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Thanks and love your brother, man.

A beautiful, young girl mistook me for a poet today. All eyes and smiles, she was vision from some dark, enchanted place. No, more than that, but I cannot say it.

How flattering it felt to be held in such esteem by this living icon of beauty. A poet? That she could look at me and think me capable of creating something that moved apart from the harsh rhythms of this world. I was flattered at the obvious mistake. I am flattered. Beauty does that. It has a way of disarming the senses.

A poet.

Once, I met a poet, but that was long ago. I knew him by the flavor of his life and the weight of his trials behind him. He was a noble man, a truly noble man. Were the fates kind and the workings of man as they ought to be, he should have been a lord or something greater still. The weight of his gaze was a physical thing, all intellect, perception, wisdom, and humor. I met him as a brother in the streets of Los Angeles. Thirty-four years old and homeless. No friends, no family.Just a wandering prince eking out his meager existence in an empire of thieves.

He was a poet; a priest whose cathedral lay not in stone, but in the hearts and minds of those who would share a moment with him. He lent grace to the world through his presence and his passion. I have known no one like him, before or since. His Name was Harris Agosto, and he was my friend.

Poet.

It's difficult to imagine that I could be mistaken for such a thing. My life is not so full of giving grace. The virtues of the world have left me disinclined towards the poetic. My passions and dreams have all been traded away for the routine of day-to-day living. I dwell in the rational world, just like you. It's a world of compromise and making do. The people who live in it experience the profound only through the stretching of their stunted imaginations.

I marvel at what cold and colorless details clog the day. Each precious moment squandered in the doing of, essentially, nothing. Empty. Making our excuses look acceptable to those around us has become more important than paying attention to what we actually feel. We've lost our hearts somewhere in between all the television, sport-utes, and nine-to-fives. It's too fucking great a price to pay for anything, let alone such empty, empty contrivance.

The "rational" world stalks a poet. It hunts him down and bleeds him when he is remiss in tending his fire. Compromise has stolen the passion from the man and the music from the stream. There is a wall between us now. It stands between man and nature, as well as between man and his brothers. We've built it ourselves. It's made up of all the "ought to's," "shoulds," and "have to' s," that we systematically staunch our passions with everyday. We cram them, clog them, and force them away beneath all the empty contrivance of our day-to-day routine. It is inhuman, and in the doing of it we become a lie.

Can we tear ourselves away from our televisions long enough to notice that it's not our world that we're watching, but a hollow contrivance cast with people who pretend to be everything that we're not? Can we lay down those books, those epic stories, and just for a moment imagine what it might be like to go out and live our own? Can we break away from the excuses afforded us by our nine-to-five obligations and loose our beautiful, passionate hearts? (It won't happen tomorrow. There is no tomorrow. There is only now. It's all there ever has been and all there ever will be. Now. Just now and the fucking void, there are your choices.)

Can we, somehow, muster the courage to follow our passions? No. We won't, will we? There are too many reasons not to. Instead, we'll wait and lay back in our later days wishing with all that we're worth that we had just lived when we had the chance. That's the inevitable price of trading love for the excuse of survival. Grip that truth and look it in its hoary eye if you're set in your course. The excuse of survival. That's all we're buying. No one lives forever.

Where is there room for poetry in such life as that?

We found our second chance at biblical Eden hundreds of years ago. Instead of honoring what we found, we came unto it, razed it to ashes, poured concrete on it, and built New York. We are not a culture of the beautiful. We are a culture of the hideously ugly. We are self-important cancers on the heart of human kind. We whine about trivialities and view our world through distant, clouded eyes. We are, ultimately, death to everything that we touch.even ourselves. There is no forgiving that. There is no venerating that. There is nothing sacrosanct about it. I piss on it, scream, and grind my filthy heel into the splintered bones of it. I hate it, and fuck you if you try to rationalize the existence of it. Fuck every empty soul who ever stood to rationalize the foul and the horrifying. You are bastards, all, and I renounce myself from you.

Poet.I am not he.

