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Pedal Powered Wireless Networked Computer?
Friends of Jhai asks: "An NGO called Jhai Foundation, which is building Internet learning Centers in Laos has enlisted Computer Hall-of-Famer Lee Felsenstein to build a cheap, locally assembled, wirlelessly networked PC and communications system. The current details of the machine are here and the application is here. They are looking for similar systems under way that they might work with or which might be ready for deployment. Anyone have any URL's we can check out?" Great! Now you can get your computing and exercising done at the same time! What other types of technology have people managed to adapt to man-power as opposed to boring ol' AC outlets?
June 2rd, 2002
How did it get to be June already?
I took a little break from the city this weekend, went to Ventura (some people call it Ventucky) to see my Burning Man friends. It was fun. Also I hung out with this 19 year old girl who I befriended. Man, she is hot. She doesn't know yet. I mean, about me and my secret. (She knows she's hot.)
It's getting harder to write in this thing (this journal). I feel like it was easier when I just moved to town and didn't have any friends. The only thing I like writing about is the people who I know - be it Herb, Darth, Jubilee, this 19 year old girl and her cute sexual proclivities - I like talking about people and how fucking weird and funny and trippy they are. But now I feel like there's always a chance that my friends or acquaintances are going to read this . . . and I'll be exposed for the shit talking muckraker that I am. Is it worth it? Like, if I end up liking this girl, (her name is Nan - actually, it's not! That's another thing, I'm sick of making up pseudonyms for everyone) I'll have to tell her about the site, and then she'll look at what I wrote and she'll recognize herself within it and she'll say Do I really have such a fat ass? and I'll say, But I like it! and she'll say, It doesn't sound like that in here. it sounds like you're making fun of me! and I'll say I wasn't having a good writing night, I didn't express myself fully and she'll say, You're kind of a shithead, aren't you, and by the way, what's up with the saliva obsession? and I'll just sort of hang my head in shame.
It might be easier to stick to fiction, is all I'm saying.
I'm reading this collection of Dennis Cooper essays right now, which is called All Ears, and he actually has some similar stuff to say . . . some stuff about losing friends because of what he wrote about them in his articles. Is it really worth it? That's the question. I mean, I like this guy's articles, they're pretty awesome, but I could have survived without them too - he didn't need to win me over (while he was losing his friends in the process). Why should Dennis Cooper care what I think of Dennis Cooper? He's never met me, after all. This all brings up these questions of the people who are close to you, and a public who is not at all close to you, and you sort of treating the people close to you as objects, to be written about and compartmentalized (made into understandable, if perhaps incorrectly represented, essences), for the benefit of an unseen eye who has no individual identity. The generalized, invisble readership takes on the role of the confidant, a comforting presence with whom to commiserate, while the actual people in your life dissolve into mere grist for the stories you're churning out. The cycle doesn't seem so healthy, it seems to me . . .
I've thought before that the very essence of reporting, of critiquing and evaluating, even of storytelling, is one of reductionism, oversimplification. I hate most journalism for this reason. Fiction is preferable to me because I never have to question the veracity of the reportage - it's filtered through the narrator, or novelist - it's made up. It's when it comes to telling about life that I start to distrust, not only the actual story that I'm hearing or reading - but the ability of speech and words in general to accurately describe an event or an occurence. People are liars, and even when they're not, they leave a lot out.
My posturing exemplified in the paragraph above becomes sticky, though, when one takes into account that most of the writing I've done over the last year has been distinctly non-fictional. All I've done is talk about shit that really happened. And I know that I'm not a better or more faithful reporter than the people I complain about. I center on myself a lot in my stories, which is good (because even if I'm being untrue to how I was feeling, at least the only party that I'm betraying is myself) - but I think it gets really interesting when you see who else is involved. And there are so many other folks involved. And it's so difficult to paint them all complexly and truly.
But back to Nan and her big ass:
Wow. That's a big ass.
