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2001: The Viagra Years

Wednesday January 17, 2001

The crappy sodium security light was turning itself on and off intermittently for several hours before I decided to go outside and put a piece of tape over part of the sensor. I was glad that I did so because the young ho' was outside with her boytoy at 11:30pm. They spent twenty minutes near my window before moving into the darkness at the other side of the house. However, they were still loud enough that I could hear them. They were screwing around until the wee hours of the morning. Needless to say, I was zombie today because of sleep deprivation.

The writing is on the wall concerning the situation at the lolo's place. In a few years, we may see a violent re-enactment of the double homicide tragedy at Ala Moana this past weekend. Another crazy, unemployed local guy sought revenge on his ex-girlfriend after she obtained a restraining order against him. Many may not believe all of this, but even Professor Lisa was astonished at the prevalence of domestic violence here in the islands. Most local guys are losers and they are abusive. A lot of it has to do with drugs, most likely Ice. We've already seen that next door.

I joined Pseudo-professor Ralph and Professor Brian on a jaunt over to the State Capitol building. A big celebration was already in progress. These are the times I wish I carried my beloved digital camera with me for it was yet another Kodak moment. The celebration? The first day of the new legislative session (i.e., Lame Duck Day). There was a lot of food, so we chowed down. Each of the representatives and senators catered a variety of food and beverages. This was also a chance for us to hobnob with the local politicians. Pseudo-professor Ralph knew many of them because he once worked there, although he was elusive about his position. I am now more inclined to pursue my new political career with the humble beginnings on the Neighborhood Board. Pseudo-professor Ralph cautioned me that the office is much more powerful than I perceive. It doesn't matter for I doubt that I will get elected.

I ate a lot of Sushi, Kalua Pig, Chinese Roast Pork, and more. I was beyond full, but very content. Even though I was delirious from overeating and sleep deprivation, I went to the gym. After that, I returned to the faculty computer room in time to engage in a lively discussion with Pseudo-professor Ralph and Gordo (Pseudo-professor Gordon). Gordo was on a roll today. He already has a doctorate, and he has a much more jaded view of the situation than Pseudo-professor Ralph. The conversation was both entertaining and enlightening such that I ended up taking a later express bus. This was one of the more exciting days I've had in a long time. Sheesh!

Thursday January 18

Pseudo-professor Robert made one of his rare appearances today. As it turns out, he was also at the State Capitol celebration yesterday. He was very happy when I told him that Cash Money Millionaires is the name of the rap group who perform his favorite cut, Project Chick. He quickly did a Web search and found the lyrics, of which he printed. "I'm really appalled by the lyrics of what people call music these days," he told both Pseudo-professor Ralph and I, while stapling the copies and putting them in his briefcase. He also explained that his interest in this form of music was merely intellectual curiosity. "I'll bet that he has those lyrics memorized before we see him again," I later mentioned to Pseudo-professor Ralph.

Since I have nothing else to discuss, I will return to the sporadic discussion of the journal. Well, hey! It's been five years! I'm not exactly sure why I decided to follow the theme (i.e., the "situation") in the journal. The title, of course, was inspired by the classic response that I gave to Claire (the car pool buddy) when she asked how old I was. My guess is that the inspiration for the journal was the apparently redundant topic of the majority of journals on the Net at the time. Each journal was written by an alleged loser and the subject, naturally, was the lack of babes. All of the authors spent considerable amounts of time lamenting at the Wailing Wall. I was already a monk, at least in spirit. Yet, I was surrounded by associates who had nothing else on their minds except babes. So, I composed the journal from that perspective.

My buddy Bud was absolutely correct when he warned me, "[Babes] are dangerous. Avoid them at all cost." What I've chronicled in the journal has certainly made that premise axiomatic. Of course, the only reason babes are dangerous is because of the stupidity of most guys. The Vienna Sausage only serves to short-circuit the synaptic functions of the brain. I've been fortunate. I'm stuck at the first level (i.e., survival needs) of Maslow's Hierarchy of Needs. Due to the mendicant nature of the monk life, there are no other needs beyond basic survival. That primal level can never be transcended without compromising the monk ethic. Some may call this a "denial of self." I beg to differ. The monk ethic creates a barrier of protection from the more dangerous elements of society. What other protection is there? The cops? Baha! Ha! Ha! Haaaaa! I might as well rely on Roach. Baha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Haaaaa!

