So, the month-long wind-down of my game has come to a close, and I'll be shutting it off for good tomorrow night. The "end game" has been a fun thing for me and my testers/development team to handle. We did it slowly:

First, access to the "outer" planes was cut off. Slowly but surely, other planes were locked away, until only the Purgatorio (a giant void filled with small "islands" of land) and Valhalla (the "earth" zone) remained. Then, elements of the void started eating up Valhalla. . .

Eventually, the main island in Valhalla was "moved" to the Purgatorio and Valahalla itself was shut off. At that point, the "memories" began appearing: shards and snippets of poetry, broadcast as global messages. These have served as my "bookend" for the game, and serve to connect one of its central themes back to itself.

Here is a log of the "memory shards", including my final speech to the players. They were broadcast in sets, over multiple days.


Set One:

There is a sudden flash of light from all around that blinds you momentarily. As your eyes return to normal, you momentarily see several unknown rune shapes.

Visions and memories, not your own, flood your mind.

There are the eyes of a woman, auburn-haired. Laughing. Her name is Molly.

Here are the cracked and peeling houses of the neighborhood where the you-who-is-not-you grew up.

Two small boys are chasing a dog through a field. One of them has a bb gun, and will shoot it in the side. The wound will get infected, and the dog will die.

The blonde woman buys ice cream for her son. His name is Clay. He has a liver disease. The sun is setting.

The sun rises behind the tower, spreading golden light across a field of yellow grass dotted with sleeping horses. The king is dead; you have failed.

You will hear the racous cries of the fishermen selling their wares one day; the whack-whack snicker-snack of knives gutting tuna and salmon.

The wails of the slaves, so viscous, a pathetic, liquid sound. Mayhaps you'll eat one soon.

You should speak to her. That girl. You know the one I mean. Tell her soon; the world is ending.

The symbols fade and the world rightens.

Set Two:

The true name of the Maker lies hidden between the muted rhythm of a heart beat and the liquid eeeeeeeeeeeeeeehhhhhhhh-aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah of the lungs. Thrum thrum thrum. Thrum thrum thrum.

The dentist grimaces as she sands bits of dried epoxy from a patient's tooth. The teeth are stained - too much tobacco and coffee - and the filling doesn't match.

A handful of dirt splatters on the coffin. The mortuary gave out cards; one side has a picture of a saint, and the other side has the Prayer of St. Francis of Assisi. You fold it without thinking and put it in your pocket.

His name is Richard. You can smell his lust; it's a oily tang in the city air. He intends to sleep with the blonde stripper. He will fail. You order another drink and wait, the gun heavy in your pocket.

The prisoners sing spirituals as they work along the road. The pounding of rocks punctuates each verse. The noon sun gleams dully off the black steel of the guard's shotgun.

A young brunette woman leans out of an apartment building to watch a wedding processional in the street below. This moment is captured on a greasy stream of film. It will be one of the few photographs of her. She will die a few years later, the victim of a genocidal pogrom.

Thrum thrum thrum. Thrum thrum thrum.

Your grandfather is teaching you how to twirl a gun. His enormous hands effortless spin an antique Colt while yours struggle with a cheap, tin pop-gun. You are four years old. He will soon die, and this will be your only memory of him.

Gently the child bobs in the water, bouyed by an air-filled vest. She smiles and gurgles as she learns to swim.

Every time a baby is born in the ward, the nurse presses a little button, and strains of Brahms are heard through the floor.

The tangy smell of cordite fills the air as the deranged assassin finds his mark. The musician dies, bleeding into the gutter. His widow cries over his body.

He is furiously stabbing at the tree where he had carved their initials together inside of a heart. Tears blind him, and he cuts his hand.

The cat is in pain. It does not know how to communicate this to its mother. Instead it sets down, glassy-eyed, barely moving.

Thrum thrum thrum. Thrum thrum thrum. Thrum thrum thrum.

Several thousand miles away, an unsung poet dies.

Set Three:

Thrum thrum thrum. Thrum thrum thrum.

She touches his hand, accidentally, electrically. "I'm sorry," she says, but doesn't mean it, not really, he is so handsome. Her name is Hannah; his Francis. One day, in the future, she will bear him a son who will become a president.

You sit at the edge of the lake. Your fishing rod is a simple thing: just a stick with a nylon line tied the end and a bright orange bobber above the hook. Father has a *real* fishing rod, with a reel and everything. There is a metal bucket filled with small trout; he caught them. You will never be happier than this moment, being a son in the moment of your father, who loves you more than you can know. Eventually, you will drift apart, and then together.

He said, "We shouldn't tell anyone about this," as he touched her. She sighs.

I have to let you go. You are no longer mine.

Her name is Tatinana. She likes playing with her doll. Her father is important somehow but she doesn't quite understand. Someday, in the future, she will help to hold down a soldier while a surgeon violently removes a bullet from his chest.

Thrum thrum thrum. Thrum thrum thrum.

She doesn't understand. The boy pushed her in the sand; she just wanted to go down the slide. Mother wipes away tears with a cheap tissue. There will be ice cream.

OHGOD OHGOD OHGOD DON'T FUCKING DIE ON ME YOU BITCH. ohfuck you're overdosing. don'tyoufuckingdieplease. Here, take some speed; maybe that will make you well until the ambulance comes.

Things have never been so swell.

