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Below are the 20 most recent journal entries recorded in Real Name's LiveJournal:

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    Saturday, February 12th, 2005
    10:34 am
    A chronology of the Middle East conflict
    This is taken from the Economist online. I like to remind myself of this sort of thing occasionally.
    Read more...Collapse )

    Current Mood: Yeah. A shower would be good.
    Friday, November 12th, 2004
    2:02 pm
    So I guess that lab exam isn't happening after all....
    It amuses me how many personality tests are available online. I'm not even sure I agree with how the results are used. Anyway, they still make me curious.

    ENTP - "Inventor". Enthusiastic interest in everything and always sensitive to possibilities. Non-conformist and innovative. 3.2% of the total population.
    Take Free Myers-Briggs Personality Test
    personality tests by


    ENFP - "Journalist". Uncanny sense of the motivations of others. Life is an exciting drama. 8.1% of total population.
    Take Free Myers Briggs Jung Personality Test

    On other occasions, I've gotten INTP and INFP.
    a description of the ENFP
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    ENTP Description
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    Enneagram Test Results

    The Enneagram is a personality system which divides the entire human personality into nine behavioral tendencies, this is your score on each...
    Enneagram Test Results
    Type 1 Perfectionism |||||| 30%
    Type 2 Helpfulness |||||||||||||||| 70%
    Type 3 Image Awareness |||||||||||||||||| 76%
    Type 4 Sensitivity |||||| 23%
    Type 5 Detachment |||||| 26%
    Type 6 Anxiety |||||||||| 33%
    Type 7 Adventurousness |||||||||||||||||| 80%
    Type 8 Aggressiveness |||||||||||||| 60%
    Type 9 Calmness |||||||||||| 43%
    Your Conscious-Surface type is 7w8
    Your Unconscious-Overall type is 9w1
    Take Free Enneagram Personality Test
    personality tests by

    Wednesday, October 20th, 2004
    12:19 pm
    this is all.
    morally deficient
    Threat rating: Medium. Your total lack of decent
    family values makes you dangerous, but we can
    count on some right wing nutter blowing you up
    if you become too high profile.

    What threat to the Bush administration are you?
    brought to you by Quizilla
    Friday, June 11th, 2004
    11:45 pm
    Holy shit. So hyper. *does a back flip* *does 6 backhand springs* *runs a marathon* AAAAAHHHH!!!

    Current Mood: EEEEEEEEE!!!!!!
    Thursday, August 21st, 2003
    11:12 pm
    Friday, May 9th, 2003
    1:51 pm
    A very creepy article, published in today's paper.

    Dining with the Patriot Act
    Gun-pointing officers invade restaurant in the name of homeland security
    Los Angeles Times

    Several weeks ago, my roommate Asher and I went to an Indian restaurant in the heart of midtown Manhattan. We helped ourselves to the buffet and sat down.

    Suddenly five police officers in bulletproof vests stormed down the stairs. They had their guns drawn and were pointing them at the restaurant staff and at us.

    "Go to the back of the restaurant," they yelled. I hesitated. "Did you not hear me? Go to the back and sit down," they demanded. I complied and looked around at the other patrons: eight men including the waiter, all of South Asian descent and ranging from late teens to senior citizen. One officer pointed his gun in the waiter's face and shouted: "Is there anyone else in the restaurant?" The waiter, terrified, gestured to the kitchen.

    The police placed their fingers on the triggers of their guns and kicked open the kitchen doors. Shouts emanated from the kitchen and a few seconds later five Latino men crawled out on their hands and knees, guns pointed at them.

    After patting us all down, the five officers seated us at two tables. As they continued to kick open doors to closets and restrooms with their fingers glued to their triggers, officials in business suits emerged from the stairwell. Two walked over to our table and identified themselves as agents of the Immigration and Naturalization Service and the Homeland Security Department.

    I asked why we were being held. The INS agent said we would be released once they confirmed that there were no outstanding warrants against us and our immigration status was OK.

    `You have no right to hold us'

    In pre-9/11 America, the legality of this would have been questionable. After all, the Fourth Amendment guarantees "the right of the people to be secure against unreasonable searches and seizures.""You have no right to hold us," said Asher. But they explained that they did: This was a homeland security investigation under the authority of the Patriot Act.

    The Patriot Act was passed into law on Oct. 26, 2001, in order to facilitate the crackdown on terrorism. Among the unprecedented rights it grants to the federal government are the right to wiretap or detain without a warrant.

