Do you question Socratic Method?

That's all I have actually. Just a sweet title.

Genometry is a book title I inadvertently stole

A few years ago Man mapped the human genome, opening a world of possibilities, one of which being genetic perfection. Imagine a superhuman race, with hay fever a thing of the past. Genetic enhancement has a romantic chime to it, but I didn’t always think so. There was a time I would have denounced genetic engineering outright. I would have said, “Nay, genetically engineer not, for we are created by God, in his own image”, but I have noticed over the years that Science can give us what Religion as yet cannot; tangible results, and my tune has changed (ok, I never believed in God, but shall we pretend for a while that I did?). The topic of morality in the world of gene research has always been a hot one, so I’m going to poke the coals a little and see if I can get a fire going.

Let’s say for argument’s sake that there is a God, and that we are created in his or her image (his from now on for simplicity’s sake). Does that not make Adam the original clone? This theory alone legitimizes cloning. God himself invented cloning, and by giving us the intelligence to do so ourselves, God condones it. How then can we argue that cloning is morally reprehensible and contrary to God’s plan? It seems to me like that was the plan all along.

To be fair, I don’t want God to be my whipping boy, for lack of a better term, the whole essay through, so I’m going to require a certain argumentative ambiguity to keep this up. Instead of taking the side of either Science or Religion, I’ll compromise, like everybody else who believes in it, with Intelligent Design. God becomes Creator, and I get to use a term without so much pomp attached.

Intelligent Design. Is it Religion? Is it Science? Is it a peanut butter and jam sandwich? We may never know. My best guess is that it’s an amalgamation of the two, concocted for the Science v/ Religion fence sitters who need a non-threatening Faith to cling to when Science lets them down. It is my intention to get to the point. If Intelligent Design states that there is a Creator, which it does, and that there was a grand plan, which it also does, does it not stand to reason that said Creator purposely created us with the ability to create for ourselves? I think the Science side has proven that to be so, and the frosted side says if this is the case, does it not also stand to reason that we were designed with enough intelligence to re-create ourselves in any image we might like? The door to designer genes opens thusly.

Let’s take a different tack. A cheetah can run fast, right? And it has sharp claws and teeth? And am I correct in saying that the cheetah uses these bounties to the best of its abilities? Not knowing a cheetah personally we can’t say so with certainty, but for argument’s sake let’s suppose that it does. Now, if the cheetah was given its abilities by the Creator, can we also suppose that it was meant to use them for its own good? Again, let’s assume so. By that standard then, could we say that if Man was given the intellectual capacity to discover the human genome, map it, and then begin genetically modifying ourselves for the better, or merely to our liking, were we not meant to do just that?

In conclusion, if we are crediting Intelligent Design with any kind of legitimacy, and if we're still following, we’re saying God (because let’s be honest, that’s what that means), if there is one, gave us the ability to improve on ourselves, and it would be an affront to God himself if we squandered that gift. God gave us diseases, defects, and really ugly people, as well as enough Intelligence to eventually figure out how to get rid of those things. Let’s show God his faith in us is warranted and take everything apart like a little kid with an old radio, except this time we’ll use the parts to build a rocket ship. A sexy ass rocket ship. That would do him proud.

Backseat Driver

Last night I dreamed that I was driving. I didn’t know where I was driving to, I might have been lost, but it was more like I was just driving around aimlessly, without a destination. I do know that there was a person in the backseat that kept telling me I was going the wrong way. It was driving me crazy.

“Turn right here. Change lanes. This is a dead end street.”

