Special Needs.
Today I saw Capitalism and Communism square off.
Sunday I lost my cellphone of 2 ½ years. It was my first.
I have not a lot of money in my bank account.
I have a new cellphone that is shiny.
Last Monday I discovered that whereas I'm above average at public speaking, I'm terrible at doing it in front of my friends.
This Monday I did something silly.
My old cellphone, with the purchase of a 2 year plan, cost me $2. It was a an old phone even for 2002, big and blue and primitive, lacking even the ability to tell time, vibrate or display colors. I bought it before I had friends, so I could keep it on without it ever ringing. It had games on it, which was a surprise to me. The only one I really ever played was Snake, my high score was something like 240 I think, but it was on the slowest level.
The snake itself at that point basically took up the entire screen, I was quite proud.
Capitalism (who was hosting) should have been quite proud at the turnout: the room was fucking packed. There were people literally hanging from the walls. People were expecting quite the debate, it'd been 40 years delayed, apparently. Communism was a bit of a disappointment though, he was meloncholy and soft-spoken and always seemed to never quite answer the question, though he put forth a couple of good points.
Or at least they seemed to be good: Communism brought out these points at final remarks, and as he spoke last Capitalism couldn't address them, which says to me that he was anxious to not have them picked at.
Capitalism looked like a male version of Janet Reno, if that's not too redundant. He had game-show host hair and flair. He made us laugh, whereas Communism made us smirk. Communism wasn't a professor, he writes articles for magazine, he couldn't command a room of 300 people like Capitalism could.
I can command a room. But I think it's because people who don't know me (and some who do) see me as unendingly and disturbingly quiet, so to see me apparently easily take tones of authority short-circuits their minds a little.
Which is what I did to my old phone. As I started to get people to know people who might call me, I became paranoid of my phone going off at bad times (it never, ever did). Simply turning it off wasn't enough, I had to physically disconnect the battery from the contacts (simple enough, just press the button, the whole thing had the look and sound [and often violence] of sliding a clip into a semi-automatic [which made some cops give me the hard stare every so often]), often two or three times, because I'm obsessive-compulsive. I did this once at a movie, and hurt it badly: one of the contacts became bent. From this point on, it had to be handled with great delicacy or the battery would loose the connection and the phone would go off (which it also did randomly). It became a special-needs phone.
I might have special-needs: I do silly things sometimes. Monday I bought a trombone from a goddamn consignment store. It ran me $20. To be clear, trombones cost a bit more than that usually. The only problem I see with it (other than it's a damn pea-shooter) is that the end of the slide is crushed in, and that the water key faces upwards (what/how/why/who in the hell?).
It's a special-needs trombone, but if I can get it fixed up I'll actually own an instrument again.
I have to hand the one I have in Wednesday after my concert (I'm playing these three songs. Yes, the first one is that song, and the last one is done by a high school band, so it sounds not so good).
I have names for my special-needs horn: Broadcaster II, The Antique, Bottom of the Barrel, The Special Boy, The Fixer-upper, I Am Stupid, I Am Really Stupid, The Space Badger, and more of the like.
It was a waste of money most likely, but music probably ended up keeping me alive (e m o, but true), so I have issues with leaving it, but my passion far outstrips my ability.
That's what she said.
I've been pondering leaving music (READ: band) though, because I have almost no friends in the musical side of my life.
That gets old.
I had to participate in my school's football scrimmage, and as always there was plenty of time to sit around. I pulled out my phone, cradled it delicately, and for the first time in God-knows-how-long played Snake again. I scored 50 points. I'm out of practice. The next day I left it in a computer lab and somebody must have picked it up.
That's happened before, but check this: the thief gave it back.
Because: I am the only person in the entire world who can make it work.
At the end I had to turn it on, hold it upside down and squeeze it with both my hands until I thought it would break, and that only worked half the time.
That's a secret I told no one. Only Odysseus could string his bow, and only I could work my phone.
It was completely irrational that I didn't replace it, if you're confused on that point.