The knives! The knives! Once, twice, five, twelve, twenty, they stab and stab. The pain, the pain - my cloak, my hands, the floor, they are painted crimson, this cannot be my blood. That cannot be my son...

I watch the fireflies swarm in the heat. They twist and dance among the eddies of the late summer night; I think of the girl I am crushing on and wish she could experience this with me.

Thrum thrum thrum. Thrum thrum thrum.

He is a gentle boy. He loves creatures; he loves the world. Nervously, he tells his parents that he thinks he is gay. "You're no son of mine," father says. "I didn't raise no faggot." There are bruises the next day.

I read your fucking book. Did you hear me? I READ YOUR FUCKING BOOK.

The blood washes down, mixing with the dirt, collecting in the cracks of the soles of my shoes. "I'll have to scrub that out", I think.

She lifts the bowl of soup to her mouth. She thinks of a man she used to love. He boarded a ship one day and she never saw him again.

Thrum thrum thrum.

Thrum thrum thrum.


Set Four:

Thrum, thrum, thrum.

That girl, the one with dishwater hair, the one over there...

"Faggot! Faggot!" They scream this at me as they beat me but I'm not gay! I'm not! Stop! The gravel sticks into my skin, my skull lifted and pounded into it. Jesus, jesus, jesus, STOP.

Here sings the sun. It shines yellow upon the trees. They are golden in its light. I step across a broken branch and take her hand. Her touch is electric, like a jellyfish.

There is a burbling sound as he tries to breathe. Bubbles of blood collect around his mouth; ohgod it hurtssobad. The wrecked motorcycle lies five meters ahead; the car drives off.

"I want a divorce," she says. "I never really thought we had a future together." There is a flash of patience, then a flash of rage. There is a crunching sound as you punch the wall, bloodying your knuckles. "THEN WHY DID YOU FUCKING AGREE TO MARRY ME IN THE FIRST PLACE?" you scream. The wall will bear the mark for two years before it is cleaned.

Thrum thrum thrum. Thrum thrum thrum.

The monitors sing. deet. deet. deet. deet. deeeeeeeeeeeet. My friend dies from cancer, unknown, alone, in a hospital in New York. His parents are informed of his illness when they are called upon to claim his corpse.

"I do this for her," he thinks. "She'll love me when it's done." Finger pulses on the trigger: once, twice, thrice, four times. Secret Service tackles him, but the hornets find their marks.

As he lays to rest, her cat settles on his chest and purrs. He is accepted. Once he sleeps, she will slink away, her purpose complete.

"I've seen you around," she says. "You're noticable. 'Hey, whose that rockin' dude, there?'" Stunned, no words, the event passes without notice.

This is your world. This is your life.

Live in it now or be a spectator forever.

Thrum thrum thrum. Thrum thrum thrum.

Set Five:

Thrum thrum thrum. Thrum thrum thrum.

It is July 2nd, 1961. The voices say, "take the pills! Take the pills!" Do it, papa. Do it, do it, do it, do it, do it, do it, do it, do it, do it, do it, do it, do it. Best of all he loved the fall / The leaves yellow on the cottonwoods / Leaves floating on the trout stream / And above the hills / The high blue windless skies / Now he will be a part of them forever

Christ, she is so beautiful, and I'll never. . . I'll never be able to talk to her again.

"I want you to listen to this," she says. "I think you'll like it." It's a trip-hop drum-and-bass cd. He listens attentively because she is hot and he likes her. He tries not to think that the lyrics mean anything.

A small voice in the back of my skull says "no, stop" but I keep hitting him. He's down, done, drawn - I keep punching. Wet meat, broken bone, my knuckles. Someone grabs my shoulders, pulls me off him; he coughs blood. Someone says, "Cops are comin'". I wake up the next day with damaged hands and no memory of who he was.

"You know, I thought you were going to ask me if we could get another cat," she says. He had asked her to marry him. She said 'yes'.

Thrum, thrum, thrum.

"I didn't know it was like this," he said. "I had no idea, I was so scared." He kisses the other boy. "I'm so scared; I don't know what to do, everyone will hate me."

Click, click, click. The bullets go click, click, click as they are slotted into the magazine. Click, click, click. The Ambassador Hotel. He'll be there.

She coughs for the last time. A small amount of blood seeps into the tube. Her family sighs, collectively.

"You know. . . You know that I love you, right?"

Thrum, thrum, thrum.

Set Five:

Thrum, thrum, thrum.

Thrum, thrum, thrum.

To everything there is a season, a time for every purpose under the sun.
A time to be born and a time to die; a time to plant and a time to pluck up that which is planted;
A time to kill and a time to heal, a time to weep and a time to laugh;A time to mourn and a time to dance.
A time to embrace and a time to refrain from embracing; A time to lose and a time to seek; A time to rend and a time to sew;
A time to keep silent and a time to speak; A time to love and a time to hate;
A time for war and a time for peace.

Thrum, thrum, thrum.

Thrum, thrum, thrum.

My favorite quote is by an American author, John Steinbeck. "A man, after he has brushed off the dust and chips of his life, will have left only the hard, clean question: Was it good or was it evil? Have I done well - or ill?"

Do your best to do good things because the time when you must ask those questions comes all too soon.

I have enjoyed our time together.

Thank you.

I kind of got involved in some strange conversation on the intertubes. It involved religion to some degree, and someone said that I have a level of "equanimity" about the universe. I liked the sound of that, as it made me feel less stupid than normal.

