Wow

I haven't been here in a while. Apparently, no one else has, either.

Joe - I'm stunned! I always thought it would be tremendously difficult to part with your sperm in such a way, no?

(How sad is this. I am commenting on a post from 3 years ago.... yikes! The little Joes could be mobile by now!)

Coming back?

Hope so.

Cesspools of evil and sin.

I'm still convinced that there are hidden areas beneath New York city filled with gatherings for secret cults and rituals, or grounds for the rendezvous of otherworldly beings, or dirty cesspools of evil and sin deviantly practiced by humans so perverse and deranged that only a civilized society could create them. Personally, this doesn't trouble me. I admit, I'm not really bothered by evil and sin, so long as it doesn't affect me. If these evil cults try to capture me and put me on an arcane stone altar and try to impale me through the chest with some sort of sado-phallic torture wand, then the evil has become personal and I do take their very presence as a personal affront. But fortunately for me being neither female nor virgin, I am a less popular victim. Because most underground cults and satanic paganists (or other worshippers of evil superbeings and Lovecraftian deities) have remained fairly insulated from the recent advances in equal rights and feminism, they tend still to be patriarchal, androcentric organizations. As well, because they have been insulated themselves from much of the post-modern and pre-existential dissimulations and deconstructions of traditional metaphysics, they still hold on to a rather dated notion of purity and its respective superiority over impurity. Hence, this explains their predilections, still extant after all these years, for female virgin sacrifices. So, unless there's some radical questioning of their traditional values in their ranks and they start to believe that the elimination of female virgins is a terrible waste since there really aren't enough to go around (and there seem to get fewer and fewer and younger and younger as the years go by) and they instead start pursuing, for their sacrifices, ugly white guys who've barely had enough sex to make them not virgins (which makes a lot more sense), then I'm safe, and I don't have to fret myself over the spreading pestilence of evil brewing just below the sidewalk. So, as long as unlikely change in victims occurs, the evil is just something to think about when you're sitting down counting your change and a quarter falls out of your hand and rolls down the sidewalk and falls into a grate and you can see where it lands and think to yourself, "if I put my whole arm through that grate, I can just reach it." I, personally, would let the quarter go, and would consider it as an offering to one of those indifferent super-beings that occasionally pass into our world and reek havoc on small New England towns. Maybe these beings will, in fact, not look derisively down upon our primitive form of exchange through currency made of cheap metal, and will in fact take it as a symbolic token of appreciation so that one day when Manhattan is being callously trampled upon by an other-dimensional being in a spirit of playful abandon akin to an eight-year-old destroying an ant hill, then this thing will see me and remember the quarter and step over me instead of upon me. You never know.
(Image Source.)

My Sperm

Recently I took it upon myself to look into this issue of sperm donation. Some surprising things emerged from my investigation. First of all, I discovered that the process of becoming a sperm donor is a rigorous and selective process tantamount the rigors of applying to graduate school in philosophy; except where a grad school will judge you on your skills at writing academic papers, looking closely into philosophical thought, and sycophancy, a fertility clinic will test you on your sperms general vitality (quantity, motility, ability to be frozen and thawed), your overall health, and your genes. Similar to grad school they only accept about 5% of their applicants, and, like grad school, only the best are even applying. In order to apply, you have to be tall enough (preferably 5'10" and over), you must have no venereal diseases (or, preferably, diseases in general), you must be young (obviously you must be over 18, but you probably don't want to be much past the age of 30), and you must be male (though I suppose if you were a female who was able to produce sperm, they might be interested in you).

Now, I write this in preface and stress that the rigors of sperm donation application require you to have the virility of a frothing bull and the health of a Greek god, precisely to accentuate my level of gloating. Yes, I've applied. And, no, I haven't passed all of the tests, but I passed that oh so critical first one: the one in which you deposit you're sperm into a cup and they look at it minutely and decide whether it can find and penetrate a certain tiny little egg in the dark. Maybe you all think it a broach of good taste that I should boast so pompously brag about something which is best left to bedroom conversation ("you know honey, it just lacks the bold complexity and subtle mix of flavors that my last boyfriend's had"), and that I should stop it right here. But I can't contain my joy. I want to sound my barbaric rawp over the rooftops of the world, I'm so gleeful. This is such a boost to my ego. I wish there was like a shirt I could wear that would announce to women my general vitality and vigor: "The few, the proud, the SPERM DONORS." Or if I could start a club, a fraternity of other men who are themselves of this elite clique.

