October 2005

Original article posted by bluesman:

Crash was a punker of the first magnitude. He was one of those latchkey kids that came out of the British depression. One of those dirt poor, roving Manchester castaways that had no use for school or work, ’cause neither one was going to give him what he wanted: the Power. This is what Crash thought about, all through the smoggy, dismal days, wandering through the backalleys, kicking at cans, arguing with the constables, stealing food from the depressingly bare food shoppes, getting in fist fights in Eardley’s House of Records. He thought about the Power–he thought about holding, cradling, wielding the Power, until the neon pink spikes on his shaved head burned with the intensity of 30 million punk-lit candles. He brooded on the Power until his creaking leather jacket smoked and the spiked collar around his neck sparked with outrage. He lusted after the Power, his face pulling in tighter and tighter, his visage a bitter mask of contempt stretched over a skull filled with hate. It was in these moments of blinding lucidity that Crash fancied he could, if he had had the Power, stretch forth his hand, blast the entire bloody mess into the ocean, where he would later walk through the leveled landscape in terrible majesty, bringing up a heaven or a hell on earth as he saw fit. As he sat in the dismal gloom of his dirty flat, the pitiful sobs of his drunken mother echoing off the grimy walls, mixing with the blasting, tinny wail of his record player, human misery and detuned guitars meshing in a cacophany of naked despair, Crash decided he would reach out and seize the Power. Crash had a gun, the old Webley revolver that was kept up in a sagging shoe box, put there by his mother, the ghost, after her husband had used the weapon to blow his head off, a man finally overcome, a man visited nightly by bloody war companions who urged him to keep up the good fight, lad, standing around him in their ghastly pallor, with eyes like hard, black glass. Crash took the gun, stuffing it into the front of his trousers, oblivious of the rust on the barrel, storming out of the apartment past the spreading misery of his mother, out the flimsy door and into the cramped, gargoyle streets. The pistol, a burning heat in his crotch, a fire in his belly, nuclear dragons tearing at the inside of his skull as he stalks, shoulders cramped and teeth grinding, towards Lord Chancey de Vonney’s manor, which sits across that invisible membrane which separates Crash’s world, the world of Churchill, the world of smoking factories, blackened coal miners, prostitutes, and His Lordship’s; afternoon tea in Grandmama’s best China, obsequious butlers, high laughter and pounds, pounds evergrowing, fattening the Realm’s great money houses. Crash walked right up to the gates, sensing the Power just inside the stately house, leisurely, fat, magnanimous in victory. Crash waited, in the drizzle of a Manchester morning, the rusty revolver, with its now useless ammunition, like yellow teeth in the head of a vagrant, rubbing achiingly against Crash’s palm. Crash waited, the Power emerged, the explosion and noise of a backfire devour him, destroying his purpose along with his face.

And somewhere, another punker starts to feel a hum in his guts, starts to think about Power.


Original article posted by Asmodeus:

I am going to talk about something different this time, something I have been thinking about lately cause of a certain person. I wont give her name in this one cause I want people to see this for sure, maybe most of you should! Most of you will think you know who she is, but take that from your head for a moment, and pretend you dont know who gave me the idea.

what brought this thought to me was her telling me that I am not good enough for her because how I treat women and that I am selfish because I expect certain things for myself, but I would say to her and all of you out there that are sexualy active that I am not selfish but she is and so are you.

How many of you that are active go to get tested for H.I.V? I bet non of you do, perhaps you think ah well I know the person I am with well why should I go get tested only people that sleep around contract the H.I.V virus. Well you are wrong, very wrong not only does your life depend on it but so does mine.

I have been with two women so far in my lifetime, I am not currently active, but when I am I do have myself tested every so often, because even though I dont think these women have it, it would be selfish for me not to be tested because not only does my life count on the results but everybody I am with is affected and those who I might be with again.

Before you tell me I am selfish, look at yourselves people. I do certain sexual things and I am very open about my sexuality maybe this girl is threatened by that, but I know she does not test herself. I do things that most people dont think are appropriate but at least I am safe about it, its more than just wearing protection.

How can you tell me to abstain if you yourself can not abstain? I dont blame you for not being able to, a lot of people can not, however you should think about other people and make sure you are clean.

that is all i have to say about that, so next time you decide to call someone a whore or tell them they are dirty take a good look at yourself and ask, have I been testing myself? If the answer is no than it is you who is dirty and maybe you should take the time instead of calling people names, go and get yourself tested.

