Wednesday, October 31, 2007

Tuesday, October 30, 2007

For those who don't know, NaNoWriMo is National Novel Writing Month. The goal is to write a 50,000 word novel in the space of one month (Nov 1 to Nov 30). The emphasis is not on quality initially, but simply on meeting the word goal (the slogan is "No Plot? No problem!"). This comes to an average of 1667 words daily--about two pages, single-spaced.

I intend to do it this year. Will anyone here join me? You see, I'd like to bring a lot of people--at UGA especially--together to work on this; the idea is that if we're all working on this, we can encourage each other, stop each other from dropping out.

By the way, December is editing month. November is writing month. We're just writing ALL we possibly can, not even going back to clean up until later. It's largely for those of us who've always intended to write a longer work but procrastinate on it. This forces you to write and gives you a rough draft, so if nothing else you have experience in long works of fiction.

To sign up, go to

If you plan to do it, please comment here (and if possible give contact info). I'd like us who do this to all stay in touch, possibly get together to write, et cetera.
Let me preface this post by saying that I'm against sexual predation, et cetera, et cetera.

So, those who read the news know of the sting in which a UGA student, believing he was soliciting sex from a fifteen year old girl, was arrested--the person he was chatting with online was actually a police officer.

Here's what I find interesting about it. In cases of statutory rape, they say it doesn't matter whether you know that they're underage or not. If your partner uses a false ID that shows them to be over 18, it's still considered statutory rape if they're underage. What this would tend to show is that the actual action matters less than the intent behind it.

So . . . if these fellows intended to seduce underage girls but were actually seducing adults, can you convict them? Is consistency too much to ask in criminal justice?

Mmm, poll, question: shall I send this in as a letter to the Red & Black?

Ooh, and deliciousness: one of the men arrested in the sting is the Pike County superintendent of schools.

Monday, October 29, 2007

I have been seduced into the glamourous lifestyle of a librarian. I fear this may be the career path I choose.

Look, it's not like I need a lot of money! And you know, it's cushy and stuff. Well, not really. But there's books! And children learning about the joy of reading! Plus, if you work in a library you have a monopoly on your product (or at least the most competitive prices), so you don't have to worry about serving customers well.

Yes, you say, but Phillip, you'd be working a government job. And you know those jobs make you sign a contract that says you're not trying to bring down the government, the establishment, the Man, the United Fruit Company, or Mom's apple pie.

And I say, yes, but my word can be compromised.

But you'd be an agent of the establishment! The Man! The United Fruit Company!

Look, I'd be subverting the enemy from the . . . what the hell is it with you and United Fruit?

Santa Marta. Colombia. 1928.

. . . I could be morally ambiguous. Some say that's sexy.

You can't bring off morally ambiguous sexy without a sleek black trenchcoat and good hair.

I have the hair! I can buy a trench!

And brooding eyes.

I have those too! I'm dark, and brooding, and mysterious, and, and, and . . . *pout*

Yes you are, lovey. *pats head*

In conclusion, librarians make the best secret agents. They are the guardians of knowledge, which is power. I shall be an Anarchist Librarian! Or better:

Phillip: Dark Lord of the Library


In other news, this weekend I carved pumpkins. I created the savage Pumkas people, a tribe of head-hunting cannibals dwelling on a remote South Pacific island.

This included a bunch of little pumpkins with X's for eyes stuck up on spikes.

And pumpkins with sharp sharp teeth taking bites of other pumpkins' brains and guts.

Pictures are on Facebook. As of Sunday morning, the neighbors have already complained. Success!


You know what? I like the finer things in life. I like classical music and opera and going to the theater. I like good wine, good port, caviar and tartar. I am utter and total snobbish Eurotrash. I know good formalwear, and I love to wear it whenever I have occasion to.

I'm realizing I was raised to be capable of moving in classy society just about anywhere. I discuss art and opera like an ennui-ed aristocrat and make polite banter in multiple languages.

