, then.

How does one become a hole anyways ? Like for instance Ginger.

Oh, daddy bought her from her folks. They were very poor, she was starving the poor thing.

How old was she ?

He bought her when I was twelve, I remember. And we're the same age... so she must've been also twelve.

So how did she become your hole ?

Well... daddy took her virginity...

Your father fucked your hole too ?!

Oh, no. She wasn't my hole yet, then. He just bought her, and used her for a while, and then I started bleeding so the Ladies of the house picked three of the younger girls and told me about things and they were my holes.

Just like that, huh ?

Just like that.

Don't you think maybe Ginger wants to be married herself ?

She probably will be married, when I marry. I mean I don't know, we haven't talked yet, but many holes do. Daddy will find her a nice hard working kid, and make them a dowry. Or I guess she could also stay on to work in the house, if she wants. Maybe if she doesn't like any of the matches. Depends on her luck too, I guess...

What about the others ?

Ah, Suzy's going to be my wet nurse, we talked all about it. She's got these gorgeous tits, have you seen her ?

I don't think so...

Oh, I'll make her show you when I see her. it's something else, I've never seen tits like hers anywhere. She's going to feed all my babies.

But doesn't she have to... I mean... in order to...

Yes, she has to get pregnant when I do. Your milk doesn't flow unless you're pregnant.

So that means...

Oh yea, she'll get gangbanged. It's the most fun way to make sure. You know what that is ? It's when they get a lot of men in the room with you and they just go at you over and over again until you pass out from it.

Yeah, I've heard of it.

I think she really wants that for herself.

She doesn't want to get married ?

Maybe later, Daddy says. But no, now she just wants to be used lots and lots. She eggs my boyfriends on, too. I told her not to do it, but she still does a little. She's a troublemaker, and she's crafty, too! One time Daddy gave her a very stern talk and at the end threatened to tie her on the back of a mare and make the horse go on her instead of the mare, you know, and she said "Please..." like you see, everyone could take it "please don't" like she's begging him not to but she twinkled her eye like she meant "please do that to me" instead. That's how she is.

So what did your father say ?

He told me to whip her.

Did you ?

Oh yeah, I whip her lots. I think she likes that, too. It's good practice for me, anyway, for when I'll be married, so I can whip well. It's hard to do right, you know, hard enough but not too hard ? Needs a lot of practice to get right. Depends on the girl, also, the girl getting whipped, I mean. Some are harder than others, you have to know, feel them out first, how their bones go, their flesh. It's complicated.

And Susannah still wants to be your wet nurse, even though you whip her ?

Of course. Susannah loves me, she'll do anything for me.

I don't know... everyone here seems so happy...

And why shouldn't they be ?

« Kotelna

I suppose we could call this a State of the Sadness ; or other things »

Category: Cuvinte Sfiinte

Saturday, 26 October, Year 11 d.Tr.

The slut, and the whore.

Let's set the stage with some choice Samuel Pepys quotes.

Firstly :

Thence by coach to Mrs. Pierce's, where my wife and Deb. is; and there they fell to discourse of the last night's work at Court, where the ladies and Duke of Monmouth and others acted "The Indian Emperour;" wherein they told me these things most remark able: that not any woman but the Duchesse of Monmouth and Mrs. Cornwallis did any thing but like fools and stocks, but that these two did do most extraordinary well: that not any man did any thing well but Captain O'Bryan, who spoke and did well, but, above all things, did dance most incomparably. That she did sit near the players of the Duke's house; among the rest, Mis Davis, who is the most impertinent slut, she says, in the world; and the more, now the King do show her countenance; and is reckoned his mistress, even to the scorne of the whole world; the King gazing on her, and my Lady Castlemayne being melancholy and out of humour, all the play, not smiling once. The King, it seems, hath given her a ring of L700, which she shews to every body, and owns that the King did give it her; and he hath furnished a house for her in Suffolke Street most richly, which is a most infinite shame. It seems she is a bastard of Colonell Howard, my Lord Berkshire, and that he do pimp to her for the King, and hath got her for him; but Pierce says that she is a most homely jade as ever she saw, though she dances beyond any thing in the world. She tells me that the Duchesse of Richmond do not yet come to the Court, nor hath seen the King, nor will not, nor do he own his desire of seeing her; but hath used means to get her to Court, but they do not take. Thence home, and there I to my chamber, having a great many books brought me home from my bookbinder's, and so I to the new setting of my books against the next year, which costs me more trouble than I expected, and at it till two o'clock in the morning, and then to bed, the business not being yet done to my mind.

And then,

17th. Up, and by coach to White Hall to attend the Council there, and here I met first by Mr. Castle the shipwright, whom I met there, and then from the whole house the discourse of the duell yesterday between the Duke of Buckingham, Holmes, and one Jenkins, on one side, and my Lord of Shrewsbury, Sir John Talbot, and one Bernard Howard, on the other side: and all about my Lady Shrewsbury, who is a whore, and is at this time, and hath for a great while been, a whore to the Duke of Buckingham. And so her husband challenged him, and they met yesterday in a close near Barne-Elmes, and there fought: and my Lord Shrewsbury is run through the body, from the right breast through the shoulder: and Sir John Talbot all along up one of his armes; and Jenkins killed upon the place, and the rest all, in a little measure, wounded. This will make the world think that the King hath good councillors about him, when the Duke of Buckingham, the greatest man about him, is a fellow of no more sobriety than to fight about a whore. And this may prove a very bad accident to the Duke of Buckingham, but that my Lady Castlemayne do rule all at this time as much as ever she did, and she will, it is believed, keep all matters well with the Duke of Buckingham: though this is a time that the King will be very backward, I suppose, to appear in such a business. And it is pretty to hear how the King had some notice of this challenge a week or two ago, and did give it to my Lord Generall to confine the Duke, or take security that he should not do any such thing as fight: and the Generall trusted to the King that he, sending for him, would do it, and the King trusted to the Generall; and so, between both, as everything else of the greatest moment do, do fall between two stools. The whole House full of nothing but the talk of this business; and it is said that my Lord Shrewsbury's case is to be feared, that he may die too; and that may make it much the worse for the Duke of Buckingham: and I shall not be much sorry for it, that we may have some sober man come in his room to assist in the Government.

Thus equipped, let's proceed to a little... well, what shall we call the activity we're about to engage in here ?

Lo and behold, we can't proceed to doing for lack of knowing what to call it first, and then they want to blame the man for the failure of the means to meaning, and ontology over gnoseology's structural inadequacy! I didn't do it, myself! It was broken to begin with, and surely way the fuck before I got here!

Nevertheless we shall try, for what else is life besides trying to fashion some thing straight out of the crummy Holze of idealia ? And then fail, of course, subtly, in a sense not-so-obvious at the time, but surely, oh so very surely to be discovered later, and woe and sulphur fire and a fie upon us, why not.

So, a dictionary is an alphabetic list of words, giving their definition. How exactly such a thing as a definition can be had in an alphabetic list is anyone's guess -- all acceptable definitions always proceed from proximate genus through specific difference, there's no such thing as constructive definitions, built out of imaginarily atomic small parts of language (for lack of such atomic parts in language, what the fuck would they be, conjunctions ? "word" is ultimately defined "as of in of of at by under of", in that order ?). Even a historical ordering of words (taking after the traditions in teaching philosophy) would make much more sense than an alphabetical listing, actually.

Meanwhile a thesaurus is an attempt (always doomed, by the way) to group words by concepts somehow, such that the user may employ the tool to maybe find the word best adequate to his expressive needs. Obviously enough this only works for relatively advanced users of the language, people who already pretty well know not merely what they mean to say, but sorta-kinda how their saying would most likely look. The equivalent joke to the dictionary's own "how do I spell fuckupitude ?" "look it up in the dictionary" "how can I look it up in the dictionary if I don't know how to spell it ?" finds itself not even expressible at all in this context, but for this impossibility of expression the thing that needs expressin's still right there : how is one to know how to use a thesaurus ? Even leaving aside how no such thing as a thesaurus can ever be made, for lack of a correct V-tree of concepts in the first place, how is anyone to use it ? By "guessing from context" ? Gee.

But be all that as it may, the word we're looking for here doesn't even exist, for we do not aim towards a dictionarization here, but rather a thesauring. That's what I meant to say above, five good paragraphs up : "Thus equipped, let's proceed to a little thesauring". We're going to proceed in the manner of what a thesaurus aims to be yet never manages : learn how to think better by comparing concepts and following the differences, them fabled "whisks of meaning" of ye rare and radiant wonder which was here, which is now hoare an' lies dead forevermore.

Here I stand then, a man aiming to express, looking around, and finding not the tool needed to fashion the expression, let alone the desired expression pre-made, who then sits down, and step by step fashions the tool so he may in turn fashion the form with it ; and in observing me we understand why a thesaurus can never be had : it is a circumcvadrature, an item from the arsenal of hopes and desires of the wizard apprentice, not a thing of this world. Asking for a thesaurus is like asking for money for nothin' an' chicks fo' free, it beggars the end of even the possibility of meaning. It can't be had, for if it could be had, there'd no further be a need for it at all -- what'd you do with "a better car" had at the cost of making movement outright impossible, what does a statis want vehicular performace for ? A thesaurus, as the imaginary "grandfather's glasses which by themselves permit reading", as all other prosthetics for humanity, will exist only inasmuch as the user's propensity to lies and self-delusion, not one inch further.

Now thus equipped, let us look at the matters. Why is Miss Davis the most impertinent slut, or rather, what does the speaker wish to make true ?

And, on the other hand : Anna Maria was born to Robert Brudenell (who, two decades later, would succeedi as the second Earl of Cardigan). As an already well used seventeen year old she was married off to Francis Talbot, the eleventh Earl of Shrewsbury. She was married in January, and was delivered of a son in July nextii. Her duty, "to society" or however you construe it therefore having been paid, in blood, she went to her own life, and by 1662 the first baron Dover and the Earl of Carlisle's younger brother were fighting a duel ; the baron was left for dead.

Then comes the event here discussed, because the quote's from Pepys' journals for 1668 : on the 16th of January of that year, roughly speaking for her 8th marriage anniversary, George Villiers, the second Duke of Buckingham fought a duel with the woman's husband. Presumably the husband had had enough of this business where other men enjoyed his wife's offices and wanted for a change to be the one fighting in the duel, what the fuck. It didn't work out for him -- the pudgy, unimpressively frog-like George drove Francis clear through. The winner later fought a further half-dozen men over this same whore, with similar success -- who knows, maybe theirs was a soulmate match made in heaven ? Isn't that the criteria ? I thought that's what you thought was the criteria.

In any case, the woman was taken to the Duke's house, where she lived with his wife, as his mistress, and had his children, who were baptised at Westminster, etcetera.

So tell me now, what makes the whore ? And what makes the slut ? What is the meaning of the words ?

It is this : the slut is the female that disregards the needs of society, however society itself construes them, and fulfills her own needs. That's the sophomore whining about "that slut" : how dares that cunt think of her own cunt before mine ? I wanted that cock inside myself, how can she get it inside herself! Isn't she here supporting cast for the movie I star in ?!?!?!

And this is, too, Pepys' wife's complaint : how dare miss Davis enjoy the ring the king gave her when other people had other expectations ? She'd be a slut for merely enjoying, but for making plain display of her indifference to their mutually agreed upon nonsense, she is also impertinent. She should have refused the king's ring, for Castlemayne's sake, thinks every mula in the land, because not shaking lazy dumb cunts out of their complacency is the first and foremost principle of dumb cunt society -- and everyone else's an impertinent slut!!!