Friday January 19

More crap from the House of Lolo. I was rudely awakened at 1:30am by loud voices and the putrid smell of cigarette smoke. The real problem is that I am a light sleeper. Most other people could sleep through the ambient noise. So, I have decided that I will just relocate to the former warehouse whenever this happens again. Heck, I might as well just move in there already. I looked outside through the living room blinds to see the young ho' and a new boytoy sitting on the unfinished cinder block wall which separates the House of Lolo from moms' property. I was privy to a conversation laced with profanity. The sodium security light failed as a deterrent. I called the cops once again. A brief rain shower was the incentive to move under the carport. A few minutes later, a squad car drove in the cul de sac. The cop told the two morons to keep the noise down. After the cop left, the new boytoy walked to his car to get something. When he returned, he and the young ho' locked in a passionate embrace. He was all over her like a cheap suit. Odd, since this is not the same boytoy from just two nights ago. There was a long silence. "Are you getting high yet," he then asked repeatedly. Another new revelation! Not only does the young ho' smoke cigarettes, she is also doing drugs. Within a few minutes, they walked to the loser's car to sit in it. I have no idea what they were doing, but I could hear sporadic bursts of conversation until the loser finally left at 4am.

The little bitch must be in heat. I suspect that there are even more guys in line. The result will probably be tragic. Once one of the losers determines that he is being played close, he may take matters in his own hands. Then, booyah! Someone gets filled full of lead. The little sleazebag's mother is no better. I believe that the ugly ho' has cast off the clown with the white Toyota. She's back to partying on weekends, no doubt trolling the clubs for yet another hard-up sap. Whom out of this sordid mother/daughter combination will yield the one psychotic suitor to dish out revenge in the form of a 9mm?

I spent most of the day in a stupor because of sleep deprivation. I had a nice chat in the afternoon with Pseudo-professor Dorothy. I also had to demonstrate to Gordo how to use the new on-line grading system. I missed my intended express bus. So, I caught the one after that. As I waited at the bus stop, I saw Pseudo-professor Elise wandering about. She stopped to tell me that she had misplaced her car. Never a dull moment with the pseudo-professors. Well, hey! These are the Viagra Years!

Saturday January 20

Pseudo-professor Elise may have misplaced her car, but the ol' lavahead may have misplaced his sanity. The weekends are becoming a whole new form of torture for me. With no dough and nothing to do, I am forced to use my discipline as a monk to persevere through activities which are no less exciting than watching paint dry. I unboxed my Bose Acoustic Wave so I could listen to the psychotic classical pieces on public radio. I ended up listening to 102.7 Da Bomb as the day progressed and as my sanity was taxed by sheer boredom. I keep telling myself, "Only three more years." That is, three more years before I am supposed to fulfill an unusually optimistic projection that I'll be financially solvent. Fat chance. Now you see why prisoners are always revolting.

The matter of boxing and unboxing the Bose Acoustic Wave is also pushing the envelope of my fragile mental state. I thought of throwing the packing material away and, thus, I would not be able to engage in that obsessive, psychotic ritual anymore. Everything I own is either boxed (or wrapped up) and stored in an inconvenient manner. If my six-four wasn't already a rust bucket, I would probably find some way to box it up, too. To show you what kind of nut I am, I already realize that most of this junk isn't going to be worth a crap in five years. My mendicant lifestyle has made me a slave to my few possessions. I must take extreme measures to protect them because I cannot afford to replace them. Which means that I cannot enjoy those very same possessions for what they were intended.

As I sit here this evening, trapped in this prison of poverty, I can envision Pseudo-professor Robert rollin' in his BMW 318i and rappin' along with the Cash Money Millionaires on 107.2 Da Bomb. I'm sure that he's losin' it. In my recent conversations with him, I detected that he was not pleased with the single life. "It'd be nice to have a date to do something with," he lamented. Then, he vowed that he would not let the lack of a date stop him from doing what he wants to do. Yes, he has come to realize — living the pauper's life, living at home with moms, living with all one's possessions boxed up — is enough to drive a perfectly sane guy nuts. Add babes into the mix, then watch out!

Are babes the answer? Not unless one wants to be reduced to a chimp. Take a look at what happened to the ol' lavahead when he left Convalescent City. The next two years turned into a major fiasco. The whole tone of the journal changed as well. Toward the end of the handmaiden years, I also did the unthinkable — I revised the journal after-the-fact. I made changes which altered the journal and left me questioning my own integrity. I also had to lock out portions of the journal from public scrutiny. Since then, I've often contemplated the complete removal of all of those chapters, but I opted to keep the journal intact. Why? I want the journal to remain a tribute to my on-going stupidity such that others will learn from my mistakes. I can't force anyone to take up the monk lifestyle. However, I can provide evidence of the kind of stupidity which will end up wasting precious years of one's life and, worst of all, have an adverse affect on one's psyche.