Original article posted by ravenpaine:

Entry 84 – October 31, 2005

There are certain days when I tell myself not to overthink everything, to go witht he flow and start to live in the moment and get into the rhythm of the dance of life. There are other days when I tell myself that the thing I most want to do is the definatively wrong thing to do. There are days where I know what I should do and why I should do it and I do nothing of the sort. There are days where I make the most exacting decisions on pure impulse and find that I can suceed at tasks that daunt teams of experts. There are days…

Hubris happens.

Somedays you are so much more full of yourself than you actually have a reason to be. There are days where you should have more confidence in you and the group of people you have recruited through life to assist you. There are days where you will betray the trust of everyone one of those people because you are ultimately flawed.

I claim to be a fatalist. I claim to adhere to a creed of come what may you cannot control what will happen to you in life you can only do what you are going to do about it. But most days I find myself slipping into the incredulous hole of “everything happens for a reason.” All actions are deliberate, all moments occur because they will occur everything that will ever happen is going to happen because that is what will happen.

I’m uncomfortable with any predeterminism theory that isn’t used to seduce a british woman.

The most appaling actions of my life are all things in which I have… and I do regrett using this term… a lack of agency.

Damn it all, no. I had a lack of will. I was in the situations and I did not do waht I should have. I did not do what i should not have. I did not DO anything. I walked into these events and just went on autopilot, letting anyone and anything make my decisions for me but me. And I have paid for each of these moments to a degree that is nearly unfathomable. I try to blame myself for the misery and ruin in my life, in fact I punish myself daily for things I did so long ago I cannot remember the color of the carpet in which the event occured. And yes, I was there, I did do these things… but again I didn’t really DO anything. I did nothing and now I’m punishing myself for it. I allowed the bysstander effect to be perpetrated in my own life.

I keep thinking about all of the things that I’ve done in life and I keep comparing them to the way I currently live and I have found that back in the day I was always doing something. Now, however, I may be lucky to do ONE thing a month that I care to repeat to anyone, and even those things I’m likely not to remember because they are so awash in sea of apathy as to lose all color and flavor.

Unfortunately these insights do not, on their own, change my life. If antything I must take this as the start of what I’m actually supposed to be doing.

Doing is what I’m supposed to be doing. Not sitting. Not thinking. Not acting out. Not worrying or wallowing. Doing.

And this here? This writing thing and the reading thing that inspired me to do it? Those are the things I’m supposed to be doing the most. They are the things that I really DO that no one else can do. This is what I’m here to do.

No funny ending, stay tuned.

Rodney TGAP
Bonne nuit, bonne nuit to you all.

Orginal comments:

Nickname: Cornelius
Re: Someday…
I know you probably don’t want to hear it, but I’ve got to say it anyway. Living the Gospel is the only way to be truly happy. My life has taken a dramatic turn-around in the last few years. It’ll work for you too, if you’ll let it. God loves you and so do I.

Nickname: ravenpaine
Re: Someday…
I believe you, really, I do… It’s just that I’ve got this thing against Micheal and Peter… and I keep thinking that they’re in charge….

Nickname: Asmodeus
Re: Someday…
God Has foresaken us he put us on this hell we call earth, tells us to love, yet he put’s all sorts of rules on us, telling us how we should love. No, I hate God, and I hate the Christ and I hate most men and christians. The christ died in vain for me.

Original article posted by Asmodeus:

First I must explain what I call Anima, these are hatefull spirits, that have lost their way in the plane of darkness I described earlier, note that these beings are in fact metempsychotic and have the ability to take control of the living. I will be an Anima if I do not change my ways, and I have been playing with changing. the Anima linger on this plane and the next they can manifest themselves in many ways. Lost in the darkness they resent what they are the hate they carried here becomes the hate of the afterlife altering them and turning them into vicious hatefull spirits.

Lord Tyr is in fact a beast sewn from these spirits, the pillar of the dead as I explain to those who hear my beliefe (mostly friends I dont talk about it much, except for certain people) When the time comes the day most religions call the era of the Antichrist many beasts will be freed from their chains Lord Tyr is one of those creatures who will roam freely feeding on life as it desires.

