Piece of Whinny Mail That Didn't Make It (So Far)

So, hi, how have you been? I've been watching lots of Seinfeld. I even had to do some maintenance on the computer, it started crashing due to the strain of the file sharing program I've been using. Had to check on the fan of the heat sinker, then the network drivers, the upload rate... It's a real challenge to have a Windows based system running smooth continuosly, the thing has a natural tendency towards chaos and unmanageability. I guess I should add those skills to my resumé, if a company wants to keep their file sharing going on, they should talk to me. I don't think I really like companies. I mean, I've worked for one once, I've been there, tried it in three different flavours, and well, I don't know. I've taught private lessons on monday, now that is a rewarding experience. But so far the clients have come much less then steadily, so it's not still something to look up as a way to make up a living. But anyway, I might have more fun as a High School Math teacher then as a programmer fighting in the corporate jungle somewhere. Students can be such nice people. But I digress. This whole"what shall I be when I grow up", I mean, come on, that's a theme suitable for me ten years ago. Still, can't shake the fact that I'm not Jerry Seinfeld. With some optimism, I'm George. Well, some George mixed on with some Kramer. You know, life isn't really like that, I mean, at least not for everyone. Ok, Seinfeld had this confortable life, he's got his shows, he's got the looks and style and girls comming for him, the real life Seinfeld even got the million bucks, but hey, look at other artists. They have their heydays, then they snuff, and sometimes they snuff along with their heydays. See Bob Geldoff. He did that great Pinky performance in The Wall movie, had a wife who left him with bunch of kids and went on to that In Excess guy, Mike Hutchins or something I'm *not* going to google up because it doesn't really matter, so, this guy was all hot and stuff and had dream girls like Kyle Minogue and stuff and was sexy and here is how he ends, I guess in his early forties doing self asfixiating masturbation alone in a bathroom. Strangled himself the poor guy. Now *that's* an artist's life. I mean, real artist. Well, I don't know why he would actually be more of a real artist then Seinfeld, it just feels that he's more into the general case, of what it is to depend on art to live. Seinfeld got there, in his early thirties, 9 years running a show where he makes some funny remarks and builds some interesting situations I've spent this afternoon watching trying to forget how meaningless *my* life is, and now he is 50, I've read somewhere he is married, somewhere else that he had had a millionaire divorce, but so what, he apparently rode his fame and made himself a stash and his life got figured out. The core of it is gone, he's gone through his thirties on show, he's been out of the show for the last 6 years, he will even be in a movie this year or so it seems. That is a way to have it. While he had his somewhat nice apartment and some savings Elaine had a roommate, didn't seem to have a car, while George had to go on all that omega routine at work, just as Elaine, while he is there, clean, goes to the club, makes some witty remarks, people laugh, the bucks flow in, he's back home, couffe shop, whatever. I mean, it's a celebritie's life in a smaller degree, while the friends are the real people, the common people, trying to laugh a bit as they too grow old and less employable.

This is where I figure up I'll have to end up in the public service. That's really where I should get a minimum of peace of mind. Stability. Not worrying too much about retirement, they will look that up for me. Having a last use for what once was a promising intellect, beating up all the other joes who *also* want a public job. And it even pays some. And if I ever graduate, in anything stupid I'll never really be able to use, such as, say, Computer Engineering (how many years was I stuck at College trying to graduate at that?), and if I keep a hint of my former intellect, I can still move to an even higher paying public job.