(I'm the best there is at what I do, and what I do is pretty stupid.)

I have a big joke that I have been using for several months. That I am a "Militant Apollo Fundamentalist" - that I worship the sun god. There's a reason for this. I figure worshiping the sun - Apollo - is the most productive I can be with my deity worshiping time. Because, unlike other deities, Apollo actually grants shit to you, every day, without thanks:

1) Light
2) Warmth
3) Vitamin D
4) Photosynthesis in plants, which means "food"
3) Sun Tans

That's a lot to be given for free!

Aside from Apollo, you might as well worship Danny DeVito. Because he's the one most likely to hear and answer your prayers.

This makes me sound like an atheist with a bunch of jokes to play.

However, if the truth be told, I best fall into the category of "deist". I believe, through logic, that there is a thing that we might call "god".

How is that, you ask? Mostly, it's Occam's Razor. The most simple explanation is likely the most correct one. I can hear several of my skeptic friends right now screaming, "THAT'S NOT HOW IT WORKS!"

But it does work that way.

So, yeah. We have this Big Bang thing. Given that, everything falls utterly into what we call "science". However, I have to ask the question: what caused the Big Bang? Well, okay. Many things, maybe? A previous universe collapsing on itself. Or something like that. Who knows?

But what caused that? And what caused the thing that caused that? And so forth, until we have turtles all the way down.

Eventually, we hit the idea of "First Cause". Something existed first. And that's a really fucked up concept. Something existed before time began. Think about it for a second. See if you can wrap your brain around that.

I'll wait.

This is where we start using the word eternal. That word - "eternal" - has been thinned out by our culture. We use it a lot, to be sure. Mostly in Christian creeds, mind you, but even there it has lost its meaning. The word means something VERY specific:

"Something that has always existed, and will always exist, and, through that, becomes its own reason for existing"

Eternal things were not created. There was nothing to create them. They are their own first cause.

That we exist is a given (well, that I exist; I'm not so sure about you fuckers still). Once we have that, it's an (admittedly complex) series of logic steps to find that there must be something that is eternal. And that thing, whatever it is, is the First Cause.

So. To my mind, the simplest explanation as to why the universe exists is that there is something that is Eternal. Occam's Razor.

For lack of a better term, we can call this thing "god."

Now, I am not certain that this "god" cares about us in ANY way, or is even aware that we exist any more than I am aware that there are bacterium swimming in the sweat my skin secretes. We are citizens of 1 planet among 8 (9!) in 1 solar system among, oh, 200 billion, in 1 galaxy among, oh, 10 trillion (easy). Those are some big numbers.

We're pretty much alone, I think.

Further, this "god" is bereft of what we call "morality". I don't think it even cares what "good" or "evil" are. These concepts are things for mortal creatures. I think that ascribing morality to a deity is the height of arrogance. Ants may very well have an idea of what is right and wrong to them but I don't give a fuck. I'll still squash them.

So "god" doesn't tell me what is fine and good or worthy of respect.

Without a deity to provide me with a map to what is right and wrong, I am left with my own, internal moral compass. That leaves me with a set of axioms to live by. They basically break down to a few simple rules, most of which are also driven by logic, and ultimately boil down to "greed is good."

That sounds bad. But let's be brutally honest with each other: you are the most important person that exists from your perspective. Oh, sure, you can try to deceive yourself into thinking "my partner or my children are more important than me" but that's a deflection: the reason they are more important to you is because you place that value on them. You may be willing to die for them, but you do so because you put that value on them.

Everything we do - everything - is for ourselves. This isn't a bad thing! Far from it. Selfishness is good! It's good for everyone.

Why? Because you, me, all of us - we may be individuals, but we are still members of a society. You are a hive creature. You cannot escape being part of the hive: it is part of your very nature.

The stronger the hive, the stronger the individual members of the hive. So, the laws of selfishness dictate that it is to your advantage to make the hive stronger.

These axioms are dependent. If an axiom violates a higher number, you shouldn't do it. Like the Laws of Robotics. Here are mine:

1) Don't be a Dick. Jesus said this, only nicer: "Do unto others as you would have them do unto you". Dude had some smarts until he got stabbed and left to die on a hunk of wood. You're part of a hive. When the hive is stronger, you are stronger. If you're a dick, you make the hive weaker. Thus, you become weaker. Don't fuck over people. This is selfish, but good.

2) Take Care of your Peeps. You have a family. It may not be defined by blood. But you know who they are: the people you trust, the ones who will be there when the chips are down. You have to take care of these people as much as you can within your power. Because one day, they will take care of you. This is selfish, but good.

3) Pick a Brother Up. Your fellow hive members sometimes fall down. They may not be your family, but they are still part of the hive. Help them to become stronger, because as the hive grows, so do you. This is selfish, but good.

4) Scotch is Awesome. Fuck it. We've got very little time. As long as you're not hurting someone (axioms 1, 2, and 3), you might as well indulge in pleasure, since that is what makes life worthwhile. It's better to regret something you did do than to regret not doing something. Love who you love, love what you love. Everything drives to this, which is the ultimate degree of selfishness.

Effectively, as long as you follow 1, 2, and 3, you can engage in #4 as much as you want. 1-3 are the base. That's Taking Care of Business.

I am not saying "this is what you should do." I'm saying "this is what I do". It may or may not work for your personal situations or beliefs.

Given that statement, it hasn't failed me at this point.