Meanwhile a whore... well, here it is : while Buckingham fought her husband, Anne Marie, dressed as a page, which is to say, slave in period costumeiii, held his horse. She went with her partner rather than with her offspring, is the complaint, and she's a whore rather than a mother, that's the division. A woman will be sacrificed, as part and parcel of what necessarily, exclusively and unavoidably womanhood is. The choice before her is whether she will be sacrificed for the man who stuffs between her legs (and all he stands for), or for the things that crawl back out (and all they stand for). A mother, or a whore ? Her owner's, or her children's ?

I prefer sluts and whores simply because society's fucked and offspring superfluous. Were there society just as fucked but some kind of demand or need for offspring present (in the shape of child production being not merely +EV, but so significantly + it'd dwarf all, or at least most other activities), I'd prefer slutty mothers, and I'd sound just as gay as the Britsh Empire elite in fact did sound, throughout the duration of that arrangement. Were instead society well settled but offspring just as superfluous as now, I'd prefer chaste whores, which is entirely possible, all the Babylonian empire ran on exactly this principle, which is why they had ritual prostitution (and other things). Were society well settled and offspring necessary, I'd prefer chaste mothers, and sound as tediously boring as two centuries' worth of North American immigrants, from Massachussetts to the Great Plains.

No, I very well fucking wouldn't, of course not. But for the sake of argument, you know ? To understand each other.

Sluttery and whorishness are somewhat orthogonal concepts : one discusses whether the woman will do what's right or what she's expected to do ; the other discusses whether the woman will do what's right or merely expect for what she did to become right through the passage of time.

In short, and in lieu of a moral for this story : you can do a lot worse than to spend your life with sluts and whores. You could, for instance, fall in with idiots, as that'll be your perdition.

———Ever contemplated this, older, rounder and I expect proper meaning of your favourite word ? Success comes from "to succeed", which comes from... efficiently being the successor of someone. Yes ? That what you had in mind at all ? [↩]This means the next year. Had it been the same year I'd have said so. [↩]Yes, pages did take it up the ass at the owner's call, of course they did. [↩]

« The Famous Schlob, and other stories.

Why the females of any sexuate species are necessarily going to be lazy, stupid and annoying. »

Category: Gandesc, deci gandesc

Friday, 11 October, Year 11 d.Tr.

The Secret of Santa Vittoria

The Secret of Santa Vittoriai is at best a mediocre musical set to film, which works as well as you'd expect -- we've seen better, and besides the silver screen isn't really the idealii setting for that old show. Maybe a notch better than the Gene Kelly idiocies, "O'Brien to Ryan to Goldberg" muck, but not by a very thick margin.

Politeness aside, though, The Secret of Santa Vittoria is just run of the mill pantsuitist escapism, fantasy and Mary Sue-ing about. The village idiot of some remote parochial shithole in "Italy" (which is to say Indiana, Montana or Kentucky) necessarily and effortlessly, by the very act of existing in their manneriii defeats the republic (there represented, spuriously and a-historically, by "the Germans"). In a word, wank -- and so deeply derealised and anti-logical wankiv that it's hardly worth description. Pointing and laughing should suffice, "yes, look, this is what you are, this is what you think, #youtoo".

Anthony Quinn is at his usual -- insufferable ham, come see the moron show everyone, the moron's on!!! It works well in La Strada because there Fellini made him play himself ; but otherwise it's at best grating. Here, it kinda breaks the 4th wall for the intended audience, I'm sure. Supposedly Anna Magnani also plays in this thing, but her scenes honestly seem to have been added after the wrap.

———1969, by Stanley Kramer, with Anna Magnani, Anthony Quinn. As you can see, we're doing Anna. [↩]The whole "musical cinema" trend exists strictly as recuperation -- much like when musical notation was invented, a large chunk of music that wasn't notable went away while a larger chunk that was (at least to the taste of the notation folk) capable of being coerced into their new form was therewith so coerced.

Note how deep this cultural fashion goes : there you sit and think "it was not notable" means it was not important -- all the word means is that your notation was not capable of rendering some parts of reality, not the reverse, that some parts of reality weren't worthy of being reality. *-able, that which has the capacity to *, therefore note-able, that which has the capacity for being noted, literally written down. Right ? Welllll....

Similarly, when a new town is conquered whatever's amenable (principally, the young women) become a little pregnant, whereas the rest becomes a little dead. And similarily when the cheaper technology came around, the stage took it up the ass : vaudeville died, burlesque died, the musical died -- don't tell me, you're keeping it alive on respirators in New York, that immense decaying open-air reservation for corpses on respirators ?! Awww!!! -- parts and portions "transformed" into recordings in the new, lossy format. I know nothing more amusing in this world than a flac recording of a Hollywood cine-musical. [↩]This is important, the Jack Keefes in the audience ain't gone to school, not coincidentally but substantially. They're stupid, and they want to stay just as stupid. Militant idiocy, a purely colonial product, come from a negligible peripheral shithole that rode the Industrialization wave for a few generations and in the process formed the ridiculously untenable impression that this is actually "how the world is", ie, they won't have to ever put in any work. Maybe some noodly appendages manipulating the environment, but sure as fuck no seeing of things they dun wanna. [↩]Who the fuck provided all those bottles, they evidently have no foundry ? Wouldn't they keep notes ? Someone has a warehouse containing >1mn items somewhere and needs no labels ? How the fuck are people going to move their arms left to right over one million times, do some simple math, there's only 86`400 seconds in a full, 24 hour day, what, they were there two weeks ?

In short, the premise is that reality opens, like the Red Sea, and suddenly stops counting in all the parts Holy Pantsuit Mother dun really want it to -- but mind that this works for nobody else, only them. If this ain't the very essence of pubescent wank / socialist "thought" then I can't imagine what would be. [↩]

« Mamma Roma

Wild is the Wind »

Category: Trilematograf

Monday, 18 February, Year 11 d.Tr.

The sad inscription

The Yupik are a Northern tribe ; they make a scant, hard life among the frozen seas, perched on the perma-frost, chasing fish in the water like seals, and seals on the land like bears, the great white bears of the North. And running away from bears as best they can, when they do manage it.

The human capacity for happiness is constant, and constantly exercised ; the Yupik are as happy a tribe as any other tribe, they smile their stone-age smile just as well, and just as often, and just while more advanced tribes smile their Space Age smile -- it is, really, the same one smile. The human capacity for misery, however, is boundless, entirely boundless ; and the Yupik dwell below any degree of misery you could readily imagine. They haven't yet discovered soap, for lack of ready interaction of much abundant ash with young girls rising their skirtsi in the shallow waters, doing the laundry -- for one thing, it's never quite warm enough for bare-legged girls to enjoy the erotic capacities of the wake ; and for the other thing ash needs the burning of wood, for the Yupik more of a condiment than a waste product. Indeed, they use ash to season food, for absence of salt. It's good for them, actually, it goes a long way towards supplementing the many mineral defficiencies driven by living atop a pure water distillation plant.ii

They don't have pottery -- there's no clay anywhere, except a mile or three underneath the hard, hard ice. Ever tried to dig a hole in the ground ? It's a lot harder to dig a hole in ice. For the Yupik to make a clay pot the usual way stone-age Greeks made pots, it'd take ten to a hundred million times the effort -- meaning, the yearly production of a putative city of Athens in Yupik lands would be almost a third of an oil lamp. Except, of course, it's not one of those things where put in the effort, get the product, put in a millionth of the effort, get a millionth of the product. No, rather, it's an all-upfront sorta deal, either you do all the work, or else you get none of the product. You know, like discovering America : getting 10% of the way there is just as much "not getting there" as getting 99% of the way there -- which is why the Africans never discovered Zanzibar ; and why the Yupik never discovered the pits of their own misery.

There's no basket weaving, there's therefore no satellites, because yes, the satellite node requires, however many thousands levels above but nevertheless requires basket weaving. There's nothing else. Bones, and skins, and tendon rope, and nothing else.

Yet they have enough to make huts, and so they do ; and they have enough to put a lamp in the huts they made, and so they do also. They have enough to make children, and so they make those as well ; but in a world with no distractions life toghether between man and woman's outright impossibleiii, so they split their time : in the summer, while the fishing's good, they live out as families, catching salmon, perhaps even trapping seal if there's enough boys old enough to help. The rest of the year, however, the men live in the men's hut, with the boys ; while the women live in the women hut, with the girls.

It's not a hard or fraught separation, they don't get too excited by it, it's just a thing, like the coming of the snow, about as trepidatiously received as sunrise -- how many sunrises have you watched out for, to date ? And besides, they switch for a few weeks each year. The girls move into the men's hut, to learn how to trap and how to fish and other manly things, and to get impregnated ; while the boys move into the women's hut for the same interval, to learn how to cook, and clean, and make clothing and vessels of hides tanned in their own urine, and how to not kill the women.

The children come a few months prior to this, and the Yupik have a tradition, of giving the newborn child the name of the last one in the tribe to die. So when an old Yupik died one day, his eldest son, who respected and loved the man very much, took his tools to the great whale skeleton, a good day's sledride East, and days later returned with one of the great ribs of the long dead animal weighing down the dogs.

He put it upright in between the two huts, and on it, up top, he carved the name of his dead father -- because the children had just come, it was soon to be mixup time, which always confused things in the camp, and then the Summer will come again, with its separation of clans and families, before it'll be time for the children again ; and he didn't want his father's name to be forgotten by then. It was his turn, by rights ; and when the children do come it'll still be his turn, hot damn!

The Summer came, and went ; more Yupik died, and everyone asked to have their name carved on the pole at first, then just did it without asking -- the carving had become a tradition of the camp. Then the children started coming, and as they came the names were slowly removed, one by one, from the bottom -- the first child born took the last name released by its previous holder, and so slowly, by and by, new lives retracing old destinies, old souls coming back into the world as children, and with their coming striking name after name off the namebone until just one was left.

The son sat on his sled, and looked at the bone. His dogs sat around him, and looked at the bone too. His father's name was still on it, alone. The girls were all done, none swelled remained. The women, too. Next year, he thought. There's plenty of room on the bone, and next year his father's turn will come too.

Next year it didn't, though, nor the year after that, nor the next. Names came and went on the namebone, with the movement of the tides and the migrations of the fish and the seals ; sometimes more, and sometimes less. Sometimes, just one, always the same one, always there atop the list.

Eventually, the small Yupik tribe died out, and their camp died out, as is the fate of subsistence hunter-gatherer primitives, none of their dwelling places stand for thousands of years like the proud wonders of bronze and iron-age men. The huts, disused, were slowly ground down by the elements, which in that part of the world consist of water-air, and water-rock, and also, occasionally, water, pure and simple.

Eventually, only an upturned whale bone stood, barely discernible carvings struck out covering al its surface, except for one name, clearly still visible atop. The one name whose turn never again came.

The end ; though the seasons do go on.

———There's a (George Cosbuc I believe) poem I'd have liked to sample here, about some girls doing the wash, and checking to see if anyone's looking so as to lift their skirts higher (so they don't get wet!). Sadly I can't now find it, so...

If you know it let me know. [↩]Do you understand the horror of snow ?

Think, if you will. "Pure as driven snow", yes ?

Snow is not merely "water", such as the filthy, useless water in the rhyme of the ancient mariner, "water, water, everwhere -- yet not a drop to drink". Snow is recrystallized water, meaning absolutely pure water. Absolutely pure. When it vaporizes it leaves behind everything, everything else ; and when it comes back down again, fluffy insulation layer of perfect perfection, it's nothing else but itself : the definitive solvent.

There's no other solvent as competent as water. It'll readily dissolve things. Your things. All your things.

Snow holds you insulated with one hand, suspended however many inches, feet, miles above the life-giving Earth. Snow sucks the very everything out of you, through a process known as osmosis, with the other hand. The permafrost is an endless reservoir of nothingness, but ravenous, starved nothingness. It wants your everything -- do you have some potassium chloride ? It could dissolve ten quadrillion tons of it, how much you got ? How about sodium chloride ? How about anything else ?