And then the girls. Yeah, I can see them now. They come. They check. We even go out. I'm not that timid anymore. They see the baldness, the eye glasses, but most of all, the pudgy face. Hell, I'm just so ugly. It's not a screaming ugliness, it's just a boring ugliness, so, I don't even get too mad anymore when they don't call anymore. Well, there are other issues, of course. I live with my mother. How pathetic can that be? I don't have a car. I can't even *drive* my mom's car. That's too little to add up to the general ugliness and flat personality. Hell, I don't think I can really respect much a women who would go for *that*. Yeah, I indeed don't. When I see them moving away, I sense there is still hope for her. But so, the public service could solve at least the part of living with the mother. The car part I'm not so sure. I'll have to check, maybe they have very old used cars I could afford. Car and house, now that combo plus a pretty unambitious woman could lead to a next generation. Now, this kid, or these kids, they could have a future. They could inherit some of the brilliance, and definitelly there isn't so much madness to inherit, I'll *never* be as talented as my father & my mother in fucking up kids. I mean, really. That is pure concentrated bullshit in raising kids. There is nothing I could do to match up that. I mean, I guess that *was* probably my mistake, to be so concerned about not being like them when there was no way... Well, I'm not so sure. It's easy to say this now, ten years later and alone in front of a keyboard, and when I press for my memory, I can remember quite a lot of shit reflecting my parent's. So, anyway. The kids will have a good chance. To actually choose a career, to be higher then omegas, to have their places and cars, to succeed abroad. Israel maybe, they'll have Israeli citzenship, that much I've already secured for them. How ugly and how stupid they will be will depend on this eventual fleeting girl I'll be getting. I don't know, I'm pretty dismayed about all this stuff. Deborah hated my guts, let's put that plain. The others I had here before, well, I was a bit healthier back then in some details, and I did have all that hair. Adria was a real loss. She was much in love, she was beautiful at least for my league, and she was smart enough. But then, hey, *not* screwing up things is the mark of the supermen. I'm no superman. I screw things. That's what makes me *me*. That's what makes many people *them*. But then I get some things right. They too. They get quite proud of these things they get right. I sometimes get proud too. The whole thing is such a big mess, I don't know. I guess I should really focus on one thing at a time, as if I was the sort of autist I actually became, listen to all these people saying how much of a pathetic loser I am and strive to become a little less of a loser. At least a loser who drives, I'll say for now. And then a loser with a public job. And then a loser with College. I'll be an older loser by then, but I'll be older by then anyway, with or without these very atractive traits.

The real issue is, I was really surprised with these two last girls' losses. I mean, it seemed to be going fine. Really, I mean it. Not spetacularly fine anyway, but as fine I expected things like this to go now. Come on, I'm not young anymore. People have expectations. They accepted some things from me at 23 that they are not taking from me at 29. I got to move on! But how's that suppose to happen? Do I really see myself hours and hours digesting things to the College admitance exam, or for the public service exam? Do I? Really? Come on. I guess I should become a taxi driver. There should be taxi drivers on Seinfeld. There was one in Pink Floyd. Bog Geldoff, who looks a lot like Seinfeld by the way, he had been in a taxi and said shit about Pink Floyd, and the taxi driver happened to be the brother of Roger Waters! Now how much of a taxi driver insertion is that? Éverton my friend's father is a taxi driver. He is an Engineer. My father is an Engineer, so how about me being a taxi driver? I could even shoot people and save Jodi Foster, I guess. Of course then I'd have to be a war veteran, but so what, that's just a movie and De Niro get's all shot in that story. Naturally nearly everybody by then was a war veteran, only the woossies dodged that draft. Yeah, people like me. One more reason I'd have to think of being another kind of taxi driver. Like Water's brother maybe. Water was a woos in regards to war. He was all worked up because his father died in service when he was a kid and his mother smothered him to make up for the loss and all that crap. Barret was probably even more of a woos, and he ended up all really fucked up. I guess his ex-girlfriends grew to hate him. I don't know. People get burned up. But so, Geldoff's wife left him for Hutchins, and not long after Hutchin's had killed himself or died anyway in a kinky accident, there she goes. Overdose. Which is another very artistic feature of life completely absent from Seinfeld. Where are all the drugs? The damn guy is completely clean! Nice Jewish boy. Jewish artists are supposed to be *that* nice? So, the woman is dead, I guess she wasn't with Hutchins anymore when he got dead, and Geldoff has all these kids to raise now who became orfans. That's pretty much artistic. That's panache, that's bravado, that's angst. Fuck Seinfeld I say. And hail to the fallen.

