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Topics - Eater of Clowns

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The Richard Nixon school of ballet and the arts / RIP Cain
« on: May 16, 2011, 05:07:01 pm »
It is my sad duty to reports upon the death of a board regular, the political savvy legend Cain.  He passed away quietly in his sleep at the ripe old age of 27.

Friends and family close to the young man were asked about the circumstances of his death, described by the coroner as "perfectly clear and ordinary."  Nearly unanimously they spoke of a long standing, unspecified medical condition that struck its final blow as he lay in a restful evening in a quiet, secluded, cash-only motel.  They would look about hurriedly as though expecting unwelcome guests and urgently repeated that this was a family matter that was best not looked into by other parties.  When asked if the police were involved, they vehemently assured me that no, such a thing was left to a higher power.  I had no previous knowledge of Cain's associates being such spiritual folk.

Known for his in depth analysis of current events, Cain's online persona became even more secretive and erratic as of late.  He was noted for being absent for weeks, months at a time, then updating on a number of websites with a rapid fire series of pieces.  Several of them mentioned...REDACTED...  Curiously, a wildly different IP address was used for each of these occasions, and then for no longer than a day at a time.  It would seem his final days were filled with the world traveling and hunger for culture that would fit such a figure.

I prompted local doctor...REDACTED...for his opinion on the death of such a healthy young man.  He insisted, repeatedly, that this sort of thing was...REDACTED...a clear case of " cerebral embolism" before hastily shutting the door.

We'll miss Cain, of course, not only for the insight he provides into our complex web of a world but for the humor and wit he shared with us all.  Memorial arrangements will be at the...REDACTED...and his assets.  Refreshments are to follow provided by an anonymous well wisher.

Aneristic Illusions / Mike Rowe Senate Testimony
« on: May 13, 2011, 03:32:39 am »
Yeah, the guy from Dirty Jobs, and the voice from everything else.

It's a well written and important highlight of the skilled labor problem America is either having or very soon will.

I encourage you to support these efforts, because closing the skills gap doesn't just benefit future tradesmen and the companies desperate to hire them. It benefits people like me, and anyone else who shares my addiction to paved roads, reliable bridges, heating, air conditioning, and indoor plumbing.

Starts off a bit slow with a personal anecdote, but worth a read at the end.

Bring and Brag / EoC Nessie Extract
« on: May 12, 2011, 04:06:48 am »
By request, all of my contributions to the More Futuristic Fun Than You Really Wanted, part I of V thread.

"At first I thought it was, well yeah, classic Suu."

I can't speak to the rumors.  I've heard the talk, that she isn't dead at all.  That what happened was ascension, more like.  Becoming something greater and everlasting, maybe even divinity.  Ask the followers and I'm sure they'll be glad to tell you.  Thing is, this one took off.  It grew like no tall tale has ever done, and faster.  What I can speak to is what actually happened, what led to the picture that set eyes unfocused and the jaws of hardened men dangling in disbelief.

It started with a trip to Jo Ann's.  Row after row of fabric, all so common, so everyday.  She was about to give up hope for a fruitful trip when underneath some mundane roll of cotton a spark caught her eye.  In respect of her memory I'll forego describing it, failing to do it justice.  It spoke to her, Suu later said.  Divine, perhaps.  Demonic, possibly.  To hear her tell it, that is.  To the rest of us, it looked like a run of the mill psychological snap.  That day, she bought a few yards.  Nothing extravagant.

It disappeared.  Like that drink after the day from hell, like your favorite book, Suu devoured the cloth.  But there was no discernible product from her labor.  Someone asked her where it all went and she just glared and said she needed to get more.  She did get more.  And then more after that.  Yards and yards, days and weeks of work until finally she'd bought the place out.  We all hoped it would end after that last trip, but seeing her clutch those precious remaining yards we all should have known better.

The last time we all saw her it was the evening of some PD outing or another.  The way Luna and Richter talked, they had to drag her out of her place.  The whole night, I remember, she was just not there.  She was distracted and mumbling crazed talk about period garb, colors, stitches, authenticity.  We were being treated like distractions to her or, more appropriately, obstacles.  Somewhere in the revelry we lost her.  She must have gone home, we figured.

