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Messages - Eater of Clowns

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The abrupt end to our conversation the other night came about because I had some company meeting up at my place to walk down to the feast. It seems unfair for me to hurriedly explain such an event on the phone, so here is a better write up.

We call it many names. The Feast of the Blessed Sacrament is the official one, the one they've been using for the last hundred years. What exactly that sacrament is I do not know, and do fear to discover. Informally, you might hear of it as the Portuguese Feast and, indeed, in the sea of pressed bodies all named Silva and Correia and Medeiros eating malassadas and cacoila and carne de espeto you'd see the name was accurate. Then there's the Madeira Feast and, yes, that one is just as apt. It's said that the only place in the country, if not the world, that Madeira wine can be transported and served directly from the barrel is this one little spot on this one little weekend. The sweet, sticky, fortified wine is overflowing from little plastic cups and spilling onto the grounds, onto your feet and legs, and if you were an amateur and wore sandals the only cure for what we call Feast Feet is amputation. The mixture of pork grease and candy-like wine and sweat and filth will cake onto you and harden and that spoil knows no fear. It is part of you now. Finally, for those of us whom attendance on at least one of its four days in this first weekend of August it is simply called The Feast. It is the only one.

My humble apartment is what could be called prime real estate, this weekend. It's far enough away to remain unaffected by the rowdiest foot and vehicular traffic and close enough to walk. On Sunday, the parade will march at the end of my block. I like to invite people by before a stroll down the street for a few reasons. One, my ten dollar bottle of Madeira wine is better than the $8 7oz cup down there, and two, if you want to meet a friend there you will not find them among the throng of bodies. Unless of course, as in my case, your friends are extraordinarily tall seasoned alcoholics that you can pick out out of the crowd around the Madeira Hut.

Your first order of business is to stand in a fifteen to twenty minute line to have your ID scanned and wrist band printed. Each of these has a unique bar code and I find this disconcerting for the sheer fact that they assume they might have to scan one in order to find out who the deceased is. After the wrist band you find another irritated line of people waiting at hilariously unreliable ticket machines that are constantly running dry of the precious little gold drink vouchers. You stand behind a greasy little man with steroid acne and sweat who feeds it with twenty after twenty after twenty, pulling out strings of tickets that you suspect he might use to tie down Gulliver when he returns home to Lilliput. The little red Out of Service light blinks on for the fourth time and everyone behind you groans and looks to the neighboring line with envy and loathing.

At no point, thus far, have you been out of direct physical contact with a stranger since your arrival.

You have your wrist band and you have your tickets. Music is playing and it's always some semi famous band that had a hit or two just over a decade ago and gets by replaying it to nostalgic crowds for the rest of their careers. Thursday night it was the Gin Blossoms. Yesterday it was Blood, Sweat, and Tears. The press of bodies sets in. Tides of people ebbing and flowing, stopping to chat and holding wrists and hands and shoulders to stay together in their journey. Not all will make it. Invariably the weak link will be severed by a larger, drunker chain and they will not see their companions again that night. But weep not for them for this is New Bedford, and everyone knows each other. People from your past will resurface after years of seclusion, coming down from the mountains and rising, sodden and bloated and covered in seaweed, from the oceans. Yesterday I think I spotted a man who I was not only sure was dead but whose funeral I attended. And you exchange greetings and maybe speak and the press of bodies moves you along and you see them again maybe at the next Feast, maybe never again.

The wine flows. It's sweeter than sweet and it's dark, muddy brown that might once have been gold in a dream but nobody cares the quality of the wine that flows only that it does. Men wear brightly colored knit caps with tassels that stand erect or bent, depending on their marital status, the symbolism not exactly subtle. Down past the Madeira Hut and the lines of beer and linguica stands and the main stage and the side stage a glorious length of charcoal pit smolders. People are buying chunks of raw meat and sliding them down skewers six feet long, salting them and dousing them with Madeira wine. A few of the veterans put pepper and onions on the spit. You cannot buy peppers and onions there. They have brought them from home. As your skewer roasts on the perfect heat you guard your meat and drink more Madeira. There is a stand nearby with a v-shaped metal piece over a steel table dripping with beef juices and you position your skewer and yank it back and let the meat fall. And you drink more Madeira.

