Everyone on here seems to think I'm some kind of cyborg. This phenomenon crosses over into real life sometimes, too. I am beginning to believe it myself! Here is my evidence for your perusal:

Item A: When I was six years old I fell nine feet out of a tree and landed flat on my back. I suffered no injuries save for embarrasment and annoyance at the fact that my parents wouldn't let me go right back out to play.

Item B: In sixth grade a kid in my phys ed class slammed me hard in the side of the head with an aluminum bat. He was about three times my size and had a good swing. I didn't even end up with a bruise. Unfortunately, he didn't get in trouble either.

Item C: I was hit by a Dodge Caravan at the age of sixteen. It was going 40 MPH and I was walking across a street. It knocked me to its side and I got up and walked the remaining three miles home without a scratch.

Item D: I practically never get sick.

Item E: I don't actually look much older than I did in seventh grade. But my hair looks better and I don't wear those horrid pink leggings anymore.

Item F: This one time I was riding my bike and this bus almost hit me and I was like "OMFG!!!1" I did this somersault over the handlebars and LANDED ON MY FEET. The bus driver slammed to a halt and HE was all, "OMFG!!!1 HOW DID YOU DO THAT?? KTHX!" and then he drove off.

Item G: I don't eat, I "download sustenance". I don't sleep, I "recharge". I don't learn, I "install".

Item H: My social awkwardness and predilection for horrible jokes is eerily reminiscent of Lt. Cmdr. Data.

Item I: This one proves it ONCE AND FOR ALL: there is a control panel on my stomach with buttons and LEDs and stuff. Also my limbs are titanium alloy. When I press the green button it feels tickly. The microwave is laughing at me and the mainframes at work told me they wanted to install a new hard drive in me. Eeeew.

Item J: 100110000101111001010000010010101010101010!

You may or may not believe that I am actually HYPER KITTEN ROBOGIRL EXTRA HAPPY FROM FUTURE OF MARS. Pah, fleshy HYOOMAN. DOOOOOOOM shall be yours. DOOOOOOOOOOOOOOM!

Seen on a church sign, just the other day (to the best of my recollection):
Reach high positions by "spending time on your knees."

I'm not sure about the exact wording, but it was pretty close to that. I just about bust a gut laughing. I wonder if the guy who does the signs realized what he was doing...

somewhere along the line, darling
you became my favourite person
and I don't know where to shelve this feeling
'cause I know it's not appropriate
I can't keep falling head over
for each face that comes along
especially when it's you...
...and her cold voice trailed off.

I went to Portland. I started to write about it, then got distracted by life. If you care, it's in my secret place.

I hired a lawyer. I don't like my new house. I didn't swing dance last week and I miss it terribly. I love my jobs. School is hard but good. I thought I was going to get my money soon, but apparently not for another million years. My mother told me just now she's getting married.

Today was windy. Today between classes I stopped betweeen classes and it was windy and the wind flew by me taking up with it leaves, of every colour of mostly the rainbow of reds and yellows and they flew through the air and didn't stop and I saw the wind and it spun and it flew and I was amazed. and I use the word and a lot. The best part was noticing that everyone else was walking with their heads down, going quickly to class and not seeing the wind as I was. So it was like nature was showing off just for me. I liked it.

Some of you have noticed this already, but I'll point it out anyway: I don't talk about myself that much on E2. Even though I have a handful of daylogs scattered about the nodegel, most of them are about what I'm doing or what I've done, and not about who I am. When I do write about who I am (see December 31, 1999, April 26, 2003, and October 20, 2003), it's always in the context of what I'm doing or what I've done.

Some noders—Ouroboros and panamaus come to mind—have vocally wondered why I'm not in "the community." Indeed, I've never met a noder in person for all of my 1.5 years on E2, and I think this is by choice more than anything else. For me, sekicho is an alter ego of sorts, someone who needs to have a different name and face from my own.

I mentioned this briefly in my daylog on October 20th. What I didn't mention in that daylog was that right after my blase date, I went to an appointment with a psychologist.


At this point, let me give you a very brief summary of my life, just for background. My father is from Ireland, and he grew up in the same basic setting as Frank McCourt, although he thankfully had a father who was slightly responsible, and who actually worked to support the children (there were ten, although they were spaced apart so that there were only eight in the house at the peak). At sixteen, he left the south to join the Irish Defence Forces, where he learned how to work on aeroplanes, which landed him a job with Aer Lingus, which brought him to America several times, where he met his wife.

She had a halfway decent father but a woefully negligent mother, and she bounced around the mid-section of the United States for most of her childhood, living with aunts and uncles at first, and eventually graduating from high school while living in a children's home in Houston, from which she began a long series of odd jobs that eventually landed her in Florida, where she met my father.

