fumon: Photo of me with green and gold hair without a previously present goatee (Default)
I've recently realized a flaw in my attempts to explain certain apparent truths I've come to think of as important to other people. That flaw is that I have forgotten several of the steps and important analogies I've come up with in the past that separate my thinking from other more common explanations that are perfectly reasonable to mistake for my actual thinking.
One such analogy is my thoughts on a new paradigm of programming involving contextual variables being the primary method of determining program execution paths, a very boring topic to those who aren't in the habit of being interested in finding new ways to shave the most noble beast of the yak. I've been feeling rather impotent and questioning if it was actually a revolutionary way of thinking at all after talking with a similarly obsessed individual a number of times until this evening when I remembered the book title I had thought of to publish this way of thinking. The book title was well thought out and perfectly described my dissatisfaction with other modern ways of thinking and I neglected to tell it to the person I was conversing with.
Now that I've remembered it, I'm feeling far more empowered to go through with writing that book and not feeling like I was simply misinformed.

Moral of the story: Stick to your guns also try and remember why you bought those guns in the first place. Try and keep your receipt.
fumon: Photo of me with green and gold hair without a previously present goatee (Default)
Aw hell, it's November. Time to update the blog.
As it is November, we're well into the days of dwindling sunlight and all that it entails for all our mood levels. Personally it's put me into a rather introspective and slightly confused mood, though the cold plus the cold medication for the past two weeks probably didn't help, and I've been waffling about decisions more than usual.
So today I waffled myself into not going to class and instead I am organizing some finances from the last few roadtrips I went on. While I was going through my records in Google Apps, I came across a curious document which appears to be an experiment in liveblogging I performed from my Android ADP1 dev phone written around this time last year and I have decided to transcribe the strange series of words here (sans the mentioned media) in its entirety and edited only for formatting, for benefit to the record of surreal events in the history of humanity.
Note that the following was written at a time where I had no friends in the city, was not going outside except for absolute necessities, had lived alone for 3 years and had recently decided that Hunter S. Thompson was the greatest author to ever live. Naturally, the reader may notice a few strange characteristics in the writing. I am all better now...

On Saturday, November 28, 2009, Fumon «xxxxxxxxxxx@gmail.com» wrote:
It was 8:11 AM when I reached the door of my apartment. By the time I had finished typing that and locking the door it was 8:12. I had woken up 5 hours earlier at 3 something after having completed a stint of nearly 24 hours of service in the land of Morpheus – the one who rules dreams as opposed to the one who wears dark sunglasses and says “Neo” a lot... though he was probably in there somewhere – and had, in the time it took for the sun to come up, decided that today was going to be a wretched day.

An hour after that I had decided that it would be an alright day as long as I could find a McDonald's(c) burger within the next 10 minutes. It was then that I remembered that normal people like to eat a meal called “breakfast” at this time and that, short of interacting with someone using a weapon of some sort, this was not to be. So, after further brain consultation, I decided to go out. The where wasn't important and neither was the path taken to get to it.

At this point in the narrative, I had reached Burger King and had attempted to order a burger – a triple wopper I had decided - only to discover that even here in the feeding trough of the anti-McNaming scheme do they follow this outdated standard. I turned down a coffee and decided to type those sentences to vent my newfound contempt for this place and to seriously aggravate the staff by loitering near the front typing without buying anything, that would show them for quashing my morning burger dreams. Here is a picture I decided to take immediately after this semicolon; look at those concerned staff.

Afraid that some crack squad of ninja Burger King employees were moments from killing me, I fled the court of the king of haphazard interior color schemes and headed east along College street. By the time I finished typing that, this is what I saw; the man looked back briefly before no doubt deciding that his rights to personal privacy being violated blatantly for an unknown reason – admittedly for all parties save the reader at that point – wasn't worth the ensuing legal battle. A one legged black man I intended to take a picture of asked me for directions but politely declined the aforementioned photography. This after I gone through the trouble of booting up google maps could only be attributed to his staunch liberalism intervening unlike the man earlier.