Her neighbors called the authorities after a few days of discomforting silence, both from her sewing machine and the music generally aimed in wrath at their apartment.  They had the landlord unlock the place, to a scene of beauty and horror both indescribable.  Everything was garbed.  Her pots and pans, the futon, a toothbrush.  The floor, a dresser.  Her spatula wore a gown that would bring envy from the haughtiest of queens.  Each piece, from the most ornate to the most elegantly simple, perfect but for one small spot on each.

What remained of Suu was a husk hunched before her beloved table.  Where her skin had been borrowed for her masterpiece, the fabled cloth replaced it.

Short notice!?  Fuck it, it's curling.

3 hour lesson in Bridgewater.  Fucking curling.

April 30th or May 1st from 2pm to 5pm.  CURLING, MOTHERFUCKERS.

$35.  Curling.  Three hours of it in Bridgewater.  CURLING.

The Richard Nixon school of ballet and the arts / WOO! GO NB!
« on: April 19, 2011, 10:11:24 pm »
They passed the Cape Wind project.  America's first off shore wind platforms will be on Nantucket sound.  It's expected to bring 40,000 jobs over ten years, and a major staging ground for the whole project will be my hometown!

Now all they need to do is build the commuter rail connection between Boston and New Bedford and my city will be significantly less of a shithole!

 :D :D

The Richard Nixon school of ballet and the arts / Huck Finn and Robots
« on: February 10, 2011, 06:12:50 am »
No, really.

This group, in a bizarre and hilarious protest of the recent decision to change "nigger" to "slave" in a new edition of The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, is proposing a short printing wherein "nigger" is replaced with "robot."

Mark Twain once said, "The difference between the almost right word and the right word is really a large matter."

We couldn't agree more. And that right word is "robot."

Or Kill Me / Willful Mysteries
« on: February 03, 2011, 11:07:23 pm »
Mickey is nearing thirty and his roommate is moving out on him, in with his long time girlfriend.  He's working three jobs and can barely make their meager rent, so there's no way he'll be able to afford living solo or find a cheaper place.  So he's moving back home.  We're not exactly living in Manhattan - so why can't this dude pay for rent?

Alex has a lovely wife, two kids, and a spotless little home on a nice street.  And he's fucking miserable.  He comes into work 30 hours of overtime, at least, every week.  He pulls in good money, and yet he claims he's always broke, so this overtime is necessary.

Jeanine attends weight watchers meetings.  Like her strictly catholic upbringing dictates, she's guilty as hell when that weekly weigh-in doesn't go down, and she hates herself for it.

All three of these people have something in common.  I actually know all three of these people, and I do think quite highly of them.  I'm incredulous as to how they can convince themselves that they can't afford to pay rent or work reasonable hours.

Mickey and Alex are similar.  Both of them, several times in the same conversation, have stated their precise problems and not even realized it.  Mickey bought $200 worth of comic books last week.  Alex just bought a $400 watch on eBay, and sold it for profit - which he will then put into another watch, and another, and he doesn't always break even on them.

I think Jeanine has it toughest.  She's a sensitive one, and not a very strong one either.  She did great in the weight loss program overall, she really did.  Yet now that she's maintaining instead of losing, every week it's the same song and dance:  there was candy or cookies someone brought into work and she couldn't stop eating them.  So she's down as hell on herself for it, and she feels bad for the rest of the week instead, well, just not eating them.  But it's the wording here that's frustrating:  she couldn't stop, or it's her co-workers' fault for tempting her with the garbage she shouldn't eat.

It opens up infinite avenues of debate, of course, on the addictive nature of eating or buying things, as well as the entire process of losing weight.  That isn't the issue here.  The issue is that we have people who convince themselves that their money somehow just disappears, or that the scale goes up of its own accord, and their quality of life suffers from it.

Losing the freedom of your own space, sacrificing the entirety of your life to your job, feeling bad about eating crap you shouldn't - they're the prices paid for a comic book, a watch, a cookie.  I actually have nothing personal against this, so long as you are actively willing to pay that price.  If you think "well if I buy this booze, I'm going to get fat from the calories and broke from the cost," you need to be okay with the consequences of that before you go through with it.  Props to you.