    When I asked to speak to a lawyer, the INS official told me I did have the right to a lawyer but I would have to be taken to the station for security clearance before being granted one. When I asked how long that would take, he replied with a coy smile: "Maybe a day, maybe a week, maybe a month."

    We insisted that we had every right to leave and were going to do so. One of the police officers, with his hand on his gun, taunted: "Go ahead and leave, just go ahead." We remained seated.

    Our IDs were taken. I was questioned why my license was from out of state and asked whether I had "something to hide." The police continued to hassle the kitchen workers, demanding licenses and dates of birth.

    `This is for your safety'

    As I continued to press for legal counsel, a female officer put her finger in my face. "We are at war, we are at war and this is for your safety," she exclaimed. As she walked away from the table, she continued to repeat it to herself. "We are at war, we are at war; how can they not understand this?"

    I certainly understand that we are at war, and that we need some measure of security in times like these. But I also understand that the freedoms in the Constitution were meant specifically for times like these.

    After an hour and a half, the INS agent returned our licenses. An officer escorted us out. Before we left, the INS agent apologized.

    Three days after the incident, I phoned the restaurant. The owner was nervous, embarrassed and did not want to talk about it. But I managed to ascertain that the whole thing had been one giant mistake.

    A mistake. Loaded guns pointed in faces, people made to crawl, police officers kicking in doors, taunting, keeping their fingers on the trigger even after the situation was under control. A mistake.

    And a perfectly legal one, thanks to the Patriot Act.

    Jason Halperin lives in New York City. Write him c/o the Los Angeles Times, Times Mirror Square, Los Angeles, CA 90053.
    Tuesday, April 29th, 2003
    11:19 pm
    [expletive deleted]
    Tuesday, April 15th, 2003
    2:55 pm
    I'm not bothering to backdate this, because it would probably never be seen.

    11:00AM April 12, 2003

    For the past week, I’ve lived in dread of coming home again, and yet I seem to have gained a new appreciation for it. There’s something oddly comforting about being home. I like the way it smells….
    Apparently, my younger brother missed me so much that he felt compelled to enter my room at 8:30 this morning to tell me about the best ways to pass gas in public without being noticed. I felt like bear-hugging him right there. “Dearest Christopher,” I said, “Please tell me more about this wondrous art!” But alas, after 15 minutes of bleary-eyed listening, there was no more to be said….
    I haven’t regularly used live journal in at least a year. Nor, quite frankly, do I plan to start. I may, however, use it every once and a while when my writing needs a place to go. Perhaps I can also use it to provide some sort of explanation to the friends I’ve left behind. Who knows, I may eat my words in a week. I don’t plan to limit myself either way.

    For you, JC:

    Morning Song
    by Sylvia Plath

    Love set you going like a fat gold watch.
    The midwife slapped your footsoles, and your bald cry
    Took its place among the elements.

    Our voices echo, magnifying your arrival. New statue.
    In a drafty museum, your nakedness
    Shadows our safety. We stand round blankly as walls.

    I'm no more your mother
    Than the cloud that distils a mirror to reflect its own slow
    Effacement at the wind's hand.

    All night your moth-breath
    Flickers among the flat pink roses. I wake to listen:
    A far sea moves in my ear.

    One cry, and I stumble from bed, cow-heavy and floral
    In my Victorian nightgown.
    Your mouth opens clean as a cat's. The window square

    Whitens and swallows its dull stars. And now you try
    Your handful of notes;
    The clear vowels rise like balloons.
    Friday, April 11th, 2003
    4:51 pm
    I feel like I ought to be using this more. I think it's time to post some poetry. (alan ginsburg, for all interested parties. if you'd like to make fun of my choice, or tell me that I'm not educated, then...... hmmm..... space time will cease to curve around you.)


    America I've given you all and now I'm nothing.
    America two dollars and twentyseven cents January
    17, 1956.
    I can't stand my own mind.
    America when will we end the human war?
    Go fuck yourself with your atom bomb.
    I don't feel good don't bother me.
    I won't write my poem till I'm in my right mind.
    America when will you be angelic?
    When will you take off your clothes?
    When will you look at yourself through the grave?
    When will you be worthy of your million Trotskyites?
    America why are your libraries full of tears?
    America when will you send your eggs to India?
    I'm sick of your insane demands.
    When can I go into the supermarket and buy what I
    need with my good looks?
    America after all it is you and I who are perfect not
    the next world.
    Your machinery is too much for me.
    You made me want to be a saint.
    There must be some other way to settle this argument.
    Burroughs is in Tangiers I don't think he'll come back
    it's sinister.
    Are you being sinister or is this some form of practical
    I'm trying to come to the point.
    I refuse to give up my obsession.
    America stop pushing I know what I'm doing.
    America the plum blossoms are falling.
    I haven't read the newspapers for months, everyday
    somebody goes on trial for murder.
    America I feel sentimental about the Wobblies.
    America I used to be a communist when I was a kid
    I'm not sorry.
    I smoke marijuana every chance I get.
    I sit in my house for days on end and stare at the roses
    in the closet.
    When I go to Chinatown I get drunk and never get laid.
    My mind is made up there's going to be trouble.
    You should have seen me reading Marx.
    My psychoanalyst thinks I'm perfectly right.
    I won't say the Lord's Prayer.
    I have mystical visions and cosmic vibrations.
    America I still haven't told you what you did to Uncle
    Max after he came over from Russia.