I decided to turn down McCaul st. at this point but a man apparently saw this as a form of social masonic code of some kind and asked me how I was and added what he probably thought was a witty and original Canadian “buddy” to it. I searched my mind for the appropriate response code and selected to mumble something resembling a “mmaritem” which produced the desired effect of the man's departure from my presence. As I finished describing that complex interplay for the benefit of the youth readers, I had reached College and University and wasted no time in noting this earning me a complete lack of strange looks.

I took this as a sign to turn my course south into the bowls of this city's financial district to see if I couldn't find some of the rare and mysterious white excrement which you can never adequately explain when you see it in snatching glimpses between the folds of the one-ply toilet paper you bought on sale at walmart as the mass spins down into what today's people assume to be oblivion; little do those same people realize that, at least this far into the cement & concrete jungle/nuthouse, it is filtered and evaluated by machines and workers for reclaimants and flows into some place which is connected with the ocean or the supply to the people of that same city and in an ever expanding and exponential fashion touches everyone on the planet as it gets drunk by billions in minute quantities and put into recycled toilet paper and rubbed over more peoples assholes. Think about that next time you pinch off a loaf or indeed say or do anything as the same rules apply to everyone and everything to some degree either through boring physics and entropy or through the endlessly entertaining games of broken telephone and “he says she says” that this fine species of ape has honed to it's primary skill since it's dawn: your shit touches the entire planet.

~~~~ Fumon Note: I have no idea what the hell I am talking about here but after lengthy analysis (2 minutes) I have decided it has something to do with an intense dislike of gossip at the time.
Either that or temporary psychosis. ~~~~~

It was at this point, 9:21 after meridian to be only partly irrelevant in precision, that I had been sitting on a bench on the divider between the two lanes of University Ave. near a memorial to the fallen something or others to which I put a hand to heart before moving to said bench. I could feel the mighty rumble of the subway underneath through my parked buttocks every few minutes or so as it whizzed through its subterranean tunnels like a herd of running investment bankers banished to the inky depths to become molemen – or molepeople as they supposedly would insist on being called – and feed on and covet the dropped items of passengers; victims of the economic times people would respond when the topic came up in conversation around the watercoolers to be replied to with muttered agreement and sympathy. It's funny that the utterance of this incantation can evoke such unanimous a response from so many separate parties in both Canuckville and Jesusland similar to other recent additions to the lexicon of excuses like hurting the environment or supporting the troops. I say excuse but perhaps it is the wrong term, the issue I have with sayings like this doesn't concern their factual credibility, their truth is only occasionally questionable and then only in hind sight or liberal blogs. No I take issue with their use as blanket terms that serve to cover and gloss over the whole story that just got told and brand it to be filed away and defined as just another of “those” stories, another line in the tally of whatever cause it associates with. It's the lost stories I cry about at night, the grains of history lost in the desert. This is the way we comfort and shield ourselves from the cruel deep realities of life, with labels and catch phrases we can reduce things to the level where we can keep going with the everyday and fit it into our worldview without stopping to think of the implications of what we just heard, more noise than thought, understanding nowhere to be seen. More people's shit touching everyone in the world and just like the shit in your coffee you go right on
drinking without a single thought.

