Archive for November, 2010

Black-Necked Swan

Mon, 29 Nov 2010 13:46:52 +0000

I agree with whatever Turkle is going to say next.

Being Cursed

Sat, 27 Nov 2010 10:23:56 +0000

Hi, Blindman.  I notice something being dreamed up.  This criticism is impersonal, but threatens the notional advancement of one segment of the population over the minimally viable human race.  The whole population lives at the same time, at least.  IOW I may attack the United States verbally, but I do not play around bashing my homeland by letting poverty-stricken countries or any of their people talk about it.

However, in my life I am far more likely to fall among the disenfranchised class.  I want the frozen sperm idea, because collecting my sperm might give me a thrill, and collecting eggs does not.  I had to look up “gamete”, but certainly a zygote would work just as well.  However, should there be a slight difference in viability between the two, in order to press on past Alpha Centauri, we may need that edge.

I had to click on women separate from men in two searches, but frozen-egg science is newer.  Oh, and I got the word for you in this quote:

This stretches the reproductive field as far as you can envision.

(unquote).  Therefore, you no longer merely dream.  You are envisioning.  I need back the impersonality now.

Note that this is in metaphor.  Neither do you envision “far (it’s not a distance)”, nor does the field “stretch”.  Don’t try to go anywhere in space or risk collisions with speeding metaphors.

Stallion sperm is reputed to last thousands of years.  The record for frozen human sperm is 21 years (viable human resulted).

I do not wish to wake up on this trip with teenagers of the generation hazing other crew members by thawing frozen sperm and making them drink it.  The taste is nacky, let alone in liter quantities.

The thought of women in possession of frozen sperm makes my flesh crawl.  There must be one old custodian man on board.

Oh, I see what went wrong.  You said the question was how long we could freeze human gametes, when the two kinds of gamete differ in size more than any other two cells in the human body, size being how ice crystals get their chance. The question was poorly phrased.

Knowing the nucleation process for ice in vitro might help, but we will need to take off from orbit in order not to nucleate anything due to the vibration from liftoff.  Also IOW, at fifty years hence unforseen changes will occur, although I would plant my feet firmly and say that clues between the sexes will not be the controlling factor, being so culturally concrete as they are bound to remain.


The post above is a reply.  It’s 9:11 a.m., you know, the time it is when you panic from writing (it was 9:14, but it was 9:11 when I opted out of panic mode), and I do not have to join websites, I have this one to hold all my writing.

The post I replied to (sci forums) is this one:

For a generation ship we would need about 10-20 women and a few liters of frozen sperm from 100thousand plus men. Men are not required so only females would need to be born. When you get to the destination you could then go back to having males. Also as a back up several 1000 female gametes could also be on hand in case of any genetic problems.

Why bring men to use up resources when all they are needed for are sperm donors.

Thus we can carry all races to a new world without the need for a large population on the ship.

The only problem is how long can we freeze human gametes.

I see now.  The last poster in a thread cannot be blamed for more preposterous fatuous fatuism than the grain he has added.  Ah, that’s what happens to me a lot.
“Being cursed” is one alternate way to say “Billinghurst”.  It’s a mantra, now slogan (and), motto.
[Before posting, this thing is going to be jayed.  It is already off exactly one hour.  I do not care what “time” it posts, this is 9:23.]
653/674 shape shifters

[Her Name Is] I Think Penelope

Wed, 17 Nov 2010 09:53:33 +0000

I don’t understand.  By that I don’t mean I don’t understand it.  I have seen that phrase used by writers who were about to comment upon some absurdity of life, but really about living in our world, something they have noticed about it that doesn’t make sense to them.  I don’t understand as a person.  I recognize that I am that type, who consistently fails or refuses the strategy for success of understanding.

“We have told you what to do, why don’t you do it?”  You have told me what to do?  So, if your mouth were removed, you would no longer tell me what to do?  If your head were removed, you would not even think of telling me what to do?  I don’t know which I like better, but that is going to capture my full attention.  I don’t understand, and Steve does not like what he doesn’t understand.

Not everybody in society is a fruit.  You can only be gay about things you enjoy to extremes.  I say fruit because sexuality is the model for all other forms of compulsion.  Everyone can relate.  You do not need extra equipment.  The sexual organs of the body are the equipment.  There is a period in each life corresponding to the best use of sexuality, but most people aren’t in it, so an individual who is there now, who enhances what he perceives as his desirability, appears to those of us not in the market as fruity to the max, if you know what to look for, and of the wrong sex to begin with.  When being fruity is open to loving science, no one else is likely to be able to compete with it.

What others regard as dull, if someone has a gleam in his eye over it, he can have it.  The sexual behavior of animals is some of the hardest information to decipher.  New animals have to come from somewhere, so the observer perseveres until he understands all about it.