I only went in for the first step of my pre-screening last Wednesday, but I've entertained this idea for a long time. Ridg himself can attest that I openly admitted at Goucher that I liked the idea of becoming a sperm donor so that there might be as many as possible of my genetic kindred running around. Now I realize the folly of my waiting so long. Whereas, I could have, if I had acted upon that thought immediately, actually managed to donate at quite of number of different clinics in cities across the country (Baltimore, Houston, Denver, San Francisco, Albuquerque), nay even in countries all over Europe. I could by this time have dozens of little Joe's running around wondering about their true father, and deep in their heart aching after me to complete them. And then I could, through subtlety and subterfuge somehow manage to contact them after they have grown and one day call them all together to fulfill that purpose which they've always felt but never been quite able to put into words, forming a small army of philosophy geniuses, yearning for the opportunity to unite with me in taking over the world. But, I've waited too long. My sperm are only good for a few more years and I may just have to settle for a modest number of Joe-2s strategically placed in key positions of power manipulating the course of world events. It's disappointing, but I'll have to accept it.

Nonsense.

Is anyone good with Photoshop or other software? I want to make a coin with Bush on it of the non-cents denomination. Get it? Nonsense. Ha, I kill me.
Don't mean to get political. You gotta admit it would be funny to have Clinton on one if you are a Bush fan.

Oligarchy

Oligarchy. It's poopy. What do I mean in bringing it up and calling it poopy?
Me not know.
Where everyone go?

Is this shoplifting?

This was a test posting. I need to download some pics.

I took this one in a little silver mining town in the Sierra Madre Mountains when I was in Mexico last October. I can't remember the name of the town, but it was a former ghost town slowly making a comeback. I mean slowly. We saw maybe ten people in the whole town. I know I didn't really post about the trip. I loved Mexico and would go back in a second, but my family and I were so overcome with the begging and poverty there. Especially in this area.

We were there as part of a day trip during our stop in Mazatlan. Our tour stopped here for lunch (prearranged by the cruiseline) at a little family owned place. The food was fantastic and the beer was so welcome. This donkey in the picture, though, belonged to a little boy who would go up to people in these tour groups that stop here on their way further up the mountain and ask, in very broken English, if they wanted to take his picture on the donkey. After people said yes and took his picture, he would then follow them around for the remainder of the tour in this town demanding two dollars.

It really made me think twice about coming back home and buying jewelry from a specific silver company when I saw the exact bracelet I had bought from them for $40 in this mining town being sold for $3... by the family that crafted it. It made me wonder, is it Americans taking advantage of these miners? Or is it other Mexicans?

Like I said, the cruiseline had prearranged all of our day excursions and stops and more than once I felt these people's poverty was being commercialized and put on display for us. And I do mean poverty in some cases (not just differences in economics or lifestyles).

Enough. I now know how to post more pictures.

Chao-chou's Bridge

I'm sorry to hear about the ill-fated coin toss. While I struggled to find comforting words, one of my favorite Zen quotations came to mind. I got it from my 2003 Zen desk calendar (Johnny may recognize it, I believe he had the same one)... there's something so commercially wrong with that. But anyways, it's insightful, and profound, and worthy of mention at a time like this.

A monk asked Chao-chou: "I've been hearing about Chao-chou's bridge for a long time, but now that I am here all I see is a log."

Chao-chou said: "You see the log, but you don't see the stone bridge."

The monk asked: "What is the stone bridge?"

Chao-chou said: "It lets donkeys cross; it lets horses cross."

- Zen Mondo

Wireless in the park.