Speaking of coffee, I had by this point wandered into a Tim Horton's which for the benefit of those of you from Jesusland I should explain is like a Starbucks but without the heaping of smug and you can still order a large coffee completely absent of a barrista – e equivalent volume of human blood – another difference from Starbucks - I was rewarded with a paper cup full of wakejuice which I removed to the safety of an unbussed table near the window. The seat was still warm from the previous occupant's time spent there consuming what appeared to be a carton of chocolate milk and the matching half of a tunafish sandwich which remained. I moved the tray to another nearby table while thinking of the grim fate which awaited the morsel in the establishment's garbage can before being whisked to the dump of eventual decomposition; another noble sacrifice by this species which evolved from the pedigree of sliced bread to form a whole spectrum of breeds from the common ham to the fashionable BLT to the surprisingly delicious and rare ruban – the true breed of which has become endangered in recent times and has endured only through the unpure line of western condiment instead of the russian dressing to which it owed its beauty – to the radical european sub or hogey, all of which based on a design which can be consumed with a only a single appendage – including a foot as it turns out – and which fits in every human hand and developed without a committee or standards organization to enforce the specs or even a patent – though it most likely has been by now by someone with a remarkably small penis and a combover though I am too horrified by the idea of patents to find out, google is your friend – truly a wonder. Today the idea would be bought as a takeover of a start up and then rebranded the “iWich” by marketing where it would then be released with ads occupying the outside of the bread with the inside containing an end user licence agreement which would begin with “By biting into this sandwich you agree to the terms...”, different fillings would be optional accessories and all models would come with the essential ability to play MP3s. Clearly, this is progress. A reminder that all original ideas contained here are property of my brain and interested executives, you know who you are, should contact my people of which I have none.

At this point an asian couple who had sat down at the table and were reading some sort of paper with words on it – a history teacher had called it a newpaper or something though actually seeing one, the paper looked quite old and grey to me, doubtless the discount option likely with only a paltry 1GB of MP3 storage – next to me asked me to take a picture of them. Having done so and sat back down I was surprised when after a minute the man asked me to take another picture of the pair. Having satisfied him for the moment, I took the chance to escape before he could corner me with more photographic requests by leaving, my coffee having long since been finished. It was 11:32 and the streets showed further signs of life and having been brainwashed by the asian man I took more pictures of the street, shown here. This was a mistake. I had been writing this text in an email addressed to myself on my cellphone and as a further example of the dangers of associating with the Chinese it had turned communist and decided for me that it would remove the last hour of progress and no amount of swearing or threats would phase the electronic socialist. So, deciding quickly to cut my losses I tried the tactic of asking said device where the nearest internet cafe was and after some time considering this it thankfully replied in the enigmatic way in which these devices are prone to and I began to walk towards the intersection of Younge and Dundas.

Enroute I encountered the kind of sight which takes a few moments to travel from the optic nerve to the brain and from there proceed to sneakily burn its way into your memory before you have any idea what you've just seen, I was nearly a half block away before I realized that I had passed what could only technically be called a woman wearing a plain green skirt, leather boots, black hose, a top of a type and fit to her which I could never dream to adequately describe here but featured leather as its primary component, hair the color of regurgitated bile and styled to match along with a face which I first took for a block of wood carved by someone with severe hand tremors and who kept starting over; all of which gave her an appearance almost but not quite like a cross between an overweight male biker and a circus midget. Another half block and I remembered that the apparent female had uttered sounds which were no doubt some form of sonic attack. I fled, hoping against hope that the commie phone would not lead me astray and I was rewarded for my faith in the cause by a three dollars an hour hole in the wall marked “Internet Center” across from an HVM and advertising the apparently desirable ability to “Put your Digital Pictures On CD”. It was here that I retyped what I could remember of the lost work on a keyboard which had developed its own ecosystem of disease and was no doubt recording my keystrokes and selling them to the highest bidder in the more upscale F key section where only the most privileged virii could be found. The four clocks hung on the wall seemed not only pointless in this setting seeing as no one with an interest in multiple timezones would be caught in this place but had also all stopped at different times and never had their batteries replaced; it was that or time had stopped entirely within this place which I still was not sure of until a man with no legs wheeled his way by the