When my entire generation was young, our sexually-charged music was new.  This music is no longer relevant to today’s youth.  Today’s entire youth are the monster we created, and I regard what we have wrought with a shudder.  We were using stopgap measures to satisfy the needs of these dependents and concentrating on the androgeny of a David Bowie.  This isn’t 1972, but 1972 killed, it rocked.  Now look where it is.

I was not in 1972 when it was 1972, or my children would be 38.  They are 21 and 6.  I was down for anything sexual, but non-procreative, so it was affected.  Like, I’d like sex with midgets, working my way up from something the size of my hand, because that worked for me.  I want to smash my junk up against the inside of my skin-tight jeans so everybody has to see it.  I want to put it next to a girl who is not looking, so when she moves she will touch it.  I want to be short so nipples poke me in the eyes, all the time.

But I don’t like that.  I’m not like that.  That was a false me.  I didn’t get AIDS.  The big mistake was that science could produce drugs, something democratic, would work to produce pleasure in anyone.  I smoked so much marijuana that my memory was permanently impaired.  Not on difficult, science-related matters, but common, ordinary threads of talk, such that I am constantly struggling to remember, like a turtle on its back.  He’s not struggling to remember, just, ….well, if he couldn’t remember why he was struggling, what would he do?  Hopefully, he would flip over, and the disunderstanding I have is due to these hypothetical hopes different people have.  I recognize lunacy (in psychiatrists), but I don’t understand the death wish.  Apparently they don’t know this world.  The inventor of lobotomy passed away like everyone of his generation, but I think you will find his ass was stabbed to death, not a surprising nor real outcome, but a surreal outcome, one I can enjoy.

I am on a fast prior to a later appointment I have, for a PET/CT.  So, I got up early to eat.  I smelled the air, the people out at six are right, everything’s right.

I had been looking at rock songs for truths, not they contain, but truths in conjunction with playing them now.  Ziggy Stardust is a character created by Bowie, but the half-man got too far into it, and he couldn’t get back out.  Now he’s a billionaire.  I believe his child is named Ziggie.  Bowie, well, actually, Jones, refers to Ziggy in the third person in the song, but it’s him.  Ziggy played guitar?  I don’t think so.  On a show documentary about the Beatles, David Bowie is shown talking back in the day, before even ’72, and he has long red hair.  The Beatles brought in long hair, and everyone was remembering where they were when their hair grew out and what it meant to them.  Bowie was a true believer, very amped on the youth movement and taking over, and he was aying what we had to do next, do now, and so forth.  If he hadn’t been propelled to stardom, he’d be a hack like they are all over the internet.  I mention that in passing since I have recently been posting on a social group site about meth instead of here.  This is the kind of post I can’t put there.  Once I went there I was invited to others.  The old one’s Zone86, the new one’s The Collective.

I am dying, but I am living proof you don’t have to die young, I mean young-young.  I have always been interested in death, now I am a member of the club.  It amazes me that I can talk right now and there are people between now and next week who will be changing from perfectly healthy to dead.  Dio says ‘I got news, you never have to go’.  You do have to go, but you don’t has to go on fire or in excruciating pain, hopefully.  It’s not that way now.  That is, no satisfactory recognition of a person’s right to die is presently forthcoming in hospitals today.  I’d like that changed.  No harm reduction of illegal drugs is in the pipeline, either.  The news is now covering the elite exclusively, since the television news is irrelevant, and they can expect increasing attacks upon their persons by the poor.  I cheer that on.  I’m gay over it, but I am dreaming.  The deaths currently offerred are not sufficiently directed their way, IMHO.

I’m obsessive, so I could list all the factors, like tobacco, alcohol, fatness, poverty, drugs, …..they’re called preventable?  Preventable death is one thing, what about preventable FATE.  You better see preventable fate before it gets you in the form of an attack by a seriously pissed-off killer in human form, and the laws you stupidly wrote giving us rights are not working in your favor.  Be increasingly hypocritical, be wishy-washy.  Never say what you mean.  be inscrutable, like a Chink.  No real face can be put on my problems; problems is all I have.  I see the word problems in my mind’s eye, and the pattern in makes, the star, when I type it.  Create an unsustainable, surreal world.  That’s all you gonna do.

The Penelope I got from, “Strawberry Fields Forever”.  And, in the hash of forgetfulness, look past all the language we use.  All we do is to take sides.  If there aren’t two sides to an issue, we are lost.  Let’s do the division of an issue into 103 sides.  Even a computer, which fails at some things humans can do, would not be able to make us understand these 103 positions.  Actually, with 103 divisions, there are 104 positions.  They couldn’t take the form of making me choose intelligently from that high a number, so the computer fails.  Let God exist.  Even God could not help you if you can’t see what the problem is.