(There are actual questions here, but they're at the bottom. You kind of need to know the history to understand the issues. If you don't know dick about asthma, you can skip this entirely.)

About two years ago, after a couple weeks thinking I had a super-bad chest cold and almost dying from it, I was diagnosed with what amounts to adult-onset asthma. This was another delicious genetic gift from my parents which, on top of my tendency towards spontaneous pneumothorax, ensures that I will never be placed on the front lines of combat, be a fireman, or enjoy a rocket ship to outer space.

Anyways, the doctor put me on a drug called Advair at the strongest dosage (250/50, twice a day). This drug is designed as an asthma control medication. It's designed to keep me alive so that I don't have any attacks, which, if you've ever had one (especially one that requires the use of your "accessory muscles" to breathe), simply sucks ass.

Well, that did the trick. The asthma cleared up and I got control of breathing again. After a few months, I started forgetting to take the daily dose of Advair more and more often until I had stopped taking it completely.

Every now and then, when I felt a bit liquid-y in the lungs, I'd take a crack-hit off the Albuterol inhaler. But that ended up starting to be bad for me, because it sent my pulse skyrocketing all the time. So I weaned off that, and do what I can to avoid taking puffs from the "rescue inhaler".

(For me, asthma attacks where I take a hit of albuterol go like this: "HOLY SHIT I CAN'T BREATHE I'M GONNA DIE!" (hit from the crack pipe) "HOLY SHIT I CAN BREATHE AGAIN BUT I'M GONNA HAVE A FUCKIN' HEART ATTACK AND I'M GONNA DIE!")

Super steroids.

Anyways, back in March, I caught another "chest cold". Only it, too, was a big-ass, near-lethal asthma attack that kept getting worse over the course of a week. I went to the doctor, and he pretty much yelled at me: Don't stop taking the Advair, dumbass.

Since then, I've been a dutiful boy about taking it.

However, a couple months ago, I started getting some seriously fucked up symptoms. Very worrisome symptoms, because they can point to some seriously fucked up shit (read: Lou Gehrig's disease or multiple sclerosis type stuff).

To wit:

1) Significant muscle cramping in my hands and feet, especially my left foot (about every third day for a couple weeks)
2) Tremors in my hands (sometimes severe enough where I couldn't type or even play guitar)
3) High-to-moderate levels of anxiety pretty much all the time
4) Panic attacks from time to time (usually one a day)
5) Acid reflux type things (maybe once or twice a week)
6) General malaise
7) Unexplained muscle aches

At first I didn't connect this with the Advair at all. It could be a lot of things (like dehydration or even clinical depression). I started making dietary and behavioral changes (including radically reducing my alcohol intake). But the stuff continued.

It wasn't until I made a connection: I usually had the panic attacks within an hour of taking a hit from the Advair disk. Further, that was when my hands started shaking, too.

After this realization, I started paying more attention. After that, I noticed a definite trend (including a very special instance where I felt a panic attack simply crawl up my spine and root like a dark creature after a fire engine came screaming up the street at me).

So I called the doctor and asked to get a reduced dosage. He agreed, and moved me down to the 150/50 dosage, with the suggestion that if things don't get better within a week that we revisit the problem.

Since then, I haven't had any muscle cramping or aching (yay, victoly!), the malaise has either gone away completely (I'm tired a lot, but I've been very busy and stressed). I still have a level of anxiety but I'm not sure if that's drug-induced or not.

I've had two panic attacks, neither of which were pleasant. Both of them were possibly exacerbated by not being in full control of my situations (when you start to feel a panic attack coming on, you start to panic about the fact that you might be having a panic attack, and that's a feedback loop from hell).

So maybe that's good? But I got new shit.

First, I've had heartburn from hell for the past two days. So bad that I don't really want to do anything at all, let alone eat or drink anything.

Second, the back of my throat is filled with mucous. I'm coughing from it a lot - but I'm having no trouble breathing.

So, the questions:

1) Has anyone else had this happen to them? Had this experience?
2) If so, has this been "fixed" for you? If so, how?
3) Should I just wait it out for another week? It's possible I've still got residual shit going on from the mega-dosages.
4) Maybe I'm just fucking crazy?
5) Maybe it's actually some sort of super-fucked up problem like stomach cancer?

Any help would be appreciated, because this shit is seriously impacting my ability to actually enjoy being alive. So much that I'm almost willing to risk another asthma attack.

Fifteen years ago today I found myself stuck in traffic on the Bay Bridge.

I remember that time very clearly because it was the first time I had ever crossed to San Francisco from the East Bay. I remember thinking "this can't be the Golden Gate because it isn't orange."

I had just driven 2,235.3 miles westward, most of the time on I-80, to move to San Francisco on a whim.

Now it is fifteen years later.

I think I am a "local" now.

As mentioned previously, my tuxedo cat, Simon, had taken a turn for the worse. On Friday, he stopped eating any solid foods, eating only baby food or the gravy from some kinds of wet cat food.

On Sunday, he stopped moving around, preferring only to sit in one place on the bed, and I knew then it was time.

So yesterday afternoon, Kristen and I took him to the vet and he was put to sleep. I wanted to have it done as soon as I could, but they apparently do not perform this procedure until the end of the day.