Soon enough you'll be eating ash yourself, in an ultimately doomed attempt to preserve some semblance of minimal mineral load. See ? Living in that wasteland of perfection is a lot like living in a mechanical deboning plant. The teeth are much smaller and the workings much slower, but you are being deboned, step by step. [↩]"You take TV out of this relationship... it is pure torture!" [↩]

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Category: Cuvinte Sfiinte

Friday, 01 November, Year 11 d.Tr.

The Rose Tattoo

The Rose Tattooi is an unmitigated piece of shit.

The one thing that works well is Magnani's approximate grasp of the English language, resulting in awkward, simplistic constructions that nevertheless fail to grate -- principally because they're so amusingly reflective of the nonsensical, awkward, oversimplified relations the film's purporting to describe that you suspect deliberate tongue-in-cheek subversion.

To add insult to injury, the truck that burns because it exploded and explodes because it fell over (two whole feet!) and falls over because it was shot at, from a pistol, once, is evidently not being driven, by anyone, throughout. The cab's fucking empty, from the get-go. This is called symbolic in the trade, because it connotes (albeit unintentionally) the general state of things : nobody was involved in driving this project, it simply fell off a cliff, exploded and then burned down spontaneously, through sheer neglect.

You'll miss nothing by skipping it, except perhaps two hours' worth of contemplating just how fucking intolerable the average UStardian is, whether pretending to be a priest, a high-school teacher, a sailor or whatever else. But then again I can't conceive how this'd be a kind of merchandise in short supply for anyone, anywhere.

———1955, by Daniel Mann, with Anna Magnani, Burt Lancaster [↩]

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Category: Trilematograf

Tuesday, 19 February, Year 11 d.Tr.

The road to stupidity, part 0

Part 0 because really, there's no other parts. There's just one part and it is this one.i

The first thing we'll set on the table to support our discussion is a recent quote from the newer blood her ladyship the Marquess Eulora somehow accreted :

I had been observing the doings of the Republic from a distance but found myself faced with uncertainty and perhaps a little fear.(i) Meanwhile in my own affairs the "being an engineer" side of my mind, perhaps spurred on by having seen what it wanted to see in the engineering side of the Republic, was able to dig up plentiful problems to fix, supplying an arbitrarily tall pile of work with which to procrastinate while feeling productive, and at least some of the time bringing my novice management along for the ride. Thus I'd gotten myself stuck in a state of manaloning: not entirely isolated, to be sure, but missing the crucial upstream links of a network.

The second thing we'll set on the table is old indeed : the no-later-than point of divergence between republic and orcdom, back in year 1111.

Now then, the bullshit of 1122iv was a relatively unimportant event whereby an "agreement" was reached on how to dispose of matters already well disposed at that time. The correct solution, put forth by the Waiblingen side and actually agreed to by the chief pantsuitv of 1111 -- thereby becoming the only proper, and only possible Concordat -- held that the idle class may await the second, third or whicheverth coming at their pleasure or until they fall over, whichever comes first, but may derive no secular anything whatsoever from it no matter what happens. The subjection of the Mother, if you will, complete and unyielding, equating Lucy with utter and completely destitute poverty in perpetuity.

For reasons incomprehensible and which directly and immediately map upon evil, the idle class then proceeded to imagine an alternative chain of events, in which their fork of 1122 somehow "took over" and "mattered" and therefore there shall be some kind of something in this world for they awaiting the manifestations of the next, a little, no matter how little, an epsilon quanta of nothingness but something nevertheless.

To say that this nonsense is disputed by the Republic would do the situation no justice whatsoever. The correct statement is to observe that the Discordat of Worms is a concordat of no one with nobody in particular, and of no further interest. The awaiting of the manifestations of metaphysical transcendence is and will forever remain a purely spiritual activity, with no lands and no secular offices affixed thereby.

The third, and final item we'll set on the table is recent commentary in the very log :

mircea_popescu and in other important points : asciilifeform is not a scientist. asciilifeform is a scienpriest. the difference between the two is that the scientist follows some kind of meaningful structure of reality, that is communicable. "paradigm" or whatever. the scienpriest simply follows his own internal madness. there's a deep difference between the fisherman who goes fishing because there's fish to be fished, and the primitive who buries random objects a foot apart in the dirt, fish like corn cobs alike, because that's what he's doing. even if the former returns empty handed and the latter happens to strike a combination that works, nothing changes : one's human and the other not, one's rational and the other's just some flavour of magician. the difference between the two us readily ilustrated by the issue of recourse : if the fisherman fails to fish, he has recourse. if the magician fails to summon, he... has no recourse. can "try again", exactly like before. that's all. there is no such thing as scientist "by himself". contrary to whatever mistaken notions instilled by poor schooling, science is a purely rational process ; the incommunicably stubborn self-directed bullshit ain't science ~except by accident~.

The ex-post-final portion we'll be also adding to the table comes from a discussion of effects :

So no, "judeo-christian ideas" are no kind of solid foundation -- not for anything. The only thing they promise, indeed virtually guarantee, is the shocking, absurd and "inexplicable" demise of whatever they end up admixed into, much like the proverbial drop of sewage ruining otherwise fine barrels of old wine. Be it in the form of young female "modesty", or adult female "chastity", or business "legality" or whatever shape or form it may take -- "judeo-christian" gargle is always a standby for idiocy and naught else. Cancer, properly speaking, in that it will destroy you silently and you won't even know what hit you when it finally does -- as it always does : painfully -- hit you.

I hope we understand each other.

That'd be it. There is a quite sufficiently thick, rather very scarlet red, and to my eye overpoweringly visible thread uniting the pseudo-scientism of "being an engineer" with the imaginarily valuable "contributions" of the true believer, and in turn with the inane expectations of unwarranted and unwarrantable safety and security of all sort and manner of rank imbecile, and ultimately -- all the way back lo these many years -- with the arrayed idiocy of the early fathers of the church & earliest catholic doctors of the faith. Betwixt this boihood stupidity and the inherent laziness of the unowned therefore useless fallow female the niggers can attempt and often manage the building of that great monument to past idiocy and promise of future stupidity : socialism.

I don't believe that (and can't imagine how) re-statement of the most self-obviously, overpoweringly true if shockingly trite and utterly banal facts will help anything ; but then again my belief is no driver and no limit to my activity, and so here they are :

When you die, you die. That's it. You don't "go" anywhere.

There is not, nor ever was, nor ever could be such a thing as metaphysical cause for phenomena. Newton didn't discover because he sat to discover. David won because he won, not because "God loved him". The girl you didn't ask out didn't go out with you because you didn't ask her out, not because she wouldn't have gone out with you anyway.ii The things you think may happen to be true, but you think them because you think them, not because they're true. This list could really go on forever ; it doesn't because I don't make it go on forever, "could", "would", "might" and all the other fucking bullshit noise going on in your head is no part of the fucking world. The world runs on can and must, not on might nor would.

Your understanding of the facts is ulterior to the facts, in both ontology, phenomenology and metaphysics. Before you've ever seen a cunt, you had sexual dreams driving nightly pollutions on the basis of your sister's elbow, kneecap, whatever was available. Before you understand any one thing, your life is driven by the lack of that understanding. There is no "higher plan" bridging this gap for you personally ; no matter how you disavow this ("oh, it's not for me personally", "oh, it's not really a gap", or bla bla bla) there is nothing there -- if you one day accede to the throne of China you'll that day and briefly thenceforth wonder how you did without lo those long hard years prior, and how anyone else does without still ; but if you one day don't accede to the throne of China you never will so wonder.

There is no god. And what's more -- it's directly transparent and entirely self-obvious why you're pretending to have made up a disembodied master who only ever asks of you whatever it is you feel like that day giving.iii Needless to say this absolutely isn't how submission works -- suck the cock as it is, because it makes entirely no difference how you think it should be or what rights, protections, immunities or indemnities you perceive the difference you so conveniently hallucinated "should" grant & bestow upon you.

If what you want doesn't map on what you need, you don't want it. "Oh, she's so pretty but unfortunately doesn't want to be a slave!" Not pretty. "Oh, I need sleep but the alarm's ringing!" Get the fuck up, bum. Calling what you want "needs" doesnt do anything. "Oh, I'm old enough to set out on my own but my old parents need me!" They need you like they need crotch rot, get the fuck lost already. "The most important thing in the world is the preservation of the statu quo". No. The most important thing in the world is the squeezing of every drop. "Oh MP, would you rather kill a dog or lose your girlfriend ???"iv

There is no army of angels sent from heaven above waiting right over that hill in the distance ready to intervene and set things "right" according to you. Again, no matter how you disavow this, "oh, we don't call the angels angels anymore", oh, it's not a hill it's a Big Rock Candy Mountain, bla bla bla bla bla bla. None of it makes any fucking difference, there is no vindication coming nor will there be any vindication had for your feelings. Piss in one hand and feel in the other to see which fills first as often as you need, but figure it out already, what the fuck!

Psychogenic noise is not a priviledged class of phenomena. There is no such thing as priviledged classes of phenomena. I understand where you're coming from, rock beats paper, could spiderman beats niggerman, etcetera. The name for the place you're coming from is being stupid. Those observations of phenomena that seem to you to support the "priviledged phenomena" theory in fact support the "you're fucking stupid" theory.

Meaning is not immanent in the world. Meaning is ex post hoc rationalization, it derives its claim to fame from exactly the same source art does : auctoritas, authority, aka invested sovereignity.

Whichever way you turn it, there's no "because anyway" available to be had anywhere, okay ? Lordship "spiritual" comes with no lands, and with no benefices, and with nothing else. Be a lord, or be a servant, or push the grass up ; don't dress up and go about pretending, that's the road to stupidity. A long and winding road indeed, but its length and the toil it may separate you from don't constitute any kind of meritv, they don't give you any standing, they're just rot. Wank. Shame.

Keep to the temporal.

———We'll be doing one of those credit-based multiprequisite deals, so bring your reading glasses. [↩]And, most eminently, not because while she's there and you could ask her out there must be something very very wrong with her to "balance things out" because otherwise a pretty girl would never be where you could ask her out ; and once she leaves... there needn't be anything wrong with her anymore (as there's no need to "balance out" anything) so therefore she can go back to just being attractive without the disgusting goop you think you must smear on everything around you. [↩]Yes, yes, I'm aware, you disavow this, and quite elaborately at that. Nobody is persuaded. Nobody can be fucking persuaded, whatever persuasive gymnastics you engage in -- your silent i-cant-believe-it's-not-master ersatz receives from you exactly what you felt like giving, it has that in common with any kitchen sink garbage disposal unit. [↩]That film is so fucking amusing...

Leaving aside the mountain of comedy gold the Mary Sue angle presents... so, that stupid cunt Elizabeth Banks played the Maria Schneider card (without the excuse of actually having been raped on the set tho). You know, coy-ing all over the place, trying to pander to the female lobby. "She's a good girl" (according to nobody in particular), and so therefore she never did her work, as if "not wanting to" somehow excused the having to. In exchange for this, she got... nothing at all ? Her career went exactly nowhere and nobody remembers her anymore ? Because cutting deals with the female lobby is as good as cutting your own throat ? Aww!

But as I was saying, that aside : how do you make women appear to matter in what's very self evidently a story of men ? Well... you... o wait, wait, here's an idea : the guy will stop what he's doing for no reason whatsoever and humour a couple of complete retards for a spell. They're going to give him a test! Oh goody! They're all high energy and in control and aren't you impressed Daddy ?