Here is that song; let us verify that “I think Penelope” was one way it could have been heard.  It was when I had made some speed and a couple who usually sold me speed came to buy it.  I couldn’t remember my friend’s wife’s name.  His was McLeod, “mccloud”, it sounds like.  John’s voice said I think penelope, which is pen-ell-o-pee, and i went, “No, that’s not it”, becuase, consider the source.  How could a random song help you in a particular moment?  It does not have a mind.  Minds are always used to help someone (kill someone).

I am tired of the use of the second person, “you”, in my  mind.  Who has the right to use, ‘you’, when speaking to themselves, and who is ‘we’, either?  I hear these.  I wake up and I am tired and bored with myself on account of this unstoppable language.  I used to wake up with images of  smashing myself, and I think some pixie read that and gave me the cancer I was asking for, since I didn’t have it in me to make my images a reality.  I finally figured out yesterday that the inner voice is only the verbal end of an argument with your body in it.  Body English is involved.  The body interjects, it “speaks”, but it won’t listen.  That puts you, even splitting the personality, with an unseen instigator of trouble.  The body starts arguments between the “I” and the “me” that it can’t finish.  It shrugs the shoulders, and you go, “I don’t know.”  A pause, and you say, “You don’t know what?”  “Well, I’m afraid to admit it.”   Then you go about your day scared of some unnamed dread.

Let me take you down, ’cause I’m going toStrawberry fieldsNothing is realAnd nothing to get hung aboutStrawberry fields foreverLiving is easy with eyes closedMisunderstanding all you seeIt’s getting hard to be someone, but it all works outIt doesn’t matter much to meLet me take you down, ’cause I’m going toStrawberry fieldsNothing is realAnd nothing to get hung aboutStrawberry fields foreverNo one, I think, is in my treeI mean, it must be high or lowThat is, you can’t, you know, tune in, but it’s alrightThat is, I think it’s not too badLet me take you down, ’cause I’m going toStrawberry fieldsNothing is realAnd nothing to get hung aboutStrawberry fields foreverAlways, no, sometimes, think it’s meBut, you know, I know when it’s a dreamI think, er, no, I mean, er, yes, but it’s all wrongThat is, I think I disagreeLet me take you down, ’cause I’m going toStrawberry fieldsNothing is realAnd nothing to get hung aboutStrawberry fields foreverStrawberry fields foreverStrawberry fields forever(cranberry sauce)

 No, I don’t hear “cranberry sauce”.  I hear, “I’m very absorbed”.  Absorbed in what I am doing, absorbed being a hit of LSD absorbed on a blotter paper, type of thing.  However, slime invaded John’s world, too, and they say he said it was cranberry sauce, so that ends it.  It doesn’t end there.  They aren’t perfect.  Perfect would have been “I’m very absorbed.”


Zone 86 How to Make a Meth

Thu, 11 Nov 2010 09:52:56 +0000

If we google, ‘zone 86 how to make a meth’ we can find the website also mentioned by Uncle Fester in the 7th edition of his book on the secrets of methamphetamine manufacture besides wetdreams reloaded.  He was saying there how he sometimes visited these sites.  So, the discussion moved from place to place in a wonderful way.  I only remembered one, wetdreams reloaded, so it took an act of  . . . .an act of God (suspect anthropomorphism), …not an act of God.  An act of a guy with the alias “503”.   It took his spirit of cooperation to lead me back there to the place I originally found the two names together and only memorized one, or else we wouldn’t be talking about this.  How many more things am I missing because nobody is telling me, how to make meth with gun bluing?

Ennnawey, I have this on my clipboard:

I got to the point in the entries where “Total Entries: 538”, appears now.  Once I push send, it will continue the serious further.  538 happens to be an alias I have already used on this site.  You’ll notice that “538” and “Pops” always appear together.  My name’s Stephen Eric Billinghurst”, or SEB. S looks like a 5, amirite?  I got the E from a girl, my Mom.  I go with a 3.  The B looks like an 8.  That’s it.  That’s the second coincidence.  The first coincidence is that when I posted the JWL (John Winston Lennon)quote, another post of the single word, John, appeared with it.  Since there is no other person in the world except the one who posted that who can verify that I did not post it myself, just to , …(what reason could I have), …I guess just to be a faggot, a remarkable law about the things which are constitutionally a challenge and are constructed in a way that gives their reason for coming into existence a new twist, as if to suppose other forces besides ones we can all agree that do operate, operate.  Never mind what these ppl who mised the 1960s want, what do these forces want?  See, just before I posted the song quote I thought about John; it’s John’s voice, he is the lyricist.  However, he is not the whole Beatles, nor am I about to argue who my favorite Beatle is and why, because songs they wrote while officially The Beatles are properly the Beatles songs. . . . .I don’t suppose “anyone on this site” (a misnomer.  Even people in their twenties are old fuddy-duddies, and they don’t see the internet as one thing, they have broken down things that have to remain together in order to have meaning.  To each his own), … no need. . . . . .