I was born in Florida, but my father's airline job took us from city to city. His first position was in Oklahoma, but by the time I started school, we had moved to North Carolina. As I was finishing sixth grade, he was transferred to South Florida. Now, my father had always been "fond of the drink," as they say, and while it never turned him into a drooling idiot, it did put serious strains on my parents' relationship. There were accusations; there were cold wars; there were threats of divorce by the time I was ten.

But as those threats were beginning to get serious, my mother began getting hives, which turned out to be the symptoms of a ridiculously rare disease I can't remember the name of. After the hives came kidney stones. After the kidney stones came lung cancer. In the fall, as I was starting seventh grade, she entered the local hospice unit. Needless to say, she didn't survive for very long after that.

My father kept working, but he drank more, and he spent much more time being generally fucked up. I began spending less and less time at home with him. What time I did spent at home was usually eaten up by Prodigy and a short list of local BBS systems. I learned how to program and played a million games.


Escapes. You have escapes, don't you? First, it was my Hot Wheels and Micro Machines and Lego sets, vast cities spanning the width of my bedroom, sets for a million dramas narrated and voiced by me. Then, it was Trade Wars 2002, SimCity, Commander Keen, and a dozen flight simulators. As the games began to get old, I escaped into writing fiction. Then I went to Japan, which didn't start out as an escape, but quickly turned into one. There were layers of virtual worlds growing in my mind, layers of knowledge and layers of memories, nothing at all leading to a logical conclusion, everything serving as another plane to separate me from reality—the reality that I didn't have a reality.

I finished and destroyed three separate novels by the time I discovered Everything2. Now, just a year and a half later, I have over 20,000 XP. I'm ranked beside, or ahead of, really good writers who have been here since the days of E1. The reason is simple: E2 is my modern escape.


I'm a very moody person. This wasn't brought about by any particular events in my life; it's been the case for as long as I can remember. In elementary school, every teacher tagged me as "emotional." I was always the smartest in the class, and at various times even the smartest in the school, but I could lose my good spirits in a heartbeat and be reduced to quivering tears by absolutely ridiculous things. No matter; I was just "emotional."

After my mother died, I began trolling on Usenet and goofing off at school. I often picked up the big knife in the kitchen and thought about cutting myself open with it. On a few occasions, I got very close, but logic kicked in at the last minute and stopped me. On one occasion, I lashed out at my father, trying to kill him. Still "emotional," also just a teenager.

Now that I live several hours away from my parents, they seem to think that I've gotten better... but not much has changed. There are days when I can't get out of bed; sometimes there are a few days in a row. When the valley passes, I sigh and piece together the rubble, thinking that it's not going to happen again. That always turns out to be wishful thinking.


I finally bit the bullet two weeks ago and took some online screenings from my school's mental health center. The manic-depressive screening picked up a score of symptoms; the schizophrenia screening was a little better, but not much. When I finally got in to see a psychologist on Monday, she heard most of the story that you have just read, and then wrote me up to see a genuine psychiatrist wielding the superhuman power of Zoloft.

I still haven't gone. I might never go.

It's not that I doubt that there's something seriously wrong inside me, nor is it that I'm afraid of the diagnosis. I want to be cured. I want to be freed. I want to control myself, not fight with myself... but this is my mind. It's fragmented and unstable, but it's done so much. It still does so much. It's kept me in college despite my problems; it's going to get me into a decent law school.

Is psychosis driving it to do these things?

More importantly, will psychosis drive it to do something important?

Groundbreaking?

I would only change my mind if it would end the torture... if it would mean that I could finally make commitments, if it would mean that I could finally live for my lifetime and not just for the moment.

Now, if somebody wants to know who I am, I can say many superficial things... but nothing feels genuine. There is no real me.

But there is a real sekicho, lurking somewhere in my matrix.

So now, I hope you have a better idea of who I am outside the ether, and why I will probably be a prolific noder for some time to come, but never a part of the flesh-and-blood "community." It's because I node to escape, to try to link that matrix into something greater, something fluid, and to try to create a body of thought that someone, somewhere, will find to be beautiful.


I apologize for being GTKY. The daylog is the only setting where I would dare write something like this.