Cuz there's nothing else to do
Every me and every you

Alguns dias obcecado com australopitecines. Como se fosse um sinal, me passa Planet of The Apes na TV. Deve ser a aproximação de um novo totem. Um gorila talvez, um Australopithecus afarensis mais provavelmente. Lucy. Talvez seja uma constelação de totems, neandertais assombrosos, até elfos reapareceram. O tema é linhagem humana. Elfos estão ali, talvez no futuro, certamente no passado imaginário humano. Uma nova criatura, uma nova linhagem, nascida não da carne mas dos miolos. Como Palas Athenas.

A palavra chave é dopamina. Dopamina e paranóia. Esquizofrenia. Um mergulho na loucura em busca de respostas. Respostas químicas. Respostas respostas. A Ursa Maior é o Burocrata Celestial. Eu estou prestando mais dois concursos públicos. Tudo está conectado.

Olavo de Carvalho é um conspiracionista. Estou lendo Gurps Illuminati. Já viram o card de Iluminatti de uma de torres gêmeas explodindo? Esquizofrenia. Evolucionismo. Liberdade.

E a resposta. Há uma resposta! Normalmente há a sensação de que há uma resposta mas não há nenhuma. Ou há? Mas desta vez há uma resposta. Talvez seja uma resposta para o Javali Lanoso, Imbruglio. O caso é que para essa pergunta, quem é o Inimigo, ainda não tenho resposta. Ele se oculta. Mas a resposta eu tenho, para agora, e ela é: stick.

Isso. Um pau. Chimpanzés usam paus para atacar bonecos de leopardo. Os australopicinos e provavelmente o ramidus também deviam usar paus. Quem deve ter afiado o primeiro pau? Pointed sticks. Não lembro se há artefatos australopitecinos, parece que não há. Mas pointed sticks se consegue muito fácil, basta quebrar um. Eu já produzi alguns assim, no passado. O Homem do Pau. Eu era obcecado por sticks. Talvez um sinal. A resposta é um stick.

Mas não há a resposta para a resposta. Quero dizer, o que eu vou fazer com um stick? Que stick eu vou arrumar? Havia uma borduna em casa, nos anos 70. Índios vão ao Congresso com bordunas. Imagine se eu fosse com minha M-16 de antes da queda. Ambos matam. Talvez uma katana. Mas deve ser caro, e não. A resposta é um stick, de madeira. Um boken seria maravilhoso. A desculpa pode ser fazer ginástica. Posso perguntar na academia onde arrumo. *Bastão*! Lembrei como se diz stick em português. É isso, bastão. É o que é preciso, um bastão.

A queda foi uma ilusão. Eu nunca saí realmente do Exército. Ele pelo menos não saiu de mim. É uma experiência para sempre, mas do jeito que eu saí, socialmente, eu caí, não fui soldado. Mas eu fui. Teve um significado. Os jogos de guerra tiveram e têm um significado. Ser um guerreiro, não em um sentido romântico, mas muito prático, de casta. Está no meu modo de pensar, e influencia minhas ações e minhas influências. Quero dizer, meu filho vai ser um filho de soldado, ainda que o povo não o reconheça. Ele vai se tornar um soldado e o povo ignaro não vai perceber por que. Mas é porque ele nasceu em uma linhagem guerreira, de jogos de guerra e uma experiência crepuscular na guerra. Uma experiência entre a fantasia e a realidade, breve e questionável, mas definitiva. A M-16 faz parte de minha personalidade como se eu a tivesse realmente usado. Menos, naturalmente, quantitativamente, mas efetivamente, qualitativamente.

A moça da lojinha da Vivo é absolutamente linda. Simpática também. Mas deve ser daquelas coisas para os deuses.

Eu falei hoje com Alessandra. Nostalgia de meus breves dias olímpicos. Não sei se vai voltar algum dia. As coisas vão ficando distantes.

Eu tento não reclamar mais. Eu sentia que não aguentava mais há 13 anos. Eu aguentei. De um jeito meio patético, mas aguentei. Mais forte hoje do que ontem. Pelo menos, mais do que há 13 anos.