So, I wrote that five minutes ago.   I have confusion, yes, but I also have a prime directive, and that I won’t soon forget.  First, let me explain the confusion: I tried to use block quotes.  I could not do it.  But, I said, well, I had just written something with “no need” at the bottom and I kept on seeing that.  It’s quiet logic overwhelmed the need for a struggle with the computer.  I meant that there was no need to complete a sentence if the beginning of the sentence was already illogical, being that I couldn’t remember the rest of the  . . . this sentence looks strange, too.  It’s not my fault.  This computer, a laptop, doesn’t work as well with this blogging program as my PC did.  Some text was just eliminated.  I think I had a train of thought that is now impacted four or five times.  I just had an epiphany.  Coincidences don’t happen in your brain.  They only happen when, for instance, you and someone else say the same thing at the same time, and you are together, not on the internet.  A single person can’t say the same thing at the same time as himself.  This is the driving force for something such as noticing that ppl call you just when you are thinking about them.  The significance of it is that of the web, the mind, and the world, or, before the web, the mind and the world, like, where one leaves off and the other one begins.  They fight for dominance.  Except for chance, a plan would be followed.  Except for plans, it would be chaos.  When you are threatening to blow up a building, we now call it “chaos”.  Compare, “I am going to kill you all”, to “It’s going to be chaos.”

I know that this is just sitting here, with a prior word, “chaos”, but a lot has just happened.  My computer had an unexpected shutdown.  I’m going to go bet King that he can’t produce my Social Security number like he said he could.  First I am going to finish putting the halves of the coincidence here.

  Pops Thursday, 11/11/10, 6:25 AM
  “Nothing you can do that can’t be done.” . . . .— The Beatles, “All You Need Is Love.”
  John Thursday, 11/11/10, 6:23 AM
  503 Wednesday, 11/10/10, 10:07 PM
  Pops, Sorry to bring you to this site. I wasnt trying to give you a headache. Ill just talk to you on the other side… King Pops is cool I brought him here to help swim not to help people that might get hurt. I guess your right about doing own homework, swim finds lots of stuff like prozac and hydrolic oils which swim has never seen on websites like this.
  cosmictraveller Wednesday, 11/10/10, 9:05 PM
  Well everyones addicted to something in life, even if its you giving someone a hard time calling them a junkie and you wouldnt be in here if you wernt into drugs so why dont you look at yourself a bit closer maybe youll see the truth behind the lies

V Stands for People with a Vagina

Tue, 09 Nov 2010 13:11:17 +0000

Other people are stood for not at all.  I don’t want to hear ‘can’t’.  Homes, check this out: you can and you will.  Psych, cirque, berzerk, zerk fitting.  I go for the demands yesterday during my custodial turn, telling Master Billinghurst he never leaves the custody of someone, he is not a free agent, and I am in charge now, take your seat.  I stop for the one they call Icee.  They got, … nobody’s got it, huh!  For, it is in a hole in my reality.  I am either hyperactive or having been hyperactive, I am out of synch with time in the vicinity.  A BMW 323i displaying the plate 4PEB495, and I know PEB, is parked. PEB is just pebble, and I never remember if pebble’s Earth, or zonething else.  I read it.  16-5-2.  It’s my birthday.  Psi, or the word on the street, the astral plane (but it isn’t), is who they try and hand me, because I always suspect Szasz the psychiatrist of being the kind of a guy who is like Carly Fiorina, she will disagree with her party if necessary, a shrink who is verbally lashing shrinks whose intentions are to murder what murder is to extinction, of humans, who are to corporations and nations as substance is to fiction.  As to blind those who can’t tell the difference between a glass half-full or half-empty should they be using that difference in speeches down Tacoland way. 

The rarity of the 4PEB subcunt 495, saying D,I,E, suberb.  A 4-16-1952 stalled proxy Billy West has enough on his plate, doesn’t need to show up at Comicon either.  Again.

downloading, . . . .



In different fields a conception of granules is applied both as a group of elements defined by internal properties and as something inseparable whole reflecting external properties. Granular computing may be interpreted in terms of abstraction, generalization, clustering, levels of abstraction, levels of detail, and so on. We have proposed to use multialgebraic systems as a mathematical tool for synthesis and analysis of granules and granule structures. The theorem of necessary and sufficient conditions for multialgebraic systems existence has been proved.


And, granular is not the word, it’s mathematical granulation.  This is the aspect we now explore, it should be nonlinear algebra, a nonlinear accelerater f information to lodge in holes in reality you can see, x nonstandard, scale being analogous to infinitessimal, or infinity, …transfinite cardinality, …

The scientific fictions are called hypotheses or theories, with observables being verifiable or falsifiable, and legal fictions exist, too.  Fctions replace proofs at subtle reversals of intent, with me not needing to be locked up, more like the locker uppers needing to lock people up, which is the tail that wags the psych dog, which wags the medical dog, which wags the societal dog which makes up the mind over what they declare they aren’t a part of, so they think there’s no fate worse than death, if it’s their death, their mom’s death, their dog’s breath, a hair off their children’s head, and dammit, yes, many people have died to make the United States free, so there’s no fate worse than the death of that.  But I don’t know, we all make the same splash when wearing cement overshoes, amirite?