The vet told us that this was absolutely the right thing to be doing. That the kind of weight loss he'd had was beyond anything behavioral: it was absolutely medical in nature (which means that Clementine didn't starve him out). I asked him if it could possibly be FIP, but he said that "dry" FIP doesn't present this way. I told him that Simon's feces had been almost black (I first saw them like that yesterday, just before we left). That seems to be even more evidence that he had an intestinal cancer of some kind.

He went quietly.

He was a good cat.

This is a song we used to sing as kids on drives to Minnesota. It came to mind tonight during a discussion about my idea to feed rare-earth magnets to dogs in order to have tin cans chase them around.

I love this. I think I will make a metal version of it.


I'm looking over
My dead dog, Rover
That I overlooked before

One leg is missing, the other is gone -
The third leg is laying
On our. front. lawn....

No need explaining
The one remaining,
Is down by the cellar dooooooor

I'm looking over my dead dog, Rover
That I overlooked
That I overlooked
That I overlooked before!

My cat, Simon, has taken a turn for the worse.

About a year ago, he started to get skinnier - losing weight. At the time, the vet said that it was likely behavioral, since there were no obvious signs of illness. He was banned from eating plastic bags and other things that made him throw up, and I had hoped that this would clear things up and allow him to gain weight again.

However, the weight loss has continued, and, as near as I can tell, increased in speed. I brought him to the vet last week, whereupon he was subjected to many tests and x-rays. I was told that they didn't know what was wrong, but that (in a cat his age) the likely cause was a stomach cancer, but that, again, there could be environmental issues.

Specifically, that the other cat, Clementine, may be playing "domination" games and preventing him from access to the food dish. I was advised to feed them in seperate rooms, and only in the morning, for half an hour. This would train them to know when they could eat and when not, and hopefully spark Simon's hunger.

(Simon also had a lot of compacted fecal matter - like, he really wanted to take a crap - so I was given a perscription for a laxative for him. Which he dislikes. I've not noticed it working, though there was a nice, big turd laying in the living room today.)

Only, the food training thing hasn't worked out. Simon is actually eating less now; he won't touch the food dishes when set in front of him. He only eats cat treats, and even then not many of them (about half of what I set down at a time - a small handful).

Clementine, in response to the new feeding schedule, has started gorging every morning to the point where she immediately throws up.

So this feeding experiment is a failure: Simon has fewere opportunities to eat, and Clementine is just starving and pukey.

My next trick is to try feeding him baby food - chicken, tuna, whatever - in the hopes that he'll eat that. Or smelly wet cat food. Or something like that. I just know he needs to eat or he will be dead by Saturday.

He's suddenly so listless. Slow moving. He was unable to jump onto the dining room table this morning. He doesn't purr when I pet him. He feels like a small sack of twigs inside a rough fur bag.

I am pretty sure his time is coming to an end - possibly this week - and I don't know what to do.

It's been a long time since I didn't know what to do.

So, Saturday morning I woke up and realized I didn't have anything to do so I decided to go to Stonestown and play the part of a cow, standing in line to purchase a new iPhone 3G S.

Why? I shall enumerate.

1) Old and Busted. My old, steam-powered iPhone had started to get wonky on me. The "shut the fuck up" switch wasn't working all the time (contact leads busted?).
2) Music Storage. Since I have been using the thing as an iPod more often, I wanted more than a 7 gigabyte slice of my 70+ gigabyte music collection.
3) Piktchas. I never thought I'd be taking as many photos with the damned thing as I did, so I wanted a better camera (the original iPhone camera is flush on the surface, so it got scratched up almost instantly).
4) Data Speed. I normally couldn't give a shit about whether or not I'm on a 3G network, but during the rare times I'm at the office, I am unable to read my email through the work network (they disable IMAP and POP). Thus, I am reduced to the painfully slow process of getting mail over a cellular connection. So faster data == happier jorm.

None of these issues were solved with the JesusOS 3.0, and since I qualified for an upgrade, I thought "why the hell not?"

Since I name all my portable devices after fictional artificial intelligence types, and the old one was named "Leoben", I decided to name this one SHODAN. Of course, nothing would do but to create a ringtone from this sample of her voice, and obviously the wallpaper must be her face. So that's fun.

And kind of creepy, when my phone randomly decides to call me a "pathetic creature of meat and bone."

The little "compass" application is stupidly fun to play with, despite it's simplicity, and I've been having a ridiculous amount of fun messing with the "voice activation" system.

One nice thing that I've noticed (and this may be a feature on the 3G; I've never played with one) is that it is significantly louder (in terms of ring sound, etc.) than the original iPhone. This pleases me to no end.

Also, you'd think that I'd easily be able to come up with a 26 gigabyte playlist. Turns out, not so easy, since I kept undershooting the mark.

California Supreme Court and Prop 8: K-lame

Sonia Sotomayor: Don't know enough to form an opinion

Stratocaster: We're becoming friends, but she cut one of my calluses last night

Internet Explorer: Suck a chubby

Whiskey: My love and my enemy

Kids: Get off my damn lawn

Yesterday, in celebration of the Swinepocalypse, several of us gathered at my place and ate a lechon, which is basically a roasted suckling pig.

What is the Swinepocalypse? I'm glad you asked.

The Swine Flu has been terrorizing the world. It is slowly but surely turning the bulk of humanity into ravenous Pig Zombies. I felt that we needed to prepare for that: for the fact that, in the near future, our diets will consist primarily of bacon, ham, sausage, and other pork products as we are reduced to butchering our infected former loved ones for baconfoods.

