'So tell me why have you come here?'

'Well I felt like talking, and I figured you were the best suited for the job - listening to me, that is.'

'Oh, really? I'm honored'

'Just don't be...'

'Why not?'

'It isn't much to feel honored about, its just plain crap, if ask me!'

'Well, isn't that why you have come to me - I mean to get rid of the thoughts in your head, or at least try to?'

'Yeah I guess...'

'Well then let me feel honored and tell me what is on your mind.'

'Well apart from the usual stuff I have recently felt alone.'

'Usual stuff?'

'Yeah you know, I tend to get depressed, erhm, well not depressed, but
I tend to be a little less happy when I think about all the shit out there in the world. All those things I cant do anything about anyways. That's the usual stuff.'

'Oh okay, well then you said you felt alone? In what way?'

'Well its really odd, because I am never alone, there is always people around me - I always have a friend over to chill with me, just doing nothing - having some fun.'

'And yet you feel alone? Because you feel you don't belong with the person or..?'

'No no I like being with them, its just that they can't see me as the person I am. They fail to recognized that I am depressed.'

'Have you tried talking to them about it?'

'Yeah well - I have tried to express some of the feelings I have - but they do not listen.'

'How do you know that? Do they not respond or?'

'Well its like they do look at me, they do nod when nodding is needed and they respond shortly with useless phrases like "its going to get better soon, its probably just the winter..."'

'Oh yeah that's not very productive.'

'I know, they just stare at me with blank eyes and they seen dead, not caring about anything but themselves.'

'What do you think they care about?'

'They care about themselves, their lives, you know, the good stuff - like their girlfriends and good things like that.'

'So they are happy and you are not. Well do you think you would like to have a life like theirs?'

'Hmm I don't know, I just want them to listen to me once in a while, its like - they are happy, and then they cant imagine that I'm not - I'm not!
I mean I'm happy for them, but I'm not happy at all.'
What would they need to do in order for you to feel better?'

'Fucking listen to me. How many times do I have to say it??'

'Hey, stop that, I don't want to listen to that kind of thing!'

'Sorry man, I'm just so frustrated.'

'I understand that - just tell me nice and easy what you want them to
do for you, in order to make you happy.'

'All right, well when I tell them that I really hate, I dunno, say my job, I want them to listen to me. I want them to look beyond themselves and realized that I would like to talk about this. I would like for them to listen and help me. They don't really have to give me an answer, they just have to listen to my outlet. I mean is that too much to ask?
Sometimes, my friend can ask me why I seem so "not caring" about his happiness with his new girl. I mean, its like I have to feel happy for them and share their happiness with them, feel glad every time their significant other farts because my friends think its sweet. For crying out loud I cant manage that!! Its just too dumb, I'm not the one in love, I'm the one "in hate" so to say!'

'Nice example... Hmm yeah I get your point. You want them to let you talk and just listen to you while you let all the things out, just like now.'

'Yeah, but I don't want you, no offence, I want THEM to listen, not you.'

'Non taken and I completely understand that.'

'So what do you suppose I should do?'

'Tell them'

'What?'

'Just tell them that you don't feel they are listening to you.'

'Well I don't think I want to do that, I mean they don't seem to know
what they are doing wrong, they might take it as an attack...'

'Well if they are your friends - they you should be able to tell them the good things about them as well as the bad. That's what friendship is all about - at least that's what I think about it.'

'Yeah... perhaps, I need to think about that.'

'You do that - get back to me will you? If they are not willing to help you with your problems then you know I'll be here for you.'

'Yeah I know, thank you - I already feel a bit better. Thank you so much.'

'No prob. I hope you get this sorted out.'

'Yeah me too - See ya'

'Later dude.'

Peace

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So cool. Sooo very cool... and, if you're American, you can win money! Money and bridges, what could be better?

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She laughed a harsh laugh shortly before the end. It was hard to listen to, but who could blame her for not softening it? All her time she spent caring for the terminally ill who were ready to die. She seldom took any time off and saw no reason to. She had no friends, only her work. She no longer cared to make any. Eventually, they all died anyway and it seemed most died long and painful deaths. She felt that it was her friendship which so cursed these people and thusly her self-induced ostracism from society commenced and continued.