Szasz was about to expose his bias when I seen him last time.  Why’s it granularity?  Well, it could be waves, compression and rarefaction, those aren’t real, particle are real. The angle I can look and a wedge of sky I subtend are all about the public size of the hole showing the information on the information in memory, life-size.  This gelatine metric, granule, you know people, is not the brain, its the billboard the brain is looking at, plus the brain.

You could see it last night when a horrific home invasion turned out to be, “He’s not here, so let’s defy what they tolja” doc’s head split open, him talking about the hole in his heart, ‘ceptin doctors are morally decompensated from psychic holes. They make so many holes obliterating personality.  You got Russian nonlinear dynamics for psi, them people’s books, light green.  But it is physics, what—chaos theory, fuzzy math, groups.  So, as bickering theorists were thinking about going crazy, did it ever occur to you they lifted the crazing thought process and recouched it in terms nobody would understand but hopefully math guys, but nobody would say was crazy, evar!  Well, I’m doin it.

In other news, a well surplus of tachyonic material as recently removed from the most space-age facility we have here, GENERAL ATOMICS up by campus.  Clampus vitae.  Yeh, Szasz, the master of metaphor, he is a bitter critic, so every word’s gem grade.  He’s a conjoined psychic twin of the other New York Jew, Kunstler.  Uh, it wasn’t tachs, it was bomb-grade U, 60kg.  Some spent nuclear waste, 132 lbs.  You know when the sun rises two times in one day, you seen a nuke.  I blv bomb-grade Pu is much smaller.

Szasz put Leonardo da Vinci in his book without putting, “Yeah, his birthday’s my birthday”, whatever that Latin


phrase is, “Mi casa es su casa”, right?  Mi casa oh domino* ra lunes, Las clavos de manos des Jesus, mi corazon pumps purple piss, Kool-Aid, etc.  No longer PEB, but 4 OEB, ’52 as 1452.  Her Billinghurst?


*858’s domingo, a course, I was born 500 years after April 27, 1452, on a Wed, with April 27, 1952 being a

W T F S S M T W T F S S (27)

DOMINGO, Sunday.  Two suns obscured, one going below the horizon releasing a nuclear glare, the other one sending out sunbeams at the corner of a trapezoidal cloud.


went over

R-OH, Under KF Imaginaries, I am Showing You at Node 14

Fri, 05 Nov 2010 11:10:19 +0000

I messed with a guy’s website, worth messing with because he’s a hippy.

spasm three

I mean you are always writing creatively, doing a job on people.  Supposing I write that it is almost like I can find things?  How close to not being able to find a motherfucking thing in this room is finding one?

Oh, mother, I have gotten the pink body trapped in the swirling morass of a humanities major.  Say it isn’t so.  I am spreading out these posts.  I’m no longer commenting on the above!

The cops give you three days to make meth.  Can you be wandering around inside the kitchen for five minutes going, “Where did I leave that screwdriver?”, like a cunt?

Oh.  I can put away the paper clip.  The phone’s charger’s not malfunctioning, it is just not plugged in.

Boy, it is amazing.  I bet a room has 100,000 individual items in it.  I have to be organized or it gets to be 9:32.

Uh-oh.  The art crowd likes to make money off their blogs.  Suppose this guy gets incensed, not realizing the paragon of insanity, because he certainly mixes time and space by calling the eventual end “galaxies away”, which is presumably distance, not a quickening in time, like you’d do if your plans went right.  And, he (you) don’t realize how totally tempting it is to succumb to screaming “Insane!”, but nevertheless, dude, you linked to a site that claims that the killing of Pablo Escobar was a “murder”. 

I thought Don Pablo downed a slight airliner, and slightly blew up the supreme court.  Or did he use bags of flour like they do on Jackass?

Hm, I bet you wouldn’t say Nixon was “murdered”.  Stalin, now there’s a death toll.  I guess Mussolini then.  Mussolini was murdered, huh?

The flour looks about the same.  It does explode in the grain silo configuration, but, today what it is is volcanic ash in Indonesia, with ppl covered in that, on TV.  Reorder reality until it burns?  Okay, flux in a welding rod.

Haiti, in a cholera, compounded by a dash of yellow-green flooded with sunshine, as the hurricane hits Tent City, or, as I like to call it, Hades.

I bet you can’t even see this is art.  I’m ahead of my time, Philistine.  I don’t get your name, Children, …of men, meet Machiavelli.  You have faith no more and come out here, hopes intact.  Sweet.