It's the most comedic (albeit unintentionally comedic) scene that came out that year, those two retards tryna convince a viewer as stupid as Phoebe that they actually do an' matter in this world. [↩]The paladin mind wants to believe pain is meaningful, "selfless sacrifice" the "secret ingredient" in an abstruse alchemy magically capable of producing the missing ingredient. They'll bridge the gap, they'll bring forth metaphysics springing into the world, you'll see!!!

No, you won't fucking see. It ain't happening, it isn't how anything works. However much you might enjoy your own pain, it's still an enjoyment as any other, no more and nothing else. [↩]

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Category: 3 ani experienta

Wednesday, 06 November, Year 11 d.Tr.

The Professor

The Professori is cinematographically interesting, which is something that rarely can be said about the other Bollywood (the one in North Los Angeles). Here :

It very well could have been a film about a Physics professor who had two boyhood friends (by reason of physical proximity of the spawning cunts at the time of spawning them, which is how boyhood friendship works irl) -- one of which died violently (such as for instance by drowning) in their very presence, resulting in a very close, lifelong friendship with the other survivor, a Math professor himself, a very socially distinterested, highly focused and disciplined individual who, for the past lo almost twenty years has been entirely -- mind, heart and soul -- engaged in resolving one particular problem (say, for reality tie-in, the Fermat thing recently blown open by a very similar Russian fellow). This actual film could have opened just as well with the scene of a well to do, upper class man towards the end of the third quarter of his life, finding out from one of the talking trees in the selva selvaggiaii that in fact he's been blessed in the common contemporaneous way (as opposed, you see, to being blessed in the family way). The greater part of this actual film that isn't could have proceeded similarily to the nonfilm that actually is -- excepting, of course, the ridiculously imbecile misrepresentation of the subservient half of the human race as somehow important, interesting (and right, and important, and whatever the fuck else) by mere dint of unqualified existence now fashionableiii, and had the perfect ending at the ready : during the culmination bender (but of course) the hero explains to his math-addled friend, conversationally, unassumingly and incidentally, how to resolve the problem he's been dedicating his life to. As an aside, an apropos, "hey, by the way" -- because this is exactly how it happens among extremely intelligent men participating in the daily business of the tip of human consciousness (and why they even bother to socialise -- among each other) : one man's stray thought is the specialist's ten year gold mine. So, you know, "what if you applied Galois field theory thus and so", for maximal reality tie in (not to mention Galois finite fields are eminently conversationally captivating, if only in the hands of a speaker that understands what the fuck it is they're talking about, to my standard of "understands"). The awestruck friend scribbles down notes in a drunken frenzy, they part/pass out respectively, and then in the morning...

In the morning... well... you see, morning comes, bright and cleariv, as it always does. But Mr. Math is neither. He's kneeling on a different floor, so to speak, he's groggy and, suddenly, upon emergence from the dark waters he's struck by emergency. Dire, uncaring, implacable disaster. "Bring me a tonkergongk"?! What the hell has he written down, none of it makes any fucking sense whatsoever. It's not even readable. Is that even a letter ?! What! WHAT the shit is this!!!

Yet he remembers, clearly, distinctly, not merely the form of elation but, almost, its substance. He can almost taste it. Through the apparently metalized tongue-and-palate assemblage, moving together incorrectly like a swamp of cheap horse glue, he can almost taste the memory. So he flies to the phone, to call the hero -- who answers him calmly, and sets his mind curteously at ease : nothing whatsoever has been lost, come right over and I'll explain the modest idea all over again, at breakfast.

Cue a frantic rush to get there, to just fucking get there, why is it so far and why do the keys have to go into the thing, there's no time, no time, there's no time no time notimenotimenotime for any of this bullshit, oh my god how long does everything always have to take... and here we are. He's arrived, and so we have arrived : it's the end.

The hero is dead, peacefully asleep in his armchair.

It's the end, and you... you who are left behind... you who yet haven't made the cut...

You'll never know.

Like that, it'd have been a film, to live up to the legacy of that intellectual tower of human achievement, to live up to its cinematography, to live up to the immense investment of time and effort the whole thing requires and demands. Instead, however, you get the usual inanity, about "English literature" professors, as if there can even be such a thing. You get a chick with no lines, a retired stripper, hired exclusively to be anonimously French-kissed by Johnny Depp -- I wonder what the casting call went for that one! You get nothing in tinsel foil, you get your good old friends Mr Yakkity Yakk * Mrs Bla Bla Bla, you get meaningless summaries and superficial references banking on the flimsy premise that you'll be always satisfied with the first pass and never look any deeper than that. In short, you get what you get -- not what you need, but what you deserve.

The end.

———2018, with Johnny Depp, by Wayne Roberts. [↩]Esta selva selvaggia e aspra e forte, che nel pensier rinova la paura! [↩]Seriously, nobody gives, ever has given, or ever could possibly give the first inkling of a flying fuck as to what "erotic conquest" some ill-banged ruin imagines herself astridin'. And I mean ill-banged in the sense of look at this sad shit :

Ever seen sadder bangs ?

The reason women are socially discouraged from "making conquests" in the male way is strictly and inescapably that their sexual activity is fundamentally unimportant (not to mention anti-interesting), and therefore socially inconsequential. There can't be found a way out of this, because there isn't a way out of this -- I don't give a shit what your naive extensions of whatever you [think you managed] to steal from Europe would seem to indicate. Please stop "trying" just about now, it's not just woefully improductive but radically unseemly besides. [↩]Here's a coupla bonus items, for the would-be philologist :

***Morning came, bright and clear, Rex jumping up on his bed to wake him as usual. [Asylum]

Then she'd catch a wink a sleep, and be awoken again, and so on until daylight came, bright and clear, and with it an orange jumpsuit, dirty in the specific way institutionally laundered clothes are dirty -- deeply, inconspicuously, furtively and secretly so as to not irk the officer in charge into taking any kind of action. [Things that happened to Sam]

What, my dear chitlins, are we thereby & therefore suspecting the author to have perhaps meant, and how is the coloring and layering of the master's hand working, and why does he do this like this rather than something else somehow else ? What is the importance of the "morning came, bright and clear" device, what is the relational and differential semiosis of its relationship with the structure of the body of work, how does it construct and how does it deconstruct the...

You still go to school, don't you ? What, exactly, do you do there ? [↩]

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Category: Trilematograf

Tuesday, 18 June, Year 11 d.Tr.

The problem of complexity.

Let's ramble on together then, shall we ?

I read.

I read a lot and have for a long time ; but why ? And rather, who said "the revelation of the number and size of one's holes in knowledge and dams to facility", and where, and why did they ?

If you lend someone some money, the one thing you do not wish to hear's that he's died. While there's life there's hope, right, and while you get packed ever denser, while you somehow, unexpectedly and inexplicably yet disavowedly nevertheless somehow find your way into ever tighter sardine cans and chicken batteries, tender loins of somber sorrow... you end up confusing things.

If you lend someone something, the one thing you do not wish to hear's that he's diedi -- now tell me, why do you weep for your father ? I know why you could be weeping, of course I do, just as well as you ever could, and even better, because I read just like you do, except more, and faster. "Nobody could accuse you", don't worry about that partii, just tell me, why ? What had you lent him ?

It's not just money, of course, and besides, money's a thought more than anything else. In fact, it's always thoughts. Who did you lend what thoughts ? Ever bothered to take a count, like any sensible trader ? If your father dies, what part of your world dies with him, and why does it ?

Did it occur to you, by the way, that "ramble" might well just mean "excursion", as in talking a walk ?

So then : I read, a lot, for a long time, bla bla bla. You know what I also do, a lot, for a long time ? Oh, many things. I trade, say, to avoid the fucking obvious -- o look, literalism deadpan joke! But anyway : I was saying, I trade. Here's how trading goes : when I don't like something, I walk away. All trading works this way, which is what everything is anyway. I read a lot, but the lot doesn't matter. It helps, sure, but it doesn't make it. I've been reading for a long time, but that doesn't matter either. It also helps, and in a way that synergizes with the other helping, of course. But...

Here's the thing : yes I run faster, and yes I've been running for longer ; yes I shovel more dirt, and have been soveling for longer ; yes my plot is deeper, while also being wider. This is all true, but these are minor points, there's a qualitative difference at work also, before we get to these merely quantitative, perhaps amply arch-sufficient just by themselves but nevertheless merely quantitative considerations.

You see... I actually run. As opposed to thinking of running. I actually move earth, as opposed to daydreaming moved earth. The wider and deeper plot is actually registered with the title deed office, it's not just a drawing on paper. All that'd make a difference, would it not, a categorical, all-encompassing difference. A difference of the kind that exists between the gold winner and the gold dreamer -- it's not that the former's merely faster. It's that he's actually running!

This is the killer -- I read, yes. But as I read, there's nothing I can't aford to lose. I have no trouble penning a piece about how to satisfyingly have sex with a girl under twelve, and making it actually good, earnest, effectual in its stated direction because... well ? Why ? How come ?

If I drag my slaves, women I own, women I have enslaved, through the supposed center of a sleepy rural town because I so feel like one day, this costs me nothing at all. It costs everyone else, involved or uninvolved lots and lots and lots, apparently. Now tell me more about them dams to facility. What are they, and what do they do ?

I read, yes. Been doing it for a long time, sure. It doesn't threaten me. That's the big deal. That I don't care what it says one way or the other makes all the difference in the world. Whatever it is, it doesn't have to say a certain thing. The story doesn't have to come out a certain way. If it comes out one way rather than another, it doesn't thereby undermine the quicksand of fallacious speciousness upon which I chose to build myself.

The story here, as you've probably read it time and again in various pedestrian restatements of assortments of menalone should go something like

I took nothing on credit, not ever, and therefore I'm not particularly invested in the survival of anything, whatever it may be. It can stand for as long as it serves and not one second longer, bla bla bla

Well... it's not how it goes, what can I tell you. I accept and I extend and I demand credit all the damn time, how the fuck's trade supposed to work without ?!

Which takes us directly to the problem of complexity : a set is a collection, but a power set is the collection of all the items in the set taken in all combinations. {tits, dicks, cunts} is a set -- but its power-set is no less a horror than {(tits, dicks, cunts), (tits, dicks), (tits, cunts), (dicks, cunts), (tits), (dicks), (cunts), ()} ; notice how we went from three elements to eight, and from twenty characters to a hundred ? Those tendencies only aggravate : not only does the cardinal of the power set drastically increase as the cardinal of the set increases, the space increases even more! It's just... it's a lot, what!

This is the problem of complexity : that the numbers constituting the gap between realia and idealia are indeed so very large no serious approach is even remotely possible. When trying to smush an eight that meanwhile metastasized into thousands of digits such that it recognizably relates to a three that became merely ennumerably large, one's stuck employing simple solutions -- or rather, any kind of solution anyone could ever come up with will be necessarily simple. You're not getting even remotely close to anything else, how should I put this ?

Now we can also appreciate what's at stake here. How to -- and at the same time, mind you -- manage to both avoid personal misinvestment while also deploying simplicitious error all day long, every livelong day ?

This irks. It bothers. For some poor souls, some misfortunate bodies crawled out of sad transHajnal cunt with the partial deletions, ablations and assorted missings, gaps and holes in their very core that genitive misfortune oft begets, such as the Schopenhauers, the Kirkegaards, the major depressives generally typify... why, it'd be cause enough to simply keel over on the side of the road and just die. There is no hope to coerce reality into ideal, and no manner of interacting with the reals nude, but only ideally mediated, so "what is the point" etcetera.

The implicitly dysfunctional byproducts of the foul genital fermentation occuring in the distinctly cursed sort of woman that gets married late an' stays widowed forever so as to better preoccupy herself with neurotically intricate nothings are stuck, for their parents' sins (of not having stomped that female line out of existence yet, like their better neighbours did indeed). These misfortunates have problems only they perceive, that then only admit solutions they come up with, and by themselves alone perceive.