We tore the pig apart and we eated it. KBK brought some pearls to throw before the swine. Then we played a lot of Rock Band.

Photos here.

Now, I've got a lot of pig in the freezer and a big pot of bones simmering on the stove for soup.

Also, there's a pig skull in my freezer.

Last night, uke came over, bringing an amp and an electric cello and then he, Maynard and I sat about annoying the neighbors for a couple hours.

It was a hell of a good time. We weren't trying to play any particular songs, just hoping to get a nice sounding groove on. I've been listening a lot to Godspeed You Black Emperor!, whose music I might describe as "multiple layers of various stringed instruments repeating phrases through multiple crescendos" so the idea of having a more "classical" stringed instrument appealed to me.

(I don't remember mentioning to Jeremy that I was really into GYBE lately but I could have. Who knows? He has like, ever instrument imaginable.)

I have to say that the cello injected a radical change to both the sound of the music and how we were playing it. It has a very distinct sound that was a marked contrast to the deeper, crunchier sound of the guitars.

I found that in order for things to sound good, individual layers didn't have to be complex as complex as we'd (Maynard and I) been playing. I'd been used to zipping all over the place with more complex phrases but seriously, half the time we got away with some simple two or three note things, since there was an additional layer to fill the space.

The cello's tone also altered what kinds of phrases I normally played, which was both good and bad. With just a guitar and a bass, and the guitar in a distorted DADGBe, I tended to keep all my phrases on DAD, with an occasional G. This was giving me the sound I wanted in an almost artificial way: distorted chords standing in for an additional instrument layer. I didn't use the higher pitched strings because they stood out too much with only a bass line to back them, and ended up being reedy and demanding.

But with the cello, there was another higher pitched instrument, and it gave me "permission" to move to those strings. This was "good" because I got to flex some less used muscles (and it also made me wish I'd tuned to E instead of drop D). This was "bad" because I hadn't used that muscle training in a while, and I kept missing strings (fingers more used to stretching to the low strings than cramping to the high ones), or jumping to the wrong fret (because I've let my ear training atrophy with regards to the relationships of G, B and e).

I took a photo here.

I think what we need to do next is add some sort of percussion. I don't think a full kit; maybe even just someone with some bongos. Possibly another guitar or even something more exotic like a violin.

Hey guys! I have something to share with you.

I am very much in love with my life these days. I'm actually very happy.

I love my job. I love the people I work with. I love my friends and family, both old and new. I love my hobbies. I love my social life. I love California and the city and county of San Francisco. I love my cats. I love my roommates, and I love their children and friends.

I love my music. I love my writing. I love my games. I love my players. I love the still night warmth in the Temple of Wind and Fog, and I love the fog.

Inside, at night, when the moon rises, I feel a deep melancholy in my heart. But it is not a sadness for me! It is about other people, I think. About thier sadness, their struggles, their depressions.

This evening I stopped in at my local coffee shop just to say "hello" to the people who work there. I didn't buy anything, but they are people I like, and they like me, and I was there.

Friday, my friends came over and we played games! Saturday, we threw a surprise party for a friend of mine. There were probably 30 to 50 people in and out of my apartment over those forty-eight hours - most of whom I did not know. But I liked them all, and regret no moments.

I am reconnecting with old friends and making new ones. I have many new energies in my life and it is invigorating.

Just in case you were wondering why I was so quiet. Because it's easy to write about the bad things, but no so easy to write the good.

We exist in Hell.

A comment from one of my game players, after I explained how this existence was Hell:

"I am never reading anything Jorm writes while high again. 4/20 just got a lot more paranoid."

The conversation thread was based on the idea that there could or could not be a "utopia" on Earth. That someday we, as a species, would come together as one and be ultra happy and peaceful.

My response:

It is not possible to achieve a Utopia in this world because, simply, this is hell.

We are in hell.

What is hell? Why, it is the worst thing imaginable.

When Lucifer (or Satanael, or whatever) was cast down, the most horrible punishment that could be inflicted upon him and his cohorts was to "no longer be able to hear the Voice of God and be Removed from His understanding."

None of us know these things. Ergo, this is hell.

Ergo, you won't be finding any "perfect society."

If you are a Christian, or a Jew, or a Muslim, this logic must follow you. I apologize for bursting your bubble, but, according to your belief system, you are in Hell.

The worst punishment is to be divorced from the Mind of God.

And none of you can claim to be witness to the Chorus of God.

In your hearts, in your souls, you know what I say is true.

So from this, you can extrapolate two ideas:

1) Everything you have been taught about God and religion is true, and you are in Hell

2) It's all bullshit, and if there is a God, he doesn't care enough about you (and Hell) to put you in it, or to give you access to the Chorus, or whatever.

Take from that what you will.

ITEM!

After a year working as a gunslinger-for-hire at Electronic Arts, they decided to make an honest man out of me, and extended an offer to make me a gunslinger-in-residence (read: transition me from "contract employee" to "full time employee"). The offer letter arrived this morning via overnight delivery, and I have chosen to accept.

I will still be doing skunkworks projects, so I can't talk much about what I do. As mysterious as that sounds, it's really not that interesting: my inability to discuss is merely indicates weird laws about compliance and the like.

ITEM!

I forgot to mention this earlier, but two weekends ago my friend Chris and his crew came into town for the weekend. Chris and I went to high school together: back in 1990 or so, we would be driving around on Friday nights, listening to Skinny Puppy and Revco and the like, trying to find something to do in the two-star town where we lived.