Estou meio perplexo. Mas não demais.

This one is for Wendy Lin.


There is a Calvin & Hobbes story in which Calvin get's completely obsessed with a cap with a rotor on top of it, called "beanies". All he has to do to get it is to collect something like 5 empty boxes of his special cereals with chocolatte, which he does in no time, driving Hobbes sick just by watching it. Most of the rest of the story is he waiting for the so much desired beanies to come by mail, in memorable scenes such as his daydreaming at school about flying with the beanies, with a silly and cute smile in his face. Every day he arrives at home completely hyper with a ear to ear smile asking for confirmation on his beanies arrival. When, weeks after, he finally gets depressed and gets home saying he doesn't want to hear about beanies, his mother has the box for him :-). The story goes on with him breaking his beanies, his father fixing them for him, and finally, his discovery that the beanies don't actually fly, which ends up with him putting the whole obsession aside and going for his regular business with running around with Hobbes playing calvinball.

Well, I got sort of like that with Gmail :-). I had had to chose between usernames at Gmail, spent a whole night looking up cool people's emails, such as Steve Jobs steve@mac.com and Linus Torvalds torvalds@transmeta.com, but in the end, having no tonepti@gmail.com left to use, I failed miserably and did a tonetpipoteco@gmail.com. I do believe in the format, and use it with yahoo.com.br, but come on, where is the flair of being earlier in the Gmail game, and having all those user names open yet to use? In Yahoo everything was already taken, tonetpi, tpoteco, poteco, spharion, I arrived late so it was ok to be spharion3 or tonetpipoteco. But in Gmail? Well, soon my sister dignosed me with having the beanies syndrome, which helped me to cool down a bit and realize my tantrum was not that bizarre. Well, at least not to me, if Calvin has it, the silly it is, I understand me having it. I've never grown up much since I was, say, 13, and I'm getting used to enter my 30's that way.

But there was nothing to do, and I found myself between having to rationalize my obsession away, or think a way to just give in to it and get another Gmail ID. I tried to act cool, but here and there I would Google search for an invitation, Gnutella search, and so on... I would never ask for a new one in the list where I got it, too silly. That was when I found Gmail Swap. It sounded cool and silly at the same time, the type of thing people like me would be in. You go there and offer something you have to swap for a Gmail invitation. They have a quite convincing justification for the thing:

Why the rush?

For lots of people, there's no rush; they're happy with their email
service. Some of us, however, are over-eager for Gmail's ease and
elegance. Furthermore, we want to snag a good email address
before the barbarians make it through the gates. Why settle for g_r_a_m_o_p_43fp@gmail.com
when you could sneak in early and nab gramophone@gmail.com?

So, I offered the little I had on the net: An entry on my (completely obscure) blog, and an invitation to Orkut (though most people now would have easy access to it, at least it would mean an extra legitimate friend). There are so many swap offers, and they only show the last 20 or something, so for a very short while my offer was visible, and got me two answers. One didn't contact again, but the other is Wendy Lin, who got her invitation for Orkut and this sorry excuse for a blog entry :-) I hope to know her better, I bet she is a very nice person. Anyway, I owe her my shiny new Gmail account.

Now I think I'll try my talents to get one for my ex-girlfriend :-). She is still using her old NYU account, with meager 50 mega or something, and she used up all the space since I keep getting automated messages about them not being able to deliver my mails to her, which is annoying. Yeah, I can't let go of ex-girlfriends, just like any other beanies. Note how she is still in my Yahoo Profile even though we've been separated for a year and a half, and been living as
far from each other as Israel and Brazil for that last half year
period. Anyway, isn't she cute?

Não fui à academia hoje. Pelo menos fui à cama elástica. Vou tentar dormir hoje à noite e ir na academia amanhâ de manha. Mais uma semana chega ao fim. Menos de duas semanas para a prova do MPU. A vida e suas incógnitas.