I wanted to kill the son of a b, but the farther I drove, the more it became clear that almost every choice I made that was purely in spite of my backseat driver was wrong. I consistently found bumper to bumper traffic, dead ends, one ways, obstacles, and construction zones. I drove on in denial for what must have been hours, becoming more and more frustrated because it never seemed like I was getting anywhere, until I finally gave up. On the verge of a mental breakdown I lost all hope, and listened. The backseat driver told me to turn left, and I did. I found myself on a beautiful stretch of road, with orchards and gardens on both sides, stretching as far as I could see. There were no other cars, no construction, no potholes. It was the idyllic street. I kept listening to the person in the back after that, and witnessed many wonderful things. I was never harried, never forced to slow down, everywhere I went was at my own pace. Eventually my backseat driver directed me down a short dirt road that led to a beach. I decided to stop and rest for a while, and listen to the surf. I munched on grapes I had bought at a farm stand and watched albatross soar upon the wind. As I was sitting there I realized that I was in swimming trunks, and had a beach towel on the seat next to me. “This is where I always wanted to be” I thought. It occurred to me then that I should apologize to the backseat driver, and thank him for his navigational advice. I turned around to offer grapes, as a dove would an olive branch, but was astonished to find the back seat empty. It didn’t make any sense. He was there, I had heard him only moments before, guiding me down to the beach. I knew he hadn’t gotten out, I would have heard that, but where could he have gone?

Puzzled, I turned back around to gaze at the surf and contemplate the events that had led me to that spot. I thought back to the beginning, when I was ignoring the voice in the back seat, and making all the wrong decisions. I realized that I’d known in every instance that I was choosing the wrong direction, but stubbornly plodded on because I didn’t like being told what to do. It was only in losing hope, in desperation, that I gave in to the voice and finally found my way. It was only when I asked for help, however reluctantly, that I was able to help myself. I awoke before my alarm with a rare awareness. I felt like I had stumbled upon something profound, but what? What was my subconscious mind trying to tell me? What, if anything, could I learn from this dream?

Freud might say I have an Oedipus complex, and Jung might claim it symbolizes the path of my psyche, a shy animal running equal parts fascinated and frightened around the central truth, drawing ever nearer, but never fully understanding what the hell it is. What is the centre? I may never know, asymbolically. I think the dream is far simpler than all of that. I think it was merely trying to tell me to smarten up, listen up, but most importantly open up, and stop ignoring whatever it is that’s been trying to guide me throughout my life. I think it was trying to tell me to stop making the same choices, and start listening to those inner voices. Of course another important lesson learned from this particular dream is that if you ever hear a backseat driver say, “Let’s stop at this farm stand,” your only response should be, “That is a damn good idea.”

Thought Colander

The problem with trying to live a spiritual, care-free lifestyle is that there are far too many people around who are not. I guess that’s why so many people struggle to find that peace of mind. There is just precious little peace out there. There’s far too much noise. I often find it hard to sleep with all that noise zooming around on the Collective Consciousness. It keeps me tossing and turning, trying to shut my mind off to it, but what I really want is open up and access it. I just don't want all of it. I want to tap into the psychic Trade Winds of knowledge, but I need some kind of filter to keep out all the useless, distracting information. Could there be such a thing? How do people meditate in the city? They must have devised some kind of filter for the subconscious that only allows what they need to pervade their minds. Where can I find something like that? My waking mind is bad enough, but at night it’s as if everybody is thinking at once, and my antenna is picking up all of it. I once dreamed of a silence tape that would drown out all sound. Now I dream of a thought colander, a butterfly net for mind, so I can frolic through the Meadows of Dreams catching only the most fascinating things, allowing the rest to fly on and bother somebody else.

Zombies

What's with all the zombie movies? It has to be a commentary on our society that so many movies are made about mindless automotons walking around in droves. I wonder if anybody has picked up on that. Just to get in on what everybody else is doing, in zombonian fashion, I have my own idea for a zombie movie. It's about a society that has overcome zombie occupation and uses them for their own needs. What it's really about though, is zombie gladiators. It would be sweet to have gladiators that could lose limbs and just keep fighting like nothing had happened. And the winner would be the one that dines on brains. I guess I should find out if zombies even have brains. Insert commentary on society here. The coolest thing about my zombie gladiator movie would be that human convicts would also be pitted against zombie gladiators in a battle to the undeath. Convicts would be promised pardon if they could survive against zombie gladiators, but if they did they would actually be sent to a maximum security prison, because criminals who can defeat zombies in hand to hand combat have no place in our society. There would be zombie rights groups protesting the unfair treatment of zombie gladiators, and at some point the militant wing of a zombie rights group would infiltrate the zombie holding pens and release them. A wave of zombies trained for combat would wreak havoc on their helpless human oppressors. I think it would have to take place in the US, because they're the only ones fool enough to train zombies for combat. In a last ditch effort to stop the army of zombie gladiators, the prisoners from the maximum security prison would be released to fight the zombies. The president himself would promise them a Top Secret Double Pardon if they could bring the zombie gladiators to heel. There would be fighting with nets and staves in every street of every city, but eventually the criminals would beat back the zombies and reclaim their country. In a twist, the criminals would be invited to a gala dinner to celebrate and receive their pardons, but they would all be murdered, because criminals who can defeat an army of zombie gladiators in hand to hand combat really have no place in our society.