Jenny and I ran into him over Christmas break, and we got to talking. He does television now, producing/directing a program about racing called Three Wide Life.

Anyways. He and the crew from the show were in San Francisco to do some interviews about some sort of racing or other (by "crew," I mean him, the other producer/director guy, and the show's hostess/talent). He asked if I could show them around, so I did.

First, I rescued them from hanging out in DouchebaglandNorth Beach. Then I took them for sushi at Jimisan, and then we went out drinking. It was a good time.

ITEM!

Last week I got nailed with a sinus cold. I felt it arrive like a hammer just as I was going to bed Tuesday night, and on Wednesday morning my skull was filled with delicious, gooey, yellow-colored snot.

By Wednesday afternoon, I felt the congestion move to my chest, and I started wheezing and having trouble breathing. Coughing up phlegm after a great deal of effort.

The breathing problems continued to get worse, and I just chalked it up to "yet another serious chest cold". Thursday evening I was having panic attacks about not being able to breathe (which just made it worse). I was experiencing the entire "fish out of water" mode, and even took some anti-anxiety meds to calm that down.

Friday it got . . .significantly worse.

On Saturday evening, I actually put two and two together and remembered, "Oh, yeah. I have asthma, and that's what this probably is." So I started dosing on my asthma control medication (Advair) which I'd stopped using a couple months back because I didn't feel I needed it.

I called the doctor yesterday, and he said to come in, so I this morning I had an appointment. He listened to my lungs and then we had a short conversation which boiled down to "keep using the goddamned Advair, even if you don't think you need it."

So that's that.

ITEM!

I've been taking a long, hard look at my life over the past couple weeks. I realize that I've been kind of stuck in a cycle of intentional failure in a lot of areas. Well, more like, "I have been avoiding situations where I would be able to succeed."

I've been pretty much drunk for a year and a half. It worked as a mechanism to fight the tedium while my brain re-assembled itself. However, that process finished a couple months ago, and I've essentially been over medicating.

Playtime's over. Time to get back to work.

Mom had her first round of chemotherapy late Monday. This was the first of five or six (I think). I spoke with her then and again this evening.

She is doing as well as can be expected. Groggy and a bit depressed. She's on an anti-nausea medication and has thus far managed to avoid vomiting - though apparently there was a close call when she almost missed a pill. However, the big bear in all of this for her is apparently not the nausea.

Yesterday they gave her a shot that is intended to kick-start her body's production of white blood cells (since they killed all of them on Monday). The side effect of this is that her shoulders, arms, and sternum ache like hell,

So she has been in pain over that today - but that is to be expected. Producing an immune system is hard work, I'd imagine.

This is a short story about dreaming into the future.

Maynard's three children are having a sleep-over tonight. They come over about every other week or so lately to spend time with their father. I don't mind in the slightest, though I'm not exactly an expert when it comes to relating to kids between the age of 8 and 14.

This evening, however, Maynard tells me that Cailean (the eldest, who is 12 or 13, I always forget) wants to hear Iron Man. As I'm certain Maynard expected, this fills my soul with a tremendous glee and I feel my heart grow two sizes.

"Yeah, I told him you'd be more than happy to introduce him to Black Sabbath."

So I turn to the Monolith (the nickname for the big rotating CD rack), spin it a couple times, pull out a Black Sabbath album, slot it, and we listen with the volume up loud.

Cailean is what I call "Rock N' Roll Curious". I can tell that his tastes are protoplasmic: he doesn't know where to go, what he likes. Maybe he doesn't even like guitars? Is he a metalhead? Who knows.

So I decided the best way to do this was to prepare a "Rock N' Roll 101" course for him. I pulled a set of CDs for him to take and listen to - the really, really basic building blocks - so that I can get a gauge of where he is.

In the list: Back in Black, Led Zeppelin I, Led Zeppelin IV, Black Sabbath, a Sabbath compilation, Frampton Comes Alive, The Best of the Doors, Legend (not really Rock N' Roll but a good thermometer), Van Halen I, and Foreigner.

Building blocks.

This evening we sat down and we introduced him to Led Zeppelin IV. This was my introduction to the band back in, oh, 1984 (when I was twelve), and I think it worked out okay.

The other night I had a dream about something this.

I had forgotten about it until last night, when Charity made a reference to the movie Singles and I remembered that, in the dream, I was (for some reason) compiling a list of albums to for someone to listen to in order to get an overview of important rock and roll from 1970 to 2000, and (in the dream) I had gotten into an argument with someone about the proper chronological order of the Singles soundtrack and Sweet Oblivion by the Screaming Trees.

I wonder if I shouldn't make such a list for real. I probably wouldn't put Sweet Oblivion on such a list (but I would probably put the Singles soundtrack on there as an overview).

I wish my parents had listened to rock n' roll. As it is, the only thing I can blame my father for is introducing me to the Beatles and getting me to love them when I was 17.

Which isn't that small of a feat, when you think about the fact that I was listening to Slayer pretty exclusively then.

My Dark Masters today announced they are laying off 1,100 people. It is . . .unclear if this is an additional 1,100 people over the 1,000 they announced in November, or if they are merely increasing the butchery by 100 souls.

Further, no clue who is getting the axe.