How convenient for you not to believe any more.  Try it as to not having hope any more, being hopeless instead.  It is just another turn on the ball.  I’m walking death, and every mass death is a part of me, our works, tourist.

spasm two

sbillinghurst said, on November 5, 2010 at 4:06 pm

I hate stones and cutters like that, especially the ones from the Middle Ages. I see rough and finished gemstones and I want to cut corners, so to speak, without the heavy equipment. Imagine having to hide a millstone, donkeys and child slaves when the narcs came knocking. Jesus! Is that an emerald in there?

spasm one

Aw, you’re not listening to Sand when he says “how the world worked”. What chemists mean and what ordinary people mean are two different things (as I look up to see who you, “Daniel” are); read something. Chemists talking chemistry is pretty rare, brother. I like things that smell good. Piperonal is funny, like a vanilla and less like a root beer, but I mean the air at night on a golf course or I guess a field of alfalfa, not just a concentrated essential oil in a brown bottle with “carcinogen” on the label.

I prepared the substance and refer to it as a hit, or I hit my stapler with my fist and set off an earthquake right then (Whittier, e.g. Whittier Narrows quake, 1987), but, as far as Frisco what do I care if there’s a quake? It’d have to be too big to get me, so write me back or you’ll get one, son.

  • sbillinghurst said, on November 5, 2010 at 3:45 pm

    A notice of a new comment appeared in my inbox, that’s why I’m here.

    I still deal with psychiatrists to this day, forty-one years later. My demands to them are along the lines of more grounds privileges, or a discharge from this mental hospital.

    When I go over my plight in my mind, it makes me angry and uncool, seemingly, to the hippies, when I get back to them (all I need them for is the drugs). My friends are friends with each other, too. They can always band together to wipe out some scourge like me, despite their peace-and-love BS.

    That’s right. Why are you elevating a person like Nicholas Sand? I don’t agree. When he was 16, wasn’t I 10? Ten years old. Do you think it is okay to unleash this acid on a person that young? They say LSD melts in your mind. They have an ulterior motive. They want you to go with the flow, as they gloss over some glaring tragic consequences that can happen. Notice the mind is not real. Real things can’t do real things in a fictitious conceptualization, the mind.

    It depends on your point of view, how you view things as funny or sad. You got that right. They said they “made it too stony”, the Orange Sunshine. No, they poisoned me. Me, not you. Not a single reader here took it, so don’t you imagine that you can glorify it and sanctify it with impunity.

  • Damn you! I still have to go argue with another shrink over my freedom.

    I don’t believe for a minute that anybody made acid in that little narrow canyon, Laguna Canyon Road. I think they made it approximately where it was made for Haight-Ashbury. What they did down South is called a “tabbing party”. I mean, look: They made it too strong. “Too”. Not just right. Do you think out of all the laboratory operations from ergotamine tartrate onward that the rest just went real smooth and quiet? Was a fully functional laboratory ever found, with a court case and list of items? I doubt it. The very idea is ludicrous. Nobody trusted anybody from LA, come on. With one trip south enough bulk LSD could be shipped in the trunk of a car that it would not be used up yet.

    These criminals hide for a reason. If I ever see NS, I am subject to spit in his face, club him in the ear, kick him in the shins, and all the while give him a piece of my mind.

    The Brotherhood of Eternal Love, …well, you can smell the hypocrisy from the name itself. The OC is a hotbed of repressive, reactionary, war-criminal, Presidential thought. It is not a place for hippies, being a hippy there was guaranteed misery. I couldn’t go to meet them. I didn’t know they were there. Some guys just came back with brown hash for $90 an ounce. You had to be paranoid, nobody could trust anybody, and they tried to keep their connects to themselves, in typical OC fashion. You can’t take the stench of the OC off. The whole time, you can take the boy out of the OC,…

    I’d like to find these Brotherhood characters and tear off their love beads, point out the major flaws in their rationale, taking it up a notch by loading the dose. Actually trying to kill the children of the rich. You are dabbling in a non-reformable precinct, about the scum of the earth, and stirring it up as if you are going to rewrite history, and now bad is good, eh? I am simply amazed reading these lies.


    I “misspelled” hippie since I don’t believe in calling it “pussie”.  I call it squack.  I call information on it The Squack Report, but I got that phrase out of Leg Show, a pornography magazine, which is one with an emphasis on a body part, and the rest of them do the breasts and the asses, all the product of a lady pornographer who “attests” to the size of R. Crumb’s penis, the seminal underground cartoonist, in a documentary about him which was lucky to get made.  It ties back in to the hippies.  Wiki has it wrong; the word is an invention of Herb Caen, SF Chronicle.

    So, I was doing shtick, and if they don’t like what you are saying they erase it all, so I put it here too, for safekeeping.  It happened because I hit my limit fast, it was morning, and I need a target to place my anger at psychiatry at.  It could happen just that fast since I am always logged in to WordPress and so was he; the comments don’t hold back because you haven’t registered.  It’s a bad thing.