    I'm addressing you.
    Are you going to let your emotional life be run by
    Time Magazine?
    I'm obsessed by Time Magazine.
    I read it every week.
    Its cover stares at me every time I slink past the corner
    I read it in the basement of the Berkeley Public Library.
    It's always telling me about responsibility. Business-
    men are serious. Movie producers are serious.
    Everybody's serious but me.
    It occurs to me that I am America.
    I am talking to myself again.

    Asia is rising against me.
    I haven't got a chinaman's chance.
    I'd better consider my national resources.
    My national resources consist of two joints of
    marijuana millions of genitals an unpublishable
    private literature that goes 1400 miles an hour
    and twenty-five-thousand mental institutions.
    I say nothing about my prisons nor the millions of
    underprivileged who live in my flowerpots
    under the light of five hundred suns.
    I have abolished the whorehouses of France, Tangiers
    is the next to go.
    My ambition is to be President despite the fact that
    I'm a Catholic.
    America how can I write a holy litany in your silly
    I will continue like Henry Ford my strophes are as
    individual as his automobiles more so they're
    all different sexes.
    America I will sell you strophes $2500 apiece $500
    down on your old strophe
    America free Tom Mooney
    America save the Spanish Loyalists
    America Sacco & Vanzetti must not die
    America I am the Scottsboro boys.
    America when I was seven momma took me to Com-
    munist Cell meetings they sold us garbanzos a
    handful per ticket a ticket costs a nickel and the
    speeches were free everybody was angelic and
    sentimental about the workers it was all so sin-
    cere you have no idea what a good thing the
    party was in 1835 Scott Nearing was a grand
    old man a real mensch Mother Bloor made me
    cry I once saw Israel Amter plain. Everybody
    must have been a spy.
    America you don't really want to go to war.
    America it's them bad Russians.
    Them Russians them Russians and them Chinamen.
    And them Russians.
    The Russia wants to eat us alive. The Russia's power
    mad. She wants to take our cars from out our
    Her wants to grab Chicago. Her needs a Red Readers'
    Digest. Her wants our auto plants in Siberia.
    Him big bureaucracy running our fillingsta-
    That no good. Ugh. Him make Indians learn read.
    Him need big black niggers. Hah. Her make us
    all work sixteen hours a day. Help.
    America this is quite serious.
    America this is the impression I get from looking in
    the television set.
    America is this correct?
    I'd better get right down to the job.
    It's true I don't want to join the Army or turn lathes
    in precision parts factories, I'm nearsighted and
    psychopathic anyway.
    America I'm putting my queer shoulder to the wheel.
    - Berkeley, January 17, 1956
    12:41 am
    Thursday, September 5th, 2002
    12:33 am
    If I had a digital camera, I would place a very large picture of my ear right here.

    (huge ass picture)*

    *as opposed to huge picture of ass
    Friday, February 15th, 2002
    12:18 am
    I wish I were unconscious.
    I am awake.

    For now, I must convince myself that I love Jawaharlal Nehru and Liaquat Ali Khan enough to write 2000 more words about them.

    It's not working.

    My clock says 12:12. I love looking at a clock and seeing a time like that. 4:04, 4:44. More importantly, I would rather spend my time enjoying such coincidences than writing about how stupid the United Nations was from January 1, 1948 to August 13, 1949.