I quest. The poet has already arrived. He is home, even if his home is squalor and suffering. A poet can find beauty in ignorance, and more importantly, he can take you by the chin and make you see that beauty yourself. I can't. I quest, and I shall not rest until I find what I have been seeking for all these empty years now. It would be safer to call me Pellinore than poet. It would be closer to the mark by oceans of difference.

How can I abandon my pain when it is the only thing that has ever made me beautiful?

Redguard@blackvault.com

Anyway, I was talking to Morgana a couple weeks ago, and she asked me why I don't just do computer graphics and animation for a living. I mean, do I really want to go through 4 more years of school after I finish college (which will be another 2 and a half years anyway)? I've always wanted to be a doctor of some sort or another, and right now the field that most interests me is dentistry. This graphics thing was just something I started to do for fun. I mean, I love doing it, and I love creating pictures and models, but I never really felt that I would do anything with it. It's just a hobby. But if I could actually make a living doing 3D graphics/animation, something I enjoy, that would make my life so much better.

Here are a couple images to give you a sense of what I can do. I figure, if I do suck at it, there's no point in considering a graphics career anyway, right? (As a side note, the pictures featured here were chosen by Morgana, so I'm trusting her judgement in this matter). Just click the thumbs to see a larger pic.

Now, the problem is that I don't know exactly how much of a living I can actually make as a computer graphics artist. From people I've spoken to on the 3D Commune, it's not really an easy field to break into, and a number of the artists I talk to are having financial problems. On the other hand, I have no guarantee that I'll make it into dental school (though my 4.0 average should help...), or if I'll even want to stick with it once I'm there. I really want to have some financial security, but I'm not really sure I want to get stuck in a job that I'll hate going to every day.

I'm not really sure about this, but I think my plan will be to stick with the biology degree, and keep an eye out for a computer graphics job. If I can find a decent one, I'll give it a try. If I can't find one, or I decide I don't like it, I'll still have the biology degree, and I can then go for dental school.

(Oh yeah, as a side note, Morgana tells me I'm an impersonal bastard. I don't think I'm in much of a position to argue. I think this comes from writing way too many college papers...and I'm only in my second year. English papers, sociology papers, literature papers, lab reports, etc. Well, suffice to say I can write a decent academic paper, but my writing style is now extremely impersonal and pretty much devoid of interest. Such is life.)

At the bottom of the first column is a link to "Hall of Fame" .. check it out if you haven't. We've also started a thread on Suggestions asking for nominations here.

Each of the columns, whether a regular columnist or a U2 (User Update), has a link at the bottom that leads to a thread where you can comment on the article. Tell them what you think!

You may also have seen the little symbol "«" next to a link ... this is used if you want to open the URL in a new window (target=blank for the geeks).

We're still accepting requests to have your cam linked. As you've seen, we're not yet using a 'portal', but will be developing this portion of the site in the coming weeks. The thread is located here.

We're also still accepting Leisure Time Links. We'll eventually develop this area into a full scale links library, with various areas of interest.

As always, we're interested in any other ideas - we check Suggestions often. Hope you're enjoying the changes to the site!

- The Admins

On Sunday evening I got the first glimpse on how computers are used by most people the age of my parents. They're both in their mid 50's, just like good ole wonderaz who, in my eyes, is the exception of today's computer illiteracy among "older" people. I was watching cartoons downstairs when I heard my mum yell, "Markus !!!! Markus !!!! Can you come and help me ?? Please ??" The years I've spent with these people taught me that you always have to wait for the third yell. I don't know why, it's some sort of unwritten law I guess. So after 15 minutes I walked up to where my mum was sitting, mumbling, "...stupid machine... never does what I want..."
"whats the problem?" I asked.
" I can't find the letter I wrote yesterday."