window and the computer I had selected signaled to me that it was 1:28 PM. I considered buying something from the rack of standard cash-register chocolate bars but thought better of it; it might have been contaminated by the weirdness this place was imbued with and I had already been overexposed. Looking around more fully I realized that I had missed an escalator in my initial assessment and its presence vexed me, here is a picture of it being blocked rather completely by a red wooden object with built in cabinets which had apparently been created as a horrible experiment involving a desk and likely the violation of the Geneva convention as a form of visual torture, evoking confusion in whoever viewed it as the human mind attempted to grasp some facet of its use. I decided that this was the last straw in the place's weirdness and made fast my escape to the sounds of a female Opera singer in the midst of an Opera dedicated to headaches. Despite fears of the place having transported me into a dimension containing further affronts to the laws of furniture and all humans were replaced by a form of insect, I emerged into what at least under casual observation appeared to be where I had left from. I also observed the crowds of downtown Toronto milling about in the bastard child of Shinjuku square and Times square that is the intersection at Younge and Dundas complete with Shinjuku style full square crossing shown here in a picture I took using the superior vantage point of my immense height. These crowds were not the sort of place for one to recover from my ordeal at that digital watering hole of the damned and as I was still without the burger which I had so desperately needed, I decided to continue my quest at Jack Astors. The entrance at the side of the mall, pictured here, I knew would lead me through a terribly designed set of escalators before I would get to my destination at the top of the building and so I past it and followed a rather questionable route to a mysterious back entrance containing an elevator which produced an ambiance of an exclusive nightclub frequented by people who are more important than you as seen in this series of photos. The doors to the elevator slid open and after stepping inside it whisked me away to the fourth floor where I was accosted immediately by a man demanding how I had gotten up there. I replied that the door had been unlocked which seemed to puzzle the man which gave me the opportunity to move past him and further into the restaurant. Here was a burger joint/sports bar that would cater to my needs. I wasn't disappointed as moments later I was whisked away to a prime seat from which I could survey 10 flat panel televisions displaying a rock concert-esque assortment of football and the herd of patrons. Truly it was the haven of the middle-aged white male of the species and they were clearly out in full force on an early Saturday afternoon.

Ordering a Guiness from the short skirted young waitress who obviously thought I was texting, I looked through the menu. I was in no mood for appetizers, cocktails, bar food or the strange assortment of asian food and immediately ordered a Deluxe Bacon Cheeseburger with Angus Bacon on top. Here at last was my quest fulfilled as the waitress brought back a plate containing this. Gazing at it I was struck by the impression of the pinnacle of burger technology as only a teenager, hidden away in the back so as to present a front populated with only pretty young women, can create.

After devouring half of my much desired burger I paused to digest and examine my environment more closely. Indeed, as I looked around while listening to the latest female popular rock with simple beats and incomprehensible lyrics, I noted the chandeliers hung with countless empty tobasco sauce containers and wondered idly how many drunk patrons watching "the game" it had taken to produce them, the chalk boards with pictures of mildly humorous etched onto them to provide a rest for the patron's eye from the nauseating screens of which you could see more than 3 from any angle within the place and the necessary Christ tree to signal that this was indeed the place for its primary audience during this commercial season which began on the second week of November this year and caused throngs of people to suddenly decide that they needed to stay in the downtown core to buy gifts for people out of the desire to appear perfectly normal and forestall all claims to the contrary once the appointed day of exchange arrived, otherwise known as a conscience or guilt aversion mechanism. Yes this was truly the epicenter of the finest modern dining experience for under $20 you could find... that was until I spotted the disco ball.

This hateful sparkling device had no place in this world of testosterone driven sports obsession and family dining. The idea of dancing in such a place was out of the question and the average age of the patrons meant that only a handful in the room would know exactly what connotations of smoke filled discotheque rooms with people dancing like their parents it evoked. No, this object was so out of place here that the feeling of shattering ambiance passed over me like a wave of vertigo. Suddenly I realized the truth. This was no fine eatery of the common man, created by and for a blue collar but a place in denial that the 80's were over. A time capsule hiding beneath the hastily added flair. Take away the screens and you find the pleasing pictures and chandeliers along with the tacky booth seating and wood paneled walls would all look completely at home in a eatery of two decades ago complete with exploiting sexy teens in short skirts as servers to attract customers and a dozen beers on tap.

