Monthly Archives: September 2006

Cars, Unix, and #######

So Rachel visited here on her way down to the NOPI Nationals and I finally got to see her Lotus. My car (left) may be faster (and dirtier), but hers is definitely a lot cooler looking! I'm trying to convince her to trade up to an Ultima, but I will admit that it's probably the most boring looking supercar you could get. The Elise is really attractive…

Other than that, I've moved over almost completely to Xubuntu, although I admit that I haven't managed to switch over to GIMP yet and dug up my old version 7 of Photoshop which seems to run perfectly (along with my favorite plugins) under WINE. I haven't really used a UNIX environment as a desktop since the eighties, so I wasn't sure whether it would be difficult or not, but it's been a really pleasant experience.

Oh yeah, and who does cocaine? Apparently white people use it when they're surrounded completely by people of color. Maybe it's a stress thing, I don't know.

EDIT: I'm censoring this story because it could get other people in legal trouble, but I have a very funny medical story. If you know me in person, ask…

Avante for sale

I don't know if anyone reading this in the UK in insterested in a fun little rare sportscar at a good price (£2500 asked), but this Avante that I just posted to my kit car blog (body modification for cars I suppose) seemed like a good deal assuming it's as good shape as it seems:

Funny version of the entry below

You know how hotels and motels had to institute special cleaning programs for television remotes, because people would order porn and subsequently contaminate the remotes? Well, I got this email from a friend today who's on holiday with his boyfriend. Thinking of the entry below, do I have an ethical responsibility to tell you which hotel he stayed at?

Haha, just kidding, I have no idea where he even went on vacation and wouldn't tell you if I knew, but I can tell you that I'm going to be pretty wary around hotel phones from now on — no offense intended to the inside of my friend's ass. I'm sure it's a very nice place, but it's probably not where I'd choose to have a conversation.

Yes, you can click to unblur if you must.

(Original forum unavailable, sorry)*

Closer to God

I think I'll tell another drug story here. This one isn't about me either, but I figure I can tell these ancient stories publicly because they're so far in the past and the only people who'd be able to recognize who I'm talking about probably already know who it's about anyway. I searched my page for this story, and I'm pretty sure I haven't written it before.

When I first moved to Toronto, we had a pair of friends-slash-upstairs-neighbors that we used to experiement on. I'd mostly gotten out of dealing by then, but we still had constant quantities of various psychedelics passing through the house. This story is actually just about LSD, but the response was very strange and out of character for the drug.

Anyway, the story begins in a park just south of St. Clair and Bathurst, with both of our friends on single hits of acid. We assumed it would just be a pleasant night, but they almost immediately went off in the wrong direction mentally. One took off and I don't know his story. The other one, who this story focuses on, started becoming convinced that he didn't have a good enough connection with God.

So he's standing in the park in the early evening, shouting up at the sky, begging God to accept him. God didn't answer of course, much to his distress. But he has an epiphany — God doesn't want to talk to him because he has become too obsessed with the materialism of our physical world. The only possessions he has with him are his clothes, so he strips down naked and again calls out to God — no response! “Why have you forsaken me?”

He calms himself down and thinks about why God isn't answering. Perhaps it's because he hasn't been a good person? After all, you have to be a good person to get to heaven, he figures. So he goes out onto Bathurst Street, still completely nude, and begins running toward the downtown core. People avoid him — obviously — but this only helps fuel his paranoia that he's a bad person.

Eventually his feelings of guilt completely overwhelm him and he starts going up to houses, trying to open the doors so he can express his love for the people inside, hoping to convince God he's a good person worthy of heaven after all. Eventually he finds an unlocked house and runs inside, pouncing on the first person he sees, wrapping his naked body around them and telling them he loves them. As I'm sure is no surprise, he's thrown to the ground, and to his horror, the man grabs a baseball bat and begins pulverizing him.

Realizing that he's stumbled upon the home of a demon, not a human, he runs back out onto Bathurst to search for people to express love to. Of course the guy in the house, presumably not actually a demon, calls the police. Anyway, my friend doesn't just run out of the house and onto the sidewalk, but straight into traffic where he is hit by several cars. So now he's deranged, naked, and covered in blood, and still looking for love.