Not sure how I feel about this. I'll get back to it later.


Half a bottle of very good port + very sharp knives + slippery pumpkin juice + tough to pierce pumpkin skins = oh jeez the ouch.


I try to live without regrets. That's a major thing about me: if I am afraid to make mistakes, I will not experience all I'd like to. The greatest experiences I have had would have come to naught if I'd allowed my fear to get the best of me. And I can get some good or profit out of anything, no matter how ill-advised it is or how disastrously badly it turns out.

That is why when I say I do regret something, it is fairly important. It means that I feel the negative consequences outweighed both all that I enjoyed about it AND all the learning I gained from the experience. I can count my regrets on my fingers (and no, I'm no polydactyl).

A regret before it is complete is a mistake. You see, I must have had good reason not to do this and yet went ahead with it anyway despite that. Basically, the consequences came--consequences which I foresaw--and were just as awful as I'd foreseen, but the value of the experience was far less than I thought it would be. Or perhaps I was dumb enough to hope I was wrong about how things would turn out.

Of all the people I've been involved with over the years, I've had two regrets. I won't share those, simply because I think it's rather cruel to say that's what I thought of my time with them.

I think I am coming to the point of making another such mistake. And I shall not. I shall at least learn from my past, this time.


I'm listening to Cake's cover of "Mrs Robinson". I'm building a deep love for Cake. Coo coo cachoo.


I should think I'd like to marry rich. That's right, I'm in college not for my B.A. but my M.R.

Thursday, October 25, 2007

So, lately I've been kind of mopey. As such, my friends have been trying to comfort me.

And I realized: I don't like being comforted. I don't like being told pretty things to make me forget how I feel. It stinks of lies. I'd rather take whatever pain comes to me and let it eventually pass.

I mean, I think I've always hated this stuff 'cause it sounds like such utter and total crap. When someone dies, or you lose someone important to you, or . . . well, whatever, people say, "Time heals all wounds."

Bullshit. I mean, ok, time does heal a lot of wounds. But who cares? The pain is now, and it's yet to heal.

Or they try to normalize it. Make as though it weren't so bad; as if what is lost wasn't that worthwhile in the first place.

Bullshit. Don't devalue what I want in my life; just because I didn't get it doesn't mean it wasn't worth desiring.

I love beautiful frivolities: the lies of a clever and meaningless conversation, or of a well-written novel. It's art, it's daily fictions, and they can be enjoyable.

I loathe actual falsehood. Once again, it's a devaluation, a degradation: when you understate something to make things seem better than they are you turn the original feeling into a sham. Don't. Don't make my world a more comfortable place by evening out all the highs and lows. I want them both.

You who know me well, you know when you ask my opinion I'm as honest as my perception will allow. I don't share my opinion when the bad outweighs the good, true, but I don't lie in the least detail.

So when life starts sucking, don't comfort me. Just be there--nothing more, nothing less. I don't want pretty lies. I just want my friends.


Another thing I discovered:
When I am in a mopey or unhappy mood, if I begin to think of or speak of my pride and arrogance I begin to feel better. D'you see that? My happiness isn't in thinking well of myself; it's in knowing I think well of myself. When I start to fall apart, knowing I have that self-confidence is the glue.


Friday, October 19, 2007

If you're a Harry Potter fan, this link will have you squealing in glee (or in horror).

For those who can't be bothered to click it . . . well, J. K. Rowling has just announced to the world that Dumbledore was in fact gay. He had an unrequited romance with Gellert Grindelwald.

Let's let this sink in for a few minutes.

Well, it does rather explain the Beauxbatons-esque robes he wore in the fourth film . . .

And why McGonagall never tried getting into his pants.

And his genius-level intellect and creativity.

I'm just . . . I'm not sure how to express this level of awesome.