The alternative is creating a willful mystery.  You refuse to face the sad facts that a short term poor decision has long term consequences.

Or Kill Me / Looking Down Your Nose While Doing a Headstand
« on: January 20, 2011, 10:37:35 pm »
A lean young man in corduroys and Pumas waits outside a Starbucks sporting as much awful haircut as his overpriced salon can provide.  Walking in, a former classmate recognizes him and asks him what he's doing standing outside.  "Pft, I don't drink Starbucks," he replies with a sneer that could infuriate sloths.

Across the parking lot in his beat up old F-150, a grizzled middle aged man sits, idling while his wife runs inside.  She asked him if he wanted anything and he said, "Pft, you know I don't drink that pussy crap."

You've talked to both of these motherfuckers before, and yeah, depending who you are, you are guaranteed to like one over the other.  It doesn't change the fact that both of them did exactly the same thing, for different reasons and with different words, but exactly the same thing.  Something is offered them, a beer, a coffee, a burger, and they refuse.  But they don't just refuse, they refuse in a way to imply they see themselves as better than whatever the subject is.

Be it "sorry, my tastes are too sensitive to allow anything less than seasonal microbrews past these lips," or "you're not a real man unless you drink Jack Daniels," they're letting you know, in no uncertain terms that types of people enjoy that thing and they are not one of those types of people.  Yet somehow, it's always the former that sets eyebrows raising.  Yeah it's easy to hate on pretentiousness when it's about class and high brow bullshit, but that doesn't make it any less pretentious to claim you're more grizzled for drinking crap booze.  It's the same trap.

Sorry, motherfucker, but you aren't any more real for drinking Budweiser than some jerkoff is refined for drinking Sam Adams.  If you're going to pass it up, do it for your own tastes and don't try to pull some reason why you're oh so much better than that.

The Richard Nixon school of ballet and the arts / A Very PD Holiday
« on: December 22, 2010, 11:43:51 pm »

Itís Christmas in Tucson,
And in Portland itís Yule.
Cramís getting his Moose on,
ĎTil thereís blood in his stool.
Even I this year popped my Moosemas cherry,
With drinking and Zardoz at the Monestary.

In those Europ-ey places
Theyíve got Sinterklaus.
Heís eating kidsí faces
In his gingerbread house.
I donít speak Dutch so donít be a hater.
If my mythís wrong just blame Google translator.

In SoCal itís raining,
Just pouring it fierce.
White Christmas is straining
Against mudslides and fears.
Course itís not like it snows in those sunny spots,
Though tell that to Pickle in his Florida shorts.

Then thereís our Scot peers
And those Englishmen close.
Theyíre deep frying reindeers,
Served with sauteed Welsh toes.
Iíve always heard Brit cuisine is an odd one,
I think itís because theyíre descended from goblins.

Weíve a spag-scattered globe,
What with Aussies like Lys.
And Slaknet who knows where
That mystery man lives?
The point is weíre all in our Holiday moods.
To some it means screaming, to others new shoes.

What Iím trying to say,
Oh my PDíers dear.
Is that starting today
Spread Discordian cheer.
Itís almost like happiness of the ordiníry sort,
Except itís hating on revílers, and cruelty for sport!

Theyíre not deserving of
Their gifts under their trees.
They need a serving of
Lead pipes to their knees.
I hope that Santa carries Ďround something sharp
To cut himself loose from my trap with the tarp.

On hustlers and revírends!
On hipsters and punners!
On artists and madmen!
On crunchers of numbers!
On to your wintry festivals all kind!
ĎTis the season, so go fuck with some minds!


Thereíre spags round the fireplace,
Hanging up their stockings,
Theyíve met up in meatspace,
For Holiday mockings.
BadBeast says some shit like ďblimey oi govnahĒ
We canít understand him, but BB we love ya.

That Santa guyís finally
Been taken some care of.
Those Nessies are grimey,
But the snow keeps the slime off.
ĎCause the Southampton horrors ate Rudolph et al,
And a Templarís put Santaís hat on his metal.

