I'm slowly coming to realize that the most rewarding, fruitful, and enjoyable activity I have ever engaged in is the pursuit and maintenance of a relationship with another person.  So to say I'm lonely is a slight misnomer, perhaps.  It may be more accurate to say that I no longer have a favorite, all-consuming hobby.

After break-ups there tends to be a lot of noise about self-sufficiency and re-learning to make do with your own company.  This has never seemed like a good idea to me.  Mapping out another human being- their likes and dislikes, how they smile, what makes them laugh, what they care about, how they move, their body language, the words they use, how to tell what they actually feel- all of these things wrapped into a single package seem like the best use of my time.  The entire process of infatuation motivates me in a way that nothing else does.  Intimacy sets off music in my ears, makes me feel fulfilled.  Being alone, while sometimes desirable, feels ultimately like a waste of time.

This feeling has been with me for a long time, since before I really knew what went on in our fucked up courtships.  In elementary school, at the very beginning of when such infatuations could be a reality, at the moment they became socially advantageous, I knew I wanted what these people were or were not experiencing.  It looked exactly like what I was missing.

Perhaps this is all obvious and self evident, that towards which we all inevitably gravitate.  Perhaps I just don't like myself very much.  Perhaps I pursue this end purely hoping for reciprocity.  I really can't tell anymore, and I have ceased to care. 

All I know is that, all other things considered?  I'd rather be with you.

A preliminary list of films that I will be seeing at this year's Vancouver International Film Festival.  So excited.  I will be adding more to this list once I verify which days I have off work and purchased those tickets.

Friday, October 2

The Great Contemporary Art Bubble- 9:15pm


Sunday,October 4

Will Not Stop There- 10:30 am

Morphia- 12:15 pm

Air Doll- 4:00 pm

The Girl- 6:20 pm

Gigante- 9:30 pm


Monday, October 5

Kamui- 6:45 pm


Tuesday, October 6

Mother- 9:30 pm


Wednesday, October 7

Home- 6:30 pm


Thursday, October 8

North- 9:15 pm


Friday, October 9

Camino- 9:15 pm


Sunday, October 11

A Prophet- 12:45 pm

Canary - 4:00 pm

Prom Night in Mississippi- 6:00 pm

Police, Adjective- 9:15 pm


Monday, October 12

Nomad's Land- 12:00 pm

Tibet in Song- 1:50 pm


Tuesday, October 13

Kimjongilia- 6:00pm


Thursday, October 15

Ninja Assassin- 9:30 pm


Friday, October 16

Queen to Play- 10:15 pm



You should come.

Noun

(Classical) IPA: /paːks/

pāx (genitive pācis); f, third declension

1. peace

          “Spero ut pacem habeant semper.” (I hope that they may always have peace.)

2. harmony



It is weird.  This is weird.  Not a strange weird, not just yet.  This isn’t “I’ve just been proposed to in a foreign country and I don’t know how to say ‘no’ weird”, not even “this feels good but I kind of want it to stop now” weird.

Just weird.

As we wander the streets of Seattle, it becomes readily apparent that every single person attending the Penny Arcade Expo is easy to spot, even before they pick up the tell tale badges at the Hyatt Hotel.  You just know.  They look familiar, like you’ve seen all 60,000 of them before.  These are the people at your friend’s house party who talk excitedly, and with no regard to the rest of the room, about zombie escape plans and exactly how many hookers you would have to kill before a life in American politics becomes impossible.  These are the people who play board games while everyone else dances and drinks.  You know them all without meeting them.  You know their archetypes. 

You know the attractive girl in the skimpy costume, inhibitions only laid bare as fictional characters.  You know the middle-aged guy with the really bad facial hair, the guy with the utilikilt, that girl who plays DND, and the folks with enough charm and natural charisma to remain popular and sociable despite what may seem like an unsocial hobby.  All those people you avoided and gamed with, all that palpable skill, all that company either sought or discreetly avoided is accounted for.  It feels like every gamer in the world is here, but this convention center is only so big, so I guess every single nerdy, geeky, witty, kitschy, campy, and just fucking genius t-shirt in existence will have to do.