Considering my considerable attachment to material things, it's pretty amusing/ironic/hypocritical that I consider myself an anarchist (non-practicing).
Consider this: I can be an anarchist as long as I behave, because the Georgia constitution provides for a freedom of conscience. I know because I have it in my bag.
Like, right now.
That's pretty crazy, considering.
I'm going to Greenville tomorrow. I'm worried because I have low funds.
But now I'm not worried.
I wrote this post in two installments: I took a break to eat and now I feel completely different.
I have more and worse moodswings than a pregnant woman.
Which reminds me of a dream.
In the dream,
I am an ultrasound technician, and I was doing an ultrasound on a patient (a girl in my biomedical ethics class I have a crush on, she has silver fingernails and teaches yoga and doesn't know my name). The baby's head is abnormally large, and is in fact growing visibly.
I say
I'm afraid it's Down's Syndrome
to which she says
Nonsense, I'm fucking 22 years old, give me that thing
that thing is what I'm doing the ultrasound with, apparently a small cedar divining rod taped to a remote control. I do not give it to her. The baby's head continues to grow at an alarming rate
I say
You're right, it's a bomb
because it is, it was planted by biomedicalgenetical terrorists.
I say
We have to do a inter-universal C section
and then we're in an operating room, and I am the surgeon. My scalpel is the subtle knife, except it looks nothing like that. I cut into the fabric of reality a couple of inches above her abdomen (which isn't at all swelled with pregnancy), reach with the knife a little further in, cut back into this reality, and yank out the bombaby.
Now I have to defuse it.
I say
I have to defuuuuuuuuuuuuuusssse it
So I open the hatch in the side of it's head (now I'm in alone in some hellish nightmare dimension, but my attention is focused on the baby boomer) and it's full of isolinear chips. I rearrange them in their slots, but it's no good so I pull a bat out of my lab coat and beat the thing to sprockets.
I say
gogglegogglegoggle goggle
Something else happens after that, but I forget and I think that's for the best.
Sunday I lost my cellphone of 2 ½ years. It was my first.
I have not a lot of money in my bank account.
I have a new cellphone that is shiny.
Last Monday I discovered that whereas I'm above average at public speaking, I'm terrible at doing it in front of my friends.
This Monday I did something silly.
My old cellphone, with the purchase of a 2 year plan, cost me $2. It was a an old phone even for 2002, big and blue and primitive, lacking even the ability to tell time, vibrate or display colors. I bought it before I had friends, so I could keep it on without it ever ringing. It had games on it, which was a surprise to me. The only one I really ever played was Snake, my high score was something like 240 I think, but it was on the slowest level.
The snake itself at that point basically took up the entire screen, I was quite proud.
Capitalism (who was hosting) should have been quite proud at the turnout: the room was fucking packed. There were people literally hanging from the walls. People were expecting quite the debate, it'd been 40 years delayed, apparently. Communism was a bit of a disappointment though, he was meloncholy and soft-spoken and always seemed to never quite answer the question, though he put forth a couple of good points.
Or at least they seemed to be good: Communism brought out these points at final remarks, and as he spoke last Capitalism couldn't address them, which says to me that he was anxious to not have them picked at.
Capitalism looked like a male version of Janet Reno, if that's not too redundant. He had game-show host hair and flair. He made us laugh, whereas Communism made us smirk. Communism wasn't a professor, he writes articles for magazine, he couldn't command a room of 300 people like Capitalism could.
I can command a room. But I think it's because people who don't know me (and some who do) see me as unendingly and disturbingly quiet, so to see me apparently easily take tones of authority short-circuits their minds a little.
Which is what I did to my old phone. As I started to get people to know people who might call me, I became paranoid of my phone going off at bad times (it never, ever did). Simply turning it off wasn't enough, I had to physically disconnect the battery from the contacts (simple enough, just press the button, the whole thing had the look and sound [and often violence] of sliding a clip into a semi-automatic [which made some cops give me the hard stare every so often]), often two or three times, because I'm obsessive-compulsive. I did this once at a movie, and hurt it badly: one of the contacts became bent. From this point on, it had to be handled with great delicacy or the battery would loose the connection and the phone would go off (which it also did randomly). It became a special-needs phone.