But wait whatís that racket,
Coming up the chimney?
ďIím telling you faggots,
Iíve got gasoline, see?Ē
Our dear old Enrico wants to light up the fire,
But burning the place down isnít what they desire!

ďUnless it is, of course,Ē
A voice came from somewhere.
They screamed until hoarse.
One said, ďdynamiteís no fair!Ē
So many ideas to start up that first spark,
Itís too bad we canít just light it with snark.

Though it didnít much matter,
In the end it got lit.
And ECH made a platter,
Of some de-licious shit.
So we argue and revel and laugh with some brews,
Try this beer by Squiddy!  And this one is Suuís!

Discord is the spirit,
Among different folk.
Let each other hear it,
But itís all the same joke!
Be it Moosemas or Christmas, Festivus or Yule,
Itís time to bring mindfucks from high upon fools.

The year at this place is,
Well, itís winding right down.
So silence your faces!
And hear Eater of Clowns!
PD is for fun and for serious havoc,
And all of this butthurt, no sir I wonít have it.

On WOMPers and writers!
On analysts and teachers!
On students and fighters!
On occupiers and creatures!
On to your PD revelry once more,
For again Ďtis the season to show all what for!


Ofuk not again,
the spags said together,
this poemís a pain,
give us a breather.
But the holiday season comes like it not,
so shut the fuck up and read up this rot.

So what the hell happened,
to PDers in í12.
Well we wrote some crap and
mostly we yelled.
The tumbleweeds heard it if no one else,
and even they were shocked by RWHN and Stellz.

There will be no tree,
for Garbo and Pix.
Theyíll light a bush or three,
because theyíre less phallic.
Roger and ECH can just stand there and watch,
but they cannot help because of their crotch.

And what about Twid,
whose faith this offends?
He knows that I kid,
so spare your Depends.
Ironing out what happens to Waffle,
I doubt heíll read this PD poem awful.

The Marrowman offers
me a few new rhyme schemes.
ďOne bone for my coffers,
to stop these grade school themes!Ē
L-M-N-O is worse than the bone man,
for making New England some scary land.

Hang holistís stocking,
but what the fuckís this?
Itís far too shocking,
which one of themís his?
A h0list, a holis+, a ho1ist and,
fuck if Iím typing that whole list again.

On beaders and crocheters!
On writers and garbers!
On larpers and players!
On mixers and warblers!
On and remember during this holiday chore,
Thereís no better time to punish fuckers galore!

GASM Command / GeoGASM
« on: October 29, 2010, 02:09:56 am »
Geocaching - A community-driven hobby wherein people input coordinates into GPS devices that lead them to small boxes in remote or hidden areas.  The boxes contain an assortment of small items, trinkets, or note pads.  Finders of a geocache are to place something of theirs into the box and taking something out in exchange.  They can leave messages on notepads, etc, then they put the box back where they found it.  There are communities online where people can report back if they found the box, if it was difficult, or if it was missing, etc.

The community started in the relatively early days of GPS devices, before they were as ubiquitous as they are now.  It's still a nichey activity, with lots of caches being on hiking trails, etc.  Recently, GPS devices are easily available in the form of our very favorite tools of Big Brother - smart phones.

I think we should target the GeoCachers.  By necessity, the community is tight knit, keeping track of existing caches and updating them.  That means recurring themes in the boxes could possibly be remarked upon in discussions.  The activity also attracts the curious - a cache might have any number of otherwise pointless items, but they're basically buried treasure troves.

Pope cards and meme bombs are the stand by for things like this, so maybe this is an offshoot of postergasm.  Here, though, they're placed where the individual is specifically looking.  And on top of it all, we can have some fun looking for geocaches.  Hell, if we learn enough about the community, maybe we can make a few of our own.

So, is this something people would be interested in?  Which meme bombs might speak best to this group?  Does anyone know more about the activity than what I've outlined here?

Props to Richter for prodding me with a polearm to post this.

