Thursday, November 16, 2006

I forgot everything I knew about computers!

Yo, peppers! I finally did it! A little while back, I learned a ton about computers. I'm talkin' from parity bits to the delicious seven layers of a TCP/IP stack. I even was gonna meet with a guy who taught introductory compilin', a secretive master from the old school, flew by the handle of 01100001-A. I was a super-fly "houndy-ass root boy," totally setting the permissions for all kinds of stuff—even starting to pwn on some users who had gotten out of hand on my IRC. (And getting results, I might add.)

One day I was buggin' on some l00p3r who'd been spazzin' out about god knows what, and I kind of had an awakening. I was like, "Hey! I ain't need no guff from some fools in this improvised fake-scape! What the?! I got to get into my yard and bust a fat jay and grill a pork medallion so tender it trembles when a butterfly flaps its wings in Japan!" (a chaos chop). I realized what a waste of time my "virtual" life was, when I saw that I was getting all my pleasure from changing "permissions" on a typing line.

I could see the appeal of computer worlds, for sure. I'd got in that far. You just learn a few words and ideas, and all of a sudden you're, like, fast-tracked to a corner office where a kid named @kr0n_12 wants to repeat everything you say to everyone he knows (three guys from the WHATS-YOUR-WPM boards). Hard to ignore that kind of easy ass-jockeying. Shame on old Ray for fallin' into another easy vice.

Anyhow, I been workin' with a hypnotherapist, and we got me to the point where I no longer desire punchin' in and batch-glockin' a bunch of eight-character goons with some vengeful kill -9 action. You get me down in front of a command line terminal, the hell I want a ham sandwich and a stroll 'round the pool. I find the whole concept distasteful, but I do not condescend. My guy is good, he has finesse. He keeps me gracious even in the face of my ghosts.

Have a good weekend, everyone! It's great to be free of computers again. I may hit the links, or drive a thousand miles in a direction, or try to buy one of those golden ducks with the hanged neck like they got in Chinatown. Either way, you can bet that I will not be aware if Internet avatars of Super Mario and Rivet Soldier Masobungyi are mad at each other over "religion" in the General Discussion channel.


Wednesday, November 08, 2006

Butter, where have you been all my life?

No, I ain't met some sex club worker named Butter, though you could believe that. I'm talkin' 'bout fat little old mister butter—spread him on toast, melt him on noodles, drizzle him the hell on popcorn. You know what I'm on at, and you afraid to listen, ain't you!

You see, what with the health craze of the last couple decades, butter totally got shoved aside while people pretended to eat baked potato chips and olive oil. Don't get me wrong—olive oil has its place. That place is at the store, while you are buying butter. Remember how for a while people were sayin' you shouldn't eat eggs? And now they say you should constantly eat eggs or you'll die? Yeah, it's like that. You should eat what makes you happy (except fatties, who should the hell take a damn walk), and let the health press duke it out on the newsstands, which you don't patronize, 'cause newspapers and magazines have to say bad and scary stuff about everything or they'll get bought out by Reader's Digest Large Type Edition.

Anyhow. Man, I been thrillin' in the kitchen with butter. And I ain't took it too hard on the waistline, either. It's like, the whiny newspapers and celebrity diet books have us all in constant confusion about food, but once in a while you get that 2001: A Space Odyssey moment, like the ape with the bone who beats the ass of an ape who had no bone, and you go...BUTTER! BUUUUTTTTTERRRRRR!

I'm picturin' this: I'm an Amazonian tribesman, all in some loincloth with a snake necklace, and I'm runnin' through the jungle with this fresh grilled whole snapper in my hand. I stumble into a clearing, and rising up into the sky before me is a ten-foot tall stick of butter, the size of a fridge. I drag the sizzling-hot fish across the butter, then devour one side of it. As the melted butter and fish juices run down my face, I fall to my knees and scream to the heavens: "BUUUUTTTTTERRR!"

You know, that sounds like a good opening to a movie. The rest of the movie could be in the present day, about this guy who believes in butter but keeps getting doors slammed in his face. At the end of the movie, he lowers his vegan nemesis into melted butter, then laughs as the hours pass and the fat sets and the vegan's body is slowly crushed.