I felt ill, I had fallen for the bait and now faced an ordeal ahead of me, finishing my meal. I considered running for it but quickly thought better of it. No, I thought, that's just what they want me to do, single myself out and I'd end up cornered by one of these hostesses and then I'd be in real trouble. I tried to take a bite of my treasured burger but it was no good, all I could think about was how it all made sense how perfect and wholesome it had been as it was from an era before the dawn of the great McSupremacy had sucked the soul from the burger as we know it today. I hung on to the Guinness as an anchor, here was something altogether separate from this madness. I jumped as the waitress spoke from behind me and nervously cut her off and asked for the bill a bit too anxiously, appearing not to have noticed, I could tell she suspected something. I was sweating and a headache had creeped up on me during the short interplay and I kept taking nervous sips of my drink and stealing glances at the other patrons over its rim. An age later the bill arrived and I snatched its leather carrying case from the girl. Waiting for her to move on before I opened it, I jammed money into the thing and tried to act casual as I walked what seemed like a mile to the front entrance. Carefully I picked my way between tables and occupied chairs until the urge to simply smash them aside in my haste was almost unbearable until...

I was out! Elated, as I was I nearly tripped on the escalator down to the next level before I took hold of myself. By the time I made it to street level it was 3:50 PM and I had regained my composure. Having been awake for more than 12 hours I deemed it a good time to make a strategic retreat from this dangerous trip back to the stronghold of my Kensington Apartment where I could regroup. A nearby streetcar provided me with a ready means of escape and the ride passed surprisingly without incident and so I was unprepared for the religious assault which awaited me at the corner seen in this video which reveals the church's plan to convert heathen asians, no doubt in an attempt to gain their hypnotic powers that I myself had encountered mere hours before. After capturing this shocking footage, I hurried off to my apartment encountering no further points of interest. I checked the mail and pounded up the stairs and into my apartment, another day survived in the nuthouse and the cat hadn't crapped in the bathtub again, all in all I call it a successful day.

The Fumon
fumon: Photo of me with green and gold hair without a previously present goatee (Default)
So I've noticed that the more I interact with people the more I'm falling into the same old mistakes everyone makes and forgetting all the things I used to hold my personality together.
I'm exhausting myself just to interact with friends more, I'm letting other people make me self conscious, I'm getting into arguments over crap I didn't used to care about, and my personal life is suffering along with it.
I think I just need to take a break, focus on some things and recommit myself to whatever it is I was committed to before people became my priority. Finding that thread again is going to take some time.
It all starts with not leaving my bed today. Yeah, that's it.

Good Night,
fumon: Photo of me with green and gold hair without a previously present goatee (Default)
So today I couldn't get a refill for my ADD meds because the pharmacy that got my prescription faxed to them closes at 1:30PM on Saturday and I got there at 1:20PM... and they were closed. I know it was bad planning of mine not to pick them up the day before when I ran out but I've been recovering from the weekend drive to Boston for most of the week and it'll be a miracle if I'll be recovered enough to do anything useful by Tuesday.
What followed was a very bad day of tiredness, crabbiness, naps at 3PM that lasted until 8PM, self-consciousness, depression, questioning my life's direction and, in general, nothing good. Even a party with alcohol and a girl who seemed interested in me, who ended up probably somewhat put out by my social awkwardness in not knowing how to suggest a trip back to her place which ended in, you guessed it, awkwardness, failed to cause any deviancy from my typical spiral into self-loathing and questioning myself in every decision I've made since 3rd grade.
In summary:
Decisions are hard.
Laziness is difficult to overcome.
The sky is blue sometimes.
The enemy's gate is down.
I wish I remembered my dreams more.

Sorry for two ugly and depressing posts in a row but I promise my venting will become more entertaining and lighthearted soon.

P.S. A shout out to Meagan who has been helping me find another reason to be unhappy and confused lately... but it had to happen some time with this particular issue... just wasn't prepared for it to be now.
P.P.S. I'll never be prepared for that issue... kinda the point...
fumon: Photo of me with green and gold hair without a previously present goatee (Default)
     So in the past six months I've done a complete THREE SIXTY in terms of my life's goals. From wanting to innovate and invent my brains out, to a deep sullen depression over my lack of any real progress towards those inventions thinking that I might as well just go back to school to find myself a real job, to recently finding the wonderful world of Hacklab.to which has reinvigorated my mind and soul as well as opened up a new world of possibilities.