The Richard Nixon school of ballet and the arts / Attn: Charley Brown
« on: October 20, 2010, 05:31:04 am »
For a long time this has been bothering me, and I'm finally going to get it off my chest:

Your avatar.  You...

look way too similar to my dad:

The Richard Nixon school of ballet and the arts / EoC's World of Dispatching
« on: September 30, 2010, 12:32:55 am »
I've been meaning to make this thread for a loong time.  It will be a depository for all the fucked up, depressing, and sometimes hilarious shit that I come across in my job.  Sometimes it'll come a few times a night, sometimes not for a few weeks, but I'll try to keep it running.


A woman called today.  She'd received a notice in the mail that someone would be coming to pick her up and "deliver" her to court for money she owed.  Basically it was a notice that a warrant was out for her arrest.  I told her to get in touch with our warrant division, which unfortunately won't be available until tomorrow, but that as far as I knew nobody would be acting on that tonight.  She was upset.  Nearing tears.  Her voice quivered and she half-whispered, "I just think it's ridiculous, for eighty-eight dollars."

GASM Command / GaimanGASM
« on: September 08, 2010, 09:13:26 pm »
Intro:  Reading through some Sandman and the influences that went into his work, I think Neil Gaiman is potentially sympathetic to Discordianism.  It's unclear whether or not he knows specifically about us, but he has a clear understanding of symbols and gods, meaning he would recognize Eris and perhaps things like the Sacred Chao or the chaos star (used in Michael Moorcock's work, which he's definitely read).  His obsessive tweeting and public engagements lead me to believe that he's at least in some touch with his fans.

Goal:  At the very least, the goal is to get a shout out to Discordianism from Gaiman.  If this is just a tweet, that's fine, but if it's a series of statements or even an inclusion in his work, all the better.

Strategy:  Gaiman is a storyteller.  Frequent references and deference to storytelling characters in his novels and comics lead me to believe if he became involved in a story, he would choose to press further.  The plan I have in mind also taps into the old psychology idea that if someone agrees to do something small for you at first, they are more likely to later offer more.  The exchange here is a story to tell, giving him a curious and entertaining series of events to make life more interesting.

Step 1:  Gaiman will be attending a benefit at the Boston Public Libarary on September 26th with a signing open to the public at 3:30.  I'll be attending, for my own fanboy purposes, to get Absolute Sandman Vol. 1 signed.  Inside the front cover where he signs I'll leave a note along the following lines:

Mr. Gaiman,

Please do not react to this note.  We have observed a sympathetic sentiment in your works to our own goals.  Consider this an offer to work together.  To accept, mention "the golden apple" in a tweet on October the 1st.  Further instructions will arrive shortly thereafter.  Be on the lookout for this name on an envelope.  The attached mustache is a sign of our good faith.

-The Supplanter Watchman

PS.  Discreetly removing this note so as to avoid the notice of the young man before you would be greatly helpful.  If not, no matter.


I'm going for intriguing enough to warrant a simple communication via twitter.  If the golden apple reference is too overt, it can be replaced with another key phrase.

Step 2:  It gets a little more difficult here.  Should the offer be accepted, the response will come in the form of an actual lengthy letter.  Ideally, the letter would recommend Gaiman to choose his own Holy Name and declare it publicly.  Here's how I intend the letter to get to him:

Neil Gaiman is engaged to Amanda Palmer.  Amanda Palmer is currently the Emcee for Cabaret at the American Repertory Theater in Boston.  I have a friend who works at the A.R.T.  Ideally, I could hand her an envelope with a key phrase on the outside and have it find its way to Amanda Palmer, where it would then be handed off to Neil Gaiman.  Perhaps something slipped into a bouquet following one of her performances?

I'll have to talk to this friend to hash it out, see if she's on board.  This is as far as my ability to reach the author goes.  This is hear to further hash out the idea, not only to refine the steps so far but also to see how we can move forward should it progress.

The Richard Nixon school of ballet and the arts / ATTN ALPHAPANCE
« on: August 25, 2010, 08:52:35 pm »
Looks like I'll be hitting up the Cape again on Labor Day weekend.  I was wondering, as someone who seems to have a good idea of what Provincetown has to offer, if you had any suggestions.  Thus far I've really only walked through the main strip and, well, spent heavy time on the beaches, but I'm always up for the new.

And of course, anyone else can weigh in.

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