6 0f 9

That was my name today. "6 of 9"
nine temp workers were hired. I was the 6th to show my face at the ford dealership.
In the future these tasks will be done by robots. and the robots will not take over the world, as my dystopian predictions insist. No. THe robots will do their job and the humans will clean up the small things like paper clips that fall where the robot arm can't reach.

one of the theories of reality has it that we are actually super micro computers processing information for our creator, another slightly larger computer, who has outsourced his job to us. And he was supposed to be processing information for another larger computer, who got lazy and outsourced it to our creator...and so forth. IF that is the truth then what exactly is the nature of Ken H's beloved chickens and goats? What are they? Do they serve some larger purpose to our directive?
I can't answer that. Maybe a smarter man can...

"Time and space and gravitation have no separate existence from matter. ...
Physical objects are not in space, but these objects are spatially extended. In this way the concept 'empty space' loses its meaning. ... " (Albert Einstein, 1950)

THis will lead one to some bleak existential outlook...if one is not careful.
It is better to think of these matters while eating ice cream...or after sex...or under water. In fact, I resolve to only dwell on these metaphysical/gravitation/theological matters when I am under water. Only during the time that I am holding my breath and fighting the loss of gravity and threat of death should I allow myself to think of the nature of existence. Are we microcomputers processing information for a larger entity that has merely found the cheapest labor pool? Are we all 6 out of 9?
See, I am not under water right now so this is very very dangerous. I run the risk of messing up the unseen client's profitability margin. What an asshole I am. I should be fired...or furloughed...or exterminated. Maybe I will be.

I was running the moped around Santa Monica today. the 1974 vespa ciao. only one of its kind. Racing it in circles around PAris Hilton and her puppies. THe police eyed me as an obvious dissident. I stared straight ahead. Keep calm, I told myself. Don't look them in the eye. Don't let them smell fear. The light turned and off I went. no helmet. that will get me in trouble. But I was not thinking of existential root natures and such, I was thinking of a slice of pizza at Joe's pizza. I knew it was waiting for me and that's where I was going after counting car parts for Ford. I was 6 of 9. That is me. Number 6. Of 9. You are also a deriviative of a larger number. Welcome. Take you badge and grab a clipboard. No need to clock in. It is all done by computers. You simply count. Process the information and then we set you free. They did not appreciate my american flag bell bottom pants. Why should they? They threaten everyone. They are not part of my directive. I am malfunctioning. My morning went like this...

"EcZc - 45tp88-AA"
"ok"
"1"
"ok'
EcZc- 45tp88-AB"
"ok"
"1"
"ok."

Please post your theory of existence below. I sort of believe we are random particles in a petri dish. Any greater meaning has been manufactured to prevent insanity from setting in. We are actually just supposed to breed more information processors. Number 7 of 9. 8 of 9. 6 million of 45 billion. 200 billion of a trillion. There is no telling how many employees there are. The media describes fires and assassinations. Then we get back to work or drinking or swimming. You see? Swimming. That is the only place I should be allowed to ponder the meaning of life. It is just scary to do it while breathing. It makes people nervous. But if you are swimming or under water or taking a bath and you think of a good theory of existence then please post it here. That will still count. You ponder it under water and then write it down. Then I ponder it under water and respond. That will work. Anyone?

los angeles countdown

Got the van reinsured...on the payment plan so when it explodes I don't lose all my money. Maybe the state will lift the suspension on the thing next week. I'm not sure it will be a bad thing if it vanishes one night. As long as I can have my guitars.
But it turns out the east coast has some nice CB 750s too. Has anyone looked at the road to Newfoundland? It's more remote than the road to Cabo San Lucas. I mean, it is a long way from a spring break destination. No joke. That's a road made for a cb750. no trucks. no towns. no people. But the winter starts in about three weeks so there is no time to sign autographs for my admiring fans.

I'm off to sleep now so I can get up and do some work in the morning. trying to round up two people to go east is harder than just doing the work myself and paying all the gas. There are people going east but they all want to "be safe" and "get there on time" and "Not be killed." insane things like that. I say, my friend, Los Angeles is an unsafe place. America is falling apart. If you want to be safe then hide in your room. I have about a 50/50 chance of making it to Indiana. The van absolutely screams Hippie. And texans don't dig on that at all. Sasha Baron Cohen thinks he has the market cornered on spoofs but I am the real deal. A true dissident in his own country...and the only people who don't care are either tweaked on crystal meth or stoned and living on the beach. Even homeless vets hate me. No one likes a free individual...especially on the street sleeping next to their house.
I'm an American and a survivor and I'm not going nowhere.

dilemma

who can give me some advice?
the van's registration has been suspended because I didn't pay my insurance. So it can get booted or towed at any moment. I'm trying to sell it for $2500. And since that is unlikely and I probably will have to give it away maybe I can just drive it to Newfoundland, Canada. But I have to leave in like one week for that to happen. So...what the fuck should I do? I want to drive a motorcycle across the country...not this huge van. But nothing is free and I am out of options. Just renewing my registration and insurance doesn't mean I can't sell it but it means that I have paid for insurance on a car I don't want. See? OF course these are problems most people don't encounter or else leave to their personal assistants but I actually have to deal with the problem myself. Since I probably won't find a buyer for it I think I should renew the insurance and register it again. Then take it from there.
does anyone care?

los angeles

some pics of recent days. a piece of pizza. my mother in the van. me with an accordion.

a perfect day for bananafish

So it turned out the stray dog didn't have to stay or return to the desert or get hit by the truck. He could jump on the truck as it passed by and let it take him somewhere else. He almost didn't make it after spending two days sick and too weak to drive. But he won't die in the desert either.