Remembering when she was a young adult, a mere 16-years-old and beginning to bloom into a woman, a tear trickled down the woman's face. She was later than nearly all the other girls she knew and found herself often the butt of the sunken treasure joke so popular with the cruel students with whom she socialized daily within the structured school system of her era. As she slowly sunk, lower into a deep pit of anxiety and despair, her aunt lay in a hospital dying an agonizing death due to cancer. The girl wished more and more that her aunt would just die so she could begin to grieve and move on with her life. She wished more than anything for the aunt's pain to be gone. As the woman lay in a hospital waiting for her death, her husband fell ill as well. He too became fatally bedridden with kidney diseases and excruciating growths within and without. The poor woman remembered her mother never allowing her to visit them. “I want you to remember them as they once were,” she often heard. Sadly, the girl would only remember how long they suffered in pain.

A mature woman, she still bore the scars of her past. The patients in her ward never lived long after entering her care. Their deaths always were attributed to the diseases, which sent them there in the first place. Mercy cut short the ends of the lives in that sad and lonely ward through which many AIDS and cancer victims quickly journeyed. Forty-five years the poor woman toiled to make the ends of infirmity's victims less painful and far quicker.

An investigation eventually did begin and she was found to have murdered hundreds of innocent persons. The papers touted her as being heartless and cruel. Most of the families of her “victims” scorned her; hating her for taking their loved ones away. In their selfishness, they thought only of their own grief and blamed the deaths of their loved ones on the pitiable and forlorn woman.

She herself fell victim to a disease of such magnitude that the miracles of modern science could do nothing for her. Staring desolately out a window one day she wondered who mourned her decay and eventual death. Alone she lay for many days until her will simply gave out. In great pain she died, though the unseen spirits of those who had gone before her surrounded her to the very end of her pitiful existence. All her “victims” were by her side to the end, doing what they could for her, in return for her kindnesses to them.

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I must take this opportunity to thank all the deliberately objectionable people I speak to online. They get me thinking about things, and sometimes not just how the internet should have an intelligence test for entry.

The other day in an IRC channel, we were talking about music, and I was shocked when some kid said one particular band was "bad music". I asked him how he qualitatively judged music, and he went on to tell me everything he personally didn't like about that particular act. I asked him the question again, and a third time. Still he could give no reason why this band produced 'bad music'.

I offered this: There is no such thing as good or bad music, just music you like and music you don't like. Listen to early industrial like SPK or Throbbing Gristle and you'll hear noises, rarely anything remotely resembling a note or a melody. Some of it is just painful and detrimental to your hi-fi. It's still music, and these bands were relatively popular. Still are today in fact, although not in the sense that NSync are popular.

Flip side - Think Britney Spears is rubbish? Why? In what way is Britney Spears 'not good music'? If it was really of such a low quality, why would it sell in such phenomenally large quantities? And don't blame marketing - are you insinuating people are buying music they don't like? If you don't find the sound of Britney's latest opus pleasing, say so. Say "I don't like Ms Spears". That's a statement of both opinion and fact.

This isn't just a post about mainstream pop culture. That's been done to death. Hating the mainstream is so mainstream now, it's people who profess to liking Linkin Park who are the real outcasts. Not the minority, by any means, but certainly in the marginal internet demographic. No, let's look at the wider picture. What makes art successful?

In my opinion, as an artist (cough), art succeeds when it meets it's target, fulfills it's potential and performs the task for which it was designed. And who sets these criteria? The artist. Therefore, NSync is good art because it succeeds in getting money out of 13 year olds and their long-suffering parents. Damien Hirst's is good art because it sparks controversy and debate. SPK's is good art because it embodies Graeme Revell's mindset at the time. Art is thrown out into the marketplace, gallery or record store with a purpose. It's just not always obvious what that purpose is sometimes. If Throbbing Gristle aimed to sell 500 copies of their LP and did that, they would be just as successful as NSync picking up some teen award.