In New York there's free wireless outside. I am sitting in City Hall Park with my laptop. The long endurance test of a road trip, in which my resolute absentent-mindedness directed at the singular accomplishment of the city to which I am now tapping at my computer. I am staying at the Harlem YMCA in a room so small that I have to stand sidways to pass between my bed and wardrode (though the fact that I actually have a wardrobe in my private room should give me less reason to complain). For anyone who is not familiar with Manhattan, Harlem is very, very black, and, for anyone who is not familiar with me, I am very, very white. I stick out a little. If you look at Satelite images of Harlem and you notice a small white speck floating through a sea of dark skinned ladies and gentlemen then you can say, "Hey that's that guy on the blog collective whose posts I try to avoid."

I would be moving into a new apartment in Queens had it not been for the whims of chance. I had seen the apartment the day before yesterday and was unsure, gave it a night to think about it (knowing full well the incredible perils of hesitation in situations like this), and finally I fully resolved on it early the next morning after checking into my room in that black-culture mecca. I call the landlady and she tells me that she is going to be showing the place to someone else and that if I come down there and am in earnest that she will hand the keys over to me and have me sign the lease. Unfortunately, she does not tell this other girl at that point that the apartment is taken, either not trusting that I was in earnest or assuming that the other girl would not be able to make an immediate decision to take it. I get there as fast as I can, fully prepared to pay all in full, but (as fate is a wily tramp) the other girl has fully decided that she too wants the apartment. She is a lanky, short-haired black girl from Florida with high-cheekbones, a small featured face, chocolatey skin and an English accent who is going to NYU to get a masters in film. The landlady, though, does not want to make a decision and hopes that the two of us can decide between us. We compare trials (akin, though not quite tantamount too the Seinfeld episode in which George compares his woes with an older gentleman who had once survived a sinking ship): she is only here for the weekend to find a room and has a flight back to Florida in two and a half hours and will be returning in a week to begin classes; I have classes starting in two days and am living in a hostel with a fraction of my stuff while the rests sits in storage while I try to find a room. It is possible that great moralists have pondered long over situations like this and have reached logical, elequently argued solutions that would satisfy all parties involved (except, of course, the person who doesn't get the room), but I decided to leave the decision to fate (that whorish vixen) and let it be decided on a coin toss. The landlady pulled from her purse a Israeli coin on one side of which was a ten and on the other was a menorah. I decided to put my faith not in that symbol of god's benevolence and perseverance, but in that indifferent number 10. That was my fatal error. I was allowed to be the one to flip the coin, and I raised into the air that spinning disc that was to be the determinant (and detriment) of my entire future. And as it sank to the earth with an unwavering thud I could see even from my height the candles looking up at me. It was over. I conceded. I walked away. Went back to my room in Harlem to cry silently. And now, this morning I am back on the internet to seek out more rooms (and occasionally to procrastinate by writing long, overdone descriptions of what I've endured).

Jenna-isms.

That used to be the name of my made-up religion (back when I was in denial about my Catholicism... not so long ago? Still?).

Anyways, here are the 5 idiosyncrasies about myself that first came to mind:

1.) I count silently when I run. But only when I'm running on a track. And only double-digit numbers, usually starting in the twenties or thirties and counting on-beat with my footsteps. This started in my high school track days. Not sure why.

2.) I obsessively pick at my beer bottles' lables until they are folding up on both sides... and usually come off altogether.

3.) My darling boyfriend would tell you that I sit with my hands or fingers positioned over my lips when I'm trying to avoid a subject of conversation. But then I would tell you that he picks at his right eyebrow when he is deep in thought.

4.) Whenever I wear long sleeves I pull them down over my hands.

5.) I go through a roll of papertowels easily when I cook.

It's so much easier coming up with other people's little indiosyncrasies!

Anyways, not much new going on here. Law school starts Monday. New job starts the week after that! That will be cool. No more two hour commute up to class at night. My new job is less than 5 miles away from my school (Suffolk U in Boston).

Oh! And my MOTHER was stung by a bee during a road race that we ran last weekend and almost DIED!!! She and I have always been very sensitive to stings, but never knew it could develop into a fullblown allergy. It wasn't fun. It was also her 49th birthday. She woke up the following morning with a bunch of white hairs (I kid you not... and this is a woman who has a full head of dark brown hair!). So I've been very, very thankful to those scientists who created the lifesaving epipen they gave her at the medical tent before whisking her to the hospital via ambulance. The doc said if they hadn't have given it to her, she wouldn't be here.