The Antichrist (Until we know who he is and his name on this exhistence I will refer to him as Antichrist) will have many supernatural powers, those who partake those powers (by healing and such just like the true christ) will wear the seal and become apart of Lord Tyr, those who decline of course die and maybe get to go to heaven, but I am sure just because they say no to the Antichrist does not mean certainy into heaven.

Lord Tyr will raise the dead (Unnaturaly) and poison our land for it hates our world and it hates us.

Original article posted by squishous:

I have a favorite uncle that completely disagrees with me on about everything. I am fairly conservative and more than a little religious; and he is a pro-drug homosexual that finds his religion after a successful ‘shroom gathering jaunt to Mountain Meadows. But, this has not stopped us from forming a real bond of love and friendship. He and I had a conversation where we discussed the differences in our generations, particularly the differences in our respective youth cultures. He is a throw-back from the seventies. He began college – oddly enough – at BYU. He stayed there all of an entire semester and then followed – oddly enough – a girl to San Francisco where he gave up his church, most of his parents’ ideas, the trombone, and women.

When he was in college he recalls it actually being about learning instead of memorizing facts and formulae that may stay with us, but probably won’t.

Our education system was once a proud example for the world to follow. Students were taught to question and discover answers on our own. This allowed the student to really grasp an idea and apply it to themselves. Then – in the seventies – youth culture really began to stretch the boundaries of propriety, and they did it in a search for understanding. I guess this scared the crap out of someone because now instead of giving us real intelligence our educational system has morphed into a machine that rewards obedience over knowledge and understanding. Have noticed that the best students are not usually the most intelligent? How many of us have prepared for next semester by asking students who have already taken the course? I guarantee that the most common response to these inquiries have been about how to please a teacher, and very little o do with the content of the class. I know it has been said before, but I have to add my voice to the growing din. If we do not change the focus of our educational system we will continue to slide down the chute of intelligence until we will stand alone at the bottom wondering what went wrong and not having the true intelligence to discover a way back up.

PS. I know it has been a while, so again to all I say hello.

Orginal comments:

Nickname: Asmodeus
Re: How many cheerleaders CAN we fit into a phone booth?
Yeah we are going down hill fast, most of the pseudo intellectuals in here are proof of what is going to happen to our world, every body has something to say but does anybody ever do anything sbout it?

Most people just stand there and say how horrable something is but they never try to change it, they just have an opinion about it.

Nickname: Cornelius
Re: How many cheerleaders CAN we fit into a phone booth?
And people wonder why I never finished school and decided to join the Army instead. They asked me if I had any plans to do anything with my life. To that I said, “You’re darn right I do. In fact, I already have. What have you done with yours?” I count the years I spent in college to be the most rewarding and experience-filled time of my life. This has very little to do with going to school, however. I learned who I was, what I wanted to become, and what I wanted from life over the last five years. These experiences made me who I am and at the end of it all, I have a 0.9 GPA and thirty-some credits to my name. If I have failed to use my time well, you decide.

Nickname: Cornelius
Re: How many cheerleaders CAN we fit into a phone booth?
P.S. What up, Squishious?

Original article posted by Greg:

Yesterday morning a couple of calls came unexpectedly. The result, therefore is that my companion, elder Blake, is now in SheZi (my old area) with his new companion, I’m released from being DL, and I’m currently with elder Fullmer till friday when we pick up our trainees in taipei.

I guess they decided that movecalls just couldn’t wait. To which I have to say, “Well, whatever, dude.”

I am only slightly nervous about training. The only thing I’m worried about is that I’ll get somebody as full of pride as I was when I just came on island.

I think that can be avoided by frequent midnight beatings.

There have been a couple of items of interest and/or note that I neglected to mention in previous weeks. Neither are happy, but I find them interesting like sad things often are…

There’s a 45 year old man who got baptized a few weeks back. He’s really great. He loves the outdoors, and loves the gospel, and just loves life. He’s always smiling. He spent a few years as a monk somewhere in the asian jungles ending about 4 years ago. He related a story about why he’s not married or dating. One day they took him and put him in a room with the corpse of some woman, long mummified. They said, “You can’t leave this room until your spirit is broken.” After about 3 days he started crying. The head monk came in and said “Every time you have a lustful thought towards a woman, you remember this.”

People are strange. I have absolutely no ability to relate to that experience.

I met a sister hsu here about 10 months ago. She’s a great young missionary who I really respect and admire. She was converted through the teaching of a lady whose husband I baptized a few months ago. So we’ve all been happy to see a bit of connection between us.