Babes are not the answer. Peace of mind, sanity, and financial viability are the answers. Freedom is the ultimate goal. Freedom from stupidity. Freedom from being someone's "boy." Freedom from all of these morons who think they got it goin' on. Only three more years. Yeah, right.

Sunday January 21

Another day in the poor man's prison. I spent the whole day listening to the psychotic classical pieces on public radio. This is the preferred music of the unkempt nose hair crowd. I'm probably going to stop trimming my nose hairs, too. There's no point. Monks do not need to worry about personal hygiene. Yet, is there any proof that a bush of untrimmed nose hairs is unsanitary?

Moms had a bunch of food prepared last night, so I knew that she would be cooking in the kamado today. Which also meant that my sister-in-law would be visiting. Wheeee! That about ruined my whole afternoon. I thought about buying some cheap brewskis. That's as far as it went. I must curb my cheap brewski consumption because I can no longer afford this luxury. Neither can my liver.

Classes at the university commence tomorrow. I will be back to my full load. I was able to secure another class in place of the one that was canceled. My schedule allows me to go to the gym daily. Everything has worked out fine. The real problem is that I am not looking forward to the new term. I am getting tired of playing the same games, telling the same stories, and so forth. "Only three more years," I keep telling myself.

At the House of Lolo, the ugly ho' has yet to return after going out partying again last night. If I discover that the ho' has become a victim of some psycho, I'm not exactly sure whether I can refrain from giggling my ass off. This kind of behavior is highly peculiar for a humble monk. That's probably why I'm locked in this prison of poverty — I must do penance to purge the foolishness from myself. I should be more forgiving of these weak ones. After all, I am weak myself. These lost sheep are merely looking for the shepherd. They have found the butcher instead, disguised as the shepherd. He is leading them to the slaughter. Who is the butcher? The sinister kahuna, who else? Baha! Ha! Ha! Haaaa!

Monday January 22

The ugly ho' has returned home. Too bad. I am thankful that I have had decent parents. My family was not perfect. Dysfunctional is a better term. So, I cannot help but wonder how the young ho' would have turned out any better. Imagine having a scandalous ho' for a mother. Extrapolate this situation over the whole of society. There is much to be said about the prophesy of the Good Book — a time when humans would become lovers of money and of themselves, when greed would have a stronghold on society, when the natural love and respect for life would all but disappear. That's not the kind of world I want to live in. These are not the kind of people I want to fellowship with. What has happened to all of us?

I don't believe that there is a sanctuary — a place of refuge — left on this planet. Evil has engulfed and consumed everything just like that slimy, amorphous substance in The Blob. People like The Master, Hermit, and myself have seen it with our own eyes. We have nowhere to go. There have been many misguided dreams about founding that perfectly secluded monastery or hermitage out in the middle of nowhere. Where exactly is nowhere?

Tuesday January 23

My classes at the university are non-descript at best. It's the same old thing every term. Only the faces change. Fortunately, I do not have babe in my classes who can meet the minimum qualifications to fill "Dangerous" Jennifer's shoes. During the Viagra Years, dangerous babes are the least of my problems. Sheesh! One of my former students wrote an e-mail to thank me for helping him obtain a scholarship. My track record in helping students to obtain scholarships, admission to graduate schools, and so forth is at 100 percent. Not bad for a pseudo-professor who is also the low man on the totem pole.

I'm glad that I didn't fly off the handle and unload on my colleagues. Remember when I was ready to lose it because of the unkempt nose hair crowd? There are quite a few arrogant personalities in academia, mind you. My associates are the more humble of the bunch. In the past few weeks, I have come to realize that I must maintain my ties with the other pseudo-professors in order to preserve my sanity. Our conversations are, for the most part, thought provoking. A far cry from the useless prattle which often substitutes for normal conversation. We also respect each other's area of expertise. Therefore, our discussions are intellectually stimulating, at least to me. I have learned much from the others. I query opinion when necessary. Academia is where I belong, even though I have grown weary of catering to the brain donors who call themselves students. This kind of environment is sadly lacking at the Asylum. The incumbent faculty are just as bad as the staff and the students when it comes to gossiping and discussing the mundane. There is no substance. Imagine a room of chimpanzees. There you have it. Naturally, this is the exact same type of mentality I witness at the House of Lolo.