5 da tarde. 2 horas para chegar na academia.
Estou lendo a lista federalistabr@yahoogroups.com no Gmail para testar o sistema. É divertidinho o jeito como ele agrupa as mensagens, mas mesmo assim, eu não substituiria por POP. Acho. POP é o que há. Claro que eu ando meio sem espaço de disco, e ter a coisa com acesso e backup distribuidos é legal, mas...
Tive um sonho legal em que eu era policial e estava trocando tiros com os chineses do "Velozes e Furiosos". Acordei de bom humor :D.
Tenho uns três jogos na lista para comprar. Dark Reign II, Warcraft III (minha cópia está com defeito) e Ground Control (esse ainda tenho que ver o demo para ver se vale a pena). Devo ir a São Paulo no fim de semana, e aproveito.
Nenhum convite do Gmail ainda, damn :D

Uma historinha que publiquei agora no Starcraft.org e está esperando autorização. Como eles sumiram com todas minhas histórias anteriores e eu não quero mais perder meus patéticos mas sofridos esforços literários, deixo registrado aqui:

The Nexus Grave

Two more to go, and then it's jump ahead. There were enough distractions up to now. I wish to trade, not to fight. Smashing bugs is a perfect way to lose the sense of beauty of space. But then again, the lasers look cool, blue against the stars, poking holes in the bug's carapaces, leaving a trail of vapor in the atmosphere. Two dead bugs, way to go. There's fleet of Wraiths not much far east from here, but who cares, I'm more into my Dragon ship from Kusari.

I've arrived to a station, in search of commodities. Nice people moving arround, and I love Liberty girls. Here it goes, some boron to sell in the Magellan, back to space. I'll register my name, it's a new station, and I aint sure wether it should go luostari@liberty.com or rikasluostari@liberty.com. rikas@liberty.com is taken, damnit. I'll pick rikasluostari, and then be raw about not having taken luostari instead. Damnit, need some cardamine, I'm getting too strange.

Some jokers make fun of my Hispania accent. Damnit them all Libertarians. Damnit Bretonians too. Guess I'm missing Kusari already. I'm from the border, have something of Kusari in myself. I hide in this Dragon ship and think of myself as some sort of weird rogue ronin. Yeah, a rogue rogue samurai, whatever. Here it comes. More bugs. More lasers. More bombs. More bug vapor. Eek, that sure must stink. I wouldn't know, never faced them from close range to have any olfatorial contact with the beasts.

Now it's some days I'm in cruise starflight, nothing new. And I do that for many years. Till I get very old, and am fortunate enough to have my heart fail, and not some other eek way to buy a farm. I was near the Nexus planet, they've dumped me in orbit around the Nexus.

Vou tentar manter a disciplina de escrever algo aqui todo dia. Primeiro, para ver se atraio algum convite do Gmail. Eu acabei optando por ricardodirani depois de revirar a Internet por modelos de login (o mais legal é o do Steve Jobs, steve@mac.com)e no segundo seguinte à opção, recebo um mail da Heloisa Tuduri endereçado por heloisa@gmail.com. Quer dizer, ela é *A* Heloisa do Gmail. Aparte o fato de que eu ter levado uma noite inteira pensando a respeito da coisa e ter passado o resto do dia lamentando a opção ser uma clara marca de que a academia substituindo os inibidores de recaptação de serotonina, ou seja, que eu estou obsessivo compulsivo como nunca, isso me fez pensar em esperar por uma segunda chance de conseguir um convite para o Gmail e aí tentar tascar um login mais moral, como dirani.
O que provavelmente vai acontecer é que eu *não* vou optar por mover minha base de mails para o Gmail simplesmente porque eu gosto de usar POP e tenho uma antipatia genérica contra Webmails. Claro que é 1G de espaço para armazenar mails que vão contar com uma segurança contra perda impossível de reproduzir em casa, mas no dia em que eu ficar realmente paranoico com isso, eu vou passar a pagar um domínio para ter não 1G, mas alguns gigas para armazenar não só emails, como qualquer tipo de arquivo. Mecanismos de busca por mecanismos de busca, o Thunderbird se localiza muito bem. E na verdade, eu lembro como optei por ricardodirani. Foi vendo o site andykaufman e confirmando minha tendência a gostar desses nomes compostos, sem pontos, hifens e abreviações. Claro que ricardodirani não tem a sonoridade de andykaufman ou alltheweb, mas whatever. Eu preciso aprender a respeitar mais minhas instâncias passadas (e futuras, não desperdiçando tempo como eu desperdiço). Bom, já virou nhenhenhe, então vou deixar nhenhenhe para escrever amanhâ. Afinal, eu ainda quero outro convite do Gmail, hahahaha.