"Just the facts", right ? Scientism, the pretense that somehow nevertheless ideals can be coerced into the much narrower set. If one carefully avoids "fake news" and "toxic facts", one could perhaps bowdlerize reality into such a subset as to allow a bijection with its power set. It'd be small, of course, but...

If that doesn't work for you, if you live in a land too luxuriant, the vegetation too rich, the juices too thick, why, there's a host of "discoverers" available, who have figured out "the one right way". The Henry Ford diet, the Kellog religion, the Atkins blessed underwear, the... Beans and ricely yours, right, nevermind "the facts" aka doing violence to reality, let's focus on "the words" instead. Have you found jesus yet ? Do you read the scripture ?

Here's the problem with being sad : you're sad. I don't mean "sad" as a subjective state, I mean it like it's used in the logs, a nonspecifically broken piece of machinery, a bad design, inept abstraction, these are the sad things. The mirror fashioned by the sufferer of hemispatial neglect is not going to correctly reflect the missing part -- nor is he bound to notice during testing his mirror's hemispatially neglectful, just like him. They're sad, together, a relationship just as meaningfully necessary to each as it's necessarily meaningless to all others. True love, wouldn' you say, the stoke survivor and his broken mirror he fashioned himself, out of a crushed out tuna can.

Hey Ashley

You 're really stupid.

Cos I was saving up to take you to France.

Yeah, I was gonna take you to France.

The true problem of complexity is that simplicity breeds simplicity. Yet there are ways to both discuss and remedy the broken offspring of simplicity. They only work for cisHajnal people, those that weren't born of systematically stupid women by the offices of whatever drunks could be bothered with them. Those who are rich, wealthy beyond wealth, those whose forefathers left them fortunes uncountable (literally). Those who weren't born in the scar tissue left after the death of society, those whose language isn't ergative, those who...

I can afford to read ; I do a lot of it, and have, for a long time now. The reason your mileage may vary is simply that if you can't afford an actual car -- imaginarily driving around in an imaginary car instead produces no actual movement.

———I want to add here a link to that "they live meaningless lives" cartoon thing, which is already in the footnote of a relevant Trilema piece, which of course I can't find. If anyone thinks of it, please say. Billy the Mountain Goat meanwhile found it, tyvm! [↩]The insistently derpy mental process of pre-human genetically male adolescents, whereby the world's all flat ; and we're all an inch tall in it ; and he's a goat thus therefore I'm a goat ; and let's sit around and talk about what we would do and why we would do it. What's wrong with that ? And what's this "in order to discuss the deeds of one of the real people, 'with property they own, Jerry! and secretaries!!!' first gotta qualify to reality, with properties and secretaries of your own" ? Why should there be a gap between the would and the deed ? In the adolescent's "whole life experience" consisting of no doing whatsoever, this theory doesn't appear to find any support! How could woulding be entirely irrelevant when there's nothing else there ?!

That's what poverty does : it confuses things. For lack of resources to provide separators everything becomes admixed. When all you got is one bed sharing the bed with your cousin's not right or wrong, it's simply unavoidable and necessary ; fathering her offspring at least partially just as necessary, flowing just as unavoidably. When all about and all inside's all about what you would do, on what power's one to maintain a distinction between the irrelevant set of woulds and the empty set of dids ?

The world consists of thousands of people training, dozens of people qualifying, three people getting to the podium and one getting the gold ; but alongside that it also includes millions of adolescents dreaming -- always of how they, a falsified thus infalsifiable they, got the gold. Never 9th place. That's the histogram breakdown : a million would-get-golds, a few thousand training-to-get-golds, a few dozen qualified-to-dispute-golds, a coupla nearly-missed-golds and one did-get-gold. No final s, just one. Yet in the dreamy mind of the practically inexistent human that goes about daydreaming his imaginary life, the outermost million and the innermost one are "pretty much the same thing", notwithstanding that in reality they're strictly polar opposites, the girl who would and the man who did are separated by more layers thicker than anything else known to nature. [↩]

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Category: Gandesc, deci gandesc

Sunday, 29 September, Year 11 d.Tr.

The orc in Miami.

When he thinks of his native orcland, the orc in Miami feels somewhat uneasy. He thinks he's made the wise move of getting the shit out of a sinking Dodge, but at the same time feels he disappointed the people closest to him. Instead of sticking with them, instead of helping out with fixing their Dodge, he ran off. Whenever his gaze meets a mirror he can see the disappointed orc inside him looking back. He gingerly rationalizes it though -- "Wasn't that boat sinking anyway ? Should I sink with it ? Does that help anything ?". Yet it bothers him, like a splinter that won't come out. He starts following affairs at home even more carefully than he used to do before leaving.

Then the vote lobby finds him. Much like salesmen find the stupid and convert them into consumers, much like pantsuits find the hopelessly impotent and convert them into the various degrees of "ourdemocracy" zek, exactly as cults turn defectives into believers just so the vote lobby finds the orc in Miami and converts him into "diaspora" : the group of orcs in Miami who "want to do their duty" to their orcland but without much effort. In any case without significant risk. From a safe distance. The vote lobby is in the business of selling the cheapest possible pixie dust for converting that felt shame into paraded pride. A purely symbolic gesture that eats mostly nothing all year long, and for that nothing provides the warm feelies of active citizenship round the clock. The almost-nothing traded out for the infinite-nothing, in a few simple steps anyone could follow.

The simple mind, the sort of mind capable of these division-by-zero magics readily adopts the methodology, and before long the orc is out there, voting every election. He sits in line, he eats all sorts of modest inconveniences : they're almost nothing. He reads up pantsuit media dossiers on the candidates. He does all the almost-nothings whose almost-ness didn't seem justified by their vacuous content back when he lived there. He does it all for the infinite-nothing whose alleged infinity'd never have managed to hide the interior nothing from him back when he lived there. Distance might make the heart grow fonder, but if it does very much of that or little indeedi, it surely dims out his vision in geometric proportion. So he's there at the booth every chance he gets.

It's done, he's nothing like a fugitive now. Not anymore. He's a responsible orc now, if from a distance. More responsible than the many who live back home but don't bother to vote. Probably more responsible than you, sucker. So stop mean muggin', as if he ran away. He helps from a distance, okay ? And it's a whole heap o' helpin', aite ? Because voting is super-super-super important.

To be perfectly clear, voting is important. Sometimes. When your lord calls for your voice, when it's your turn to speak, in the context of the WoT and the forum, within and with the Republic. Not otherwise. Not outside. Not in the empire, not among the herd, not anonymously, not pointlessly, equally, performatively, in a word : not dumbly. Not ourdemocracy-like, not in the slightest bit, not at all.

Even when voting actually is important, it is still the absolute, bare minimum. It's the least you can do to squeak by. You can't be lauded for doing the bare minimum. You can't take pride in doing the bare minimum. You can't look down your nose around you, standing atop a bundle of bare minimum. Yet a diaspora often will ; because the notion that voting's a grandiose gesture, some kind of self-sacrificial act of patriotism pleases them. It scratches where the puss itches, around that splinter. It balms about that sentiment of betrayal, it papers over the burning feeling of thorough inferiority, of complete and absolute inadequacy. If it's true that when a man swears he holds himself in his own hands, like water, and should he open his palms then, he needn't hope to ever meet himself again -- if that is inescapably the case then what of the runaway ? If he ran away once, just once, who should trust him again, and what for, and how far ? Why should he trust himself, to any degree, ever again ? Why should he even want to sleep in the same bed as himself, anymore ? The only out still available, the only lie remaining is systematic inflation of the imagined importance of an inconsequential, minuscule act. Snowballing it back and forth like crackwhores, patting each other on the back. They, the voters in diaspora, they're truly much more orc than the orcs back in the originating orcland ; at the very least much better than whatever thick margin there that never care to vote. It's not possible this isn't so, because it feels good to believe it.

This is how the orc manages to sleep in Miami. He needs it. The orc's life in Miami isn't easy, in no small part because actual Miami isn't much like the orc's notion of Miami at all. "Adaptation", but crucially without piercing the fantasy bubble ; switching from one lie to another, from one lie to an entirely unrelated lie. A different lie that's confusingly similar in most surface structures yet entirely unrelated in its substance -- now that's a challenge. Any man can wake up, as from a dream ; jumping from dream to dream without waking up, now that's the feat of orcish adaptation.

But he goes on, day by day ; and he tries to "convince" others of whatever hallucinated nonsense he momentarily depends upon, in the precarious act of ropewalking his inner life's become. So he yells at people who don't vote. He insistently insists upon the importance of voting. He takes his picture voting, it's as much part of his lifestyleii as any other accessory. He barters applause with other diaspora voters and circlejerks over the importance of voting. Living the fuck over there, in the orcistan ? A marginal concern at best. Voting's the burning core. And he does it, he does it maximaly. The maximal gesture maximally performed. He's the essential orc, his remarkably symmetrical anti-existentialism perhaps amusing to anyone outside his self-secreted reality distortion bubble -- but firmly invisible to him. Distant. Like his country.

The years go by ; the orc in Miami zealously stamps paper each orcistan election, from a distance, while lying to himself all the while : he's not doing the minimum, but the maximum. He does everything in his power for the betterment of his original orcistan. He is voting, after all, isn't he ? He's even considering, ever more vaguely but nevertheless considering, returning. If things change. What do you want more of him, people ? He is adamant on one point above all : involving you in the perpetuation of the illusion he needs for the continuation of his uneasy, toxic marriage with himself. God knows he doesn't enjoy sleeping in the same bed as himself ; you'd better help, you'd better do what he needs you to do and especially say what he needs you to say so he can bear himself. Do you hear ? You'd better, or else [he might have to do it for you]. He'll do it, too. If need be he'll do it, for you, and in your name. There's no stopping a desperate orc in Miami -- it's all in his mind anyway.

But time marches on, and he forgets more and more. He remembers less and less. There's children, of course, the orc in Miami procreates as a necessary if ultimately hostile act, directed entirely at himself. He did it for the children. He did it to give them a better chance. Hay mas futuro. They don't understand any of it, of course, but that's not his problem. They're not as good as real orc children -- those would understand, like he understands. He warned them, didn't he ? He warned them : either they do what he needs them to do and especially say what he needs them to say, or else he's going to do it for them, and in their name. Right ? So there you go, for them and in their name : they're not as good as real orc children. Bam. Done. Learn not to mess with the orc in Miami, because it's all in his own mind. You just don't live there. And besides -- he's voting. What have you done ?

He grows tired. The distances grow longer, time intervals stretch on forever. He gives, and gives and gives -- all that he can give, indeed all that can be given. He's been giving for decades, every few years twenty minutes he's given, and those assholes... they're still not changing ? What, they don't want him to return ? Why aren't they changing ?

Well fuck them then! What for, all this bother ? All this time he struggled for them, and they... nothing !? The orc in Miami finally feels enough's enough. Up to here. He's given his portion of orcland duty, ten, fifteen votings, it has to be enough. If they want more -- they could earn some, no ? Instead they keep coming around begging for votes. He continues sporadically, maybe, for a while, and then croaks, leaving behind a Miami family "with orc origins".

"That's a strange family name."

"Yeah, my parents were from Orcistan."

"Cool. Have you ever been there?"

"Nah, it's a shithole."

———"Rather like a stench, if I remember." [↩]Lifestyle's what imaginary life's called within the imaginarium. [↩]

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Category: Cocietate si Sultura

Sunday, 15 December, Year 11 d.Tr.

The momentary dusk of reason ; or the world as a received trigrammaton.

The structure of the fading world's not actually difficult to discern, though unwillingness towards such discernment's very cheaply had anywhere in whatever quantity, and consequently well entrenched everywhere through sheer colossal impaction.