False Advertising

I was feeling lonely last night, so I went to the video store. I wanted a...special video. A naked video. I wanted to watch people doing each other. As usual I was browsing by title, because in the past I've found the best way to pick an adult video is by its name. Ignore the pictures. All adult movies have the same pictures on the box; some dude in some chick with a big star over their junk so you can't see anything. It tells you nothing. Porno titles are the most clever movie titles there are. There's something about being in the creepiest business around that makes people imaginative, so you know the movie must be good. Anyway, I went home with Bedknobs and Broomsticks. Major disappointment.

Editor's note: I'm at Dan's

Once Upon A Time In Mexico

Puerto Vallarta can be a scary town if you find yourself in the wrong place, doing the wrong things. For instance, hanging out with ex-cons is a good way to find trouble, especially if you’re up to your eyeballs in Ecstasy and don’t know who is related to whom. Gary, the guy I was traveling with, was eating pill tacos one night, picked a girl up at a party, and slept with her in my van. She turned out to be the little sister of Hector, a guy we’d met recently at the stand Gary was getting those tacos. Hector is a psycho. Apparently he has killed a few people, and after the night that followed I believe it. He thought his sister was a virgin before Gary too, which didn't seem to help matters. A couple of nights after the van shagging we were drinking at Ramiro’s when Hector came charging in, screaming in Spanish. He saw Gary and went right over the table at him, hitting him full in the face with a haymaker. Gary’s chair flew out from under him and he ended up right on his back, but before Hector could take advantage a few of us grabbed him. Of course when he saw I was helping hold him back, he aimed his wrath in my direction. I still have a scar down my neck from his fingernails. He was screaming, “I’ll kill you fucking gringos!” and trying to fight off four guys who were holding him back. We decided to get the hell out of there and were heading out the door when he broke away and ran into another room. Jose yelled out, “Fucking run cabarons!” and we did. Just as we got in the van Hector came barrelling out of the house with a handgun. I flashed it up and as we tore out of there the psycho started shooting. Two bullets tore right through the side of my van. We decided then and there to leave Puerto Vallarta so we drove as fast as we could to Eduardo’s, got as much of our stuff as we could find in a hurry (Gary stole a bunch of peyote), and we hit the road. I have never been that scared in my life. I should have killed Gary for almost getting me killed. And my poor van! But guess what, after we stopped we were checking out the bullet holes and we found a bullet! It went through one wall and buried itself in a cross member on the other side. I dug it out and made a necklace with it, and Gary got gonorrhea, so in the end everybody got what they deserved.

In With The Old, Out With The New

Sadness has been pervading my psyche of late. Inspiration is waning. There are a number of reasons for my normally jovial self to be less than excited to get up in the morning, but I have decided not to speak of them directly, for fear of having a whiny blog, which I told myself in the beginning I wouldn’t do. But alas if I’m to write, I must write what’s in my head.

I feel like I’m spinning my wheels again. Do you ever find yourself thinking you’re doing everything differently, with an entirely different perspective, only to find every aspect of your life is exactly the way it always was? If so, does it take the wind out of your sails? It does me. It’s like sailing headlong into the doldrums, without any horses to throw overboard. When that happens, motivation and inspiration take a major hit. I stop caring about the things I’m unhappy with. I let them slide. I lose all pride in my job, I live in squalor and disarray, I don’t shave for weeks at a time…actually I’m quite happy with that one. I have a sweet ass Fu Manchu. The lower I get though, the more likely I am to shut my brain down and shuffle through life like a zombie, forgetting about the things that make me happy. I stop watching soccer, stop reading, and I stop writing.