I'm beginning to realize that I can only do what I can do, and no more. I have set some unrealistic goals for myself. However, these goals won't be dismantled. I think that I'm on the right track. Discouragement is a necessary part of the journey, if only for humility's sake. I have been a failure and continue to be a failure, in my own eyes. Yet, many of my more humble and dedicated students have told me, "You have accomplished so much." It is as if they look up to me, when I know full well that part of it is due to the facade that I must maintain. I believe that I will make it to my destination, perhaps slightly behind schedule. The past cannot be undone, but the past is what made the present and future possible. You will be here with me, my friends, until we eventually enter the Promised Land.

Wednesday January 24

I'm not sure if I'm cut out for a life in academia, more I think about it. I am competent and somewhat versed in my area of expertise. I just don't think that I'm mentally fit to be in this position. My chronic fatigue just doesn't seem to want to go away. I don't even know why I keep fighting myself over this issue because I have no idea what else I'd do. There certainly aren't any openings for greeters at Wal-Mart.

An interesting e-mail from Christine (cad3@mediaone.net):

To cover all the bases ...

"The makers of our Constitution ... sought to protect Americans in their beliefs, their thoughts, their emotions and their sensations. They conferred as against the Government, the right to be let alone -- the most comprehensive of the rights of man and the right most valued by civilized men." -- U.S. Supreme Court Justice Louis D. Brandeis

A quick review of Anonder's Journal has left me in a state of shock. I might as well call him "Skin 'em up Joe." That's what happens when one becomes obsessed with da wild thing. I'll be perfectly honest. Even as a monk, I know that I could fall to the wayside if I was tempted by babes. No guy is a match for the wily ways of the babes. The tiny appendage, the Vienna Sausage, is always a guy's undoing.

Today is the Chinese New Year's celebration. It is the feared Year of the Serpent. As you may know, the Serpent is also the Biblical incarnation of the sinister force and its brother the sinister kahuna. I surmise that this is an omen. The Year of the Serpent is in direct conflict with the New Millennium. It may very well be an indication that we have walked into the gateway of the apocalypse or are, at the least, cleaning our shoes on the welcome mat.

Thursday January 25

I was awakened at 5am by flashing lights and the sound of a diesel engine running. The paramedics were at the neighbor's place (not the House of Lolo). They were there for a long time. Finally, the ambulance drove off. When I arrived at home late this afternoon, there was no one home next door. Something terrible must have happened. The neighbors are an elderly couple, so I would suspect that a stroke or cardiac event is what occurred. This is the neighbor whom moms referred to as being "shrewd." In times of tragedy, it's best to bury the hatchet.

My classes at the university are disappointing. I was feeling as though I should turn in my resignation. I went to the gym to relieve the stress. Later, I ran into the usual group of colleagues. Today's topic was the matter of student evaluations. These are the evaluations in which students assess a particular course and its faculty. I heard some terrifying tales, which only served to substantiate all of the complaints that we, as faculty, have reiterated concerning the new breed of pathetic students. In a way, I was relieved. I have been feeling ineffectual. However, when I heard that Professor Brian had gone through a minor student insurrection, I knew immediately that the problem was universal. Pseudo-professor Ralph and Professor Russell were also there to contribute more woeful tales. Our forums are neither solemn or depressing. We had quite a laugh about all of our misadventures, yet I know that we are deeply bothered by the state of affairs.

Pseudo-professor Robert made a rare appearance and joined in the forum. He threw in a few lyrics from Project Chick as well. I forgot to mention that I ran into him yesterday out on Fort Street Mall. After our ad hoc forum adjourned, I continued my discussion with Pseudo-professor Robert. He is putting in some time at the Legal Aid Society. It brings in some extra dough for him, and he seems to like what he's doing. I believe he's having a tough time re-entering the legal profession. I also showed him where to download AceHTML Free, since he is looking at designing a few Web pages. I only had a few minutes to chat before it was time for me to catch the express bus.

On the way to the bus stop, I saw a babe waving to me from the corner of my eye. Who could it be? None other than "Dangerous" Jennifer! Naturally, she looked like a true babe. She had her hair braided in ponytails, perhaps to look innocent. She wants some assistance with her computer, she says. I am amused by "Dangerous" Jennifer because she is really a nice babe with a great personality. I wonder if she knows that she is dangerous. Of course she does! Sheesh! When I finally made it to the bus stop, I saw Sylwia (Miss Poland). Obviously, she is a babe but I do not sense that she is dangerous. Perhaps that is because she is spoken for. There is clearly a difference between "Dangerous" Jennifer and Sylwia. I talked with her until the bus arrived, mostly about the gym. Isn't it odd that I ran into "Dangerous" Jennifer just after briefly mentioning her on Tuesday? Yes, the sinister kahuna is once again toying with the oversized cranium. That is only too obvious.