He didn't see any bananafish in the water but he knows what Seymore Glass is talking about. The Salinger story is actually kind of weak...it's a comparison of the well-adjusted emotionally distant upper-class snobs and phonies talking about sunburned skin and painting their nails while the army vet talks with the girl, Sybil. No, he isn't a pedophile...he is just looking for someone who can communicate with him in the language he now uses after returning from world war two.

"With her hand, when the float was level again, she wiped away a flat, wet band of hair from her eyes, and reported, "I just saw one."

"Saw what, my love?"

"A bananafish."

"My God, no!" said the young man. "Did he have any bananas in his mouth?"

See, he knows she is pretending to have seen a bananafish. And that is the equivalent of love to him. because his wife doesn't have time for games. look at this conversation she has with her mother...

"Well. How's your blue coat?"

"All right. I had some of the padding taken out."

"How are the clothes this year?"

"Terrible. But out of this world. You see sequins--everything," said the girl.

"How's your room?"

"All right. Just all right, though. We couldn't get the room we had before the war," said the girl. "The people are awful this year. You should see what sits next to us in the dining room. At the next table. They look as if they drove down in a truck."

Seymore had to listen to this kind of conversation all the time he was driving and it makes him sad and lonely that he can't communicate with his wife. I think he identifies with the girl sybil more and also he knows that is inappropriate and he knows he can't live with his wife and he figures he can't even adjust to normal living like in the elevator...

--On the sub-main floor of the hotel, which the management directed bathers to use, a woman with zinc salve on her nose got into the elevator with the young man.

"I see you're looking at my feet," he said to her when the car was in motion.

"I beg your pardon?" said the woman.

"I said I see you're looking at my feet."

"I beg your pardon. I happened to be looking at the floor," said the woman, and faced the doors of the car.

"If you want to look at my feet, say so," said the young man. "But don't be a God-damned sneak about it."---

He's fucked. He doesn't see a solution. He'll either chase his youth again with girls or he will hide in his room. So he kills himself rather than feel sorry for himself or constantly clash with people. The only important metaphor here is between Seymore and the bananafish. Seymore went to war and basically saw more than he can forget so he is trapped in the hole, like the fish who ate bananas until it couldn't get out of the hole. He's crying out for help but Sybil is too young to understand. She thinks it is a game. He has some kind of an obsession with feet, not a fetish, but something about feet have become the object of purity. His feet are forever corrupt and guilty while Sybil's are perfect and innocent. His wife covers her toe nails with paint and to him that is phony and intolerably offensive.

So that's my analysis. It's a dated story because it was written in the '50s. It's also specific to the east coast of the united states. That kind of snobbery and repression is a New York thing. Lots of Americans wouldn't identify with this at all. But that is how Salinger saw the world for some reason...a battle between the superficial snobs and the wounded and hypersensitive young man who believed there is more to the world than padded shoulder jackets and gossip. With Salinger the story always takes place between the lines...sort of like this little exchange.

To Boldly Go...

A friend of mine just asked me
"Did you see Star Trek yet?"
I rolled my eyes.
"No. I didn't see Star Trek. It was in La Paz...but..."
"It was so good."
"Really? It was good?"
"You'd love it."
I stared at the wall. A dog came over and rubbed my hand. I scratched it behind the ears.
"Nice. Yeah, I meant to see it. I really wanted to see it with someone...but..."
"Fantastic movie. The effects...everything."
"That's great. That's just fucking great."
"What's the problem? You too good for Star Trek?"
"Yes! Yes I am too good for Star Trek. If you say another thing about Star Trek I'll PUNCH YOU IN THE FUCKING FACE!"
"Whatever, asshole."
"It's just...I was supposed to see that movie. I wanted to see that movie. And I missed it. I fucked it up."
"So what? You can rent it."
"No, dude. I can't rent it." I punched the chair arm. "I CAN NEVER RENT STAR TREK!"
The dog got startled and ran away. My friend looked at me.
"How about Tropic Thunder?"
"Ben Stiller should be shot for his involvement in Tropic Thunder. What a complete piece of shit."
My friend passed me a bong. I shook my head.
"Were you stoned when you watched it?"
I shook my head and looked at the ceiling.
My friend lit up the bong and said, "Well that explains it."
"Yes. That explains everything."
I called for the dog to come over but it lay in the corner looking at me. Then it fell asleep.

Who can give an analysis of this?