A month or so ago she fell down and hit her head pretty hard, but didn’t want to complain or anything, so she just kept working even though she had a headache for a few days.

At zone conference a couple weeks ago we were all singing when she fell to the floor and started having seizures.

Last week I saw her again, as they pulled up in a van with her luggage and bicycle. She stepped out of the van and smiled at me. I said hello and asked how she was doing, how was the work. Then she said pretty good and collapsed. I helped carry her upstairs where she waited to be sent home to see the doctors.

She said there’s no better work than this. She doesn’t want to go.

She insisted she would be just fine, and they had tried letting her work on a limited basis after getting approval from some doctors, But nobody knows what’s wrong. And the seizures are more and more frequent.

Well, There’s my two not uplifting stories. But they’ve stuck in me and add in some way to the conglomerate self. I think that hearing or seeing things like this help you define yourself a little bit more. Because you can’t hear something like this and not in some way decide your own point of view about it. I am amazed at how varied the answers could be to questions like “Why would God let His missionaries get hurt like that?” and “Is it a positive change that happens in a person after being locked in a room like that?” The circumstance is fact. The response is what is interesting. And is what divides and defines us.

Anyway, I am done with that.

I haven’t much to say that is funny or of interest. I remain in Zhong Li to contemplate all things and also do missionary work occasionally as weather permits.

Going to the dentist now,

Orginal comments:

Nickname: Gunny
Re: dirt cake with chocolate frosting
In speaking about our answers to questions of God’s motives in allowing injury to good people and advantage to bad, I would not presume to be illuminated sufficiently to speak for him. However, to attempt an answer, I like to think that God tries to be impartial when it comes to allowing misfortune.

A tad oversimplified, perhaps, but one can gain a fuller grasp of my opinion once supplemented with the doctrine of free will. Free will is vital to the learning process of mortality, that being allowed to choose, mortals may choose eternal life by doing the things that Christ did, which he also saw the Father do (John 5:19). He allows mortals to choose their own path without immediate repercussion, excepting the natural consequence of the action. If immediate divine action followed every right or wrong action, man would become programmed and would be constrained to choose eternal life, which would not be free will. The same principle applies to constant divine protection of The Lord’s people and property. If this constant rescue from any mishap was a reality, the same sort of programming would take place because imperviousness to injury would be an instant effect of uniting with the people of God. The probationary state is such that any divine tampering, such as favoritism, could circumvent the law of justice and “God would cease to be God” (Alma 42.13). God Almighty does not take his role in the plan lightly and thus must submit himself to his laws and his word.

Therefore, God tries to be impartial when allowing mishap and good fortune; he “maketh his sun to rise on the evil and on the good, and sendeth rain on the just and on the unjust” (Matt 5:45). This is not to say that God is not a God of miracles, but it is to say that miracles are the exception to policy, rather than the rule. This is also not to say that God is the impersonal, absentee ruler, championed by the enlightenment. Even though he allows his servants to suffer bodily harm, he also sends them his spirit to comfort them in their trials. The Lord can thus guarantee the preservation of free will and express his personal care for each one his children.

I’m sure that none of this would bring comfort to the sister missionary who might not be able to serve the rest of her mission, but it helps me to suppose an understanding of the world around me. I imagine that this little divinity lecture defines me as somebody who needs to explain the world.

Enjoy the Dentist.


Original article posted by bluesman:

Joshua had one round left in his pistol. One round between a new life in Rincon or vultures picking at his bones.

But there were still two men out there in the darkness.

Tom Hagar had jumped out at him from behind a clump of creosote bushes with a knife in his hand, and gotten one in the right cheek from Joshua’s ragged Forty-Five. Joshua had a hard time turning the heavy body over, and found nothing on old Tom that would serve: a snuff box with a few pesos rattling around inside, some tobacco in a smelly leather pouch, a few rolling papers. He saw the dog eared deck of cards that they all used to pass the time while waiting for the Wells Fargo diligence, creaking under the strain of sturdy lock boxes, to pass through. Now, Tom Hagar was lying face down in the dirt, the back of his head an open, bloody mess. Joshua took what he needed and then rode south through the junipers.