Friday January 26

As I was making my usual jaunt along Fort Street Mall from the Asylum to the university, I saw the handmaiden in the distance. Somehow she recognized me in the crowd and waved. I ended up talking with the handmaiden for a few minutes. Apparently, she has tried to call me a few times on my beloved cell phone. I had a variety of numbers logged but I had no idea who the callers were. I really have no reason to remember the handmaiden's phone number. She apparently went on a vacation to Portland for about a week. I offered only my usual non-committal responses, and made an ambiguous statement about meeting for lunch sometime. Since I really don't check my cell phone until late in the afternoon, there will be no way to make those arrangements. I no longer return calls to any logged numbers either.

I've tried to pass off the handmaiden's attempts at friendship as mostly gratuitous patronizing. I only need to recall the events of two years ago to realize that something is currently underfoot. The handmaiden is still the same. She has a rehearsed set of stories which are cleverly enabled for smalltalk. It is during an extended conversation that one can easily identify the incongruence which lies just below the superficiality. I have no intention of maintaining any grudge or animosity toward the handmaiden. I respect her for who she is. Nothing more. Nothing less. There is nothing to analyze. I've already done that ad nauseam. Heck, I'd rather analyze "Dangerous" Jennifer. Just kidding!

I ran into Pseudo-professor Robert in the faculty computer room after I returned from the gym. He was busy in preparation for a class. We may end up doing something for Super Bowl Sunday, although I can't say that I'm excited about watching the game. Secondly, I do not want to be in a room full of drunken idiots who are yelling and screaming in some kind of Neanderthal catharsis of manhood. Wouldn't Viagra be more effective? With each passing day, I am further reinforced in the belief that I do not belong in this society. I am an outcast. A misfit.

I have not seen or heard from Mark in a long time. In fact, the last time that I talked with him was when we ate lunch at Murphy's. At first, I thought it was because I was taking the earlier express bus in the afternoon while the university was not in session. I am taking the later bus once again. I have yet to see Mark. My intuition tells me that something tragic may have happened. Mark's parents are in the same age group as moms, and I know that they have had a variety of health problems. These are troubled times. As I stood at the bus stop at 5pm, I saw the handmaiden's new Mercedes boy drive by on his way to pick up the handmaiden. Strange things.

Saturday January 27

I called Mark today. He has been taking the 4:55pm express bus, which is why I haven't seen him. He has also been very busy at work, so I was relieved to know that nothing was out of the ordinary. My family dynamic continues to be a thorn in my side. I don't want to go into a lot of detail about the circumstances. All I will say is that my evil sister-in-law is winning at the game because she is able to manipulate the simpletons. She is a simpleton herself, but she must apparently be a rocket scientist in comparison to both my bro and moms. I have washed my hands of the situation. I am now pleading with moms to remove me from her living trust. There is one thing which I am certain of — I don't want to have any financial connection with my bro and sister-in-law when they screw up. Moms told me that my bro bought a new truck. That's nice. I wonder how an apprentice carpenter and a file clerk can afford to do that and also to afford to send their son to private school. Did you say "subsidization"?

In yet another confrontation tonight, I have discovered that moms is still accepting the blame for the contention between my bro and I. The reason? The handmaiden, if you can believe it. Moms has assumed that the whole problem is all because she let the handmaiden stay here for six months. Come on, the handmaiden has been history for over two years. I know that my bro is too stupid to orchestrate this crap. Who, pray tell, could be ingenious enough to come up with this? Could it be the brain donor who is playing up to moms like a reformed person? Well, at least I have already discovered that moms has made a provision such that the property will automatically go to my bro and sister-in-law in the event that moms becomes seriously ill. Essentially, the property is already in their name. What I must do now is to find a way to assign all of the remainder of my limited rights to the greedy fools immediately. I can't believe that I've been sold out, but I can only blame myself for that.

Sad to say, my moronic sister-in-law is a Mensa candidate compared to my bro and moms. Everything is in her favor because of my nephew. That's right. She has produced the only progeny who will carry the family name and, therefore, she (and my bro, until the bitch divorces him) are entitled to everything. I have no choice but to revise my Master Plan. I must meet my goals within the next three years. Four years at the most. Then, I must move on. I am glad that I never really counted on this pathetic inheritance. Moms' fate will lie in the hands of my bro and sister-in-law because I will cut all ties with my family once I leave. Will they take care of moms if and when she becomes chronically ill? I doubt it. Moms will be leaving a $350,000 home to them. Could they even try to make a sacrifice? What about the ol' lavahead? Yes, I'll probably end up in poverty, but I will help moms out. Moms won't realize this until it's too late. For now, I am the villain. Predictable, isn't it?

