Keyboard Social

There is certainly something to be said about one man's limited contact with the rest of the world and the very frontier of that communication taking place in a social networking website. Namely, it's pitiful. My own anxieties and mastery of self-loathing keep me from real world interactions and thus, I am relegated to the admittedly lame safety of the clickety-clack-clacks of a keyboard and the glow of an old-school beige box computer screen. This is how I mingle.

Let us disregard the MySpace and Blogger accounts. These affairs are a one-man show where I take stage and spotlight looking at an auditorium with the lights so low that the audience can't be seen. Interaction? Nil. Enter Gaia Online.

I came across Gaia many a month ago and took interest in the character creation aspect, alone - not taking into consideration any of the other features associated with the website. Having created a virtual self in past games, I thought it was another effort worth looking into. I didn't take the jump and sign up with an account immediately but it was something that was kept in mind. Up until a week ago.

In an attempt to kill the curiousity, I signed up with an account, got set with default items and somehow finagled my way to the general chatroom area known in Gaia as "Towns." It's not all text, mind you, but instead has an interface with a visual aspect consisting of your avatar (created character) and other avatars running around and conversing with whatever it is that people talk about. The thing about Gaia, however, is that it's well known to be marketed towards and populated by teenagers, teenagers, and did I mention teenagers? I quickly found out, "Post-High School Central" this is not.

That jump and up until now I am uncomfortable with the realization that I've committed myself to socializing in an area that is not developed for the twenties-minded. To be fair, at least I'm not a creepy, early 40's goon eagerly hoping to have cyber sex with a pre-pubescent teen who doesn't know any better. "They" say it happens and frankly, I'm not surprised. And with the horrors of "creepdom," you will also see other flavors of the less-desirable faculties of humanity reveal itself.

It's quite interesting to see a Gaian diehard throw automatic hate on a noob (new user) even at times when you're on the receiving end. See as how online behavior is inevitably representative of real world decorum, it is a sad site to see that abortive discrimination is still so easily thrown around. "I hate you because I'm supposed to hate you. For I am superior and you, the low person." As harmless as "noob hate" is, its origins in the mind is far from innocent. What can exist in one, will exist in another. Hate does not live alone.

Gaia is not completely ill. More often then not, you'll come across someone who is capable of looking beyond your default clothing. (It might as well be your skin color, sexual orientation, religion, whatever target generalized prejudice needs.)

I've enjoyed my time thus far with the slight instances of connection with another human being. The kind word, the shared interest - these are to be enjoyed and relished in its simplicity, especially for me, given my livelihood in the "doors shut, curtains closed" way. Socially, I've accomplished more in this past week then I have in months. It's a truth I don't like and if confidence was my name, Gaia would still be a curiosity and this blog entry would not have been written. Instead, you're stuck with Lacking.

I don't know if Gaia will be a long term engagement. I'd like to think "no" and that there will be a better anything to put my time and effort in but as it stands, my own insecurities keep me trapped, replacing a reality with a computer generated one. Since Gaia is populated by real people - 97.3% teenager, I assume - hate and kindness exist in both. The kindness is swell but it is that hate and other malicious tendencies in a human being that keep me in front of this beige box glow. The safeties are on and whatever verbal fists and kicks are thrown, they only end up as text. Unfortunately, so does the kindness.

Those Pesky Pescetarians

Last night I did a wikipedia search on vegetarianism to see where I am exactly on my non-meat eating stance. There are varying categories of being a vegetarian and I knew for sure I wasn't reaching "top-of-the-line" status with my thirst for dairy products. Yes, I would like a glass of milk, thank you.

What did I find in this recent wikipedia raid? As it goes, I am not a vegetarian. Shocker!! Since I eat fish, I am out of the vegetarian club; apparently some of them get testy when salmon lovers everywhere claim to be vegetarians. I wouldn't want to get the stink-eye from someone who doesn't eat meat. The Force is strong with them, I reckon. Full-on vegans are probably Jedi Masters. At a buffet, Sith Lords can be found by the counter where they slice roast beef. Cool.

To sum it all up, I officially recognize my re-classification as a pescetarian. It is pronounced with a distinct "SKuh" sound. I had to look that up. I sure as heck couldn't say it just by looking at it. Just look at Joe Pesci's name. All together, folks, PESK-e-tair-IAN.

[NOTE: my MySpace page has been fixed accordingly to reflect my non-vegetarian status]

Minor Sunday Observations To Get Things Going

I look out the car window and see a woman tending to her child in a blue baby cart. Bent over, her cleavage shows. She has very big breasts. I'm not a "breast man" myself but they're there, so there. Out of nowhere, another woman appears. "Hmmm," I think to myself. They were both brunettes.

An old man on a motorized cart was rolling along with music being blasted from an unseen speaker unit. What was playing? I could've sworn it was the soundtrack from Karate Kid 2. You know, the one with Zamfir on the pan flute.

The moon in the morning sky, sitting across from the bright sun chaser, looked awkward. I look up and see something wrong. I glance at my feet to re-orient myself and look up again, again only to see something wrong. The moon was lopsided! Maybe it had too much to drink, made an inappropriate comment about Pluto no longer considered a planet and got its face kicked in. Anybody else see this?

The Circus Is A Whore

At this point in time I've decided to give up on writing. The circus is a whore with shitty looking clowns and half-assed acts, stumble filled and drunk. There are holes in the tent and the animals are all gimped. All the while, the guy selling the peanuts is kicking you in the balls every few minutes, all to remind you: the internet connection here is no fun at all.

Upon my return we will see where it goes from there.

Full Court St. Michael

It's different, it is. The biggest "whoa" being the full court, hoops on either side with a center line where tip-offs take place but rarely do. I once heard there was a neighborhood league 'round these parts but it is almost certain that there isn't one now. The sun strikes the pavement the way a stranger says hello; unfamiliar but willing. In San Jose over the eastside hills, the shining attack is direct: bombarding the driveway half-court without mercy, save for a very green and very leafy tree. If the leaves were a haircut it would be a Beatles' mop-top hideously mismanaged. Here at the St. Michael Village basketball court, however, the daybringer takes a different approach. It flanks the center line with an angle only the unholy commit to. A most cunning assault . . . if it weren't for the mighty tall green army at guard gracefully standing steadfast. As the day rises over, the court is saved from first morning dayfire by tremendous trees that stand with haircuts proper. Wild grass grows. Gravel strewn about on raw pavement. A small concrete stage sits on one side silent in this sunrise hour, life kept afloat only by the sound of a rubber bounce-bounce. Shoot. Miss. Bounce. Scattered about is a steel playground consisting of slightly rusted swings, slide, see-saws, and a minor jungle gym. It's too early for kids to play. Instead of the stale snails of San Jose leaving trails of ick as they sludge about through their prosaic existence, the St. Michael court is home to black and yellow caterpillars with more meaningful wriggles. Though they walk their usual walk, these eyes catch each step as a funky dance from here to there. By San Jose sandal or St. Michael slipper (no sneakers), from here to there, neither court is better than the other. It's different, it is. And that's all that it is.