Easy thing, I thought, so I took a seat, and asked if she could remember the name she saved it as. "kruger.doc". Ok. So I went into the search function, entered the name, aaaaannnnddd...nothing. Hmm. "Are you sure that was the name?" Of course she was sure. Parents, they can tell you where you spent the night 3rd to 4th of July in the year 1995, but they can't even recall a simple file name. To cut it short, for the next 45 minutes I searched the whole hard disk, opening every document there was, which is a pain in the ass if you have ever run Word on a 486 using win 95. It takes ages. Nearly one hour had passed, and I was already starting to believe that it would be like Murphy's law, and I'd find the "kruger" letter in the last doc file I opened. I came across something called "mum.doc.". Believe me, it was huge. 1.65mb word documents aren't what you come across everyday. No kidding, it took me 5 minutes to open that thing. There it was, the kruger letter, together with almost everything my mum had ever written on this computer. I was amazed. I asked her what program she uses at work. Innocently she replied "Word of course, what else?" Aha, that gave me a complete new outlook on how bureaucracy works and why it is so slow. I don't even wanna see the "mum.doc" she uses at work. Tsktsk. Parents.

Monday, it was my granny's 80th birthday. One big parade of senile old people I had never seen before, or if I had, they had changed their looks dramatically. I switched from "Hi, I'm Markus" to: "Hi, I'm Ellen's son" very soon. I got very drunk that day together with the other 5 people who were younger than 40. Scary, believe me. About 100 nearly dead people dancing to old seamen songs: "to my hodie, to my hodie. wir lagen vor Madagascar..."(that was "flat" German, not English, so don't even bother to understand it). But that is not the point. I was about to tell you about the computer thingy.

Tuesday I woke up, very late and very hungover, to the upset voice of my mother. "He did it, he did it, finally he bought a new computer. Markus get up, you have to help him. Here, have some coffee..." Oh well. A day to spend with my dad. There is nothing more terrible, especially when it is about computers. He surely reads a lot about it, but understands nothing it seems. At least he knows how to use a mouse. In fact, I wasn't even sure about that. He had bought one of these pre-installed machines. You just switch it on and start working, and that's what I did. He was amazed. After explaining some of the differences between Windows ME and Win95 he was totally confused, so I summed it up with the words: "For you, nothing has changed. Just work with it like you always did." I could almost see the stone that fell of him. I knew now would come the hardest part ... THE INTERNET ... The smart guy he is, he had already bought a couple of books about e-mails, browsers, and all that stuff. So I sent him away for some hours to read through it, and come back and ask me questions later. Man, he bought an 8x cd writer and a dvd player, woohoo. While I was copying CD's, I watched The Matrix, The Green Mile, all sorts of stuff like that. But that's just on a side note.

When my dad came back we had something like a quiz. I asked him questions about the mysteries of Internet, and respect respect, he had learned a lot. Three beers later, it was time to get him through the process of the FIRST CONNECT. He fucked it up. Hmm. Two more beers, and he understood the principles while I started to have slight problems focusing on the screen. "WE ARE IN !!", I heard him yell all of a sudden. Great, we are in, woohoo. I dropped the last bit of the joint and walked back inside. Man, this look in his eyes, almost like a small child just before Christmas. Mum and dad leaning over the computer, both with their reading glasses on. They did it, they were online. Online for 5 minutes without doing a single thing. They were just online... tutor time. At the end of that day, they had their own e-mail addresses, had already written some, and learned to use IExplorer and Outlook Express. For a moment, I thought I should make money from it, teaching old people about the net. Really, it was just for a moment, I don't wanna end as a mental wreck in some hospital for computer nutzos.

Wednesday came. I packed my stuff and was about to leave for a friend's when my dad came. "Son, can you come with me for a moment?" Oh no, they had found my weed, I thought. "Take a look at that. That is not normal, is it? I have no cd drives anymore." Ack, computer stuff again.
"What the fuck have you done?"
"Nothing", he replied ," I just wanted to copy my documents from the one to the other machine, when I got the message that I have a parity boot virus now."