Thursday, October 18, 2007

So there's an idea I've had in my insomniac moments that a great work of literature is one that can be summed up in the form of a Godzilla haiku; if it cannot be, it is not a great work of literature.

Usually I come on to this musing as I'm trying to sleep; I make a few haikus and forget about it.
Today Laurel and Megan convinced me to start writing them down.

Here's the few we put together at lunch today:

Lord of the Flies
Pacific island
Boys exploring governance
Godzilla says "Snacks!"
Romeo and Juliet
Can true love exist
For Godzilla and Mothra?
Double suicide.
Scarlet Letter
Mothra's a hussy
Godzilla's in the clergy
Hot romance ensues
Ghost dad wants vengeance
Godzilla pretends madness
Everybody dies.
Gone with the Wind
In the Civil War
Godzilla couldn't care less.
Mothra wears curtains.
Godzilla's jealous
Of Mothra and Cassio
O.J.'s not guilty
Moby Dick
Call me Godzilla
Queequeg invites me to lunch
The whale interrupts.

So, that's what we did off the top of our heads.
Suggestions? Additions? Any literature you'd like to see Haiku-ed?
I just saw possibly the most disturbing commercial EVER on TV.

It's for a remote control Thomas the Train set. The kid's controlling this train as it goes around the tracks. Then it comes to the tunnel.

"Should he go through the tunnel?" The train goes halfway in.

"Or maybe not." It pulls out.

"Wait, let's have him go through!" It goes further in.

"Back up, Thomas!" Pulls back out.

"Yay!" Goes all the way through and keeps going.

What. THE FUCK. Am I just a dirty-minded fellow? Or does the image of a train going in and out of a tunnel again and again seem rather . . . suggestive?


It has come to my attention that Josh has posted quotes from me that make me sound . . . questionable. Perhaps somewhat, I dunno, prejudiced.

I could defend myself. I could say I have a deep appreciation for other peoples, other cultures.

But you and I, dear reader, we both know that's not true. I'm an utter misanthrope. Rather than granting me flight or x-ray vision, they above chose to bless me with rancor and bitterness towards mankind.

But in a cheerful way.


Also, we've changed the location of our wedding. It was suggested we do it out by Demosthenian Hall, 'cause Rock for Barack is taking Myers Quad (even though THEY definitely weren't invited to interrupt this ceremony).

Because of disputes between my fiance and I over who gets which bridesmaids or groomsmen, we intend to have our Best Man and Maid of Honor pick teams, dodgeball style.


Um. Our neighbors across the hall are weird. John just came back from showering. They were both down there showering (in separate stalls). Apparentley, as they were leaving (together), John swears he heard one say, "Wait, I forgot the lube."



Last night we carved pumpkins for Demosthenian, and I had the thought (which I couldn't help but remark) that I'd love to be a brain surgeon if it was like pumpkin carving.

"You see, Doc, it's just these awful headaches."

"I see."

"Is there anything you can do?"

"Why sure. I'll cut a hole in the top of your skull, muck out the contents with a big plastic spoon, then carve a smiley face in the back of your head."

"Um . . . will that make the headaches go away?"

"Almost certainly. Nurse, get the candles."

Tonight we new members are called upon to defend the Hall. I shall garb myself in black, and arm myself with pens (in case they attack with swords). And I'm thinkin' war paint. If we do that, I'monna be a kitty cat!


It occurs to me that nuptials sounds dirty. Next time I go to a wedding (other than my own), I intend to say this to the groom at the reception:

"I seen your wife's nuptials. They'm real pretty. I watched 'em for hours. Wanna see mine? We made us a tape."

Saturday, October 13, 2007

I couldn't remember the login for the blog I created a couple weeks ago, so I tried logging in with my GMail account. And I found this.

At first I wasn't quite sure what it was. As I read over it, it sounded vaguely familiar . . . and then I realized why. Welcome to my first blog, from way back in the beginning of my freshman year of high school. Everything prior to this post is about four years old, and it's strange to see my writing. How it was, how it is now . . . all right, so, there's a lack of major change. So it goes, chilluns.

