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What What?

Posted 3 February 2002, 1.52 am by Jake

Howdy. I hate my job. I decided to write something about skills, because that is a topic that pollutes my mind like a mental disorder.
Work. You know, the thing you do that causes you to get paid? It's a bitch. I am a floor covering installer...which means I am a carpetlayer, vinyl installer, ceramic tile technician, wooden floor professional...whatever you wish. I work for my uncle, and I am easily as skilled as he is. I work with one white guy, two Hondurans, one Venezualan, and one Mexican, which has caused me to learn Spanish. I have conformed myself to my vocation, which is probably the best thing I could have ever done, other than go to school. I learned to speak a foreign language (something other than Latin, which is fundamental yet unneccessary.). I have learned to read, write, and work mathematical problems over public-school levels. thanks to private (Episcopal) school.
And I thank nobody, because no one has really helped me. I am where I am because of myself. I am mine. Even though I am a student at a public school now, I still realize one fact: High school is NOT a true test of intellect. It is only a matter of repeating procedures and structures taught by teachers that are either socially inept or good at what they do. I want to know if anyone else contains or has experienced this degree of individualism and how society has shaped(or twisted) you. Respond, if you will.

Novels

Posted 2 February 2002, 9.26 pm by Sickan

Chapter 4
After a few hours Gabriel stopped writing and looked upon the disorganized mess in his little room, the beer-cans, the newspapers and the all the old and rotting take-away food suddenly annoyed him. He grabbed a bag and started cleaning. It took him about one hour to clean the whole room, and then he stated to vacuuming the floor and the bed. When he was done the room actually felt nice and a bit more like a home. Now he felt good, and the ideas to the novel had sprung into his head. But before he began writing he would get something to eat, he remembered that he hadn't eaten for 36 hours now, and he could feel the hunger in his stomach. But he decided that he wouldn't go for the easy way and just order a cheap pizza, but he would go to the store and buy some healthy food.
He hurried out the door smiling and he felt like laughing. But somewhere in his mind something else were waking, something different something unnatural.
He rushed over a small road and the last thing he heard was a car honking vary loud and he could hear the empty dump of his body hit the sidewalk in front of his own room. Then it all turned dark.

"It was beautiful; the way it turned around all the small imperfections in the wallpaper, making its way down, like it was its sole purpose in life. He hoped, that the drop would somehow reach the floor, before it ran out of sustenance, though he knew this wasn’t possible, and exactly as that thought passed through his head, the blood line came to a stop.
His eyes ran up and down the line, admiring how perfectly it reflected the light form the small yellowish bulb hanging somewhere over his head. He imagined that he could see himself reflected in there, somewhere."

Political "correctness" part one

Posted 2 February 2002, 1.52 am by Andy

For the sake of ease, please allow me to focus on one race in the following post as opposed to every race... simply apply this to your's where needed. Also, please realize that I am simply a dumb Cracker, and have no idea what it is that I am talking about.

African American
Black
Colo(u)red
Nigger

Which term is "proper?" Which term is "correct?" How do you know?

Who decided for you?

Which term do you prefer? Which term do you find offensive? How do you know?

Who decided for you?

Poll a random Black (which, again, for sake of ease, allow me to use in reference to... fuck, you know to which race I am referring. Apply alterations where needed) person, and you'll no doubt get a conflicting answer. Some prefer "Black." Some prefer "African American." Some, no doubt, actually prefer "Colo(u)red," and some refer to each other as "Nigger" in a, no doubt, brotherly, loving way... but which is technically "proper?"

Let's analyze:

"Black" is quite obviously an easy means of reference, but it has had such a negative connotation throughout (recent) history (especially when used as "The Black Race" or simply "The Blacks") that it is usually considered racist by most, as people don't normally prefer being referred to by their skin colo(u)r (though I'm not certain as to why; "Black" is about as racist as "blonde" is... hairist).

"Nigger" is a definite no-no, especially interracially (ie a White person calling a Black person a "Nigger"), though it seems to be prevelant in most rap or hip hop "music;" then again, so are words such as "izzo" and "dubs," so you can take that for what you please.

The word "Colo(u)red," if you ask most anyone (regardless of their race), is almost as bad or just as bad as the word "Nigger," and not very practical, considering the fact that technically everyone is of some colo(u)r, be it White (technically pinkish most of the time, save for Powder and myself, though mine is due to lack of sunlight (read: a life), and not albinism), Hispanic, Asian, or any other race you can dream up.