So before you scoff at the next mainstream, pre-packaged pop idol, bear in mind it's purpose may not necessarily be to entertain YOU. And while you are absolutely entitled to your own opinion and the right to voice it, what you think is irrelevant unless you're directly affecting the piece's success.

Try it, see the bigger picture. Recognise what is effective and ineffective to you, rather than making qualitative judgments based on your own personal tastes.

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Elf booty got soul! Elf girls like to rock n' roll!

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I woke up, got ready for work, and looked at myself in the mirror. I'm not living. Life is a peculiar thing. You only really feel it when you are in some emotional frenzy. Love, hate, remorse, pain. That's when you know you are alive. I have a pulse, but there's something missing. Rather, I am conditioned to feel a loss. Society has pushed this idea in our heads that we can only be happy for a reason. I used to walk down the street and smile at everyone. Sometimes I'd get a smile back. More times than not I'd get a leery glance. Instead of just being someone enjoying the day, they'd rather think of me as a potential psycho-killer.

Me. "Hi!"
Friend: "Hi. How are you?"
Me. "Great!"
Friend: "Wow. Why are you so happy?"
Me: "Why? I just am."
Friend: "But why? What are you happy about?"
Me: "I just am. Do I need a reason?"
Friend. "Well... Yes. Something must be making you happy. What is it?"
Me: "Nothing. I'm just happy."
Friend: "I can't believe you're not going to tell me."

Why does there have to be a reason to be happy. I should be able to laugh, cry, and yell without a reason. I refuse to react according to society's guidelines anymore. I'm going to walk down the street, smile at everyone and let them deal with their foolish insecurities. The next time you get a call from me, be prepared to talk to a happy person... Or make bail.

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rrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr ''''''''' rrrrrTHHY Ml';,lkuh g ,,,,,,,,.////# :'@@@@@@@@ @ @@@@@:POLIR NBM KJHVFDDDDD . Sorry, I think I fell asleep there for a time. Allow me to explain.

I don't know anything. I haven't suffered a bump to the head or anything (not that I'm aware of at least) and I don't think I've been taking drugs. I know my name and I know what day it is. I know how to ask for directions to the hospital in German, French and Arabic, and I could tell you quite a lot about the origins of the European Enlightenment right now, but none of it means anything to me. My name just a tag, the day changing roughly every 24 hours. I probably won't ever need a hospital outside of Britain and the Enlightenment could be the invention of a brighter kind of light bulb for all I care. No, what I don't know is the problem, not what I do. Who am I? What am I? What am I doing? Why am I doing it? Does it matter? Why does it matter? Who am I to say it matters? Why does anything need to matter?

I took a shower today, thought it might freshen me up a little. After about twenty minutes I get bored with standing, so I sit down. The walls are a little damp and cold, but once you learn to love them, they love you right back. I stare at the wall, watching the water drops splash against the sheer surface of my plastic cage, and trickling down until they disappear into the puddle surrounding me. I feel as though it understands. The water doesn't need things to matter; it just does what it must. It doesn't care whether I stay clean or not. I begin to feel tired, and start to think about things. I get tired of thinking, so I try to keep it under control. I think about what makes me smile, what makes me sad. What I want for the future, how I feel about what has happened. How I feel about now. How do I feel? The thoughts can't hold my attention for long, and soon they too trickle down into the water, where they can't make any noise.

I begin to laugh. I don't know why. Maybe it's because I've been sitting here for nearly an hour. Why is that funny? I haven't got anything else to do. Laughing doesn't seem funny anymore, and I feel like crying. I try to get a hold of myself, but I can't think of any reason not to cry, so I let it out. Trouble is, I'm not sure that I feel sad, so I swing between laughing and crying for a while. I feel very tired all of a sudden. It's rare that I feel energetic, but now I feel deprived of energy. Have I been eating properly? Well enough, I guess. I lean my head against the wall, and kiss the water as it falls. I want to fall asleep. I can't quite explain why I didn't, but it crossed my mind that I might wake up with hypothermia or something. The water is getting cold now, but it feels warm. A voice somewhere inside wonders aloud what it would feel like to have hypothermia.