So how do I stay on top of my game? The solutions are pretty simple. I can’t let every day life grind on me so much, and I can’t forget to do those things that make me happy, like building alka seltzer bottle rockets, shattering my land speed record (currently 72.4 km/h, I’m gunning for you Jess), buying a McGill sweatshirt at Value Village to feel scholarly while I’m up all night playing video games, and writing, even if it’s rubbish, to keep my mind nimble. Well at least I have the last three down.

65.3 Ways to Die

I received a gift a few days ago. It was the gift of Speed. Well, it was more like the gift of the Knowledge of Speed. I got a speedometer for my bike. It’s like a little bike computer. It records my trip/overall mileage, RPM, and most importantly, Speed, Average Speed, and Maximum Speed. I don’t think it will come as a surprise to anybody that the first thing I did was ride to the top of the nearest hill to see how fast I could go down it. I did a couple of runs before dark and got up to 54.8 km/h, but I wasn’t quite satisfied with that result. I knew there was more in me. The next day I went to a bigger, longer hill, and by the time I reached bottom I had achieved a blistering 62.6 km/h, but that still wasn’t quite enough. I knew there was still more speed in me, so this morning, on the way to work, I bombed that same hill again. For much of it I rested, reserving energy for the final burst at the end, where the gradient is greatest, but I had a time to beat, so as I rounded the last corner I ignored the fact that there is a crosswalk at the bottom, and that the last time I careened down that hill some guy thought it was a good idea to cross in front of me. I forgot about the evasive maneuvers required not to cut him in two as he mimicked the proverbial chicken. I was going for speed. To Hell with consequences. Ducking down to reduce wind resistance, I let the harnessed adrenaline shoot through my veins like anabolic cobra venom. The wind whistled deafeningly in my ears, tears streamed from my eyes, my fingers went numb with cold, locked in a deathgrip on the handlebars, all while my legs pumped the pedals like a steam locomotive out of control. If anybody had decided to cross that walk today I probably couldn’t have grabbed the brakes if I’d wanted to, and at the speed I was going they wouldn't have done any good anyway.

Once I’d done darting in and out of downtown traffic I cycled through the many options on my new bike computer to find my Max Speed, and discovered that I had beat my personal best by almost 3 km/h. My new record is 65.3 km/h, and now that I’m in the top half of the 60’s, I’m gunning for 70. There’s a hill, known around these parts as the Big Dipper, that just might be steep enough for me to break the 70 km/h mark. Of course then I’ll have to beat that record, but there are always steeper hills, and an endless supply of harnessed adrenaline. Besides, if I don’t one up myself, who will?

Autumn Of My Love

The magic is fading, and now my eyes wander elsewhere. It was fun for a while, a love affair really, but now the love is drying up. Have you ever had a lover who, after the initial torrent of affection, began to let themselves go? This is happening with Karkharoth. In the beginning he was all ferocity, all viciousness, all powerful. He ran down and devoured those in his path without fatigue, without pain, without injury. He was invincible. But he has started to slip; gears, handlebars, brakes, they all slip. Every second day I have to take things apart, rebuild them. I wonder, is it like this with every bike named after a fictional wolf of Evil Infamy? He still darts in front of speeding cars, still chases backhoes, but when he does these things now it is always with groans of protest. He doesn’t have the same vigour he once had, he’s old beyond his years, and can’t be trusted in traffic, so I look elsewhere. I should have known this would happen when I christened Karkharoth such. Just as the real (fictional) Karkharoth was eventually destroyed by that which empowered him (the Silmaril in his belly), so is my Karkharoth being destroyed by the power that makes it run, namely, my monstrous thighs. Its frame has proven too frail for the power that flows through me, so I look elsewhere.

I’m in the market for a superior steed. I need something that can match the might of Odin himself, and not crack under the rigours of battle. I need a Valkyrie, in touring bike format, that can carry me to my own Valhalla. I need a bike built for power and speed, that can tackle the tallest mountain, and cause sonic booms down the back side. Know of any?