The drive to Seattle, a first for me, was pleasant and trouble free.  The border- scary but simple, and the city, my God this city.  Seattle is intimidatingly different, like a big, serious Vancouver.  I felt like if I wandered too far in the wrong direction the shadows would come alive, absorb my body, and then take all of my money.  After settling in we went to a marvelous below-ground establishment called The Taphouse.  Aptly named, because this place had 160 beers on tap, and menu items like a honest-to-goddamn beer float.  A sample of what I sampled-

Fuller’s ESB from Great Britain
Kingfisher From India
Ayinger Brau-Weisse from Germany (my favourite from that evening)
And from Ireland, Murphy’s Stout

We had a table which was situated within about one fanboy’s screaming tackle of Wil Wheaton, some of the cast from The Guild, MC Frontalot, and Jonathan Coulton.  This was certainly the correct place to be.

Still alive.  I guess.

Seeing Beatles Rockband at PAX rekindled my love for that particular brand, though my only desire is to purchase the game plus one instrument, a deal which didn't seem to be present at any of the retail establishments I dragged my sorry ass to on release day.  I'll end up ordering those two necessary components online through Best Buy or something as soon as I can convince my credit card company that I am, in fact, myself, and not some deceptive apparition. 

Speaking of PAX I do desperately want to write about my experience, but any prolonged intellectual exercise actually causes physical weariness.  A short conversation with my mom sent me to bed; playing a video game, or really any extended activity leaves me feeling substantially drained, as if every fucking thing in the world wants me to go to hell and die.

I want to write more, but I agreed to go to work tomorrow, which already seems... like ah... um... er.. a funny phrase that means I did something stupid.

Balls.

Saw the Doc today.

He said that I don't have anything to worry about.  I don't have any swine flu specific symptoms- though he took a nasal swab (which is like having your nostril raped with a big q tip) to send to The Lab, and so I"ll know in a few days whether or not pork-sickness type jokes ought to be forthcoming. 

If I start to develop "pneumonia like" symptoms then I need check back in.  These symptoms include things like fluid in the lungs and not being able to fucking breathe.

Fever broke last night, which is awesome. 

Low on energy, high on feeling sorry for myself.  Going to go die now.

Hope you all are well.

There seems to have been a lab-confirmed case of swine flu from PAX.  I have flu like symptoms.  I do not know if I have swine flu, I will not know until lab tests confirm it.  If you came into contact with me at PAX, or at anytime afterward, please be aware.  The PAX official twitter thing is sending out updates- here.  So go ahead and subscribe to that.

This great evil.
Where does it come from?
How'd it steal into the world?
What seed, what root did it grow from?
Who's doin' this?
Who's killin' us?
Robbing us of life and light.
Mockin' us with the sight of what we might've known.
Does our ruin benefit the earth?
Does it help the grass to grow, the sun to shine?
Is this darkness in you, too?
Have you passed to this night?

***

Love.
Where does it come from?
Who lit this flame in us?
No war can put it out, conquer it.
I was a prisoner.
You set me free.




I love this movie so much.

Video games, memes, ideas, events, and happenings during the weekend.  Would love to write more about it than this, but this is what I need to get this out of my system.

-Ice teaing.  (don't ask)

-Getting a spot in line rather than doing important things like eating or sleeping in.

-Coordinated dancing Fallout puppets.

-Assassin's Creed 2 / Splinter Cell Conviction demo.  Very excited, trying hard not to write a whole paragraph about the historical accuracy of the events in Assassin's Creed 2.

-The Final Countdown, at all instances.

-Avery convincing random people that Andrew was the creator of the three keyboard cat moon shirt.

-Jonathan Coulton.

-Rick rolling Jonathan Coulton (much thanks to Ryan and Andrew for spawning the idea).

-Paul and Storm.

-Closure.

-Osmos.

-HWil HWheaton.

-HWhereas.

-Fucking weird fans.

-Gabe and Tycho dealing with fucking weird fans.

-Racist bear rape (seriously, don't fucking ask)

-notfunnydogs.com

-BEER (Beer that tastes like pepper, pubs with 160 kinds of beer on tap, sharing beer, drinking beer, but never getting to the point where I felt like I was being destroyed by alcohol.)