I turn the water off. I persuade myself to get out and I get dried and dressed. As I ponder my wrinkles I realise that once again everything that I thought I knew is either wrong or utterly useless. What do I want to know? I couldn't tell you, but I'll know when I do.

I want to sleep now. Gtrseeeeeeeeeeee eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeEEEe EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE,,,,,,, ,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,, ,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,, ,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,, ,,,,,,, , , ,, , ,,,,,,,,,, ,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,, ,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,, , , ,, , ,, ,, ,, ,, ,, , , ,, ,, ,,,,,,,,,,,,,,, ,,,,,,,,,,, , ,,,,,,,,,,,,, , ,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,, ,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,

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We in America have just had another holiday. This means, of course, that it's time for me to post another one of my ethno-centric articles regarding the holiday in question and how it relates to our lives. I'm nothing if not dependable.

On a weekly basis, I visit my family no less than three times for a free meal and to take an opportunity to spend time with them. They drive me absolutely batty half the time but, hey, it's a free meal and the conversation is horrible. Thanksgiving is the mother of all meals, though. Allow me to give you a little insight into how my family celebrates.

The first thing you can expect to see is my mother doing her best impression of a Dervish whilst stirring things, checking the oven, setting the table, etc. You'll discover my father laid out on the couch, probably watching television. We'd lift a finger to help her, but we've long since learned that it's easier to just not get in her way. No matter how much she claims to desire our assistance, I think she'd much prefer to have adequate space in which to prepare the meal.

About five minutes prior to the actual serving of dinner, there will be a barrage of complaints about my mother's cooking prowess, all coming from her. We smile, nod our heads, and suggest that everything will be fine. It always is. Despite what she may argue to the contrary, my mother is a rather excellent cook. Then again, I am her son, and I'm required to say such things.

Once the turkey, potatoes, stuffing, cranberry salad, rolls, green bean cassarole and sweet potatoes with apples hit the table, there comes a moment of truth; The prayer. I think that it would be no small victory for my folks if I were to actually say grace before the meal, but it hasn't happened since I stopped being afraid of them. I don't suspect it will happen again any time soon.

Then, we dine.

My family has a long history of taking in strays. My grandfather did it for all of my uncle's friends after the Vietnam war. Took them in, gave them a place to sleep and eat until such time as they were self-sufficient. My mother did the same for a friend of mine when I was in high school. As a result of this, any time one of us hears about somebody having no place to go to Thanksgiving dinner, they invariably have a place setting at our table. In past years, my dining room has been graced by the likes of AKpCEP'ers fishstyx and Requiem2501, among many others.

This year, our only guest was a Sudanese refugee who had been staying with some neighbors of my parents' until they moved a little over a year ago. He and his brother were picked up by the Catholics and deposited into our land in order to recieve an education and a real chance at a life that didn't involve running from people with very large guns.

Spending time with this young man always reminds me of all the things I've taken for granted in my life. Here he is, within six months of recieving his high school diploma (having only been in this country for three years, and learning sufficient English in that time), and he doesn't know how old he is. He thinks it's somewhere under twenty years of age. I suppose you don't spend too much time dwelling on when your birthday is while avoiding eye contact with that lion so he won't consider you prey and rip your throat out. You may think I'm making some sort of uninformed statement regarding Africa being uncivilized. I'm not. Ask the guy yourself.

I bitch about America a lot. I look at all of the things we're doing wrong, and I complain about it. I vote, I talk to people, I try to sway opinions. I'm trying to make it better. It's days like today, when you talk to a person who knows full well that the so-called "democracy" in Kenya is nothing but a sham because he's fucking been there, that you can shift your focus away from the things that we're doing wrong to the things that we've done right. This country has granted me nearly limitless potential to achieve my goals, and I'm going to be outrun someday by an immigrant who's never known such opportunities in his life and plans to take full advantage of them.

God bless America.

So, maybe today isn't your holiday. Maybe you had to work or go to school. Perhaps this day means nothing more to you than another day at the grindstone, something that you'll have overlooked by the time you wake up in the morning. All I can ask of you is to take just one minute and think about how good you really have it, and to be thankful for those chances you've had and for those people who were a part of them. Do it tomorrow, and the next day, and the next.

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