You should all call your mothers tonight. How's that for an after school special?

I love the pencil sharpener picture, by the way. I'm going to try to post some before the weekend is over.

Happy Birthday, Rach!

I hear tell that it's Rach's birthday today.
Happy birthday, Rach!

Joe on the road

I'm posting now because my imminent trip is too close to postpone a post any further and all those last minute preparations are pouring in. Most of you're probably not aware (partly because I simply haven't told you) that I am going to be driving on my journey from California to the city of New York. For reasons that sum up to, most of my few posessions are actually still with my old residence in Santa Fe and it's better to fly, I fly to Santa Fe and only have to drive from there to New York, but don't think this eliminates much from a daunting and tiresome (even if your the whole time comfortably reclined) trial of of crossing much of this gigantic continent. I was just watching the movie The Motorcycle Diaries, which bears absolutely no resemblence to my what my trek will be except that a lot of ground will be covered. There isn't the slightest possibility that someone will someday make a movie out of my particular cross-country road trip - partly because mine will be so incredibly boring and partly because driving a large truck full of stuff to a new home so that I can further immerse myself in the rather conservative and generally more backward looking world of academia is not going to help foment revolutionary ideas and lead me toward the spiritual crisis that will help bring about my desire to help the neglected and downtrodden. Though maybe it will convince me of the not quite so inspiring and uplifting (but possibly equally important) lesson that, despite the limits of my possessions I quite possibly may still have too much stuff, which I guess, in some circuitous way could lead me to some pivotal revelation that all men and women should abandon the blind passion for accumulation, throw aside their shallow middle class values and minimize their possessions and thereby minimize the hours of labor devoted to accumating money for the purpose of accumulating possessions, time that could be better employed cultivating the body and the mind and the soul. And I could actualize the spirit of these revolutionary ideas by breaking into middle class houses and burning their faux-leather couches, and cheap knick-knacks, graffitiing their walls and stealing clothes from their overstuffed closets. But even if I somehow go down this incredibly unexpected path in my life (since most likely I'll myself settle into a middle-class house, accumulate stuff and waste my life writing tired, boring articles), I think the most that any movie of my revolutionary proclivities would possibly cover of this journey would be a shot of me stepping into this truck with the suff already packed and waving goodbye to some extras followed by a shot of the truck speeding by on a highway towards the sunset on a generic, middle-america farm plane, because this trip will be the most boring trip there can be.

Actually I think I just spent a whole lot of words saying what was simply stated in the last clause of that last sentence "this trip will be the most boring trip there can be" which would of course lead the reader who is reading this to assume that I should have gone back and deleted all of that rambling (and I would banter, "you could've just skipped over it"). But it's too late. I'm speaking in real time and my words can't be taken back once they've left my mouth. I'll see you all on the other side, barring the chance that I find some free hot spot on the way and can find the free time to say something endearing or am compelled by an unfathomable desire to torture you by describing my trip (probably with the simple words: "I was right. Nothing has happened. Call Jose Rivera. I've decided the screenplay's canceled.")

Pencil Revolution.

In case you don't already know about it, I'm going to be a poophead and plug my other new blog on here: Pencil Revolution. You know you want to read it, like, all the time.

Stick to H2O.

I am very anti-sports drink at the moment.

I could go into it, but first I'd like to say that I am very happy to be back blogging with all of you. My ability (or inability) to post regularly has been directly related to laptop problems over the last year or so. Lack of adequate internet capabilities. Viruses (which has made me a little leary of re-downloading that picture-posting software... Happy? Anyone else have trouble that may have been traced back to it? I guess my problems could have been traced back to anything.). Warped screen. Green stripes and so forth. Anyways, I know I've said this before, but these problems should soon be a thing of the past. I'm breaking down and buying a new friggin' laptop.

I just have to. It's okay. I've accepted it.