    My brother and my daughter, Rutschke and Renzoulli (total: 4), all these have enjoyed a respite from my poison pen, too.  That’s a node, a node being an identified problem without a solution, as jumping into a volcano is a possible act,   but an impossible solution to our problems.  A second node, to give you the feeling, is how to leave your belongings to a minor child (son), for when he’s 18, when you are penniless, and he is 6.  Larger, how to discuss the wrongs of people who think they have a future most of all, their sense of entitlement, when it is obvious that the future of an arrangement is zip when it is between allies of convenience.  Larger still, what is the fate of the whole human enterprise at this point, IOW, why do civilizations collapse with an eye to the symptoms this one is doing just that.

    Why doesn’t the weather forecast just keep going out further?

    What gives some quantities the right to be dimensionless,  leaving speed  to carry the units?  Just because something is clearly numerical, doable on a supercomputer, such as “relatedness”, have to come down the pike as a decimation of matter, energy, a decimation of energy called information, and a comparison where you don’t know which way is down any more.  Huh!

    We want to “morph” one thing into another, figuring that the number of intermediate forms determines the magnitude of the difference, but why is it always reading out with distance contaminated by time, such that we can only say which one came first?  Is distance along a scale distance?  At what standard power magnification are we seeing only “On”, and “Off”, and not 1 to 100?  Does it even make sense for some event to be “On to a degree”?

    These questions are not sitting there without comment.  We have Doolittle’s work on protein relatedness, showing when in evolutionary time a certain mutation was incorporated into the genetic code.  We—oh (also they), have, uh, stuff.  You know.  We have dopamine and meth, and nine other better ways to say what’s metabolically important, not how close this molecule is to that formally, synthetically, and whatever.  One enzyme active site pocket makes the same effect, marking the place.  Ordering the time.  And it’s all a far gone derivation from the physics of fundamental constants.  If the universe can still be a universe, the cancer is going to stay in it.  You can’t kill the cancer without killing the patient.  The target is all in your  mind.

    Anyway, I was out there last night, and I saw Jackass 3D, but it is blazing hot in San Diego, California.  It was 100, and that was hotter than Phoenix or Vegas.  I mean, it is not even blazing hot.  What it is is one point along a continuum, my life, and I don’t read it right.  Why?  I don’t know, perhaps a passionate involvement, it is you after all, makes your memory the worst record about you.  Fifteen other people saw you do it, amirite?  A three-foot jet of shit.

    3D and slo-mo.  Steve-O so ripped on drugs I may can my plans to get whippets.  My alcoholism and beers making me uncomfortable.  The bad news first, the worse news, the good news, a bad thing, and what a good thing plausibly entails.  I don’t want or ultimately need any of it.

    Oh, you dicks.  Well, I’ll give you a moment of silence if you are on speed.


    “The sun’s been quite nice while I wrote this song”, Elton John.  Nah the writer told the sun to come out and it did, so he just knew the song was the best, and he incorporated the footnote as a tribute.

    Argh!  I was out with my peeps last night, with a mental lump under my mental picture of my arm, the one with the hand that can write.  We were waiting for the elevator and one thing got me.  Young people, and not even young.  I want to say sexually active or ideal partners, with the male allowed to be older.  I felt so inferior I looked at my wife for support.  She looked shabby.  I could not speak, and I was talking.  I pressed my lips together and he was speaking to her.  She was a tall blonde.  He was asking if so-and-so a couple were good people.  They were headed the wrong direction if they intended to meet this other couple and do the Bob, Carol Ted and AliceNo, I am wrong, for we were below the street, and they got off on 4.  The wave receded and my reality gradually filled back in.  Do I tell stories, or, do I hate stories.  You don’t need to stick to the truth if it’s fiction.  That’s what they mean by fiction, Steve.  That’s what a story generally is, amirite?  Get your characters from somewhere else.  These have lives.  You can’t handle the truth!

    I did see the couple again, but luckily the first one was blonde.  The second one was a little brown fucking machine (name of a website), and I knew.  The orientals get a bad rap.  They aren’t so bad.  Who do we have, Bruce Lee?  Hmm.  Why are we not blown away by our inferiority to the East?  Well, in answering that, I have to go to later on, but you must understand how this life doesn’t need fictional elements to be unbelievable.  A five-year sentence is just the blink of an eye if you are reading it.

    Later on, two Jap females were unlocking their car.  The lights on it blinked on and off, and I was parking behind it.  I thought it had a pretty intelligent alarm since I didn’t even touch it.  Then the driver talks to me like I am stupid.  She is a perceptive AZN.  She says why don’t I wait and she will pull out.  You can’t do that.  Just drive your motherfucking car.  I am a parent. That means I need to smoke.  I have to wait while someone watches three hours of cartoons and watch them like a hawk.  I stopped and went into parent mode.  She honks her fucking horn!  My God, from in front!  I can’t fucking move.  “I am doing what you said“, I thought to myself.  After being subtle and sublime for years so as to not terrify my son or the cat I could have gone through the roof and created yet another Asian enemy.