Atmosphere is just an organic, friendly, not un-feeling word for context; and context can influence, if not wholeheartedly make, something wonderful. Human interaction is fundamentally dependant on mood — of the setting as well as the involved. Music is no different and quite often is universally personal for its audience. As a brief aside, music makes my world go around. It has helped make some of the most difficult times in my life more bearable and elevate the best parts to transcendent states of nirvana. Almost. My taste is, in a cliché, eclectic. Jazz, fusion, classic rock, jungle, big beat, punk, old school gangsta rap, abstract hip-hop, 80’s and faux 80’s new wave rock, turntablism, well-aged crooners and most everything in the gaps between the aforementioned. Diner — the film that gave Paul Riser, Mikey Rourke, Daniel Stern and Kevin Bacon their collective start (and is strangely enough a good film)—there is a scene I can’t help sheepishly cringing through:


“Beth. Beth. Beth, come here. Have you been playing my records?

“Yeah, so?”

“So, didn’t I tell you the procedure?”

“Yeah, you told me all about it Shrevie. They have to be in alphabetical order.”

“And what else?”

“They have to be filed alphabetically and according to year, as well… okay?
“And what else?” Beth stalls.

“What else?”

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t know, well let me give you a hint.” Shrevie quips, irritated. “I found my James Brown record filled under the J’s instead of the B’s; I don’t know who taught you to alphabetize! But to top it off, he’s in the rock and roll section instead of the R&B section, how can you do that?”

“It’s too complicated, Shrevie. Every time I pull out a record there’s this whole procedure I have to go through. I just want to hear the music, that’s all.”

“Is it just so complicated to keep my records in order? Put the Rock and Roll with the Rock and Roll, put the R&B with the R&B. I mean you’re not going to put Charlie Parker in with the Rock and Roll would you?”

“I don’t know, who is Charlie Parker?” Beth sheepishly asks.

“JAZZ! JAZZ! He was the greatest jazz saxophone player that ever lived!”

“Hey! What are you getting so worked up about? It’s just music; it’s not that big a deal.”

“No, no it is… don’t you understand? This is important to me!”

“Shrevie, why do you have to yell at me? I never hear you yell at any of your friends.”
Shrevie beckons, standing up and shuffling vinyl as if it were playing cards. “Pick a record, any record.”

“What?”

“Any record.” Shrevie continues as Beth reluctantly makes her choice. “Okay what’s the hit side?”

“Good Golly Miss Molly.”

“Now ask me what’s on the flip side.”

“Why?”

“Just ask me what’s on the flip side, okay?” Beth conforms to Shrevie’s request. “Hey, Hey, Hey, Hey. 1958, Specialty Records.” Beth nods in agreement and subdued bemusement. “See, you never ask me things like that. You never ask me what’s on the flip side!”

“No. Because I don’t give a shit! Who cares what’s on the flipside of a record?”

“I do! Every one of my records means something! The label, the producer, the year it was made. Who was copying whose styles, who was expanding on whose work. Don’t you understand? When I listen to my records, they take me back to a certain point in my life, okay? Just don’t touch my records. Ever!” Shrevie motions to leave as Beth is getting teary-eyed. “The first time I met you? Modell's sister's high school graduation party, right?” Beth nods in misty agreement. “1955. And Ain't That A Shame was playing when I walked into the door!”

Static studio recordings are just that. Very few artists manage to transfer onto an album the kind of energy and fervor a live performance brings. At its best, a live show can be electrifying beyond words and description; the gamut of human emotion: joy, fear, anger, loathing, euphoria and the whole lot can be easily brought on by music and its performers. From experience I can say, almost definitely, that the events that best inspire these phenomena are small venues filled by quirky, offbeat personae who feel just as strongly about music as, hopefully, the people filling that club, bowling alley, garage, back yard, banquet hall, beach, park or whatever else do.

Whenever I get to be a part of something like that I’m happy. Nothing else matters. Not my job, not my steadily deteriorating family life, not school; not my fucking misery. My problems dissolve into the ether of the night. It’s the purest escapism I’ve found in the eighteen short and largely insignificant years I’ve been alive. No drug — and I’ve tried plenty, no person or relationship — and I’ve known and had plenty, no physical sensation or altered state of mind can come close to the unadulterated mirth brought on by a good show.

Shortly before the return of my infamous and much-celebrated chronic bronchitis made its triumphant return last week, I had the distinct pleasure of seeing one of these performances. They’ve become my (somewhat more common) white whale. About 15 minutes from my domicile, conspicuously close I may add, is a classic, almost archetypical, pub: The Abbey Pub. Although most of their shows are 21 and over, inconveniently barring me from attending, this particular event had an early show for the 18 and over crowd. Lucky for me.

The Abbey is a bar with a small-ish dance floor/concert hall just big enough to be cozy and personal. You can order from their well-executed, reasonably priced but somewhat standard bar fare menu, have a seat and enjoy the music. On tap for the night were Kid Koala and the Short Attention Span Theatre, a curiously named band of good-spirited musical malcontents.