I bought a bottle of the "Hammer" to sedate myself. One bottle wasn't enough. So, I went back to Foodland and bought an even bigger bottle. The bottom line is that the handmaiden isn't that evil. I have done her a disservice. In contrast, my sister-in-law is probably the sinister kahuna's boss. It just doesn't matter. I've known my lot in life for a long time. I'm ready to accept the cold, hard reality that I will earn my place. At least I know that I didn't have to bamboozle a little, old lady to get an entitlement.

Sunday January 28

I am somewhat perturbed that the handmaiden is now an unwitting pawn in pathetic game. I have many differences with the handmaiden, but she has nothing to do with my family situation. This is how stupid things have gotten. Sheesh! The young ho' has a cell phone, and she has a better rate plan than I. She made several phone calls today. How do I know? Well, the young sleazebag opted for privacy from the House of Lolo by standing outside near my window. So, I was privy to hear her call someone to place an order for some drugs (i.e., Pakalolo, Ice, or whatever).

The Bose Acoustic Wave was unboxed once again. I listened to the psychotic classical pieces on public radio as well a few opera selections. Great stuff! I finished the remainder of the "Hammer" this afternoon. Pseudo-professor Robert didn't call, so I was relieved that I would not have to participate in any Super Bowl Sunday festivities. I have no desire to rally around this stupidity, which only serves to make a select few rich. Worst of all, the NFL has done little with regard to the criminal behavior of its employees. As the low man on the totem pole, I wouldn't be privy to the same kind of special treatment. Only a moron would choose to be a part of this farce.

The "Hammer" did me in. I woke up with a big headache. The young ho' was outside with one of her boytoys late last night, but I was too hammered to really notice. There is no difference between being hammered or being on drugs. I can discuss the ugly ho's behavior or the young sleazebag's behavior, but am I any better? I don't think so. Not that it matters, because I am just itching to apply the Nova Spirit to any of those fools whenever they decide to act up. Nothing like a good cranium jolt! Baha! Ha! Ha! Haaaaa!

Monday January 29

I was extremely fatigued this morning, due in part to the "Hammer." When will I ever learn? I've also noticed that I may have a few candidates to take over "Dangerous" Jennifer's coveted title. A select handful of babes were displaying their wares today. They wore some extremely skimpy outfits. Odd, since this was not a particularly hot day. And, the air conditioning in the classrooms is seemingly set to the freezing point. I now know exactly what my buddy Bud was warning me about. My conclusion is that babes are driven to tempt guys with their wares, no matter what the situation. I have no idea what the motivation is behind this behavior. It makes absolutely no sense. Hermit postulated that the behavior in question is intentional, that perhaps some kind of perverse pleasure is derived from it. I am inclined to agree.

I was happy to hear from Kevin (in LA). Remember when I first met Kevin in Gatesville (actually the suburb of Kirkland)? That was after I bid farewell to Convalescent City. I almost forgot that the five-year celebration of LoserNet is coming up real soon. I also saw Mark on the express bus today. I was happy to see him. We will meet for lunch on Wednesday.

There were screams emanating from the House of Lolo early this evening. Only mother and daughter were home. "You [copulating] bitch! Let go of my hair!" I recognized the voice of the young sleazebag. I may have to get down on my hands and knees and ask for forgiveness because I was giggling my ass off. I'm a peace-loving monk who only wants world harmony. Frankly, though, it's just too bad that I couldn't jolt the two brain donors in the cranium with my Nova Spirit.

Tuesday January 30

Another day in the salt mines. With eight classes, I find myself extremely fatigued by the end of the day. I am overloaded compared to most other faculty. A load of four classes is usually the maximum for tenured faculty. I don't have the luxury of tenure, so I must take what I can get.

Yesterday, Mike (another Asylum faculty member) was walking by the bus stop as I was standing there. He and I ended up chatting until the express bus arrived. "How can you handle it with all of these babes walking around?" he asked. Apparently, he doesn't remember that I am a monk. This particularly bus stop is near the university, so many of the students are walking around. It's too bad he wasn't sitting in my classes yesterday. He would have lost it.

Wednesday January 31

There was another screamfest last night at the House of Lolo. A pickup truck bed liner is sitting in moms' backyard. My bro must have dropped it off here. Must be nice to able to afford a new truck. I'm sure that a new car for my sister-in-law is also in the works. They will be strapped for cash once again just as they were eight years ago when they bought two new cars. Heck, they only finished paying off those loans a little over a year ago. I've made a lot of sacrifices in my own lifestyle, but I'm being penalized for doing so. I wanted to purchase a new computer this year, but I will have to put that project off indefinitely. I no longer can afford those "luxuries."