Well, I could take you on an introspective journey as I examine how I once was, how I've changed, as I check out the new me and the different writing style, but the truth is that it would be kinda pointless and kinda depressing. Reading this, it doesn't seem my writing's changed or improved much in four years--four ever-loving years!--which is probably my own fault, as I've written little enough in that time. It's shameful, isn't it, that I who call myself a writer and tell everyone I shall be a writer, have been avoiding actual work, practice, improvement. It's a sin against myself not to explore something I always enjoyed doing. I can claim I've been working on gathering experience before I start putting anything out there, but you and me both know that's shit.


A lot of people have been posting about love and relationships lately, and I keep hitting on the idea that my feelings on the matter are rather different. I don't see the same progression everyone does; of course, I usually date people I've already known for some time.

In my case, I'm usually very good friends with someone before I go a step further than that. There's a pretty major reason for that: I have to trust someone a lot before I really get involved with them. And I'm pretty all-or-nothing: once I'm in a relationship with someone, I'm totally open to them. I feel like I'm giving them the power to hurt me, because despite the prickly and apathetic demeanor, it's pretty easy to tear me apart. I'm not gonna say at this point that I love a person, not romantically, but I'm letting them be part of me.

Then again, there's dating-but-not-a-relationship. I've never been as good with this. As I've seen this, it's a substitute for being friends for some time beforehand. If you're friends, you've got time to build a level of trust. If it's someone you've just met, you gotta spend some time around them before you get a good idea of how you feel about them.

Issue with dating, it's a false image. You're trying to present your very very best side, all the good and smart and special that would be especially loveable. You're covering the warts, which are sometimes what makes a person more interesting. More worthwhile. I have trouble trusting someone if I'm on a date with them, because I know they're trying to present their best side, and so am I. You know people that talk about someone changing right after they slept together, or married, or whatever? That's the switch from the simulacra to the reality of the person.

I've enjoyed being with people without loving or trusting them. I don't intend to do this more, because it's ultimately empty.

You see, there's a point when you cross into intimacy. That's, I would say, when the words "relationship" and "love" become accurate. Sometimes it's a conversation, when you talk about the true and important things in your life. When you're open and honest, and presenting that which you care about and fear. It is the point when you realize a person as a person, and they seem the same of you, and you can trust them.

I have been intimate with people long before dating them or being in a relationship with them. These are my closest friends, my other halfs, who I've held to me for some time. I think you four know who you are. These are people I'd date without a second thought (except that all four are women), because I trust them to look out for me, because I know I'd look out for them, and because I know I can rely on them, always. I suppose blood brother (or sister) might be the traditional term.

You see, I am all or nothing. When you have me, when I have that trust and intimacy, you have me entirely. Without that, I'm there for the fun and to take care of you best as I can when you need it, but that's it. Keep in mind that I apply this only to romantic relationships; my friendships have considerably different rules. It is the difference between open and shut; when I am open to you, I am utterly open, and when I am closed you will see nothing but the surface.

So I say the word "love" doesn't apply in romance until there's trust and openness. You can fake it, but that's pretty far into the wrong. There's . . . well, there's it to me.

By the way, that jump to intimacy takes a lot. Like a proper artistic endeavor, it's the baring of one's soul. And I don't think I've felt anything more painful than when you try to share those serious and personal parts of yourself, and it's ignored or treated lightly. There are some things, I think, that we all hold dear and will not see mocked or tossed aside. If anything is to compose what we call our soul, it's what we hold precious.

I can't think of a proper ending because I don't know how to put all this. There are places this entry is disconnected because there are major points that are part of what is serious and important to me. I'm not ready to bare my soul to anyone who might read this, so it's not entirely coherent.

Oh well. Fuck all, let it be.