This is my "25 things" meme. I'm posting it on LJ and not Facebook because it will crosspost there. You're supposed to tag other people. I am not tagging anyone. Do, or do not. I am an unfeeling idol made of a thin meat crust filled with a raspberry jam.

Here are the Supposed Rules that I Break Because I am an Iconoclast: Once you've been tagged, you are supposed to write a note with 25 random things, facts, habits, or goals about you. At the end, choose 25 people to be tagged. You have to tag the person who tagged you.

( The Items, Cut for Douchebaggery )

I will never bother you.
I will never promise to -
I will never follow you.
I will never bother you.
Never say a word again,
I will crawl away for good...

(What follows is some pretty personal stuff. Do NOT read the following as a "cry for help." It isn't. Seriously.

It is posted publicly because I realize two things: that I have been extremely opaque in recent months, holding everything close to the vest and thus preventing anyone from getting close, and that I feel I was always happiest when I was being transparent because then I had control of things.)

I have been pretty damned happy the past couple weeks, even given all the other things going on (Mom's cancer, economy woes, you name it). Stressed out, sure, but in a good mood.

It is probably obvious to those who know me that I have been engaging in what could be classified as "self-destructive behavior." I could probably stand to drink a couple fewere bottles of whiskey, for instance. I only ever get involved with emotionally unavailable women, thus sabotaging any chances I have at having a positive emotional cadence in that regard. I'm eating like crap; I don't work out anymore.

But I know all this, and it isn't really "self-destructive" so much as it is "self-flagellation." It is transparently obvious to myself (and others, such as Maynard, who knows me best) that I am actively keeping myself from getting "burned" again. It's a known quantity and one that has been the topic of several conversations with my family and friends in recent weeks.

I met a woman last week. She's young, but smart, charismatic, and incredibly attractive. I am pretty sure I've gotten all the signals. Maynard says I should ask her out, but I feel that I'd just sweep her up into the aforementioned intention for failure.

The thought makes me happy nonetheless. Even if I never speak to her again, I'm pleased that I didn't immediately seek to destroy. Over the weekend, I even failed spectacularly at being self-destructive.

Which is why yesterday was such a shock.

I will move away from here.
You won't be afraid of fear.
No thought was put into this.
I always knew it would come to this -
Things have never been so swell;
I have never failed to fail
Pain

Pretty much immediately after I wrote about my switch from Lunesta to Ambien yesterday I found myself flailing inside the blackest depression cloud I've encountered in many, many moons.

As a rule, I do not perceive myself as being a "depressed" person - at least, no more so than any other human being I know. I have ups and downs, to be sure, and I've had a spectacularly shitty year, but for the most part I consider myself to be "up beat".

I am not the only person who thinks this; most people who I interact with feel the same way.

So it came as quite a shock to me yesterday when I found myself seriously considering giving up and ending everything.

Everyone ponders suicide from time to time. For me, every time that thought crosses my mind, there is a switch that gets clicked somewhere in the cob-webby recesses of my skull that activates some sort of animatronic ass kicking machine that delivers a solid whallop to my posterior. I drop the thought, and I move on.

But not yesterday.

I'm so warm and calm inside.
I no longer have to hide.
Lets talk about someone else -
Steaming soup against her mouth.
Nothing really bothers her;
She just wants to love herself.

That fact - that the animatronics didn't fire - was enough to tell me that something was seriously fucking wrong. At this point, the Batman process kicked in and told me "this is probably chemical in nature and not indicative of reality."

Minor research into the possible side effects of Ambien indicates that "altered thought patterns" was one of the known effects.

So I made an appointment with the doctor and saw him yesterday afternoon. He, too, expressed surprise at my mood, since, in his words, I have "always struck him as up beat." We agreed that Ambien obviously disagreed with me and he pulled me off it, substituting Restoril for my chronic insomnia instead.

There was also a short conversation that I assume he was required to have with me regarding whether or not I was seeking hospitalization. I wasn't; I just wanted to fix what was broken.

By the time I got home in the afternoon I was feeling about four thousand times better. For one, I had taken steps to change things. Taken control, been proactive rather than reactive (the fact that any residual Ambien [which has a half-life of like, three hours] had been flushed out of my system by then probably helped, too).

I will move away from here.
You won't be afraid of fear.
No thought was put into this;
I always knew it'd come to this.
Things have never been so swell;
I have never failed to fail
Pain.

Last night, Maynard and I jammed for about two hours. We both picked up our instruments only intending to play for five minutes or so and the next thing we knew it was late.

We've been doing that a lot lately. It has been cathartic for both of us (he is going through his own shit).

I remember when I first started playing, everyone I knew said, "oh, you'll love it, playing guitar is a great way to get rid of angst and anxiety." I didn't believe them at the time because I couldn't play. Far from decreasing stress, it amplified it because I was so frustrated by my inability to play.

Now, though, I know what they mean. We set down and just play. Sometimes he follows my lead; sometimes I follow his. We are in sync musically.

We open the porch doors and turn the amps outward so the music doesn't rattle the other apartments. I stand in the doorway and smoke cigars while playing. We drink beers.

The other day we had a rather nice thing going for about ten minutes and then one of us fucked it up (probably me). At that point, from the street below, we heard someone shout up: "HEY! Don't stop! That was great!". We had a little audience of three people going on.

It felt good. It felt like progress.

I write music that sounds like the desert. Sometimes it is aggressive and hot, but lately it has been the mellow sounds of creatures waking up as the sun rises.