Eric san, alias Kid Koala, is the chief instigator. He brought together the whole gang. As he said himself,

“I’ve been playing night clubs for years and years now with some of the people with me tonight. And we’ve gotten a bit jaded. We decided we’d like to do something stranger and quirkier. So this is kind of what evolved out of that desire.”

The first hint that he was serious was the fact that the merchandise people and bouncers were handing out little brocures at the doorway. A tri-fold afair with a tear-off postcard on one side, unusual performer bios and strange line-art drawings. The back also sports a scratch-off panel that is captioned as "Scratch and Win!." When scratched off, all of the handouts say "You Win!" Along with this, we were handed half of a crayon and a bingo card with matching artwork that was surely a joke. That set the mood pretty well as to what we were about to see. There were three main acts or blocks. Jester, Lederhosen Lucil and Kid Koala with a few others as well as animated shorts by Monkmous — Eric San’s cousin. Quirky, as promised, and surreal animation about life, relationships and music. Oh, and bingo, there was bingo, too. Jester played a half-hour set of 80’s standards, newer melodic hip hop, old jazz records and obscure lounge music, mixing everything together like an auditory jambalaya of delicious proportions. Because of the fact that there were barely seventy-five people in attendance at this small venue, every person there feels, and rightly so, that the performer is playing directly for them. So it becomes a phenomenon of paradoxically individual sharing of musical goodness among the crowd.

The second performer introduced, somewhat dubiously, by Eric was Lederhosen Lucil.
“I met this next artist 7 years ago in Quebec, a city we share. I didn’t get to meet her again until 3 years ago and she blew me away, so I knew I had to do something with her. So are you ready?” A self assured crowd ballyhooed in the affirmative. “You think you’re ready, Chicago!”


Sly and overdramatic, as the rest of his humor that night. I’m quite convinced I wasn’t the only one in the audience that dismissed the statement immediately as being a cocksure MC’s overzealous exaggeration. How wrong I, and we, were. The name is fitting; her performance is carried out in a comically exaggerated, tacky Halloween costume of stereotypically German roots. A too-fake blond pigtail wig covered by a felt green $2 Robin Hood hat and furthered by matching Lederhosen overalls. Something you can picture an overeager kindergarten teacher wearing. To complete the guise, Lucil feigns a thick German accent even though she speaks French English and German fluently. After crowd-warming pleasantries, she elegantly and humorously exclaims, like a gleeful five year-old who’s just discovered pudding, “Take it away Yamaha!”

With the flick of a switch, a twist of a knob and a ho-hum button-pressing the crowd is swimming in a generic backbeat emanating from one of her vintage synthesizers almost worthy of a bar-mitzvah. However, Lucil proceeds to energetically and enthusiastically play the keyboard and profess the finer points of organic fruit. Her alternate, or rather non-alternate persona, Krista Muir, has worked quite frequently under the harsh, steadily demeaning glow of office fluorescents, so Lucil has a few songs about that bag of worms. Also on the program a lovely ditty about the automatic weapons of the world and a few other choice jingles.

Strange, funny, honest, simple, absurd and tributary to the Pet Shop Boys, she is possibly the truest, purest distillation of music’s power by virtue of the aforementioned. Although I was sad to see her leave us, all good things must, well, you know. Next and last as well as densest in the time continuum, was Kid Koala and his co-conspirators. If you can imagine any re-modulation of prerecorded music they did it. It’s hard to believe that someone can use a turntable as an instrument until you hear and see it. At this, Eric is truly a virtuoso. In a haphazard, as-we-go-along style the entire performance is interspersed, sometimes in a clandestine way, sometimes by the man himself, with Monkmous’ strange and wonderful animation and Mr. San’s good-hearted wit and humor. Oh, and bingo, there was bingo.

In the middle of the show, Eric breaks everything off and goes into bingo mode. Using the aforementioned graphic bingo cards (that are excellent enough to justify their existence without being used for any purpose) the entire room plays bingo for prizes. Holding a stuffed koala bear,

“People have been sending be this shit for ten years, so I figured I’d give some of it back!” says the Kid.

One of the rounds ended in a two-way tie which was fittingly solved; after briefly scouring the stage, the boy-girl versus was on. Both parties got an even amount of bubble wrap… now race! Vinyl, books and assorted Short Attention Span Theatre swag was granted to the victors.
A few days later a not unattractive woman in my Non-Western History (A Liberal Critique of WASP Historical Faux Pas) class asked me if I was at the Abbey Pub. That brings the score to Serendipity: 4578 Efforted Attempts: 0

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