Aha! Um colega de uma lista mandou um convite do Gmail! Agora eu não consigo me decidir entre ricardo.dirani, ricardodirani, rdirani e... SPHARION! Todos estão disponíveis. Que legal. O chato dessa história de colisão é a multiplicidade de logins que se cria. Agora eu até acostumei. spharion, spharion3, spharion75... No Orkut eu apelei e mandei o tal ricardodirani. Quando o Yahoo colocou os 100 mega, descobri que meu amigo Everton que o Yahoo do Brasil dá POP se você aceita receber spam deles. Já o Yahoo.com não dá, só pagando mesmo. Resultado, criei mais um email no Yahoo, como ricardodirani. dirani, rdirani e ricardod estão todos ocupados.

Passei o fim de semana offline. Algum moleque soltou o cabo da antena do prédio, segundo o técnico. Chegou meu comprovante de inscrição para o concurso do MPU. Claro que eu não estudei metade do que deveria ter estudado. Quero dizer, eu li toda a matéria, mas meu rendimento esteve entre 60% e 50%, isto é, alguma coisa tem que acontecer nessa última semana... Veremos.

Resolvi postar mais coisas aqui, para ver se me mandam uma conta no Gmail... Veremos também.

Estou jogando Freelancer. E porque fiquei empolgado com os Blood Dragons de Kusari (ronins do futuro, armados de pistolas), fui jogar Shogo, que dá essa noção de japoneses guerreiros em armaduras high tech e fuzis de alta potência a guisa de katanas. Está divertido, especialmente porque acho que não tinha jogado ainda neste computador, dá para rodar com tudo no máximo e resolução de 800x600 32bits de cor.

Joguei um pouco de Warcraft III também, na busca pela experiência da batalha campal de Freelancer (afinal, é a coisa mais parecida com Starcraft II que existe até agora, especialmente considerando os anões fuzileiros), o jogo é muito bom, mas a cópia é pirata e está dando pane em uma das missões dos orcs. Estou pensando em comprar o original. Tem aquela coisa do Razor, que crackeou o Warcraft III, de comprar o software se você gostou, e faz sentido, patrocinar o desenvolvimento de software voluntariamente, ao invés de pela lei do copyright. Mas provavelmente eu vou só tentar comprar outra cópia pirata, hehehe.

Nó.
Acabei de redescobrir este blog. Não lembrava mais onde ele era, e achava que por falta de uso tivesse sido apagado. Agora eu sou um blogger! Yeeeeey! E estou pensando em ir escrevendo em português, porque senão a única amiga que eu tenho que lê blogs vai ficar alienada. É isso aí, Daniela. Wow. Vou ficar famoso.

Estou na terceira semana na ginástica. Vou sempre de manhâ, e agora tenho um uniforme todo doido, inspirado na roupa da Uma Thurman em Kill Bill. Fui até rever o filme, que eu já tinha visto quando estreou em Israel em novembro do ano passado, só por causa da roupa. Também fez parte de educar minha mãe para o Tarantino. Comecei com Pulp Fiction, e ela, que havia feito um voto de não ver mais filmes violentos, surpreendentemente ficou empolgadíssima com o filme (bem mais do que me pareceu com Kill Bill, aliás - de fato, Pulp é mais impressionante enquanto... história?).

Menos de um mês para a prova do MPU. Estou pouco confiante, mas há opções, inclusive para ir a Brasília, ou Goiânia. Aulas de inglês. É o que eu vou estudar assim que passar a prova. TOEFL.