I was feeling it through her pajamas on Saturday night. I was feeling really happy. Man it had been a long time. Did I tell you about that blowjob I got from Casey Pink? I think I described it as not happening; that it didn't happen. Well, hanging out with Nan actually did happen. It wasn't like it changed my life, like I'm in love, or even that I'm smitten with this cute girl (she is so cute, she's 19, her face is all shiny, her body is springy and gravity-defying, I'm clearly indulging and reveling in my fetish, S. Stern is satisfied). All it was was a nice make-out session plus talk session with an average, cool human being. It had been a LONG TIME!!! I can't even remember the last normal girl I'd been with, to be totally honest. When I was in Brazil I had some girlfriend/temporary wife things, but they were all working girls, so it doesn't really count. And then there's been all this porn bullshit for forever, it seems like, and the best encounter I ever had was with Kate and I only saw her three times total in my entire life! I just shake my head and wonder what the fuck I've been doing with myself, trying to have a porn sex life. I don't know, maybe Ed Powers and Randy West and Rodney Moore dig it; but I had more fun with Nan, who didn't suck my dick or even take off much of her clothing, then I've had on any porn shoot in the last year. I guess it helps that there was no one-hour time limit; and that I didn't have to pay her $250 after I was done! (I want to write: LOL , but I can't quite bring myself to do it.)
Then today I was feeling really sexual and healthy and attractive for the first time in a long time - I felt like I could look at women and sort of sent out my vibe or scent or whatever to them, and have them think about me . . . I didn't feel like a diseased piece of shit which, I have to be honest, I've felt like in the presence of normal girls (read: not strippers, whores, or porn chicks) in the past six months or so. I feel good, like I could fuck someone and have it be about the right stuff, about affection and intimacy and maybe even sharing - not about unfocused anger, fetish-like lust for certain body parts that are usually carried around by a weathered and tired face, and interesting but always disturbing sociological and psychological issues that always make me think about exploitation and abuse. Maaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaan I don't want to go back to fucking with porn girls.
But even as I write that I know it's not true! I have this feeling, this knowledge, almost, that I'm going to keep on doing it, off and on. I know, for example, that if Nan gets too into me or whatever, I can end it with a single truth-telling blow (or action - that is, just hire Faith Adams or Luna or Aurora Snow to come over and suck me off, which will undoubtedly be terrible but it'll be terrible in that terrific self-destructive way that makes for poignant journal entries. Do you see the extent of my calculation? I'm being semi-ironic here, though; please realize that; realize the inaccuracies of my explanation of my own behavior; don't take me seriously when I explain my motives, because they may be true but at the same time there are so many more motives that lay unexplained and unmentioned; however, if you were to take that line of thinking you could never believe a word I or anyone else said, so, upon some pondering, I take it back, take every word I write as gopsel, and as the complete and exhausitve story.)
I have been hit by a sudden wave of exhaustion. I have people coming over for auditions tomorrow anyway; it's the last day I'm seeing people. Then I'll start bringing the best actors back for callbacks this weekend - and maybe start shooting in two weeks! Wow. And you didn't think I was really going to do it. No. You did (generalized unseen reader); I didn't. Maybe I didn't. Oh, I don't know. Maybe I won't, in the first place (do it; make the movie). But I will try. I'll do that.
One more thing: Justin Timberlake wants to move down to L.A. and be partners with me in my production gig, making movies for darkmeat.net. More on that soon.
I am sure that the Laotians have an endless supply of underclass slaves they can chain to an exercise bike, so that their elite classes can browse for precious information from the US and other First-World countries. Fuck that shit. What the Laotians need to remedy their widespread illiteracy is PAPER and BOOKS. They need mimeograph machines to print books in their own script. Check this out:
http://www.honco.net/japanese/02/page3.html
.... to keep slim. Do you think that a diet consisting of 99% coke and 1% beef is easy!?
Actually, with the smooth refreshing taste of coke, the real stuff not vanilla or that diet shit, it's a piece of cake. A couple dozen cokes for breakfast, followed by a plain wendy's triple with cheese for lunch. Then a couple dozen cokes until steak for dinner and a couple dozen cokes to keep me awake long enough to get some work done.
This is not sarcasm. This diet REALLY works. Visit http://flame.dnsart.com/ for absolutely no mention of this diet. GARUNTEED.
You can't judge a book by the way it wears its hair.
Try this.