-Beatles Rockband.

Want to write more.

Okay.

Notebook- Check.
Book to read- Still working on this, think I need something more portable.
iPod + charger + extra battery- Charging.
Cellphone + charger- Charging.
DS + charger- Charging.
Camera + charger- Charging.
Sea salt and cup for soaking ear- Oh right.  One sec.  Ok got it.
Snacks for waiting in line, etc.- Yes.
Clothes- in the washing machine.
Small bag- Check.
Large bag- Check.
Playing cards- Check.
Origami paper- Check.

Fucking excited?  Fucking yes.

March 20, 2009

My grandmother's short term memory is starting to deteriorate, so I get to answer the same questions about I want to do with my life several times a day. 

I have miniature woman that I keep on my desk.  She lives in a glass bottle which is mounted on a wooden base with a little brass plaque.  For the longest time I though of having something witty inscribed there, like 'Break in case of inescapable ennui" or something along those lines.  But eventually, as I got to know her, I simply taped a piece of paper on the plaque upon which I had written her name.

Her name is Josepheen. 

On nights like tonight I'll pull out the large cork stopper and let her slide out of the glass tube onto my desk.  Sometimes she dances, sometimes she takes out her tiny cello and plays music or me.  Some nights she talks to me until I fall asleep.  But not tonight.  Tonight, after she tumbled out of her glass home, puffy dark dress and red dreadlocks all temporarily out of place, she just sat there and looked at me.  She will not talk or sing, and she will not tell me where she hid her miniature cello. 

She's just sitting there, staring at me and waiting.  Apparently it's my turn to talk.

Though I will be spending a lot more time at home in the next few months I won't be avoiding the outside world entirely, and neither will my father.  It would still be nice for him and I to have visitors, but all we ask is that you have had a clean bill of health for the last few weeks before you come by.  We both like to entertain and socialize, but it won't be as often, and we will be very careful.  So please be mindful, and please don't take any new obsessive cleanliness habits personally.  I would just like to be able to get through this as quickly and as pain free as possible, and unfortunately this means asking all of you...

Yes, that's right.  Old fashioned correspondence, remember?  It was that boring stuff they taught you to do in elementary school when you really wanted to learn about dinosaurs or pirates or something cool. Instead the instructor would stand there, completely oblivious that this particular skill would not serve us very well in the near future, and tell you where to put the address and the return address and the stamp.  And then they walked you through that long suffering process of where to indent and how to sign off and to put the return address on the top right or left of the letter (who the hell ACTUALLY did that?  seriously, waste of space).

You probably remembered all of it long enough to send a letter to your grandma thanking her for a birthday check and then never bothered again.

Alright, maybe none of that is true.  But what is true is that I want to get some pen pals, so if you are interested leave your address in the comments or email it to me at kindelingboy@mac.com.  I'll send you something interesting to get us started. 

Why, you ask?  Because it's a medium that combines things that I really enjoy- writing and engaging with my friends.  It also has an added romantic feel to it as well- practicing something that is in many ways obsolete but still possible, if you put the time in.  I've sent one off already, and I'm hungry for more; so if you'd like a pen pal, or just want to have a sample of my impeccable penmanship- speak up!

UPDATE- I'm somewhat wary of posting my home address on the webernets, so if you would prefer to take the first step, let me know and I will email you my address.

REUPDATE- Screw that noise:

•  

• Reddit, via Fark- A very comprehensive breakdown of the last few days, as well as definitions of many new terms you will be seeing and the roles of key figures.
• Andrew Sullivan is posting very regularly with articles, videos, and first hand accounts- including this news report from the BBC, one of only a few that are making out of the country, and a list of choice tweets from within Iran.  The list updates sporadically, so keep it open in one of your tabs.
• Speaking of twitter- it is being used as a primary source for news from within Iran, as most journalists are trapped or being shipped out.  It has become such a resource that the US State Department requested Twitter to delay it's scheduled maintenance.  Here is a list of English tweets from within Iran- sorted by city. 
• Clay Shirky spoke at TED earlier in the year about how easy-to-use social networks like twitter and facebook have changed the nature of news and the media.  Given the circumstances, the folks at TED decided to fast track the talk to the web along with an interview with Shirky about what's happening in Iran.
• Nico Pitney is liveblogging via the Huffington Post.  Regular updates with relevant articles, videos, and links to first-hand accounts translated from Farsi and Persian.
• A great article from the New York Times containing links to videos, photos, and a flickr feed.
• Amazing photos from the first few days of unrest.  Warning, the last few are of people killed or wounded.  There is a lot of blood.
• Pirate Bay is now The Persian Bay, and has gone green to show support.  A lot of people are hoping that Google will do the same soon.
• For those of a technical mind, or anyone with a twitter account, here is a guide on how you can help with getting news out of Iran.

That's all I have, I think.  All thanks to those who posted these links and content.  Please forward these to anyone you think would be interested.  I'll update with anything I think is worth sharing.  Spreading the word is pretty much all I can do right now.  I encourage you to do the same.

That felt really good.  Great day. 

No one ever does my job for me.  I don’t mean to sound bitchy or jealous, I’m not really like that.  I do my job, I get paid, I move on.  I don’t stick around to ponder things, I never wake up in the mornings in some kind of existential funk and have to convince myself to get out of bed.  I like what I do.  I’m just surprised.  Not one ever helps me with my job, it’s not how it’s done.

I remember my first bit of work, a small cafe in Tel-Aviv that my uncle owned.  It didn’t pay much, but my mom said it kept me out of trouble, it kept my dad happy, and uncle Syd let me keep my tips and snuck me wine from his private stash.  It was fun, all I had to do was take people’s orders, serve them food, and clean up the place. 

But every once in a while, a customer would bring up his used dishes, put them on the counter with cash plus tip, smile, and walk out.  They would toss the leftovers into the bins themselves, or put them in the Styrofoam containers I would give them.  Sometimes they even insisted.  I got used to it eventually, even became grateful for it and resentful towards those who couldn’t be bothered.  Even though it was my job, some people would help and do it for me.

Something like that is reasonable to expect in the service industry.  It became harder to come by later in my life, when I joined the Israeli Defense Force.  Going through basic training everyone kind of looked out for each other, but you couldn’t rely on your friends to polish your boots for you.  The few friends I made would point out if my cot wasn’t made up quite right, or if my uniform wasn’t tucked in correctly.  We all did our best to keep each other out of shit.

After leaving the IDF I took advantage of more immediate and lucrative jobs- smuggling weapons out of the local armories and selling them off to whoever.  This wasn’t an environment where people looked out for you, not unless there was something in it for themselves.  My customers would sooner kill me and take my product than help me take out my trash.  That expectation of friendliness was gone.

But now, standing in the middle of some anarchistic African state, I remember working in uncle Syd’s small café.  I remember the old ladies smiling at me as they put their plates on the counter.  I remember the smell of the cheap wine and car fumes as I look inside the small shack made of corrugated iron, and I scratch my forehead with the butt of my pistol.

Inside the shack is the man I’ve been searching for in the African wilderness during the last three days, dangling a few feet above the dirt floor, hanging from the deceptively strong scaffolding.  I spend a few moments staring at the bloated, purple face before I take out my cell phone and dial the number I was given when I picked up the job.

“Yeah, it’s me…  He’s dead, usual payment in rough diamonds if you don’t mind. Another one?  How much for him?  Okay. Great, see you soon.”

I turn off the phone, sigh, and walk into the shack.  No one ever does my job for me, not that I’m complaining. 

"More communication, not less," is probably my motto when dealing with religion in society, especially when it comes to education.  So when people in Germany want to give religious children separate ethics courses, or parents in Quebec complain about the religious education in schools because their children are getting "confused" I begin to squint at my screen and an exasperated "What?" escapes my lips.

I'm having a lot of trouble finding the words to describe my frustration with this kind of behavior.

I finished reading Stephen Fry's autobiography, Moab is my Washpot the other day.  It is, of course, equal parts hilarious and insightful, and I must keep some choice quotes here to be remembered.