How is that possible I ask you. I have had my computer for over a year now and never had a virus, ok apart from that sub7 Trojan I, by accident, infected myself with.
"Anyway, we have to bring your sister to the airport now, I hope you can fix it." He said it and left. "Great", I thought. "The last day of holidays is ruined by computer crap." To be honest, I'm not the computer wizard you may perhaps think. I know really nothing about BIOS blablah, and all the other stuff. Nevertheless, I started the frustrating trial and error, change this, change that procedure. I found, to my surprise, that they delivered the computer without cd drivers on a disc, just on cd. Strangely enough, I didn't even get to DOS with that ME crab. After one hour of useless BIOS changes, which happened to be reset by ME, (has anyone encountered the same problem ??? ME resets the BIOS ? Or was it the virus ? Whatever), and several tries to get a DOS prompt, I called the tech support hotline. I was very patient even though one minute on the phone cost me about $1.50. Hell, I did everything they told me, even the things I had tried on my own before. I installed ide-controllers like crazy, I rebooted about a million times, I changed the bios again and again... Techy: "Hmm, I have no other idea, but if you find a solution to the problem, please give us a call and let us know what you did." What ?????? I paid $10 to be told there is no solution but if I find one I should share it??? Bastards. No need to say that I was about to kill the computer. Smash it or throw it out the window. I was even near to completely reinstalling everything, when the friend who I was about to visit called me being all angry. "Hey, mac . Wtf is wrong with you? It is always the same, you never show up the time you say." Ya, great, that was exactly what I needed. Someone who yells at me because I'm trying to help my parents. Good thing I knew he is one of those allstar computer wizards. The type of person who gets calls from friends 24/7, asking for help with this and that and this and that. Maybe he allows me to post some pieces from his answering machine, even though I have to admit I'm on it as well. Most of the time drunk and ranting.

Guess what ... fdisk /mbr was the cure!!! One fucking line. One damned command. Geeeez.

I'm in Cologne now, and I have to say, 5 days of living with my family again is more than enough for the next months. Since I returned, i'm not picking up the phone anymore, cause 4 out of 5 times it is my dad having problems again. I think I'll give him the allstar 24/7 computer geek hotline number. Eike shall take care of my father's stupid questions... I have had it with computers and parents. And no way I'll ever again try to teach something about Internet to people older than, hmmm , let's say 40.

Liked it? Vote for me on the top 100 Gateway or something, or vote Gore 'cause every voice for Nader is a voice for Bush. And who the fuck is Harry Browne? I know, I know, by the time this update goes online the election will already be over and you may have done the wrong thing. That's the way life goes.

Whorehouse? Kill Zeiss!!! Kill him !!! Don't think twice, just rob him, burn his houses, steal his whores, or go on a good ole drive-by shooting...

Thanks so far, and good night.

iglo

I feel good.

And I'm full….

Peace, and enjoy.

P.S. 1024x768 and 800x600 are the most commonly used resolutions. I am aware that some people use others. If you dont use either of the mentioned feel free to shoot me an email and ill put an option in for you.

THE EVER SO CLEVER... Paint CHiPs!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Paint, way cool having you here. You have been a major asset to the forum and we will ALL miss you if you die.

This is a day that will live in infamy in Internet history and will be something that you all can tell your grandkids or neighbors on death row in years to come.

I ran towards him, my legs pumping like a well-greased machine, my widening strides spanning yards of the cement below. Thoughts raced through my head as I neared my destination: I felt my heart beating faster and harder than ever before. I saw my opportunity and leapt forward; my right food landed squarely on the bumper of a parked car. I planted my foot and then I sprung from the bumper and towards the man. I flew through the air and as I raised my right arm to my waist, I spread my claw-like fingers as wide as possible. The man faced away, he was oblivious to the fact that there was 250 pounds of pure hatred flying towards him. My palm caught the back of his head and my fingers clenched around his skull with a grip that couldn't be broken with a crowbar. My chest hit first, then his forehead slammed into the ground with a sickening thud. I heard his skin tear and rip as his face slid across the gravel covered cement. His skull cracked down the middle spewing blood like a coconut spreading its delicious hidden treasure. I pulled his skull apart and watched a crimson waterfall of blood pour from the crack. After watching the sun slowly set I wiped pieces of his brain from my lips with the back of my now stained hand. I heard the sirens of ambulances and police cars coming closer and closer to me. I laid there in a puddle of blood with the corpse of this man, and I started to wonder who he was.