What Once Was Shall Once More Be

Recently, I lost my “I’m The Best” t-shirt. It was a savage blow, because it was pretty much my best t-shirt. I reminisced about the times we had together; the parties, the mornings after parties. I wore that shirt all the way across Central America. I truly was The Best. But one day I realized I hadn’t seen it in a while, and the next two weeks brought on the realization that, like the One Ring, it had left me of its own volition.

I was bitter for a while. Unable to come to terms with the fact that my Best shirt had left me. One day though, in a moment of clarity, I suddenly understood. It wasn’t the shirt’s fault. I was no longer The Best. I thought back to the weeks surrounding the loss of my t-shirt and realized I had definitely not been at my Best. I was sad, unproductive, a shadow of my recent self, much more like my former. I had let myself go in a sense, and lost my The Best status as a result. I felt better after that, about the loss of my t-shirt. I realized that the loss of the t-shirt was actually a helpful reminder that I was slipping again. I immediately cheered up, started eating better, and writing again.

Later that week I was explaining to Catfish my theories of why the shirt was gone, of why I was no longer The Best, and that somebody out there who is more deserving must now be wearing it. He agreed with my synopsis and told me that some day perhaps it would come back to me. I smiled at that. Maybe it would. That night I was in the studio and I noticed something dark sticking out from under my drum kit. I reached down, pulled out a handful of fabric, and as I unfolded it those unmistakable glittery rainbow letters jumped out at me, virtually screaming "I’m The Best." It was back, again of its own volition, with its rightful owner.

Some of you might say, “Obviously you threw your shirt off in a fit of joy while playing drums!” and some of you might even be right in a technical sense, but you would be ignoring the deeper meaning. You’d be disregarding the power of the Cosmos, and its ability to bend Fate to its will. I choose to look at it from a far more philosophical, perhaps even fantastic angle. I believe the t-shirt really was gone and then re-appeared, much like it appeared to me the day I first found it, as if out of thin air. I believe the realization that indeed it is possible for me to become less than Best was enough to restore my errant Best-itude. I just needed that gentle reminder that I am not the Pope. I am fallible, and bound to slip up every once in a while. The key is to recognize when I’m slipping and grab hold of something before I end up back at the bottom of the slope, clawing with bloody fingernails to regain my rank, because by then it could be too late. Usurpers are ever lurking, looking to exploit weakness, and I shan't show them any more if I can help it.

It’s good to be King.

Martyrbation

Those we call The Powers That Be have pulled a hot one. I was feeling below average on the Brain Chart today, so I tried to load my phone version of Brain Challenge for a little boost. I was dismayed to find that it would no longer load. “Funk and Wagnall’s!” I exclaimed, “They sold me a game with an expiry date.” Then, when I tried to get it anew, I found the download page didn’t work either! That is when I realized what was happening. I was up to 58%, and I think those bastards were afraid they were creating a monster. Maybe they’ve been monitoring my blog as well, and got nervous when I began leaning toward world domination. In a move reminiscent of the executions of Justin of Samaria, and Jesus himself, they pulled the plug on Brain Challenge. They realized they had a messiah in the making on their hands, and didn’t want to deal with the repercussions.

“Keep the layman laid.” That is the policy of big corporation. Don’t let the little guy get bigger than his britches. But this time they’ve failed. They think they’ve halted my ascension by taking Brain Challenge out of the equation, but they’re mistaken. I will not allow my mind to be a martyr. I will soldier on, because if I learned anything from Brain Challenge it is that I really do have a Good Memory, and I remember now. I remember I have a thirst that can only be slaked by a quest for knowledge. It’s too late for those who sit around in cummerbunds plotting to keep the masses downtrodden. It’s too late, because they’ve already created a mental monster, and this monster remembers a time before his astuteness was dulled by daily drudgery. Brain Challenge was my Whetstone of Wits, and I have honed them back into a formidable weapon.

So I may not have Brain Challenge any longer, but it was long worn out from its task of sharpening my Katana of Kanowledge. So I may not have their “Brain Capacity” percentages to mark my progress, but I have transcended mainstream cerebral parameters. I have awoken from The Matrix if you will. I am no longer playing their game.