And the one that makes about the least sense, but is technically considered politically "correct" by most? "African American." How many Black Americans are actually African? What about Blacks in other countries? Are they to be referred to as African French? African Irish (that'd be a fun one)? African Australian? African Canadian? African Chinese? African South African? Who decided that the term "African American" should be used to refer to the entire Black race?

I'm guessing a Cracker.

Am I a European American, being White?

Hmm. Well, it's something to think about.

Peter Pan and various other goodies

Posted 1 February 2002, 10.48 pm by Craig

WoW, I didn't know that the famous childrens character Peter Pan had a home page... Cool

Peter Pan Home Page

Now, if you have recovered from the Killer Japanese Seizure Robots, why not check out this little gem. Warning... you may die!! Check it out Now!!.

I Only Write Crap.

Posted 1 February 2002, 8.28 am by The_Roach

Well, that's my opinion on it at least. I have never written anything that has been "up to snuff", frankly. There have been concepts that I thought had merit, techniques that felt effective, and the occasional metaphor that seemed to really hit home. I am a critic at heart, snubbing film, television and literature at every turn. However, everyone excepting myself gets the benefit of the doubt, and frequently a second chance before complete dismissal. I've never had a piece that combined all of these elements, nothing that I would have determined to contain any real Quality.


"Quality... you know what it is, yet you don't know what it is. But that's self-contradictory. But some thingsare better than others, that is, they have more quality, But when you try to say what the quality is, apart from the things that have it, it all goes poof! There's nothing to talk about. But if you can't say what Quality is, how do you even know what it is, or how do you know that it even exists? If no one knows what it is, then for all practical purposes it doesn't exist at all. But for all practical purposes it really does exist. What else are grades based on? Why else would people pay fortunes for some things and throw others in the trash pile? Obviously some things are better than others...but what is the "betterness"?...So round and round you go, spinning mental wheels and nowhere finding any place to get traction. What the hell is Quality? What is it?"
-Robert M. Pirsig, Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance


There's a certain method to my writing, a certain set of rules that I always follow. I always have a cigarette burning in the ashtray, regardless of whether or not I intend to smoke it. There is always a Mountain Dew to my right and a shot of vodka to my left, the soda for during, the vodka for afterwards.

Writing takes on an erotic element, starting out slow and uncertain. I can feel the words that I want to say gathering within my brain, anticipating release, but not sure of whether the risk of releasing the impulse is worth the possibility of rejection, that chance that they will be pushed away, left feeling broken and alone. Eventually, they find the courage to creep out and grace the page. Delicate caresses, nearly unnoticable at first, with the occasional awkward grope that doesn't turn out the way it was intended. If one of these is too severe, the whole piece will come sputtering to a halt, thrown off the page and forced to hide in the deep recesses of my mind, likely never to resurface.

If they make it past this point, the words begin to peel away layers, revealing more of their intent. Emboldened by it's success thus far, it begins to find it's rhythm. Soon, the words and the page are linked together, inseperable from one another and every additional word that finds it's way has a purpose. Slowly, but surely, the intensity increases as text fills the page in a torrent of passion. There is no stopping the concepts now, as they scream for release.

Finally, the logical conclusion occurs. La petite mort. I drink the vodka.

Then, I sit and read, basking in the afterglow. For those first five minutes, every word is ecstacy to pass over. The recent experience of writing them still fresh in my mind, they have no flaw. As time passes, though, I begin to see the errors, the tiny cracks in the dam where water seeps through. It wasn't a perfect experience. Far from perfect, in fact. Hindsight is 20/20, I suppose.

I drink the vodka.

NoVels...