    I don’t care who you are.  If you are with a blonde, you still need pussy.


    The Benedictine Order

    Wed, 03 Nov 2010 00:55:36 +0000

    Sometimes things will strike me as funny, but only if I am alone.  I laugh and that laugh is over, so, I say the joke again, and laugh again.  I don’t really stop saying it as long as I laugh, but I forget what I was laughing about pretty soon, maybe I get going and leave with a smile on my face.  One example is the graffitti in a rest room: “Due to cutbacks in the Reagan Administration(RA), you are asked to use a single sheet of toilet paper, both sides, please.”  This was CSUF (1970), and another one said to flush twice; that it was a long way to Sacramento.  I don’t quote it correctly.  The original Reagan run was in California; the well-known RA of the White House was later.  Dude had a presence before ’70 as well, on Death Valley Days.

    Clandestine laboratories are less about chemistry and more about politics.  So is Al Qaeda.  There is more than a difference between the two sides.  They seem to be talking about two different things.  But, although similar, Al Qaeda would only have bombs, not speed, and so a point exists and from then on they aren’t similar.  Chemical Ali was executed, I believe, so I should be Chemical Stephen.  They voted today.  I voted, too.

    The word I had up there was, “say”.  You do not say, you say that last part to yourself.  What you do when you are saying for someone to say something is to say go.  The evolution of a graffito:




    By then it means out loud and becomes funny as you imagine doing it.  You’d have to kick the door to the shitter open and yell it to the crew while reading it, because you are primed and ready and want to do it next.  The actual loss of freedom by blogging involves the kind of compromise between enjoying a vacation and taking pictures of it.  I plan to write and I see the typescript.  And, now I am writing.  I don’t just plan.  The word publishing has now changed.  Trained writers are something else.  I write just like I talk, and since I talk more off the cuff, unless my thinking is good I miss the mark.  It starts in my mind and is supposed to go into other minds which think in these terms, but—it is all imaginary to intangible.  It is not supposed to be materialistic.

    No, I did not say lipstick; that is why I do not like the form of that word, it is ambiguous.  I had said addadictomy, the thing about dykes, but the main thing about you and dykes is that you like the same thing.  Whenever you go into a lesbian bar, that is why you may receive some stares, and that is what they are thinking: you are competition, the competition.  But, I say pussy is to die for.

    Ah.  I misspelled antecedent when I made these tags.  I don’t have any useful tags, categories, or titleing.  The actual Benedictine, … well, I think of it as nuns, so, not a monastery, but a physical place, just one piece of the Vatican’s real estate holdings, comes out of WWII unscathed, and this is one of the mythical elements of my life.  I’d rather cover the more schizoid realm of the completely imaginary mythology, but it is almost all nonscientific.  Let’s pull up what I just claimed, using this marvelous internet toy.


    Monte Cassino was destroyed by the Lombards ca. 585, by the Saracens in 884, by the Normans in 1046, by an earthquake in 1349, and by American bombs in February of 1944. Most of the art collection was destroyed in 1944 including the Beuronese murals in the crypt, but many valuable manuscripts were saved. It was once again restored and reconsecrated by Pope Paul VI in 1964. It was designated an Italian National Monument in 1866 with the monks acting as guardians.


    Eh, well, turns out we bombed it.  My bad.  Too bad.  Thomas Aquinas went there.  In my young life, the emphasis on, what was the word?  Re-consecrated.  Ah, that word.  It is found in a Simon and Garfunkel song, Love Me Like a Rock.  Anyway, the way I remembered it had religious overtones, and I figured it was miraculously spared.  Naw, it was dumped on and flattened, with everything lost and rebuilt without anything, of course.  That’s a fact, and the other would be a myth.  It doesn’t matter since there is an almost ironclad agreement among people today that we shall be socialized.

    However, we aren’t social animals.  We only appear highly social when compared to tigers, not ants.  We’re not.  But, i saw a bruising documentary account of life as a sardine, and these fish are terrified, 20,000 at a time, from predators.  This is what you see as every one tries to find safety in numbers.  Every last fish is eaten.  I’d already suspected that if the mind wasn’t real, that society probably wasn’t, either.  It isn’t that it’s not real so much as it is a verb, not a noun.  We don’t have any predators, but things without predators have a quasi-predatory thing after them as well.  There are no happy endings for species in nature, and this is nature unless we are capable of banding together as imaginary beings, and never here on the planet.

    100,000,000 fish head up the coast and 20,000 at a time, every day,  are split from the shoal, leaving enough to spawn, because it is this planet, and the coastline and the days per year are set.  Homo Sapiens’  low number was 600 individuals in South Africa.  We have over 6 billion now, so, I think 0.000001% of what we have is really needed, if you ever want to be an animal.