Across the way rides and games and little carnival vendors are set up for the younger crowds, for this is nothing if not a family affair. The next crop of Feast attendees must come from somewhere, after all.

After a thousand hellos and not a single goodbye everyone wanders off, in cars that will clog every street for a mile around over the next hour, or in pockets of people who carelessly amble through neighborhoods they wouldn't have the nerve to step foot into on any other night. Few of those people's nights are over, they are just moving on to the next bad idea, the after spectacle, the wind down from that glorious and disgusting undertaking that we somehow love that is the Feast.

We are animals. Our social constructs emerge from our nature as animals. This is a stupid question.

I think we should overcome our animal nature by killing ourselves - then we'd just be a bunch of carbon.



Or Kill Me / Re: I Forgot Why I Wrote this
« on: July 30, 2014, 10:23:21 pm »
Made all the more enjoyable by the visual I have of you sitting in a McDonalds, typing this out, your face a frothy mess of spittle and big Mac and your eyes glassed over with rage.

You're right that does make it better!  :lulz:

Shit eating hate termites? Excellent - now I got me a new totem animal  :banana:

Actually I think the P3nt is the totem animal of the shit eating hate termite.

Also welcome to the board, new person!

Hello, I'm Passionario.

Yesterday, as I was re-reading Prometheus Rising, I found myself wondering how Discordian thought progressed over the last couple dozen years. A quick search brought me to this site, BIP and you.

From a high angle view, it's termites mindlessly chewing on a log.

But if you drill down a bit, the termites aren't mindless.  They hate each other.


And the log isn't the kind that comes from a tree, if you catch my drift.

The Richard Nixon school of ballet and the arts / Re: My Girl Friday
« on: July 29, 2014, 07:18:43 pm »
Yeah I could see that being fun as hell for everyone involved.

The Richard Nixon school of ballet and the arts / Re: My Girl Friday
« on: July 29, 2014, 06:18:19 pm »
Oh fucking nice.


While I'm not sure what it was that you appear to be so upset about

HELLO my fellow ape!!!


I wish to capture your attention for the moment, to tell you a story. The story of trix (with pictures!):




Once upon a time in the jungle, there was a monkey. 

Much like many other monkeys before him, this monkey enjoyed monkey things, like crawling around on four limbs, flinging his own shit at other monkeys, and most of all, getting up on his hind legs and HOLLERIN his monkey holler.


One day, this monkey started to realize he was different from the other monkeys.  He looked around and many of the other monkeys seemed to be content simply flinging shit and crawling around and hollerin, but this monkey was no longer so satisfied.  This monkey wanted to see if there wasn't more out there than shit-flinging and hollerin.  In fact, having realized that shit-flinging and hollerin weren't as great as he used to think, he started to look down on the other monkeys that hadn't come to his conclusion.  After all, didn't this realization make him smarter than the other monkeys?  Isn't it better to be smarter?


So this monkey started to believe himself better than other monkeys, and set off to find out if there wasn't a better place for him than the jungle.

Now, let me interrupt this story to point out two things this monkey had missed, in his assumptions.

1: His part of the jungle contained few monkeys, so it's not a good indication of the intelligence of monkeys in general.  The smartest monkey in one group could easily be the dumbest in another.

2: It's entirely possible other monkeys had already thought out his train of thought long before, and decided in the end that shit-flinging and hollerin were, after all, worthwhile life choices.  And those hypothetical monkeys are not wrong.

Anyway back to the story.

So this monkey left his tiny jungle and entered the World-At-Large.  Leaving behind his monkey name, he dubbed the nickname "trix", and set off to find some meaning in a suddenly much larger world.  Now, the monkey understood that the world he had just entered was much larger and much more diverse than anything he had previously encountered, but he did not follow that train of thought to the point where he'd have realized this meant he was no longer the Smartest Gorilla In The Room (SGITR).

One day while wandering, this monkey came across a very unusual tribe of monkeys he did not recognize.  These monkeys were unlike anything he had ever seen.  Not only did they have a very different take on shit-flinging and hollerin that he found refreshing, but these monkeys appeared to be much more intelligent than his old tribe, and thus, in his mind, finally a tribe worth joining!