     Hacklab has singlehandedly become the center of my existence and filled me with a warm feeling of hope for the world in general over the past few months.
     I've met people like me.
     Let me say that again because it feels good, I've met people like me.
     People who I can touch. People who come back to the same place to have a good time. People who want to talk about the latest in tech and laugh at the jokes I laugh at. People who have the desire to stir the pot. People who want to innovate not just work a 9 to 5. People who understand the importance in keeping technology in the hands of the people. People who make the effort to make people feel welcome in a hostile and brown world of corporate pandering to the lowest common denominator.
     Most importantly, people who hack and explore technology, not just use it; the kind of curiosity that lets you know someone is still alive in there, behind their eyes.
     It's a wonderful thing to finally be around people on a day-to-day basis that understand things that I understand; even better, they frequently surprise me in understanding many concepts better than I.
     The flip-side of all this good is that I've had to think a lot about how I interact with people. I've felt like an outsider for so long that being an insider is an entirely new experience for me and I fear I'm making all the most basic mistakes in new and exciting ways which is to say I'm finding myself be a bit of a jerk at times and I'm not so satisfied with it.
     I've spent so much time trying to interact with people who don't like to do the things I do and who don't understand anything that I do with my life that I have developed a set of assumptions built on horrible experiences, most of which do not apply at all but with which I have developed my outward persona over the years:

  1. I probably don't want to go out and party or try and meet people because no one will be willing to put up with my ignorance of social norms or teach me them.

  2. Whatever plans I might propose, people probably won't be interested or won't like my idea.
    • Those plans that people do accept are accepted begrudgingly and every attempt should be made to apologize for trespassing on their time lest they become enraged.

    • A corollary is that no one wants to talk about what I want to really talk about because it's awkward in some way I understand but don't agree with; so always talk about what everyone else wants to talk about and only make subtle suggestions at the right times.

  3. Conversations with me are often too intense or purposeful for the occasion and kill the mood.

  4. I get it in more or different ways than they seem to get it and voicing my opinion will kill the conversation.
    • I can't possibly understand exactly the way in which someone else understands an issue, particularly if it involves a social issue shared between other people.

  5. No one finds me attractive and talk of intimacy in my presence is purely academic.

  6. I will not find someone with which I will want to form a lasting intimate relationship even on a purely physical level. Ever.
    • Any seeming exception to this rule must be because I am being emotionally childish or submitting to a overly simplistic reason for liking said person which will not be appreciated by the other party.
      • Any exceptions to this rule will be spoken for already or unsuitable due to sexual orientation, age, absence of reciprocation, etc.
        • In the unlikely event that all previous rules have been bypassed, said person will not stay for long after realizing my lack of relationship experience seeing as anyone else with experience would be preferable to teaching someone so old the ropes like an immature teenager.

     These probably aren't all of the bullshit rules I've come up with in my head. Most of them are just obviously wrong but are difficult to convince myself of their falseness. All of these rules create a huge barrier in my mental processes when trying to socialize in the real world and make it hard to make connections.
     I had a point I was going to make here but I am tired and I must be up in three and a half hours to attend a University lab and I fear I have lost all humor in this post, watch out for its sequel.
To end on a more insane note: Flibble, Oxwig, Troz. That is all.
fumon: Photo of me with green and gold hair without a previously present goatee (Default)
Well here's the first post on the blog to be followed shortly by a post that isn't just an elaborate "FIRST." I hope this blog doesn't turn out like my last, started in 10th grade and filled with semi-lucid complaints about the world, I hope to reach heights of near-lucidity!
Prepare mind for data transmission, this is going to be a crunchy ride... likely filled with tasty nougat and coated with sprinkles.


fumon: Photo of me with green and gold hair without a previously present goatee (Default)

December 2010



RSS Atom

Most Popular Tags

Style Credit

Expand Cut Tags

No cut tags
Page generated Oct. 21st, 2017 12:55 am
Powered by Dreamwidth Studios