There’s nothing like limitless strings of run-on sentences to fill up hundreds and hundreds of blank pages. I enjoy performing tasks that involve massive amounts of tedious repetition that incrementally lead to something larger. Like many of my friends, I exhibit certain micro- autistic character traits. Fortunately, for me, I’m a bi-product of the modern, western civilized world and I am tremendously thankful to have such a large body of almost completely useless knowledge at my disposal. I’m far enough away that the nihilism that comes part and parcel with the aforementioned does not affect me, so I can appreciate how fun and spectacularly fucked up it is to exist in an entirely artificial environment with no core ideology holding together, no vision, or underlying sense of order at all.
Out here in Mexico everything makes sense. Sure the road is full of holes, beer bottle deposit prices vary from town to town, and empties purchased in Guerro Negro can’t be returned in El Pescadero.
Yes, flush toilet plumbing systems will fail if the toilet paper is flushed with your excrement. Certainly these things are fucked up, but in Mexico it’s fucked up because nobody cares, and really, none of it is very important.
The developed world, North America particularly, regularly churns out disproportionate quantities of people who, for one twisted reason or another, ‘care’ enough to go to the trouble of inventing and mass marketing a plumbing system capable of handling the TP that some poison Ivy rashed ass clown somewhere around the turn of the century cared enough to invent in the first place.
I don’t waste any time worrying about success, or women, or where my next meal is coming from. I’m way too busy, day in and day out. Greasing the gears of an imaginary planetarium that meachanically whirrs and hums, a 3dimensional Mandala representing a corndog solar system that does not exist beyond the bounds of my own distorted cranium.
Troy is continually making dliberate and dedicated efforts to accomplish meaningless tasks, and in spite of being a very clear headed thinker, he persists in the maintenance of certain rigid and inflexible logical fallacies, which, as far as I can tell, exist entirely for the purposes of keeping his own sense of internal logic functionally out-of-whack, thus allowing him to maintain a perpetually absurdist/awestruck/apathetic first person perspective through the vise of a self mutilated world view of his own fabrication.

I’m soaking up Douglas Coupland’s Jpod like the Vaccum cleaner sucked up the aquarium water in the opening montage of the 80’s afternoon black family sitcom ‘Fat Nanny’ I can’t say if in fact the novel is great, and deserving of a place in the annals of Canlit, but it is a powerful dose of what I need wordwise. My only fear is that it will end too quickly. The characters contained within the pages of Jpod act and think much like myself and people I know, processing information and animal urges into maladaptive character traits, and in a fashion I am intimately familiar with.

They say familiarity breeds contempt, but Jpod gives me a taste of home: information overload, malaise, and long meandering, frequently interrupted conversations that span months if not years, yet miraculously manage to communicate absolutely nothing of value.
In Couplands world all culture and language has been mashed up and re-purposed as to render all things equally meaningless and therefore all that might fit under the heading ‘moral responsibility’ is made exempt from scrutiny. It sounds like nihilism, but at times I miss it and I want to be there.
Here’s why: if Moral responsibility is exempt from scrutiny, then the worst concept ever to enter my mind: Artistic responsibility, is all of the sudden rendered moot point and an irrelevant topic for reflection or dissection.
Couplands got a point: Fuck everything, and whence everything is fucked, it will no longer fuck with you. It’s okay if things fuck with you, and it’s okay to understand intrinsically that everything is fucked.
The auto spell check sorts out my spelling for me, automatically, and without my active participation and I Realize now that spelling bee champions are a shining example of biologically certified pre-planned obsolescence. We all the foresight to see how much bullshit is about to come raining down on humanity,s collective delirium, but it’s nonetheless something we’re all equally helpless to amend, both within ourselves and beyond, so therefore the ‘continuation of the species’ surmounts to inefficient subject matter for brooding upon. You’re much better off with TNA impact zone, and celebrity gossip rags if you ever expect to stumble upon the secrets of life, love, and happiness in the entirely manmade world in which we live, a place where up to 60% of the traceable brain function in the upper stratospheres of white, dendritic ether of a gamers head is dedicated to the memorization of maps and sequences necessary for Mario Brothers 3 and the Tony Hawk Pro Skater series. Basic survival is butter.
Academic thinking is entirely parasitic, but I respect it’s worth. It plays the role of the destroyer, yet Ironically, the creator: Punk bands for instance, fancy themselves to be the destroyer. Sex pistols might have well been singing nursery rhymes relative to what B.F. Skinner was saying at the time. The Destroyer encourages us as a people to settle with the notion once and for all that “We’re Fucked’. And the radical academic left is frightening to the other traditional bastions of because the notion of Fuckedness arouses so much repressive anxiety within those partial to the siamse conquistadors: commerce and messianicism. And in turn these conquerers seek to adopt the methods of academia’s cold and efficient destructionism to further their subterranean cause, and in doing so their noble utopias emerge as brutalist wastelands splashed with the brightly branded corporate symbology of the covert believer who much posture as a happy nihilist in the interests of a cover story.

I’m in a place where the Ocean Currents can run in one direction for years, then mysteriously switch. The Zeitgeists of bygone legends lurk in the hills with ‘la Cupachabra’, the creature, part dog, whom the locals say is living out there.

Yesterday morning I turned myself into a crab man after studying the creatures and learning their secrets. I took off, skittering out to the violent rocks under the cliffs and picked my way out along the stones out over the waves that licked at my feet while I climbed. The world shrunk to the patterns in the stone before me, I fingered ancient stone nostrils and swung from gigantic nipples, hooking lips and eye sockets, in a trance, until I had taken myself deep into a treacherous and alien landscape down at the bottom of the sea cliffs while the water beneath me slurped and sloshed. I found myself, naked but for sneakers and a bathing suit, way out there, in one of those harsh, and inhospitable end of the world type places, where the unstoppable force has been warring with the immovable object for eons. I was at peace while a maelstrom of white water churned all around me [los Cerritos psycobloc traverse: Crabman, 5.5, R (loose rock, sandy holds) Fa Robert Millang, 08.] Climb north from the last piece of beach at Los Cerritos, about a half mile across the face of the small mountain that is half broken into the sea.