There were things the monkey did not understand about this new tribe, however.  For one, they preferred to stand on their hind legs, even when not hollerin!!  Another thing, they had shaved off most of their monkey fur and developed a rather clever set of ways they communicate with each other.  A standard that was very effective in their particular community at allowing intelligent discussion with minimal derailment into monkey noises and shit flinging. The monkey also discovered that this new tribe set a higher standard for monkeys, and wouldn't be likely to accept him just based on his word that he wasn't like those lesser monkeys.

At this point, our monkey friend could have simply introduced himself, said hello, and began to absorb the culture and social cues of this new tribe, so that his inclusion could happen with maximum smoothness and minimal whacking with the stick.  But this particular monkey had already discovered he was smarter than other monkeys, goddamnit, and these new monkeys were going to LEARN IT.  So he did the only thing you can really expect a monkey to do, when faced with a challenge like this.

He took a big, smelly, huge shit, targeted one the most vocal, active, respected members of the tribe, and flung it with all his might.

Then, as the tribe charged, he dug his heels in deep and flung shit after shit at everyone in sight, because he was smarter than other monkeys and was going to WIN DAMNIT.



Years later, we have this same monkey.  He really hasn't changed all that much.  He still loves to fling shit sometimes, loves to holler when he thinks he should holler, and every now and then will drop down on all fours and crawl around in the dirt because he wants to.  However, the tribe is far less hostile to him, and he can effectively communicate and learn from them now.  What changed?  Well, first and foremost, the monkey finally figured out he was in a different room than the one he started in, and he was no longer the smartest ape.  In fact, he wasn't even in the top ten percent.  Hell, he probably wasn't even above average.

It took a long time for this to sink in for this particular monkey, having always been praised and expected to be the smartest, back in his own jungle.  It still causes friction and shit-flinging at times... But again, the major difference is that the monkey can communicate with this tribe that he respects and admires, and is able to put aside his own ego to adopt some humility (which, amazingly, is actually a virtue here) and learn from all the resources, knowledge, experience, and intelligence present in this community.

I hope you learn quicker than this monkey, as it was not a fun road to go down.  Read up on the SGiTR for more.

Also I'm very stoned right now so this might have been worded terribly.

Anyway I guess my point is, if the story wasn't clear, that much of what you write has the smell of an elitist SGiTR syndrome.  This rubs many people the wrong way.  Then you throw in some random pinealism, which this board is particularly sensitive to, and which does not help anything.

In short,

This has been another PNWR (post-not-worth-reading) by the trix.

(Edited to fix typos and wording a bit)

The Richard Nixon school of ballet and the arts / Re: Duty calls.
« on: July 26, 2014, 02:10:57 pm »
we simply cannot allow the prairie sharks to prowl unchecked. You are doing god's work. Which god, well, let's leave that open.

The Richard Nixon school of ballet and the arts / Re: A new currency.
« on: July 25, 2014, 11:48:03 am »
Mmmm.  So good.  I daresay, your ability to write dialog is pretty damn good.

Thank you! Someone else on PD told me that a while back and I really appreciate it.

I'm trying to get Lara's word choice just a little off, in a non-native English speaker way. Luckily from being in a Colombian family for half my life I have some experience with how it sounds.  :lulz:

The Richard Nixon school of ballet and the arts / Re: A new currency.
« on: July 24, 2014, 11:10:17 pm »
I collapsed back down on the bench, the burst of energy likely some of my last.

“I said ‘You look awful’,” Lara tried again.

“And now you know why.” I looked at her, entreating, “you aren’t afraid of the Debt Collector.”

She nodded.

“So you’ve never seen him.”

She nodded again.

“So you left me down there by choice,” I said flatly. I realized I was looking through her and I turned away.


“What, did you, did you just hope I would die down there? Problem solved? No more idiot gringo to look after?”

Her eyes narrowed. “I expected you to leave your Necronomicoin behind, just like you did, and to find me gone and decide to go back to your family. Like any sane person would! To get back home, a little changed maybe, but to get home and to forget about that horrible place and what you left there and,” she swallowed, “who left you there.”

“I might have,” I said. “Yeah, maybe I would have if that was all there was to it. But Lara, you have to believe me. This Debt Collector is dangerous. It was the worst thing I saw down there and, trust me, I saw some pretty bad things. They weren’t evil, though, not like him, they were cruel, maybe and dangerous and powerful, but not evil.” I looked at her again. “You should be afraid. I was. I am. That’s why I’m here.”