One letter stands for the caliban anarchist, the unyielding force of will entirely unreasoned. Her, or him, or him, or her, or any of the all of them, the same exact thing : not so much "bad at math" as simply disinterested in any kind of foresight. A life of the spirit's not mandatory, let alone immanent ; biology will carry on its own a while -- so let it!

Another letter stands for the elohim anarchist, the unyielding force of will entirely rationalized. Her, or him, or him, or her, or any of the all of them, the exact same thing : barely literate, to the very unsatisfactory standard of being capable of producing syntactically correct nonsense. A relationship to meaning's not mandatory, let alone possible ; biology will carry on its own a while -- so let it!

Thoroughly unconvincing in betwixt and among these, a thinly spread, utterly hopeless smattering of pantsuit, calling all things their oppositei for truly no deeper reason besides simple despair. They're the agents of reason in their own estimation and there only, in reality bereft of any working or even in priciple workable model, bereft of any of the tools of reason (long sacrificed to the unsustainable requisites of denial), bereft even of the possibility of expressing their sad situation. Supposedly a life of the spirit's not merely mandatory but actually immanent, and the relationship to meaning not merely mandatory but actually accessible. To them. Just so.

That's it. Three leters. Those three letters. Such is the world as it stands to be found tonight, gum chewed and attached and detached and re-chewed and re-attached to the point of thorough gray. Between the child much too bovine to break the silence and the child who can't shut the fuck up lest he thereby disintegrates into nothingness, the rural classroom's well and truly empty. On closer examination self-appointed "teachers" can be discerned effectlessly haunting about, insane, insensate, little Napoleons in worn denim pants completely unaware of bicorn hats.

What can be done with such a thing ? Reason within itself isn't really very much, you see, and indeed even less than that without itself. Moreover, why should anything be done with such a thing (or for that matter -- any thing at all) ?

Yet reason, not very much within and even less without, nevertheless is unto itself sufficient ; coincidence aside, idle considerations of "success" irrespective, the overwhelming property of reason is that while not all, not many, perhaps not any may be reasoning subjects -- nevertheless all things equally well stand as the objects of reason. In that it's all-integrating (even if not systematically) it therefore is, and stands, and perdures, and forever will remain the top node of everything.

The nature of the world is cyclical ; it has to be, it's the cheapest kind of movement available. For my endlessly lengthy life I've been repeating the same things, in the same circumstances, to ever the same people (that didn't know they were the same). I said "the matter does not worry me" before, it was of course very different in all particulars and contextual relationships to things and matters and relatively distinct... after all, perceived difference's the cheapest kind of sameness available.

There's of course better fates than being the casting of a letter ; not knowing which letter you're the casting of isn't one of them.

———"Progressive", right ? [↩]

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Category: Gandesc, deci gandesc

Saturday, 07 December, Year 11 d.Tr.

The Misfits

The Misfitsi depicts a Monroe in her final, giant juggernaut form. When she lays into her "dance partner", blasting "why didn't you teach her" this way and "we're all dying" that way... it's kinda like watching a chicken called Wallach being raped by a million-ton Nickel-Chromium asteroid. Whole thing's utterly worth seeing just for that.

The comedic relief is mostly provided by Clark Gable -- not his "character"ii ; his very person -- who has absolutely no business being thereiii (nor can anyone understand why he ends up with the girl, obviously the other one was about to fuck her right then and there, under that tree, what the fuck stopped him ; nor can anyone explain why the fuck is she in his bed after telling him she doesn't feel that way in the car ; nor etcetera). Then he goes braying for Gaylord, no kidding.

The dramatic relief is provided by Miller, through Clift. "And then, on their wedding night, he turns arround and he offers me wages... on my father's place..." Murder is "never justified" among people who don't own anythingiv, and there only. You realise this, do you ? Other than that, dyin's as natural as living, and the man afraid of death's just as afraid of living and so forth. What can you do ? "Don't let them grind you up like they grind women around here ?" Oh, but don't be ridiculous.

The film's really about Marylin ; not for the reasons you think, but for just about the exact opposite. They're... they're what you call chickenfeed horses. Everybody knows that.

———1961, by John Huston (& Arthur Miller), with Marilyn Monroe, Clark Gable, Montgomery Clift and Thelma Ritter (Birdie). [↩]The supercillious dweeb can't act anymore than a giraffe can act -- it can do a giraffe okay. Like a dead clock being right twice a day, Gable just "does himself", whatever that's supposed to be, a thick make-up pancakemask like old whores use. [↩]A point made ROTFLWTIME-evident by the scene at the beach, with Monroe jiggling her misty-luscious jugs (they do nothing else but come out of various outfits throughout the film), the dog trying to fuck her, and Gable in boots and jeans. They keep the sand out, amirite. [↩]"You belong to Gay ?" [↩]

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Category: Trilematograf

Monday, 05 August, Year 11 d.Tr.

The Matrix

I partially reviewed The Matrixi tonight. Partially because the bimbo yet again downloaded a fucking fragment rather than a complete piece, which means I won't be watching anymore movies with her.ii Reviewed because I saw it when it came out ; and not hence. It's been, if you can believe that, twenty years. Twenty fucking years, no joke. It's been it. All of it. Hence. That's right.

I deliberately didn't, to insulate myself from the flood of... well, you know them. "Red pill" and whatnot, the wankers. The puppies born last year, they who've invented new names for sunshine, the geniusesiii who discovered equilibrium for the first time and came up with a personal, specific an' fascinatingly novel howl for colic. Why do you not believe ?

The insulation worked out splendidly, I didn't have to deal with all the tropes this gem both introduced and permanently burned down. Their decay, the mindless reusage of dead tropes did not reflect back on the poor inventor, because I... very carefully didn't look!

Still, it was to my detriment. The Matrix is quite a little jewel, still beautiful, still intricately correct if superficially confoundable. But, as I sit here and watch the pixels, I can't quite find a clear way out of a serious problem.

You see... if you hadn't read the Derrida it quotes before seeing it, if you weren't already expecting something quite like it by the time it came out, if you didn't see it with me, in the metaphorical sense, if you weren't, mentally, there I... well, how shall I put this. I don't believe you're a person, or ever could be a person, or ever had anything in common with personhood. If this thing made new holes in you, rather than fill pre-existing holes for you, if it "blew your mind", if it "opened new horizons" rather than snickeringly confirm, ornately decorate some pre-existing thoughts... you were a cow all along. And are still. And will forever so remain -- the "discovering" is just elaborate fake-out, exertious cover-up, doomed pretense.

In the end, it was always about distinguishing the fakers.

———1999, by Laurence & Andrew Paul Wachowski (back before they picked chick names), with Hugo Weaving (V for Vendetta), Joe Pantoliano (Bound) and otherwise a bunch of nullities, disappointments, cabotins &c. I wonder if this ever happened, that anyone hired Reeves and was satisfied with his work. I get why they keep hiring him : he's so bland he's easily mistaken for an empty jar, and by the time they finally wake up to the smooth riverbed pebble reality of the matter it's regularly too late. But hey, at least they didn't put Hugh Grant in the goofball hole, which is the thing with bad actors : you can absolutely always do worse, even if generally not by so very much. [↩]As it happens she doesn't know this just yet, seeing how I also confiscated her boxen, for good measure. Not everyone's fit for using the damn things, as it turns out. After all this time, you know by now how la stessa lagna ever goes. How well you know it! Instinctually, subconsciously, in any case automatically. Woe betide me, it says. How every wanna-be's failure's my fault, how responsible I should be for all the idiots coming to a test and failing it, how utterly "since failure's a distinct possibility in the world MP sees, it then follows interaction with MP might even prove fatal to the imbecile complacency at the heart of every mouthbreather!!!". You should be warned, shouldn't you. The hero's job, the subjective, universal hero of these sad times' only jobs are to "try" (as he defines it) and to feel good about himself -- that's the fuck it. What do you mean do any particular thing ?! But doing is fucking hard, not to mention it might not even come out! Wanna talk about some feelings, perhaps ? There's so many great ways to procrastinate, why not pick one of those! It'll be okay, nobody could possibly see through it -- and if some sociopath nevertheless does... well! Let him be warned, he's breaking the social contract! The deal! The fundamental deal at the root of contemporary insanity. An'... um... the consequences!! They are never gonna be the same!!! [↩]Engineer is not an English word, but a French import ; it does not come from engine, but vice-versa : engine comes from engineer, because they had the word and no clear sense of why they should have it, so they... gave it some. Like they do, this is what Englishers are : this thing they do,

"Daddy, daddy! What's a cancan ?"

"it's... umm... it's a kind of tree. You know, like that one growing behind the outhouse there. See the gnarly one, third from the left ? That's a cancan!"

What, who's to say only the papists can have cancans, are you saying Englishtards are backward or something ?! But they're gonna promote some local bitter weeds in the field! They can have homegrown cancans of their own! Would you like to read from the scripture ?

The original French was an Italianism, they took a virtue (ingenuity) and personalized it. Like lazy urban bums do ever since forever, she's not an unemployed cocksucker, she's a barrista ; he's not a bum, he's an ingenuitist. That's precisely what it was all about : that "human beings" have "genius", which is to say the magical capacity to equal the creator, in principle. As a potentiality, it is possible some humans can raise to godhood some of the time. Occasionally.

Well... that's a wrap then ; it should be good enough. If some could sometimes, how could you accuse him of not ? On what basis ?! Are you Satan ?!?! Aren't we all equal and therefore nobody has any work to do anymore ?! Because they could have done it ?

See ? [↩]

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Category: Trilematograf

Saturday, 09 November, Year 11 d.Tr.

The Golden Fleece

This is a translation of an older Romanian piece : Evolutia onlinautului.i

Nobody is born wise, but all come to the world most willing to take it in the mouthii. Ends of pencils, corners of carpet, electric cabling, toes and whatever else. Gender-irrespective, by the way, boys and girls alike, you knew this, yes ?

The Internet'siii no different. The first contact of every physical person with the web is in fact the moment of the birth of a virtual person equivalent. If you're mystically inclined you could say it's the moment a body encounters its souliv, for in the end that's precisely what one's online persona is, an intangible and "better" or "cleaner" self, that might even overvive in some cases. Everyone's soul is online.

Some present rather tadpolish souls, grobian, incapable of much. This is often the case for people whose bodies had already agedv when they met the mirror, and had not how and not with what to salvage much of the cheloids left by too lengthy existence in the too narrow banks of "everyday life". Simply said they can't, not anymore, for no more having. Others present fragmentary souls, their online existence a perpetual chase in front or behind their own essence, which they know but renege (and hallucinate the notion that they can "delete" things, as if man was born with an eraser in left hand or something), or perpetual war between two halves or more shards which neither will submit but among which none's capable of taking over.

Most are simply infantile, at that age of universal degustation. Their existence begins in all likelihood with a game (something with shoosting!) and then slowly extends to some kind of messaging program -- as the needs of the organizing of game activity requires more and more communication. Once the simple pubescent combativity fades towards adolescentine predatory aggresivity preoccupations move from interaction with game partners or enemies to interaction with parnters and at the same time enemies of the opposite gender.

As ontogenesis retraces philogenesis, it's not surprising that the young mind finds itself, confronted with the endless fields of the network, about in the same situation as the minds of the first subsistence agricultors confronting the endless fields of early Earth. Hack&slash agriculture it's called in Englishvi : there comes the monkey tribe, sets fire to the woods, buries its potatoes or whatever in the ashes and then further down the river, start over. This is exactly how the relations of the young internaut work, and as this process requires a certain number of girls (or boys) per unit time, slowly but surely the way is open to the first website of his Internet history, some list of girls' ids.

