Made of anecdotes and punchlines

There are some things some people shouldn't read, and I shouldn't be allowed near any version of the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders. I tend to go through the check-lists feeling like someone has just read my soul. The other week I decided that I had avoidant personality disorder, and so brooded on that for a while, then decided to go out and test the hypothesis. I came home at sunrise convinced that I'm a narcissistic psychopath instead /as well.

Earlier in the evening, my body chemistry still to be trusted and the alcohol only slightly sedating inhibitions, when the loggorhea hadn't yet kicked in and I was still capable of listening, I introduced myself to a guy and he said "Oh, I know about you", which was a surprise, as apart from the last six months I've spent the last three years being fairly reclusive, too busy working early in the morning / late at night to haunt bars and hang out in conversation.

He used to share an apartment with one of my exes, and then another place with a girl I used to know in another town. I said "oh, you must know a lot of bad things about me."

I didn't feel this was being self-deprecating at all. I think I exist very little in the minds of others, which is A-OK and how things should be around here, but am aware that most likely when I do appear in conversations in the third person that the proportion of anecdotes + punchlines to fond memories is fairly high. This is something which I've been trying to address, although my attempts seem to end in anecdotes and punchlines.

But the guy said, "no, not at all, only good things," and that was cool. Then he asked me if it was true that I'd once tied myself to a bed when taking an exotic hallucinogen for the first time, alone.

Later in the evening, almost sunrise, I possessed by the spirit of Randy Pan the Goat-boy. I have no idea how this went across, but badly, I suspect.

Bill Hicks doing the Goat-boy routine

The rules of the game

david bowie mugshot

Within the known rules of the game the individual is free to pursue his personal ends and desires, certain that the powers of government will not be used deliberately to frustrate his efforts.

F.A. Hayek, The Road to Serfdom, Chapter Six

I was looking for free language mp3s and ended up at audiouniv where there was nothing that really got my eye except The Four-Hour Week, which I remember hearing about when it came out, and then again at Casey Serin's page, and so I thought why not? Stick it on the mp3 player and ride the bicycle around town, expose myself to the self-help / get rich madness.

So I started listening to the book. The guy starts out with the mission statement that you don't have to be rich to live like the rich - you too can have time to pursue your bliss. But then how? Simple...you become rich. At that point the essential sleaziness begins to flow.

There are far more failed than successful entrepreneurs and artists, which is all cool if you're in it for the passion, but it kind of sucks to fail and fail again, even to fail better, if the process itself is no fun, just fixated on the goal of $ rather than the task in hand. It's now when we have to live, not in the past or future. The means become the end.

So I'm a lazy man, I want to relax without a large income, without the necessity of worldly success. A flexible schedule at a job you enjoy, with low / no stress. Spend less than you earn, exercise, eat right, have fun, pay less attention to what others do.

No matter how rich are and how much property you own, you end up with a private quarters where you get things done. Essentially an office with a bathroom, perhaps a kitchen, living room, library and so on either attached or part of the whole. You can live in a mansion or own a skyscraper, but in the end you'll essentially build a small apartment and do everything in that.

And never forget that Elvis had it all - looks, talent, fame, acclaim and wealth - and he died busted on a toilet just after 40.

"All the people that created traditions, that created countries, and created rules.All them fuckers are dead. Why don't you create your own world while you got the chance?"

Bill Hicks says this dressed as Elvis, here.

Iggy Pop, Manchester [U.K], October 1977, Bowie on keyboards and backing vocals

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Deception, trickery, vanity, falsehood
The myth of 1,000 true fans

Bill Hicks on his worst gig ever [LSD, guns, knives]