Mark and I had a pleasant lunch break at the cafeteria in the Federal Building. The rest of the day was a fiasco. Most of the problem has to do with equipment failures and associated stupidity. I don't want to go into the excruciating details. I've got to stock up on the cheap brewskis. I really could have used a cold one this evening. The salt mines have a real numbing effect. I find myself impoverished of thought for suitable journal fodder. I could talk about the potentially dangerous babes in my classes. Why bother? It only drives a sane man to drink. Fortunately, I am a monk. I have long suppressed these desires of the flesh. My only goal is to found a monastery out in the middle of nowhere. Will I miss civilization? I seriously doubt it. How can I miss something which I am not really a part of? I'm on the outside looking in. Most of us are on the outside. Only a few actually chose to admit it.

Thursday February 1

My bro has been coming by in the early afternoons to work on his new pride and joy — his truck. He has been painting an undercoat material to prevent rust, I suppose. He also left the open can and a paint tray full of that flammable material right under the gas meter. The hot afternoon sun could easily have ignited all of that crap. I'm sure you can imagine what would have happened after the gas meter explodes into flames.

My bro also drove his new truck onto the front yard. There are nice tire tracks running through the section that I have been trying so hard to restore. It has taken me over a year to make the yard look decent again. Now, that is all moot. I have no idea why my bro bought the truck, although I can make an educated guess. The status symbol for all of the blue collar trades is the work truck. Here in the armpit of Hawai'i Kai, many of the families (including mine) were originally blue collar, construction worker families. Most of their progeny have carried on the tradition. A tour around the neighborhood easily reveals which families are still steeped in the construction trades. Of course, one has to wonder, did my bro really need a new truck? No, not really. The truck is about as necessary for him as the BMW Z3 would have been for me. My own foolishness was almost the cause of my demise. I have since learned the folly of my error.

Friday February 2

Adding to this forum on the stupidity of rampant materialism, Hermit wrote via e-mail:

In your precarious family situation, the desire of your bro to accumulate more new toys off the cuff is epidemic with Blue Collar people. I notice this myself in my colleagues that they continue to go further in debt buying new things, toys they scarcely actually need, and neglect their own security to attain them. I fell into a few traps myself but have seen the error of my ways quickly, and have just now am climbing out, got my butt in gear and launched a counter offensive. Large parts of this phenomenon is sociological — they want what The Man has, but only The Man can really afford them. And North American culture bombards us with the underlining message that only with these toys is anyone a worthwhile being. Just absolute to the lowest nadir of spiritual bankruptcy.

Parallels my thoughts exactly. When one cannot attain true success, then looking the part will suffice. I have been fortunate in that I have only succumbed to this level of stupidity for toys worth only pocket change. Being a monk, I also do not have to worry about buying accessories to attract babes. I have noticed, however, that I constantly question my need to work and save dough at all. Without any materialistic urges, I feel ambivalent toward the latter.

If my beleaguered tenure (term used loosely) as a pseudo-professor isn't being tested at the Asylum, then it is being pillaged at the university. I was called into the Academic Coordinator's office like a schoolboy gone bad to answer to allegations and complaints launched by a variety of students and faculty. To clarify, the Academic Coordinator is one step below the Dean. I missed my day at the gym as a result of this charade. I presented my side of the story in a matter-of-fact manner, never indicating any weakness or ambiguity. What I did learn is that other faculty were spearheading the complaint. These faculty members are not even from my department. I suspect that there are a few faculty advocates who tend to take sides with the "poor, defenseless" students. Little do these morons know that they are being used like old, tattered dishrags. Case in point — remember when Toad was able to manipulate the simple minds of Roach and Maria?

My only comfort was in knowing that Pseudo-professors Ralph and Robert, and Professors Lisa, Brian, and Russell were extremely supportive. Whatever I've said about the "unkempt nose hair crowd" should be retracted. I also ran into Pseudo-professor Chad earlier. He disclosed that he has had two complaints filed against him so far this term. Mind you, we are only two weeks into the term. Will I be joining the ranks of Pseudo-professors Emmett and John, who no longer work at the university? The whole situation is coming to a head. My double agents out in the field have already told me about a number of rabble-rouser students eager to stir up trouble for faculty. Now, I am caught up in the fray.