From here on, it's but a small step to noticing Yahoo messenger's a somewhat ineffectual means for his relation modelvii, and a primitive social media site would work a lot better. That's how he ends up on hi5viii say, or myspace before that, or any of the countless alternatives that were and will be. Here he lives happily for a while, an inexistent and unassumingix existence, consuming pictures and chunklets of footage "found on the Internet" and interacting with these in a manner specific to defulation -- no interest in what was written before, no interest in what, if any, answers may come, a "baby take my cock" is archsatisfactory all-sufficiency.

In time, some (better, and we'd like to believe a majority) notice the complete inutility of their activity and start a line of inquiry which eventually will lead them to identifying argument (which is to say, the substance) as essential, and to excuse thus complete dysfunction of activity through the trope of the irrelevancy of form. It's the moment at which the forum comes into the life of the internaut, an instrument precisely dedicated to this theoretical approach -- "it matters not who says, or what they say, what matters is what the saying means". The form-substance conflict itroduces a whole list of specific pathologiesx such as the obsession of deliberately improper form as a transactional guarantee of the quality of substance, or an exaggerated and in the end irrational preoccupation with grammaticalization.

Forum existence, organized as it is around the substance of the textual production of each participant, that thing called "argument", suffers numerous if minor difficulties and disadvantages which the participants misrepresent to themselves as essential -- such as the fact that not all are equally equipped to recognize the same substance in a given form, in part due to strong problems of representation theory dealing with content, meaning and the role of context in expression that they generally aren't aware of, and in part to the common circumstance that they're not all equally idiotic, but each specifically idiotic in his own way and manner -- as well as an essential problem which they do not represent at all.

This is the fundamental irrelevancy of argument, of the "substance" of conversation. In any given exchange the sum total of possible and impossible positions, central and marginal, as well as the entire list of manners in which any argument could be dressed in form so as to be perceived in certain given context as either central or marginal, logical or illogical, persuasive or unpersuasive are perfectly known at the onset of the discussion, contained deterministically in the very discussion in questionxi. As such, the play of bringing their potentials to existence is naught beyond intellectual masturbation, a state of affairs the fresher intellects intuit without understanding (nor do I believe the matter's intelligible without specific education in the relevant disciplines, or otherwise strictly speaking inhuman, a transcend of other spaces and dimensions) and so is born trolling, an occupation therefore both noble and adequate to the most intelligent (if less cultivated) participants.

The next step in this evolutionary struggle is the blog, which, identitarily assumed through physical existence, concrete competency, certain political engagementxii permits the anchoring of discourse into a context that bestows upon it, if not necessarily stability (something natural language will never achieve) then at the least efficiency. To convince, to instruct or to edify the non-entities participating on forums is an operation equivalent to moving water from left of hull to right of hull, null and unwelcome effort that in the end disgusts forum veterans. To convince, to instruct or to edify persons through their interaction with your blog (or your interaction with theirs) is an activity entirely equivalent to face-to-face discussionxiii with the one difference of significantly greater efficiency.

Evidently, we're not talking of any blog, or more properly speaking we're talking of blogs specifically, and not of any random thing someone might call a blog. For the supposed blog to actually be a blog there's absolute need for some formal criteria, such as an identified authorxiv, as well as some substantial : the author must take his blog seriously, as an extension of the self, to correctly understand the relations, both correspondence and disparity, between virtual and physical world, to enjoy a real rather than mimed respect for both truth and the other (with that other's idiotic notions y compris) and generally speaking to be a civilised adult.

This then would also be the last step in the evolution of an i[ndivi]d[ual], admitting the future reserves no great union into a large flying shit. The blog is, in other words, the crowning of virtual creation, the human monkey attains, in the status of a (proper) blogger, rehumanization in a new space.

It's a lengthy, tiresome road, replete of pitfalls and sharp rocks, flowing in between precipices ever more daunting. It's not a road for everyone, just like in the physical world humanity's not an open destination for every giardia, millipede, snail or rabbit. The whole thing is though, that the ecosystem does not matter as such except through the value the presence of humans bestow upon it -- what makes the earth Earth aren't the ants on it, but the people on it, the actual people on it.

To apply this last observation from the narrow angle of my own experience, various inferior (and thus as necessarily failed) items encountered during the years had in the end no further practical importance beyond my amusement -- and whenever they failed to amuse they also failed to matter. Not "for me" but universally, the rabbit that feeds no man matters not in any practical sense. The same exact applies to any blogger, and in the end it's trite banality before stated, each and every time some concerned commentator inquired "why should I write of x". Well... for the only reason possible : it amuses me.

———The title is inexact, the original reads more in the vein of "the evolution of the internet-argonaut", but English doesn't permit the easy poetic slide of metaphysics into physics, of unseen reference into the carnal concrete, and so we're stuck labelling instead, a comparatively inept and sadly insufficient mechanism. Which might be a greater problem than you readily realise. [↩]Aside the sexual implication -- which no, is neither spurious nor unwelcome, the mouth of babes is the mouth of babes, the penile axis mundi fits right in there -- I don't recall now where I explained the principal social function of children (they go about trying the world by mouth, and thus provide the adults of the tribe with valuable knowledge as to what's poisonous and what isn't) for which reason I can't link it. Should anyone's brain work any better, please leave me a comment.

Meanwhile found. [↩]A younger author nevertheless does not lack the latter's sophistication, and correctly distinguishes web and net. Have I learned nothing over the years ?! [↩]What great bridge over the decade with ye latter The Next Generation - The Darkening - The Dog - The Chosen cycle! [↩]Aging is not necessarily a matter of time ; generally speaking "having found your way in life" is rather equivalent to having found one's path to death, and thereby, old as the very rocks, you're entirely described by a simple sentence, perhaps something with "ever after" innit. [↩]Really, it's called "slash-and-burn", but I used ye olde traduttore-tradittore bridge to make a joke! [↩]You're possibly too young to remember, but the evolution of this one-on-one original messaging app degenerated into "mass messages" and so on. It's a whole story.

The current set of yahoo messengers (called "apps") do not, needless to say, provide the mechanism. This isn't coincidental, by the way, but deliberate : the imaginary world is entirely built out of denying participants the tools to maturation. [↩]Anyone remember this "great success" of the UGC era ? [↩]The word works well, but translates poorly. "Neasumata" denotes that situation of unreflexive existence, where choices are made without a record of having chosen being produced. Biological, rather than intellectual life. [↩]Much like a settled lifestyle brought along gifts unknown before Pandora's box were opened. [↩]And apt to commercial exploitation, even. [↩]Where by "political" we do not mean political parties or the electoral system, but any set of choices of either ethical or aesthetical nature which exclude other alternative choices from the tree of possibilities. [↩]Yes, as in Levinas. [↩]How things have changed! We have the WoT now, and as predicted it thoroughly supplants the antiquated models of identity grasped at as so many straws in the previous edition. [↩]

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Category: Cocietate si Sultura

Thursday, 24 January, Year 11 d.Tr.

The Fuck Republic

Hello, and welcome to the first Trilema article produced entirely in the car. I processed the pictures, I wrote the text, I did the uploading and futzing and everything else entirely ensconced in the comfortable innards of Florimund (de Merzy), da bra decorticator.

It pains me to announce I apparently lost my glorious silver capped ebony walking cane / slut butt warmer somehow in the foregoing proceedings. The loss leaves me inconsolable ; though maybe it turns out up, I confess I have little hope.

Butt talking of loss and losses : here's a Prague datacenter.

And in much the same lossage vein, the view from my hotel room : a gallery of lives lost on the left, and radio free europe on the right.

Nothing losts forever.

Because most women would much rather take it raw dog than go around with an uncapped bleedy cunt, it's two bucks for the condoms and four bucks for the plugs. Capitalism works!

This'd be very much Prague. I expect you can tell.

This is Prague dreaming of Costa Rica ; I can tell by some sad butts in the windows, entirely reminiscent to my melancholy eye of the sadness of local tropical fruit, pineapples and mangos and whatnot. There's nothing wrong specifically, except they're not quite well, they're not in adequate context, they're just... sad. See it ?

Quite delicious escargot, which is practically speaking the common garden snail. As emperor O'Toole once said, "of course you do ; you need both for your health".

Unfortunately they fucked up my steak ; I rarely return food, but this case was fucking eggregious, ask for beyond bloody get well done what the fuck nonsense is this!

Very nice cafe downtown, Koruna.

Isn't this a great lifestyle by the way, "tits out with every meal" ? Try it sometime, you might enjoy it. And even if you don't enjoy it -- you'll certainly make lots and lots of new friends ; the selfish life is not worth leading or how did that partial nonsense go ?i

Czech money, if you were curious.

One of these annoying shits meeting its truly deserved fate ; I hope more people broke these up really, fucking garbage littering the sidewalks ~everywhere now, and the cockroaches "all agreed" it's acceptable, somehow. Fuckheads.

Derpy cat rampant. Rawr!

Throwback shot.

Out on the town, about to hit the "Darling Cabaret" (opposite of the Sauna Clubii above). The girls picked up this Russian club promoter / culturologist Phd (not even fucking kidding ; let's call her Stella) just as she was picking up some (allegedly) eighteen year old party girl (whom we'll call, for no reason, Olga), who upon closer examination (in the sense of, we met at some bar, had a bottle of quite nice Sicilian Dolcetto, decided on the "cabaret", told her to meet us there, at which point...) turned out to actually... work there.

So I ended up paying eighty bucks or so for admtiting three girls into a strip club that spuriously pretends to "cabaret". No such thing, it's one shade less sad than the orphanage sadness, but no more. There's six or so "different" rooms (excluding whatever happens past the hallway with the strategically placed ATM machine -- I expect those'd be the 3-4 cocksucking cabins cum engine keeping the whole thing going) that all essentially open into the same floor, a smallish stage with a pole, a coupla other round balcony-likes that can double as satellite stages in a pinch and well... a whole buncha tired old streetwalkers just fucking sitting. The place very widely and insistently advertises "350+ girls!!!" but in practice they have about half dozen dancers, of which : a very competent blondy in her late 30s, nice tits, good presence, 0 interest or ambition or anything resembling drive left ; a tall chick towards the end of her shelf life (late twenties) but with a great body and especially nice, fat titties (whom they call Tatiana I suspect for the titty pun value) ; a coupla more nice body nice rack promising dancer girlsiii ; one deeply fucking offensive precious cuntlet, no tits, no talent, just that annoying punch-begging face of the "emotionally secure" and etcetera careerwoman, of course there present with all the fastidium she's learned off Friends & such : complicated gauzy dress she mostly tripped herself very stiffly in, elaborate pole-cleaning rituals precontact, god forbid she catches whoredom from all those other filthy whores there as fucking if etcetera etcetera. I really hope her Yugo / Fiat Ka / whatever shitty car she drives catches fire with her in it.

We also got a bottle (Absolut Vodka) which came to 1999 krone (it being happy hour) ; apparently the entrance fee (something like 20 bucks, substantial as far as these things go) does not warrant any drinks, or anything else. This got us two major advantages, one being that some chick we never saw before (or after) came over within five minutes to ask if we'd like a table dance. I told her we don't, so she went back to where she was sitting and sat there. That's her shtick, I'm pretty sure, she just goes to tables where bottles are brought and asks ; annoyingly I suspect the objectionable boibiofilm is actually so fucktarded by now, that simple strategy actually yields comparably to ~anything else. In any case, she didn't look anything liek the vacant, used up crack-whore Southpark depicts in the role ; she seemed to me rather calculating, which is what drives the supposition. Exam taking, rite ?

