Old salts at the banquet hall, #'s 6-10

6) Nike Pegasus shoes. Remember those? He had a pair. They were size 14 and he ran like a tank. He watched gory videos and kept things inside. Some people thought he was creepy, others thought he was putting them on, using his behavior as some sort of false front. Neither was true. He found himself one day sitting on his step dad's hammock and twisting flowers apart. He didn't know how he got there. Two days later he moved out of town and never came back.

7) Nachos dual mode operation, hundred man quip fest, green line dissociative method. These were just a few of the necessities that were indicated. Lost, with a penchant for evil, a set of dangerous circumstances arose. They all met one evening by coincidence and boy did the fantastic explosion take place as predicted. The various sets of boundary conditions and required tasks/processes were known to be incompatible and inversely related to one another in a horrific way. The dried puddles that remained were an acknowledgement to their lack of knowledge. They should have never done it.

8) He waited quietly outside the convenient store. It wasn't the first time he planned to rob somebody. Hell, just last week he smashed a guy's face and took his bag of candy. Good stuff in there actually - peanut butter M&M's and a Score bar for starters; things that gave him a brief but intense sugar high. Tonight he considered getting some smokes and a lottery ticket, provided the given target doesn't scratch the fucker right in front of the clerk. He didn't have to wait long. A middle-aged and worn out woman came in. Her hair was in the style of '89 and she was atrophied from the speed. Her normal activity was brought to a quick end next to the pay phone. The crook found one losing lottery ticket and no smokes. In the struggle he lost a good portion of skin on the left hand. He went home and ate his fruit loops.

9) She smiled and walked into the traffic. She didn't know any better. Her seeing eye dog had lost it that day. That was it, he figured, he was done with this bullshit. What did they think he was anyway? A fucking machine? He was exhausted after a brief life that included always watching for trucks and considering different routes. He understood very little in actuality, but worked with what he had. He did well. He didn't ever get to participate in normal activities and was very resentful. Today he had enough. They both got crushed into bits by a large van.

10) Witherman was a hunched over fruit bag. He whistled through his nose and delighted in hopping off retaining walls. His face was crooked and his eye was leaning. He laughed with a screech and belched with a bark. He smelled of carrot juice and burning ceramic. Some thought he was a secret genius, but he was a true idiot. Their assumption was based on his ability to predict easily predictable futures. If anything, he was instincual. Last week he swallowed a marshmallow whole and choked for 10 minutes. He knew he lost some brain ability, but knew he would just keep on livin', same as ever. His abilities had no effect on his life. He dwizzled on and on and on and never became a hero in the traditional sense.

Captain America's super fortress (revisited)

The internet. Full of obscure gestures and even more obscure characters. The ones that didn't make themselves visible until the mid-nineties. Prior to the advent of electronic media, i.e. message boards and friends, these people were holed up in their own dark, dank worlds, driven only to succeed by songs like Subdivisions and Middletown Dreams (Search for the lyrics if you don't believe me. Also ask BORT). Many went on to become programming experts or hackers, others stuck around and remained in isolation, while still others plowed minor outward paths and ended up in cell phone sales. As an example, here's one that's older now, but still fairly content (looking) in his ways.



So, here I exist on a Sunday night, no cooler, ambitious, better looking, or generally better off than the aforementioned, looking for different "speed run" on youtube. I should certainly be sleeping. Recent studies have shown that a lack of sleep leads to increased lack of attention at work. Numbers consistently show that amount of sleep and lack of work performance are directly related. I do have a job I guess, and I will have low attention span. My boss, being German and all, will prescribe the usual high doses of amphetamine, which is culturally acceptable, so no need to worry about me.


As I was prowling, I came upon:

1) an amazing 3d World Runner Speed run - amazing because the game, like others of the era, seems to have been created by an alien tribe, and makes no sense at all. Also it's impossible to succeed, if memory serves me.
2) Zelda speed run - as I remember when I was younger and without the internet, it was not able to be determined whether or not anybody had ever beaten this game besides. Well, one guy can do it real fast.
3) What possessed me to write this particular entry -

This guy

Does anybody know him? Probably. He probably will also become aware that I've linked to his page, which could be good or bad based on his ultra extensive dream database which features a complex organization scheme made to work efficiently. On youtube he plays Ultima and has tips for success. Most of all though, he's working on programming his own 2d RPG, complete with complex number schemes, the ability to reach level 3000, and (likely) the ability to become invisible. Please, please, read some of his blog. It's another complex organization scheme made to be simple, and has lots of content.

Most of all, I can't cut through the lot of it, mainly because I have better things to do I figure. Interestingly though, the man resides in Minot, which brings me to a world of cold, dark basements, extended winters and extreme isolation. It's a throwback to the old way of life, although I can't entirely describe it. Maybe I saw others live it. Maybe I lived it. Maybe people who lived it play Ultima.

As one person said,

"The cold, steel-blue, mid-winter sunset. The static, overcast sky seems to give the snow cover a particular, pervasive power. Nobody enjoying the outdoors now, just people in their homes peering out the windows occasionally; allowing them to appreciate the provided warmth. People are bored, but tranquil; a rare feeling void of anxiety. As the night approaches, the flat orange lights create the expanding aura in the sky and the various exhaust mechanisms from homes and facilities submissively push a wide plume into the air; some are noxious. The expansive sky is indiscriminate and devours everything. Between the serene residences and the dark, steadfast brick warehouses lies a distinct border that separates romantic individuality and the frigid, harsh reality of human endeavor. The humming, distant lights and the unforgiving skies illuminate the border. Not one entity knows which side it comes from, but each enters the border in search of answers. Most find little consolation. Most exert too much effort to ever come to useful conclusions, resulting in horrific cosmic darkness. Only the mysterious mid-winter ethereal projections hold the truth. The feeling returns again and again. Some find this nostalgic, others struggle in vain to solve the mysteries it puts forth.

The air there, still or not, is shouting its supremacy. It crosses the border without consequence. Man’s avarice, left to its own devices, continually clarifies the boundary. The cobalt horizon casts no shadows, and tells no lies therein. People fail to recognize its solidarity. People fail to recognize its true meaning. Instead they seek to overcome its strength; an approach that has left the hands empty."