With that out of the way, I would next like to say that I am sidelined in bed right now and in need of a nap. Some of you know that enjoy running. Quite masochistic, I know. Well, I went out on a 9 miler last night. Ran out of water at mile 3. To make a long story short, I came back severely dehydrated, guzzled a half-bottle of a leading sports drink that promises to replenish electrolytes and rehydrate, and promptly detected a stomach issue. A violent stomach issue. Which got me wondering what the heck these sports drink scientists do with their stupid time if their product - engineered to be better than water - makes the severely thirsty vomit.

Honestly! I'm quite ticked off! 24 hours later and I'm still rehydrating and rebuilding my strength! With water, I might add. Beautiful, wonderful, spectacular Poland Spring!!! God(dess) bless the springs of Maine.

I guess I've learned simply that sports drink scientists can't compete with nature. Water is the proverbial building block of life. And aside from orange juice with calcium (kudos to the juice scientists who got it right!), we need no other drink!

Nevermind that I was the nimrod who didn't completly fill her Camelbak before a long run. Shh!! Irrelevant!

C.S. Lewis blog.

A blog full of quotations from C.S. Lewis. For your pleasure.

An introduction to Joe.

For those who don't know me or for the rest of you who've been in the dark about the more recent transformations in my life, I am saying a few words. I mean "few words" literally, as my life has little of interest to offer and I want to spare you all the stultifying boredom of having to listen to the trite, if not downright dismally depressing, details of my life. I am living in California, in Danville (in the bay area) to be exact. But that particular kernel of insight into my present status is soon to be obsolete. I'll be leaving within the month, if I live that long. I'll be registering for classes in New York in just over a month, going to Suny Stony Brook to study philosophy. Sadly, it's another MA for me. Maybe someday someone will be duped into overestimating my pathetic intelligence and allowing me to steal into the hallowed halls of academia and pursue, oh dream upon dreams, my PhD and allow me to begin, hope upon hope, my path toward professorship that I have long had in mind. I don't currently have a place to live in New York, but I'll be searching for one once I arrive. Most of my classes will be in Manhattan, so I'll be searching for something nearer to there. Once there I'll see if I am any closer to some of those old friends that I left behind at Goucher so long ago, back when I was but a bright-eyed child with foolish dreams of settling down in a mind-numbing job, in a crumbling suburb, with a nagging, perpetually pregnant wife and a gigantic television to tear me away from the agonies of my life for those precious hours that I could spend close beside it, resisting the constant urge to reach out and wrap my arms around as much of its gigantic girth as possible. But now I realize that it is vain to dream of so much, especially with the overpowering disappointments that have already accumulated in the short years since that time. I'm hoping I can find some comfortable, rotting apartment on long island where the rats and cockroaches engage in continuous territorial warfare in my living room floor over puddles fed by over a dozen consistent drips from the ceiling which I can just barely shut out at night by clamping my pillow tightly over my head. But I'm afraid with the little amount of money I have, I won't be able even to afford that.

As should be quite obvious from the content of my post so far, I'm a very well-contented person with little to complain about in my life beyond the myriad misfortune which impinge in the seemingly endless time between my almost nonexistent hours, nay but minutes, of sleep and dream. If it weren't for an imagination bubbling over like a large boiling pot in which one has placed to many dried noodles, I might even get a little down sometimes. Forgive the food metaphor, but its been such a long time since I can remember having a meal anymore filling than what I can collect with a long sticky wire from the ant colony nearby where I sleep on alternate Thursdays. To all of you who I haven't spoken to in so long, my fondest greetings. And to the rest of you, I hope we can get better acquainted in the future.

Happy Birthday, Joy!

Happy Birthday to Blog Collective member Joy!

Pixie and Pinky.

Our friends Brian and Carrie have moved waaaaaay out west for a new life together. And, thankfully, they are blogging from their new home. I'd invite you check out their blog, Pixie and Pinky for the continuing saga, complete with great photos, faeries and gnomes.

Photo Friday: Candid.

Old Sicilian Men.
(Unknown date.)
From Chris' years in Sicily.
For Photo Friday: Candid.