Posted 1 February 2002, 6.21 am by Sickan

Chapter 3
He enjoyed the silence in the house after the staff had gone home. There was always a little comfort in sitting alone in the great mansion, the old noises the ancient house made and the silent sagas it told. He nodded as if he were trying to convince himself that that was true.
He was 58 years old and had never had a family, he didn't like children; they were to destroying and dirty he had said. People had this idea about old things, they had to touch them no matter how many times you told them not to. And he had a lot of old goods, all had a special place in his heart, they were all his children.
In his early days his had been an excellent and accepted archaeologist, he had been at all the great sites and he had seen a lot. But what had been driven him had been all the tales and spooky rumours about curses and stuff like that in Egypt. He loved Egypt, that was a land of ancient pride, but now the Western world had eaten it up from the inside too, like all the other great and ancient worlds all over the world.
He shook his head.
Now he lived safe in London and in his elder days he had thrown himself over writing, he had started writing his memories and published them and then he had written some fiction and found that he was pretty good at it. Now he had received his first order from an unknown person. The person who called himself Wulf had asked him to write something dark and scary. Anthony didn't mind that as long as it kept him going, the money $ 5000 were not what had made him agree. On the other side he felt that he had no choice, Wulf hadn't written any address or anything to reach him on, he just wrote that he would contact him after one month and then pick up the short story.
Anthony rolled his chair to the writing desk and put some paper in the typewriter, bended forward and started typing.
The only sound in the great mansion was the water dropping from the bathtub. The sound was old and used.
The mansion was empty; there were no one but the body in the tub, only darkness and shadow.
The blood dropped slowly from the fingertip hanging over the edge and heavily landed on the floor. The drop smashed and clotted.
In the tub laid a silent voice. He was not yet dead, but he didn’t know that, it felt like death; it must be what death was like.
He considered the fact that he was still thinking and it also felt like he still breathed, not as if he was alive and well, but like a sick cat, slow and awaiting.
He had been looking forward to this day and now it finally felt right.
Death couldn’t be far away; he could feel the warmth from the blood running down his hands from each their wrists.
Suddenly there was a tickling sound by the window, Anthony turned slowly around, but there were nothing except the old oak tree outside.
Anthony stood up and walked to the kitchen, he fancied a cup of tea. He was actually proud of himself, he had never expected to be an author, nevertheless not a good one, but he felt good about his work and himself, something he had not felt for years. Now the past could be a closed chapter in his life. He smiled; now he even talked author-language.

The Greatest HTML Editor Of Them All

Posted 1 February 2002, 4.43 am by The_Roach

Here is a site for anyone who wants to design a website as cool as AKpCEP (yeah, right).

F*R*I*E*N*D*S

Posted 31 January 2002, 11.27 pm by Villager

Once upon a time I looked at the people I spent my time with, admired certain things about them, be it intelligence, humour, the quality of conversation you could have with them, and told myself they all counted as my friends. The people with whom I went to school, played football with, lived near.

Recently, I've taken a look at the people I spend my time with. Again, I counted those who I thought 'qualified', but I came up with only three. That, quite honestly, shocked me. I went over it again, and got the same answer. What may have caused this drop, is the criteria by which they were measured. Instead of asking what I liked about them, as I once did, I asked how they have been, as friends. How they have acted towards me when I've been down, how they've joined in my joy when I've been on top of the world. How they shut up when I'm in a mood, sensing what I feel, how they know what I find funny, and what I do not.

And it was glaring who was to be classed a 'true' friend, and who was not. Those who immediately sprang to mind for being there when i needed them, having shown their characters at the important times, and never really giving me cause to doubt them, were the same three people, over and over. No others, these three aside, demonstrated even occasionally the same character as the three.

I do not quite know whether to ask myself, 'damn, I only have three friends?', or 'I have three true friends whom I can rely upon, am I one lucky guy or what?'. One result certainly shall be that I appreciate these people more, and the positive impact that they time and time again have upon my fragile life. But such an evaluation also raises questions of another, less fruitful kind.

Am I not wasting my time socialising with people with whom I dislike much of their character? Is it not little short of idle apathy to just go with the flow, being around whoever chance may find (for that is how much of it seems)? Or, per chance, am I over analysing reality, reading too deeply into the fact that not everyone chooses to commit themselves as friends, as I might like? Standards which are set by no less than myself, in my attitudes towards those for whom I care.

Good friends are hard to find, make sure you know who yours are.

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I took this photograph in North Vancouver, by the water. These birds are everywhere, all the time. If you are standing in the middle of a crowd of these birds, you realize just how horrid they are. The photo I took actually makes the birds look respectable and that's why I like it.

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Hmph

80s candy bars were pretty good

only because i traded it for a candy bar in the 80's.

lol we all know you don't have a soul ghoti

my soul for some carbs...

But of course!

Yo ! Does this work ?

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