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deekoo
0x7D4 March 0x15:
A post on behalf of my friend 'Architeuthis', whose very pseudonym is being rendered pseudonomous for these purposes. I'd stick it behind an LJ-cut if this was LiveJournal, but it's really Addend´t so I won't. It just looks like LJ. Besides, if it's too long you can always skip past it, and if Architeuthis likes LJ-cut he can always use his own blog when he's back from San Diego.
I went to sleep a little after dawn. And awoke, oddly, a bit after 11. Spent a while deciding What To Do and prepping, then rolled out the door (for 'walking' values of 'rolled', though the geometry *IS* a bit closer to the wheel than most imagine.) in the general direction of the Big Peace Rally (which was to begin at Dolores Park.). Dolores Park was empty. So I followed the estimated trajectory northwards, passing random outflows and vendors of Things. (Some of which Things were nifty.). My sign was liked by passersby. Which is good, because that was its final voyage. Next time the flag of the Illuminated Order of Chaos shall flap from my standard, methinks, and I should have some proper propaganda of my own. So I arrive near City Hall in time to find that the march is moving somewhere. Where, I'm not entirely sure. Neither is anyone else, though it's fairly clear to an observer that the crowd is following the portable noisybox and the red-and-black flags, and the red-and-black flags and portable noisyboxen are following the crowd. As the anarchistas seem to be short on their usual collection of people I suspect of being government agents today, I engage in an uncharacteristic display of organization and follow the anarchists. From the rough geometric centre of the formation. We go Thataway. Where exactly thataway is is unclear; the crowd moves faster when the organizers start instructing 'em to slow down, and makes a few random turns and about-faces. Thataway winds up being on Market Street and going Up. Which is apparently something that we aren't supposed to be doing, if the staticy wording from the loudspeakers can be believed. So Up we go, at least until a fairly large roadblock starts to accumulate around us. Ahh, breakaway marches. (I did look for signs of shitheaded windowkickers, that I might ask them to please refrain from kicking donut shoppes, seeing as how I like donuts. But saw none, though that doesn't mean they were absent.). At some point, I wound up surrounded. (Along with about 80-odd other people.) The cops wanted us to move back; their behaviour varies from rude pushing to quiet marching, and one gets the most distinct impression that many of their hearts aren't really in it. (Though the guy who waved his hand and said 'bring it on' got a polite declination and an explanation that, if I wanted to fight, I'd've already charged.) I milled around, made sure my sign got on every conceivable camera operated by both factions (after all, the computer that Deek calls Apparat needs to see my sign. I think.). When I finally tired of standing around showing my ability to Not Move when ordered to Move (a weakness, actually - had more of the breakaway march ensidewalked itself immediately upon command, they would've surrounded the tac squad. Allowing the more-dramatically ensigned to be surrounded turned situational control over to the forces of Order. But I digress.) attempted to move sidewalkward. By that time, the surrounders were cutting off sidewalkwards access as well (or maybe they'd been from the start. I couldn't quite see.) and didn't wish to move aside for an "Excuse me". Matterafact, after my second attempt to convince them to permit me to pass out of the street, a dead-eyed triple chevronbearer whose shirt said he was J. Fox instructed the linemembers to strike me if I stepped forward again. *sigh*. Ahwell. So I stood around a while more and discussed random things - (Aleph: "The cops've shutdown traffic on Market Street themselves!" Architeuthis: "It's the middle of the day - who'd even *notice*?") and snippets of ISPconfig and the like. So. Off to jail. Which is a bumpy ride - no seatbelts in the paddy wagon, and we're cuffed with those unpleasant plastic things. The ones on my rightward appendages bind like all hells. Stupid RSI - it's hard to find a keyboard that works underwater *and* is ergonomic, so I've been using a set of six broken "Internet keyboards" from 1999 or so, bypassing the broken keys with clever spaghetti scancodes. One of the vehicle's pilots observed that they don't support Bush either. Then it's into The Holding Pen. Stand around and around and mill as it gets colder. One of the organizationally-inclined types in the adjacent pen (we're gender-segregated, presumably to prevent extemporaneous fornication and the like.) calls all the John Does over and asks 'em if they'll support the Jane Does, as there're only two of the latter. She uses the word "Solidarity" several times, although what exactly Solidarity involves is extraordinarily vague. Were I relying on her for a definition, I fear that I'd've gotten the impression that the word meant "doing things together because girls're, like, helpless, and stuff" or possibly "doing things because girls want you to". By the time they run the last of us in the Jane Does and six of the original eight John Does have demonstrated their "Solidarity". "Solidarity" means to them "Not rolling your eyes when the girls talk about solidarity, and accepting inconveniences for as long as is convenient.". The two remaining John Does get the brunt of the Good Cop / Bad Cop routines. (Which have been displaced a bit because people're onto them. Instead it's Parental Cop and Rowdy Cop, and not as a Matched Pair. PC Talks Sense, and after PC tires of it RC makes snotty comments pertaining to things like the observation that we'll wind up as somebody's girlfriend. Rough paraphrase of the PC bit: "If you're homeless, that's nothing to be ashamed of. Just give your info and you'll get fed." "Why won't you give your name?" "Because it'll go into the computer." (Derisively) "What are you afraid of? There's no giant Big Brother here. All you do is give a little information and they let you go." "Your system's basically harmless. The data goes to Poindexter's, though, which isn't. And in a few years, it'll probably be worse." (Disgustedly.) "Why are you making this hard on yourself? If they book you, they'll take all your fingerprints and they'll know everything about you - your name, your