* * * *

Harlan Gates looked up from his saddle bags as he heard the crack of a pistol shot echo down the canyon. That would be Old Tom, he knew. Tom was stupid and a bully, which was just fine with Harlan—he would be the next to take a bullet from Joshua’s deadly hand. Old Tom had stood there, silent, kicking at the dirt when Harlan told him to wait by the canyon entrance for Joshua: he knew it was a death sentence. But Harlan knew Tom would rather take on Joshua and maybe have surprise on his side than be gunned down by Harlan in front of the other men. So he left. Now, Harlan was down another man, but Joshua was down another round. It was simple mathematics. That was why Harlan sent Rob Cherry to sneak up on Joshua last night after everyone had bedded down for the night, why he told Sam Spade to lurk in the San Pete Hollow.

Jake Combs he shot in The Flats.

George Juarez while he was taking a piss.

Alistair Finnes on the Tristeza Trail.

Eleven men in all, so far. Joshua had stalked them all this way, picking at them where he could, but beating a hasty retreat when the others came running. But Harlan Gates wasn’t worried; he had stolen Joshua’s ammo belt two nights ago, rummaged through his clothing and bags while Joshua was taking a bath at Nancy Crier’s place. He wasn’t worried because he knew what Joshua knew:

Harlan had one more man than Joshua had bullets.

* * * *

Flint Egan was stumbling over the stones, slowly stalking the south canyon wall. Harlan had told him to find cover on one of the rocky promontories that overlooked the canyon, oiling his rifle as he did so.

“You get up there and lay real still, and when that sonovabitch comes struttin’ from the east side, you wait till he’s past ya and then blow him to hell. I’ll cover ya from the north side.”

So Flint, picking up his gear, forced himself to leave the small camp, glaring at the others until he reached his horse. When he was out of sight of Harlan, he let out a sob. He knew who Joshua would get first.
The footing became more treacherous as he ascended and Flint was forced to crawl on our fours as he made his way to the nearest outcropping of rocks. Then he froze—the sound of a horse’s gallop from a ways down the canyon stopped him, filled him with dread. Hugging the ground, sweating in fear, he turned his head ever so slowly to the left.
There, not a hundred yards distant, was Joshua, leaning heavily over his saddle. Flint felt a shock of hope, like cold water in his chest, and pulled his weapon free. The figure on the horse was clearly hurting, bobbing up and down against the horse’s neck, his face turned down. Flint wiped his brow, steadied his rifle on a nearby boulder. Flint waited until Joshua passed by. He fired. Joshua fell from the saddle into a heap on the sandy canyon floor. Trembling, Flint stood, made his way down to where the body lay. Flint’s hands were shaking badly as he approached the form. He let his rifle drop.

The body was a scarecrow—Joshua’s clothing stuffed with brush and branches; a rope was around the neck.

Flint Egan never even felt the round pass through his skull.

* * * *

Harlan watched as Flint’s body crumpled into the ground. He saw Joshua emerge from behind a bush, holding the other end of the scarecrow’s rope. He waited until Joshua ran for Flint’s rifle. Just as Joshua reached down, Harlan jumped out. Joshua whirled about, pulling free his Forty-Five. The speed of his turn made Harlan’s guts turn to water. Then he remembered:

Joshua was out.

Harlan raised his rifle higher, a bitter sneer on his face.

“It’s useless, Josh, you sonovabitch; we both know yer empty. You’re good, all right, best I ever seen. But nobody steals from my gang. You know that. Now, I’m gonna be merciful to ya, cause we got a history, you and me, and I’m willin’ to show a little compassion. You can choose whether you see it comin’ or not.”

Josh stood there, silent. Harlan waited, as he had waited for this moment for two days.


Josh pulled out his pocketwatch, looked at it.

“Are you ready Harlan?”

Harlan screamed:


The report of the weapon was loud. Harlan looked down in dumb amazement at the blood spreading from his chest. He sank to his knees, his life’s blood pumping out in rhythmic time.

“How…how did…”

Joshua held up the watch.

“You gave this to me, Harlan. You said it was a ‘damn sneaky place for hidin’ something’. I’ve always kept a round in it since.”

Harlan looked at Joshua with murder in his eyes, then fell flat.

Joshua stood a moment longer, then gathered his belongings from behind the bush. The morning was breaking and he had a few days yet before he hit Rincon. Mounting his horse, he kicked his heels, and Barley answered with a burst of speed.

Orginal comments:

Nickname: Asmodeus
Re: A Game of Numbers
You know I have not, hmm I aught to play with a western I am good with conflict.

Next Page »