I might have special-needs: I do silly things sometimes. Monday I bought a trombone from a goddamn consignment store. It ran me $20. To be clear, trombones cost a bit more than that usually. The only problem I see with it (other than it's a damn pea-shooter) is that the end of the slide is crushed in, and that the water key faces upwards (what/how/why/who in the hell?).
It's a special-needs trombone, but if I can get it fixed up I'll actually own an instrument again.
I have to hand the one I have in Wednesday after my concert (I'm playing these three songs. Yes, the first one is that song, and the last one is done by a high school band, so it sounds not so good).
I have names for my special-needs horn: Broadcaster II, The Antique, Bottom of the Barrel, The Special Boy, The Fixer-upper, I Am Stupid, I Am Really Stupid, The Space Badger, and more of the like.
It was a waste of money most likely, but music probably ended up keeping me alive (e m o, but true), so I have issues with leaving it, but my passion far outstrips my ability.
That's what she said.
I've been pondering leaving music (READ: band) though, because I have almost no friends in the musical side of my life.
That gets old.
I had to participate in my school's football scrimmage, and as always there was plenty of time to sit around. I pulled out my phone, cradled it delicately, and for the first time in God-knows-how-long played Snake again. I scored 50 points. I'm out of practice. The next day I left it in a computer lab and somebody must have picked it up.
That's happened before, but check this: the thief gave it back.
Because: I am the only person in the entire world who can make it work.
At the end I had to turn it on, hold it upside down and squeeze it with both my hands until I thought it would break, and that only worked half the time.
That's a secret I told no one. Only Odysseus could string his bow, and only I could work my phone.
It was completely irrational that I didn't replace it, if you're confused on that point.
Considering my considerable attachment to material things, it's pretty amusing/ironic/hypocritical that I consider myself an anarchist (non-practicing).
Consider this: I can be an anarchist as long as I behave, because the Georgia constitution provides for a freedom of conscience. I know because I have it in my bag.
Like, right now.
That's pretty crazy, considering.
I'm going to Greenville tomorrow. I'm worried because I have low funds.
But now I'm not worried.
I wrote this post in two installments: I took a break to eat and now I feel completely different.
I have more and worse moodswings than a pregnant woman.
Which reminds me of a dream.
In the dream,
I am an ultrasound technician, and I was doing an ultrasound on a patient (a girl in my biomedical ethics class I have a crush on, she has silver fingernails and teaches yoga and doesn't know my name). The baby's head is abnormally large, and is in fact growing visibly.
I say
I'm afraid it's Down's Syndrome
to which she says
Nonsense, I'm fucking 22 years old, give me that thing
that thing is what I'm doing the ultrasound with, apparently a small cedar divining rod taped to a remote control. I do not give it to her. The baby's head continues to grow at an alarming rate
I say
You're right, it's a bomb
because it is, it was planted by biomedicalgenetical terrorists.
I say
We have to do a inter-universal C section
and then we're in an operating room, and I am the surgeon. My scalpel is the subtle knife, except it looks nothing like that. I cut into the fabric of reality a couple of inches above her abdomen (which isn't at all swelled with pregnancy), reach with the knife a little further in, cut back into this reality, and yank out the bombaby.
Now I have to defuse it.
I say
I have to defuuuuuuuuuuuuuusssse it
So I open the hatch in the side of it's head (now I'm in alone in some hellish nightmare dimension, but my attention is focused on the baby boomer) and it's full of isolinear chips. I rearrange them in their slots, but it's no good so I pull a bat out of my lab coat and beat the thing to sprockets.
I say
gogglegogglegoggle goggle
Something else happens after that, but I forget and I think that's for the best.
posted by Sean at 7:09 PM
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