Suddenly I started getting all these calls and emails about something called orkut. What the fuck now, I wondered. A self-mutilating borderline killer whale? An alternative to "shred" or "spindle"? Or just the next whacked out internet experiment in connecting people with such disparate interests, agendas, genders, kognitive fender benders and what have you, that the resulting mental conflagration will approximate those wilden days of yore about two years ago when nights were bold, damsels were less distressing and blogging was still fun. For some of us. The rest know who you are. Or, was it perhaps just another misbegotten fuckbrain scheme to promote the already nauseating whoring after some pathetic measure of "professionalism" by people who were far more appealing before any such notion occurred to them? I am tempted here to quite Lao Tzu, but it would be sacrilegious.
Instead, more in keeping with the Self-Secret Inner Truth of that apocryphal sage, let me briefly recount a conversation Selene and I had last night over a dinner of stuffed shells and salad, which we ate on the floor, mountainous stacks of unpaid bills and way too many books having left us nowhere else to sit. For those of you who may be just now tuning in, Selene is my 13 year old daughter and favorite person to hang out with.
I wondered aloud as to the original derivation of the expression "out the yin-yang." Who do you suppose got that one started, I asked her. We were drinking Glacier Freeze Gatorade with our simple meal, which Selene said she thought quite Nuevo California something, and she blew a pretty good shot of it out her nose at this point. "I mean," I said, "was it all those yin-yang symbols that started showing up all over the place a while back?" As in: "Christ, we got yin-yangs out the yin-yang!" We then debated whether "a while back" was shortly after WWII or when she was in third grade, which was like five years ago. "A lot of those things were showing up back then," she said. It seems all the kids were drawing them on their notebooks and shoes and such.
"So you did have yin-yangs out the yin-yang," I offered.
"Yeah, that was pretty much it," Selene said, being careful not to drink any more Gatorade while this discussion lasted. Which was not that long. After I cleared away the plates, she read aloud one sentence each from about 35 books within easy reach, concluding with a much longer passage from Lynn Andrews' Love and Power. For those of you to whom the name may be unfamiliar, Ms. Andrews is one of America's foremost blonde Aryan shapersons. Marianne Williamson, infamous author of A Return to Love -- based on the delusional channeling of Jesus Christ in the prêt-à-porter psychosis that is A Course in Miracles -- says: "Lynn Andrews helps every woman find a sense of her own importance." Which I found interesting, having known few women not already prepossessed of a superabundant certainty of their own importance. I mean, I guess I never realized the full extent of the problem.
All of which was to be some sort of lead-up to talking about orkut. I guess the largely unconscious (see what writing does to you?) conjunction is the God-Made-Man (to be confused neither with the Self-Made-Man nor the Man-Maid-Self) in both A Course in Miracles and Jesus Christ Vampire Hunter -- a movie I would never have known existed had I not joined the Zombie Survival Tips community on orkut, where I saw it listed in the favorite films section of one Maury De Geofroy's profile.
This is what the internet was made for: knowledge management!
Yes, and I encourage you to go sign yourself up right away. You can do it either here or in the road. Your choice, naturally. My own profile, on which I worked late into last night, is... where? Oh fuck. There seems to be no unique URL for my page. That sucks. Or perhaps I failed to RTFM. Anyway, go to the main page, I suppose, and search for males within five miles of zip code 80305. That's too complicated, I know. But try.
This reminds me of a website called Six Degrees. It disappeared several years ago after I broke it by inviting half the population of Planet Earth to make me their wife, lover, boss, father, brother, sister, repo man, or other intimate. The CEO actually phoned me and said, "Who are you and why are you doing this to us?" He seemed distraught. The answer was, of course, because I could.
And now, sportsfans, you can too. You know what to do.
I wonder if this is an omen. When I logged onto orkut this evening, I got the following...
So, if nothing else, this post should alert you to the fact that profound thought has not been much in evidence around here lately. In fact, I spent nearly the entire day officially joining the
underclass. I am trying to be cheerful about it, but I really am in
dire desperate horribly fucked up straits, and nothing short of a miracle can save me now. That miracle is you, Valued Reader, clicking the little paypal button to the right and giving me a few bucks. Or a few hundred. (Yes, it has happened.) The latter lucky few will be listed in the Acknowledgements accompanying my next book. And who could resist an offer like that? (yeah, yeah, but don't tell me. let it be a surprise.)
Simplicity of character is the natural result of profound thought.