address, your medical records." [Wow, no Big Brother here. Nosiree.] "So? They'll get the same data if I give it to 'em the easy way. At least this is more work for the machines." (At which point she launches into a guilttrip about the city's deficit and how she's on overtime, yadda yadda. And finally gives up when I point out that that essentially means that not giving my information's economic pressure.). So the Nameless and I get to sit in a cell for a while. The Nameless has a name. Two of 'em, actually, but I don't remember the one the machines turned up, and his handle may or may not be my business to release. Anyhow, he didn't wuss out, unlike me. So we sit in a cell. This cell is occupied in part by a succession of random people. Sleepy looks like a random hustlertype, pulled in, processed, reprocessed, rereprocessed. Drunk In Public is more talkative, and honestly doesn't seem as drunk as Iggy's Friend (later mentioned.). Yadda. The cell churns on, and much of the conversation overhearable from the front desk is about the John Does. Apparently they cannot send someone upstairs to the real prison unless they've got a name to put there. In the past, apparently this has occasionally been resolved by putting in fake names and changing 'em later, but they'd rather not do so (i'm guessing), though Tweedledum and Tweedledee are floated. After much time I wind up fingerprinted on the Big Machine, which'll take for-bloody-ever to turn up names. And apparently baffles them for at least a bit by NOT turning up anything for either of us. We do not exist, it seems. Funzies. Somewhere in the midst of this the Brilliant Man enters the cell. He's naturally curious as to what his cellmates are in for, and is pleased that we were protesting. You see, he's very familiar with the flaws in the current system. Studies have shown that there's a better way. It's called the "Commodity System" (The current system is the Conveyance System.). In the Commodity System, instead of imaginary shit and money and buying things, one gets everything at the store, and works to grow enough food for the store. Fifteen kingdoms used the Commodity System in the past, and they had none (or very few) of the problems that the Conveyance System has. The Brilliant Man has spent a great deal of time studying the problem. In addition, he also taught us many other things of which we were unaware: - There is a cure for any drug addiction, and a cure for the side effects of the cure for any drug addiction. This cure is methamphetamine, which is so powerful that it can even cure the addiction to pot in only one day. - He has told the Muslims that, if they were to build houses and showers, they could get lots of money. Which would be worthless in the Commodity System, so should be just thrown into a dumpster. He'll be the garbageman. - Many of the problems with society stem from the fact that uncivilized, violent people, most of whom are black, are allowed to interact with others. - The psych ward must be abolished. Psychiatry must be either abolished or brought back, he cannot remember which. Social work must be brought back. This emphasis on curing criminals is the wrong way to go about things; criminals should simply have what they did explained to them, be made to confess, and think about it in jail. - Touching someone in their sleep is one of the worst things anyone can do. Sooner or later, the priests are going to get tired of it and kill all the molestors. - Butthole inspectors touch people in their sleep. If anyone tries to inspect the Brilliant Man's butthole, he will (something violent I can't quite remember.). - Society would be so much better if so much of its resources weren't wasted by uneducated people on wrong solutions that just make the problems worse. Now that the solutions have become obvious to the Brilliant Man, it is rank stupidity and uneducatedness that keep people from recognizing their truth when they're explained to them. - The Brilliant Man is, in fact, a genius, who would score very highly on all tests. He understands everything. - Pot weakens maleness, causes impotence and infertility, and destroys marriages by causing women to become unsatisfied in them. This is unlike methamphetamines, which also weaken maleness. However, you can still satisfy your wife by whacking off a bit first and looking at a porn mag if you're on methamphetamines. - He doesn't understand butthole inspectors, or how they can stand to inspect a butthole when there's a poopie coming out. - America is a hell full of demons who won't let you do anything. - Nobody should smoke pot unless they're doing it for well-thought-out research purposes, as (in addition to the sexual problems) it makes you mildly retarded. - If the cops don't do something about the people who touch him in his sleep, he'll have to get a gun and do it himself, assuming that the priests don't. And quite a bit more maundering about the uncivilizability of blacks, the brilliance of his understanding, the evils of the butthole inspectors, how touching people in their sleep makes women engage in sexual practices that men don't understand, and the apalling stupidity that keeps the system in place in spite of all his knowledge to the contrary. It was actually overexposure to this that caused me to decide to give up and admit my real name (Jonathan O'Rourke, if you're curious; Adrian Falcon if you're just slightly eccentric, and Reginald DuBois the Third if you're average.). So be warned: should you intend to use Time In Jail to wear down the establishment, they may have thought to inflict verbose kooks upon you. So. The Nameless is still in the cell; mehopes that his current roommate is neither a butthole inspector nor one posessed of the whole truth about Everything and the burning need to teach everyone about it. A police officer have complimented me on sticking it out so long before giving up my RdB. Another has asked if Discordianism is like Qabbala. I should've thought to tell him to look up the Principia Discordia online; oh well. I wonder if they'll deliver letters to alia, and if a letter from a wuss'd be desired or not.
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Alice Tatterdemalion on 0x7D4 March 0x1B: Architeuthis on 0x7D4 March 0x1B: Methuselah on 0x7D4 April 0x4: Nameless User from 84.230.91.86 on 0x7D5 September 0xC: Message ID: 'comment-0x7D5_September_0xC-0x0'; spamfilter sequence: {%turing_match%}-{%turing_response%} |
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