Lara leaned forward and rested her hand lightly on my own. “You look awful,” she said for the third time. I said nothing. “We have to get you cleaned up.” She looked up at the sky, toward the sun. “And soon. There isn’t much time and you’re going to need clothes, and,” looking at my head, “a haircut.”

“I just had a haircut before I-”

“A real haircut.”

She was in a dress, I realized, and jewelry and makeup and, “what for,” I said slowly.

“For the Museo del Oro, idiot gringo, like I told you,” she chided.

“It’s closed.” I pointed across the plaza.

“It’s closed to them,” she swept her hand at the people around us, “it’s closed to you,” she pointed at me, “but it is, or it will be, open for me.” She nudged me, “for us. When the gala starts, anyway.” She stood and held her hand down to me, flicking her wrist up. “Up up. We have work to do. We have to make you presentable.”

I groaned and eased forward, pressed down on my palms to lift myself and groaned again and sat heavily. I glared at her.

Lara smiled and exaggeratedly tapped her foot. It clicked softly on the ground.

The Richard Nixon school of ballet and the arts / Re: A new currency.
« on: July 24, 2014, 10:31:59 pm »
I opened my eyes to the voice, or I tried, but my palms stuck them closed. Lifting my head I tried again and a blurry vision stood before me in pearls and a tight little red dress and tumbling golden brown curls. I blinked, against disbelief and the sun and the angel standing there.

“You look…” was all I managed.

She tilted her head back and laughed like she had at the brewery, that overly flirtatious laugh that worked despite its obviousness, and I laughed with her in relief and exhaustion. A hero would have swept her up in his arms then but I leaned backward and when I hit the back of the bench I went sideways and lay down on the stone. Gracefully, in heels, she moved just beyond my head and sat down there. She stroked her hand against my head gently.

“You made it out of the Catedral,” she said. And I was silent for the angel abomination guardian and the godhood bestowing guardian and the grotesque slug guardian and the -

“DEBT COLLECTOR!” I yelled, sitting up, eyes wide. “Lara, the Debt Collector! It’s after you, you have to run.” Lara sat there. “There were three guardians, like you said, but there was something else, Lara, something that was waiting for us there. It called itself the Debt Collector. I was warned about it in the bathroom.” She looked at me apprehensively. “On the wall of the bathroom, in 1492 over at -”

“The T, yes, I know Bogota,” she said.

“It said ‘Befriend The Thief. Pity The Ledgerman. Beware The Debt Collector.’” I pointed at her, “You’re The Thief.” She looked affronted for a moment, then nodded. “He,” and I mimicked the thick set of him and the squirming hair and the segmented skin, “was the Debt Collector. He trapped me in some kind of rock and then he went after you. I got out, I made it to the, and by the way I’m still upset you didn’t tell me about this, the Necronomicoin ATM, and when I got back you were gone. I rented a motorcycle and rushed here after I remembered what you said about the Museo del Oro.”

She sat back and rested on her palms, looking at me and then away. She took in a breath as though to speak, then stopped.

“You rode a motorcycle in Bogota?” she asked.

I nodded. She smirked, then her face turned stern. “Rushing after me was foolish, J. I do not know if you think you are some knight in shining armor but I am not your damsel and I do not need any rescuing,” she rolled her eyes, “American men! Always have to save me,” her eyebrows perked up, “but it does make them easier to rob.”

So, the match was...

It was shite.  Entirely B-team, so much so that they rubbed it in our faces when the stars walked out to midfield during halftime.  It was a meaningless friendly, so there was nothing at stake, and it was essentially a scrimmage.  None of the fans knew the chants or songs (for fuck's sake, it was on a goddamn Pink Floyd album, and you still don't know it?), and there wasn't even a hint of violence. 

On the other hand, there was plenty of beer, and Roma's winning goal went directly through Liverpool's legs in a classic "what the WHAT?" moment. 

Basically, it was the entire reason soccer hasn't really caught on in the US, in that if the players don't care, neither will the crowd.  At least the tickets were cheap.


At least when the NFL makes half assed attempts to break into Britain, they send Tom fucking Brady over there to draw in the crowds.

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