Analog by Night

How many games does one lose before quitting? I don’t like losing. Really I don’t mind losing. I don’t mind losing a game here and there, but losing 5, 6, or 7 games in a row is something else isn’t it? it’s a streak.  I’m comfortable quitting. Not quitting during a losing spell seems foolish. Especially if the game is a small game. I don’t like to quit in the middle of a game, but once I learn how the game is basically played, and it turns out I just lose many more games than I win, I decide that it’s not something I’m good at and I quit.

I don’t feel good about any of it.

Just read my first joke about designers and lightbulbs. “How many designers does it take to change a light bulb, and the designer’s answer is, Does it have to be a light bulb?”

In this fantastic article.

It always disgusts me when people refer to their, or other’s time away from work as having the purpose of “recharging their batteries.”

It posits that they live for work, nearly died for it, and are back ready to be used up again. That is disgusting. And as a person who is probably working to make life easier for others in some way, it means that you have a corrupt view of others as well. One that posits that the right thing to do with one’s time is to give it to work. Disgusting. Stop it.

Get your priorities right, and work honestly with your priorities first. If it is your office, you can trust that our relationship is over at 5pm, and that will pity you in some way, and you can not trust me to carry your flag to death.

Or, hopefully, your vacation contains your secrets, and you are hiding them from me. That is what I want to believe. As long as we persist in this little lie, we will have the best life allotted to us.

Cheers.

In all of my life, I evaluate pressures as trades. I see compromise everywhere. Largely because I have explored many ways of thinking, values, beliefs and privileges. Each morality trades one fulfilled desire on another shirked value on another passed opportunity or endured indignity or stress. There seems no respite, and this is called neurosis. This awareness is neurosis.

Heart disease is in carpaccio and thusly, less carpaccio. Now or later. How is one supposed to know if carpaccio is better as a 35 year old or a 90 year old. I hear that once you pass 60-65 you start being in love with everything anyway. So it is enough to live past your allotted time and heaven comes anyway.

So what is the best way to spend that stressed period before then. On the impossible? Or on the obvious?

Who are you to decide?

When will I stop analyzing this?

My impression is that they like musicians who are really more literary than musical. As in, they want a person to get up there with either an acoustic or dissonant electric and read a flat journal about being an undersexed INTP teenager. The story has to VASTLY outstrip what’s going on musically. The flatter, simpler and moderately melodic the better. Bring the vocals forward and play your 3 chords fast like this: strum-strum-strum-strumma-strum-strum. Then pile on the tweestruments, for everyone of your 20 friends with an undersized sweater and bad bowl cut.

MOST importantly your story needs to be: suburban, non-moralistic, moderately detailed, between two people (one of which is really the ideal of the person, not the person).

It’s amazing how many variations there are to Love Will Tear Us Apart. Much like the Amen break, apparently you can build two or three decades worth of rock on a single instance of music. Amazing.

Make’s me think this is going to be interesting. At least The Daily Show will be good.

Never ascribe to malice what can adequately be explained by stupidity.

To Find You

I took my myself to the cafe,
Along the sidewalk, like a submarine with periscope peeking.
Into some wild world full of burning bushes, lapels and miles.
I darted and dove, shimmied to starboard.

Two red leaves blown from a fall maple,
Wet with word, press themselves to my outstretched hand.
Each corner licks a direction, quartering your heart.
I yielded and yearn, stolen and harbored.

I draw my prize down here,
To see what we are made of.
Maybe two compliments, maybe two query–yes, two other.
I am holding and hope, our life unarmored.

I’ve passed my cafe and make for home.
The way rounds rock marches, skips on lights and windows.
Each leaf’s inch is a promise, is a notion, and are our mystery.
I am found with a kiss, my love, my ardor.

Garrison: We just lost the initiative.