The other being that a half hour or so later the waitress came over to ask whether we want anything more because teh happy hour's ending in four minutes (showing me the clock), and well... a soft drink that was ~9 bucks prior is thenceforth gonna be 18!!! Why the fuck would I want soft drinks or for that matter pay ten times the price ("because soon it'll be 20 times the price!!!") was left entirely out, which I suppose is the point that'll never get through the thick skulls of the retarded Goddess worshippers : I didn't like anyone there enough to do them any fucking favours, which is the principal problem in this entire discussion. Yes you might get some money, but by sucking it first, and hard, and well, and eagerly and etcetera.

Instead of any of that, the dumb locals were very threatened by every aspect of properly behaved whoredom. They eyed warily as my cunts did the splits on the floor, completely eschewing the obvious, natural "hey, nice, but can you do like this!" boy-style competition and entrenching instead in the coy girly idiocy ; they asked the bimbo if she's not wearing any underwear, which she readily confirmed, to which they feigned "disgust", as if this is fucking possible, the herd of dumb cunts ever having any sort of say in the sovereign power, declaring what's art and such lofty magicks. In fact, the waitress even ran over as I was playing with her naked ass to inform us that "this is not normal there". Because fancy that wonder, some fucking waitress is the repository of normalcy, as a dues-paying, respected and respectable member of the dumb cunt lobby, this is how it works. Bare ass not normal at the supposed strip club / alleged cabaret, imagine this fake bullshit the overgrown girlies will come up with left to their own devices.

I don't suppose we shall be doing more of the Czech "cabarets" / strip joints, much in the same way we won't be taking many more busses to the Moon. It's not my fault they don't have the damn thing, what can I do ?!

The after-party, in the hotel lobby. Everyone cleared the fuck out forthwith, contemporary sexuality is very much this slinking about in the corners in the dark sorta affair.

I think some bimbo might publish the companion shot for this ; and speaking of companion shots : Stella sends some footage she's shot, flaunting club rules. I support her devil may care attitude, if that's a strip club I'm a cosmonaut (and if that's also a cabaret, I'm a subteranean cosmonaut).

Au revoir & salut, until the next time!

———I find nothing funnier than the deeply disavowed if utterly unavoidable partiality of pantsuit discourse. Suppose "women positive" advocates got carted off to jail en masse under RICO, because that is exactly what the words mean ? Hm ?

Oh, but you see, universals are to be applied only here and there, they're pretend-universals, it's a whole pile of dreamy nonsense only twelve year old girls could possibly find natural -- while no one else could find even vaguely acceptable. [↩]Which honestly does not appeal in the slightest -- who the fuck would wanna go close quarters into liquid media with randos as some sorta cvasi-sexual peri-copulative activity ?! Oh, wait, wait that's right, dweeby cuckbois, the sad sort whose only possible avenue towards further contamination of the gene pool is some kind of fly-mediated x-pollination, I see, I see.

Yuck. [↩]One of which even flipped on the pole! Once.

Yes, I know it's absolutely the easiest figure without feet on the ground, what do you want from me ? It's what they got, they don't do much, mostly pullulate about the pole like marine filter-feeders (which, I suppose, is exactly apt). [↩]

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Category: La pas prin lume

Friday, 18 October, Year 11 d.Tr.

The Freenode issue

38.229.70.22 aka card.freenode.net (via PSINet Inc, a name you really should know) disappeared early this morning. What's left is

;; QUESTION SECTION:

;irc.freenode.net. IN A

;; ANSWER SECTION:

irc.freenode.net. 47 IN CNAME chat.freenode.net.

chat.freenode.net. 47 IN A 139.162.227.51

Tuesday, 12 March, Year 11 d.Tr.

The Famous Schlob, and other stories.

Funny how easy (and therefore likely) "mega"-picture articles became since the bashing of the whole procedure. Do you even recall anymore the olden days of yore, back when articles with over fifty illustrations were a big fucking deal ? Yet... that's been the lay of the land for a good ten years by now.i

Anyways, today's lengthy retelling shall cover the tail end of Vienna, then proceed to Linz, and then Salzburg, from whence across the border (no kidding, they pulled us over) to Munchen, and besides Spessart, and finally we end up in Frankfurt am Main! It all happened in just a coupla days, too, and it all happened under the generous aegis of the Great Grand Schlob, towards which we move below :

But what is a Schlob ?

And where could it be ?

And why does it have to

happen to me ?!

Notwithstanding what it is (or what it could possibly be), let it be clearly spelled out and particularly specified that the Schlob takes nothing but cash.

No IOUs, no government scrip, no Autumn leaves you found or carefully pressed, no baseball trading cards, no notes from your mother, no bullshit and especially no plastic cards, be they with or without chips, with or without magnetic cards, colored thus or therefore, in whichever way manner or trickery proferred or presented -- if it ain't cash, it ain't good for the Schlob.

Because the Schlob, let any and all get it clear, will take cash only, NUR BAR!

Above, the Great Grand Schlob from the front ; below from the side. All these people paid cash to be here, or otherwise had no money by them, so they're stuck haunting forever.

But enough of the Schlob for a moment ; let's all go instead and visit Vienna's landmark cafes, and see what we see. Before we proceed though, we fortify with really small bottles of (not really all that great) liquor and novelty chocolates, vaguely reminescent of the Little Red Riding Hood medallions we used to get back in teh days of childhoodry (not really all that good chocolate). Good thing we've schlept (abschleptendienst!!!) imported rum across rheumatic Europe, what can I say.

The statue's on the way to the famous cafe we're going to, and as you can see -- they've Schlobd't it!

Supposedly cafe Landtmann's the bee's knees, and we even had a table reserved!

Sadly, they didn't have my first preference. Nor the second. I got a couple of things anyway since we came all the way, but can you guess what those preferences'd have been ?

The interiors are nice, but the atmosphere unpleasant, a terrible mix of stuffy pretentiousness carved in wood and smegmy mass market carved in bunions. Trying to run a pretentious cafe on ten dollar cakes and no WoT just doesn't work out in practice, you end up with all these schmucks in jeans and geci cu puf coming and going every which way all the time, it's altogether unpleasant.

And, what's infinitely worse, the cakes just aren't all that good, industrially produced cheap whatever. They're not outright hydrogenated-oils-with-hydrogenated-oils-on-top, but it's not really that far off ; I've had infinitely better desserts dozens of various places.

And, incomprehensibly, the guy that delivered our food (different from the guy who took us to the table and the guy who took our order, because hey, high class joint) carried about the world a facefull of pimples the likes of which I've not set eyes upon in quite the while. I don't know how to say this without squishing something, but it is simply not possible to hire the pustulent for cakery table service. It dun fucking work, what.

The menu also shows the place back when it opened, in the late 1800s. It's right across from the University, and it evidently was purely student wot-based back in the day, when it worked. There's some gentlemen-wannabes playing pool, it evidently works out. The woman understood nothing, and then passed it on to the dude.

The coffee however was quite good (once one peeled away the pile-up of misery they seal it atop with).

A small musikschule, rather admired in the neighbourhood.

Vienese peisage, we're headed to... another famous landmark cafe, for more dessert. Because we can, that's why.

Further more Vienna, and... but wait, what's this ?!

Parken in der city. Das ist soooo Deutsch....

Why the fuck der city when it's die Stadt anyway ?!

Aaand here we are, Cafe Schwarzenberg.

The coffee is okay, the desserts not bad, but honestly... leaving aside I have way the fuck better in my own harem whenever I deign to so order -- I've had way the fuck better commercially, and all over the world. The famous landmark Vienese dessert shops are turning out quite the... well, not exactly disappointment, I wasn't exactly appointed in the first place, but the... mediocritude, let's say.

More Vienese peisages, and then on to the gay-famous Cafe Savoy.

As per tradition the waitress (who was a guy) fell all over herself in a half-hearted quest to not make it too obvious she'd totally fall right into my lap ; so we gave him a chestnut (you have to try the chestnuts here, by the way, they're superb).

It turns out Savoy's a perfectly practicable (if perhaps a little on the expensive side) place to have breakfast.

In case you're wondering, by the way, the bimbo's not with us. She's instead shipped off to Linz, by herself, by train, with naught but a most exquisitely unwieldy and inconveniently broken piece of hand luggage I specifically selected for her protracted disconfort. She waited for us in the Linz train station to maybe show up just about half a day, after spending a day or so in the oubliette for the very serious offense of having fucked up my Saturday night through critically inept navigation.

What's your guess, do we pick her up ?

Oh no, it's dat Schlob again!

Bottle of Sisi-schnaps I bought at the Schlobstore.

Its... well, really, it's not all that good. I didn't even drink it in the car, I just tasted it.

Not really worth drinking, I don't think.

This'd be the Sun setting over the Danube in Linz.

And this'd be the city seen from up on the hill, by the Postlingberg Schlobl.

To be honest I found Linz pretty close to fucking unbearable. In part because of the incredible degree to which the locals are spatially challenged and vehicularly inadequate -- it's like old people driving drunk, and the pedestrians are no fucking better! -- and in other part because it's a stuffy small city with all the drawbacks conceivable. It's like if the Landtmann cafe in Vienna made its own town up North.

What is a Postlingberg Schlobl, you ask ? Why, this thing next to the Postlingbergbahn Station :

We had the Schlosslmenu, with fish and venison respectively and... oh look, we actually picked the bimbo up, too! The restaurant is just as fine as I remember it from twenty years ago.

This is the balcony of our place in Linz. It actually includes live beehives, yep, I kid you not at all.

Above : Fichte was, as you remember, a famous philosopher, who once said that aus so krummen Holze, als woraus der Mensch gemacht ist, kann nichts ganz Gerades gezimmert werden.

Or possibly it was someone else that was the philosopher, and Ficthe was just a tree.

Or there's other possibilities -- because of the crooked timber of possibility no straight answer was ever possible.

Below, the venison in question.

Above, the seven sorrows of the virgin Mary. No, seriously.

Above, the shapely daughter of the very dedicated owner of the Taj Mahal (all halal) Indian restaurant in Salzburg, serving us all the kinds of lamb they have.

Below, the remnants. Yum.

A schmuck, 'nuff said.

Whatever might be said of Linz, it goes about triple and a half for Salzburg. It's just as ineptly inconvenient, overtight and unappealing, altogether not worth the hassle. So we pressed on, to Munich!

Where we didn't stay, because... you'd better be seated for this, everything was full.

No fucking kidding, in the whole town, everything (with the exception of "conference" circuit shitholes a la Leonardo etc, which were not full, but were trying to charge 300 euros / room / night instead of their usual and much more properly adequate ninety-something, because everyone worth three hundred being actually booked, it must mean it's now's their turn to score!!!), literally everything.

So we didn't stay in Munich ; though the fake nipple clamps are pretty hot.

This'd be the Schlob in Spessart, which is a very beautiful corner of Hesse forest.

And on to breakfast (udon soup, salmon in spicy, good stuff) in... where could we be ?!

Yes, that's right, Hauptbahnhof! Schlob Hauptbahnhof.

This is my view, an exercise in macarale, rid in soare, argintii. I don't so much mind, my earliest memories of Frankfurt in the 90s contain the same "holy shit, what's with all the cranes", this place was fulla cranes for as long as I can remember, they're a permanent part of the skyline here.

I have quite the baggage train ; and I can't be bothered to do my own shoes. That'd be it, for now.

———Used to be that I did these by my own hand, which meant articles got maybe one or two illustrations, but mostly not. Then I coerced slave labour into processing, and it took about two to three slavegirl-hours per hundred -- but whatever, no skin off my back, which led to an uptick in upload volume a while back that you've probably noticed. But once the machines took over... well, it's simply deluvional, I guess Ima have to keep an eye on whether ease drives down quality such that we're better off without. What do you think, are we ? [↩]

« Albertina hurr

The slut, and the whore. »

Category: La pas prin lume

Thursday, 10 October, Year 11 d.Tr.