He actualy begins opening car doors as traffic moves on, trying to hug the drivers and passengers and express to them what a good person he really is, completely oblivious as to why they all appear to be totally horrified and terrified of him. A few minutes later, he's picked up by the police who take him to the hospital where he's strapped to a bed and given lorazepam to try and calm him down for the remainder of the trip.

As he's lying strapped to his bed, he hears screams similar to his own coming from the room next door, and he's fairly certain that he's failed completely to reach God and is now in Hell. The screams only emphasize his belief that when the demons are done torturing the other person (who he has not seen), they're coming for him next.

But, like all bad trips, eventually it ends. Morning comes, and he feels like crap (to say nothing of feeling like a fool), and the hospital releases him with a stern lecture about drug abuse… But still, he wonders what was happening in the room next door and peeks in as he's leaving, and discovers that the source of the tortured screams was his roommate that he'd taken the acid with the evening before.

No one else that had anything from the sheet had a bad reaction. I have no idea why it hit them so radically hard, but it was one of the strangest responses to low level LSD that I've ever seen.

(Original forum unavailable, sorry)*

Time for bed…

I drained myself a bit posting a zillion stories to ModBlog today so I wasn't sure if I was going to post here as well, but blathering on endlessly on the internet about myself appears to be a facet of my megalomania, so what the hay… I finally got around to writing a bot to help me dig up details on the pictures (which amusingly took less time to program than the amount of time I've spent every day over the last year doing it manually). I have a bunch of new features to add to ModBlog as well; you'll likely see those go up some time tomorrow (just stuff like lists of most commented on posts and so on).

Let's see… Other than that I thought I'd be far more revealing than usual and post a before and after picture of myself at the start of my renewed efforts to get in better shape. I'm definitely not as overweight as I was in 2001 (left picture), but I sure am out of shape… So hopefully the embarassment of the current picture (on the right) will help motivate me to fix that. I've had so many friends in their forties and fifties warn me that their biggest regret was letting their health and fitness slowly deteriorate, so I'm trying to heed that advice. Let's hope in six months I don't look so formless and soft, ha…

Oh yeah, and John Travolta works out at the same gym that we do since he's shooting Hairspray literally outside the door. I wonder if he'll seduce any of the guys there?

I look like a big giant baby in the old photo (I was about 260 pounds at the time), and without my full facial tattoo, I barely recognize myself… It's weird how deeply ingrained into my self-identity the tattoo has become. I can't create a mental picture of myself without it.

The junker tribal up my side on the other hand? Definitely needs to be dealt with…

Let's see what else. I don't think I've told this story before here, and it's sort of a tattoo story so I guess it can go with the photos above even though it's really just one of my (all too many) amusing drug stories. I think this takes place in 1996 or so but I'm not entirely sure. Anyway, we'd gotten a bunch of DMT and one of my friends volunteered to be our guinea pig. We load up the crack pipe with a bit, lit it, and watched him inhale.

He sort of sat back in his chair, with his girlfriend at his side resting her arm on him to reassure him (like all psychedelic journeys, the number one rule is feel safe). He looked a little tense, but was basically catatonic, which is normal. I'm sitting across from him watching the experience, and he starts staring at me. He starts rocking back and forth, and looks increasingly tense. Really agitated.

At this point I'm starting to worry that he's about to jump up and strangle me, and his increasingly nervous girlfriend is just sort of rubbing his shoulder to try and get a message of reassurance through. And then he starts talking to me, quietly at first.

“I want to fuck you.”

Then he says it again. Louder. “I want to fuck you.” And then again. A minute later he's shouting — “I want to fuck the shit out of you!”

I have no idea how I'm supposed to respond to this (and his girlfriend, as you can imagine, is seriously disturbed). So we just waited it out, and maybe five minutes later he was lucid again, and my anus had remained unpenetrated.

One of the things that DMT does for many people is radical synesthesia (and for some people, suspension can do this as well), so not only are all your senses interchangeable, but your emotional responses, memories, and thoughts all merge into a single and simultaneously experienced purity… It's something that's almost impossible to express here, because English simply has no words to describe this particular state of being. In any case, at the end of it all, my friend explained that he was just trying to say that he liked my black arms (which were basically unheard of at the time), and couldn't separate any positive feelings to the deep desire to fuck.

But, strip a person down to their barest essence, and what else are we but fucking machines with disproportionately gigantic brains that trick us into thinking we're somehow different than animals?

(Original forum unavailable, sorry)*