Mythical Fabric of Society

My timing is impeccable. I have entered the workforce at a late age. I have only recently started saving for the future which, I might add, is already here. We are in the time of eternal tribulation — an abysmal time in the history of humanity. Certainly not a time to held captive by the money changers. Each day grows more precarious. I could be out of work in the blink of an eye. Although many do not believe in prophesy, few could disagree with the words of Timothy written circa 61 CE about a time in the future:

But, know in the last days, critical times hard to deal with will be here. For men will be lovers of themselves, lovers of money, self-assuming, haughty, blasphemers, disobedient to parents, unthankful, disloyal, having no natural affection, not open to any agreement, slanderers, without self-control, fierce, without love of goodness, betrayers, headstrong, puffed up with pride, lovers of pleasures rather than lovers of God, having a form of godly devotion but proving false to its power ...

Is that time now? Sure seems that way. I have seen the metamorphosis in my own personality. It takes a conscious effort to remain on the right track. There is one thing that I am certain of — not having the tube to watch has helped to stave off my own personal deterioration. Living at home with moms has also been beneficial. I don't know if I can retain my sanity for another three years as a wage slave, especially in view of recent events. Each year, since my return to Hawai'i, has been rife with problems. Some people have been quick to offer that my attitude is the reason. While it may be a contributing factor, the real reason is embedded in the quote above — "men will become lovers of themselves." Haughty, self-righteous behavior has torn a large hole in the fabric of society. Frankly, the threads of the fabric were deteriorated to begin with. We no longer have a society; we have collective anarchy. We feign a society by forced proximity.

The need for friendship or family is self-serving. I have been guilty of this as well. I have not much to offer in the way of friendship. My companionship in superficial settings is minimal. I have no skills, no powerful connections, no dough. Thus, I am the low man on the totem pole. I have one peculiar trait to offer as a friend. However, this trait is looked upon as a nuisance. I like to talk with people and exchange ideas. Let me define the latter as knowledge. I also want to know about their lives and also their opinions and feeling that make up the interpretation upon which they determine their roles with the microcosmic definition. Few care to embark on this kind of introspection. It unearths too many sore points, too many bad feelings. Life, to me, is a learning process. Aside from knowledge that I acquire from works of reference, I can only derive real knowledge from an empirical perspective. I have always been concerned about the exchange of empirical knowledge. This is basically what weaves the fabric of society. The data is not the usual fodder of gossip or mundane facts. The data must be verbal interpretations of life events (essentially the soul and spirit) of the individual. The exchange form the bonds of humanity. These days, there are few who care to participate in such an exchange. That, they say, is reserved for their therapists.

As I've always said, I am alone in this society. I would rather be alone and live as monk in the middle of nowhere than deal with superficial [rectums] day in and day out. The traits which Timothy describes are prevalent amongst all. Who would want to be around people like that, no less befriend them? And, the longer that I walk in and amongst the vermin, the more likely I will assimilate. I don't want to become one of the Borg. I'll live as a renegade and fugitive rather than give in to the collective anarchy.

Saturday February 3

I spent most of the day in my favorite chair, lapsing in and out of a coma. When I was conscious, I read the pathetic Palm Solutions magazine which I receive quarterly. Essentially, it is a catalog. I can peruse all of the Palm software and accessories available for sale. My Palm IIIe was at my side. Every few minutes, I powered it up only to be greeted by a spartan menu of options. After the fiasco at the university, I removed my "academic" category from the Palm accessories. I have also noticed that the Top Ten PDA downloads at ZD Net were all games. Yep, games. What does that tell you? I'm not the only one who does not have a pressing need for a Palm organizer. That's why the Pocket PC by Deep Pocket Gates may end up succeeding in, at the least, turning the industry around. The Pocket PC lends itself better to video games, audio files, and hurdy-gurdies. Well, hey! Pocket Pool for the Pocket PC! Sheesh!

Moms is preparing all kinds of food to cook again, so I have to look forward to seeing my sister-in-law again tomorrow. Wheeee! My nerves are completely shot, and now I must put up with that noise tomorrow. I'll probably make a trip down to Foodland and buy a case of cheap brewskis. In my fragile mental state, I will need some form of sedation.

I did some minor yardboy chores. I'm trying to fill the small bare patches in the yard so the grass will grow. I also tried to spruce up the tire tracks from my bro's new truck. Moms has been taking an active interest in the yard again. When I first moved here, the yard was practically dead. Moms had given up on it, just like she gave up on maintaining the house. Many of the chores have fallen in my lap, but I don't mind. Whenever my bro's family moves back in here, things will change. At that point, it won't be my problem.

To be continued ... Go to V.03

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