    Jordan has a toy bow and arrow set. It has padding all over it and a canvas strip of fabric rather than an actual cable. There aren't any arrows. If thats not odd, I don't know what is.
    Thursday, January 3rd, 2002
    6:14 pm
    Earth-bound martians lose virginity live online tonight!
    R.A.N.D.Y.: Robotic Artificial Neohuman Designed for Yardwork
    a slight disappoint. Life goes on, though our hero is currently confined to landscaping duties.
    Monday, December 24th, 2001
    11:04 pm
    an old quote
    "Unfortunately, ideals are the bare skeleton, they make no preparation for a human reaction, nor is it possible to adhere to them most of the time. Their barbs remain embedded nonetheless. "
    Sunday, December 23rd, 2001
    10:49 pm
    sounds of a hallway at 4 (purgatory)
    (a pair of high heels)-------click,click, click,click,click,click,--------------------------------
    (floor mat)--------scraaaaaape----scritch scritch----scraaaaaaape--------------------------
    ------------------------------------click,click, click,click,click,click,-----------------------------------
    (key latch)------------------------clack----
    10:34 pm
    On a startlingly narrow, winding theme.
    I love writing poems on live journal. For my health, it is best to use a media that disappears easily, leaving me blissfully unaware of the shit I produce. I use the 'private' option frequently ffor that reason, and because I can't think that someone is going to be evaluating it. rooting around in my head. I hate that feeling. A verse or line will roll around in my head, and just as I spit it out.......I change my mind. Curse the feeling that drives me to revise, to censor. Humbug.... on to other things. (to Andrew: I liked the poem you posted)
    this is a verbal yawn tawasnaaaamd ommooocaksssssssssss ssossooooooooo nice idnit?yaya gaboor oorrrrrrrorrrrrrooooorrrrrrrrrrrroooooom. laalaaaaaaa mmaamama.
    tasmanian rice......... vanilla ice..........three-sided dice.........kablamity BOOM-BOOM. For all you lit mag randy fans, I feel a sequel a' brewin
    Saturday, November 24th, 2001
    11:51 am
    Lauren: more infectious than most, less infectious then some
    [Error: Irreparable invalid markup ('<br \>') in entry. Owner must fix manually. Raw contents below.]

    <img src="" title="I am Gonorrhea. Love me."><br \><a href="">Take the Affliction Test Today!</a>

    hmm... just my luck
    Monday, August 13th, 2001
    1:34 am
    Alan Ginsberg II
    In the Baggage Room at a Greyhound
    In the depths of the Greyhound Terminal
    sitting dumbly on a baggage truck looking at the sky
    waiting for the Los Angeles Express to depart
    worrying about eternity over the Post Office roof in
    the night-time red downtown heaven
    staring through my eyeglasses I realized shuddering
    these thoughts were not eternity, nor the poverty
    of our lives, irritable baggage clerks,
    nor the millions of weeping relatives surrounding the
    buses waving goodbye,
    nor other millions of the poor rushing around from
    city to city to see their loved ones,
    nor an indian dead with fright talking to a huge cop
    by the Coke machine,
    nor this trembling old lady with a cane taking the last
    trip of her life,
    nor the red-capped cynical porter collecting his quar-
    ters and smiling over the smashed baggage,
    nor me looking around at the horrible dream,
    nor mustached negro Operating Clerk named Spade,
    dealing out with his marvelous long hand the
    fate of thousands of express packages,
    nor fairy Sam in the basement limping from leaden
    trunk to trunk,
    nor Joe at the counter with his nervous breakdown
    smiling cowardly at the customers,
    nor the grayish-green whale's stomach interior loft
    where we keep the baggage in hideous racks,
    hundreds of suitcases full of tragedy rocking back and
    forth waiting to be opened,
    nor the baggage that's lost, nor damaged handles,
    nameplates vanished, busted wires & broken
    ropes, whole trunks exploding on the concrete
    nor seabags emptied into the night in the final


    Yet Spade reminded me of Angel, unloading a bus,
    dressed in blue overalls black face official Angel's work-
    man cap,
    pushing with his belly a huge tin horse piled high with
    black baggage,
    looking up as he passed the yellow light bulb of the loft
    and holding high on his arm an iron shepherd's crook.


    It was the racks, I realized, sitting myself on top of
    them now as is my wont at lunchtime to rest
    my tired foot,
    it was the racks, great wooden shelves and stanchions
    posts and beams assembled floor to roof jumbled
    with baggage,
    -the Japanese white metal postwar trunk gaudily
    flowered & headed for Fort Bragg,
    one Mexican green paper package in purple rope
    adorned with names for Nogales,
    hundreds of radiators all at once for Eureka,
    crates of Hawaiian underwear,
    rolls of posters scattered over the Peninsula, nuts to
    one human eye for Napa,
    an aluminum box of human blood for Stockton
    and a little red package of teeth for Calistoga-
    it was the racks and these on the racks I saw naked
    in electric light the night before I quit,
    the racks were created to hang our possessions, to keep
    us together, a temporary shift in space,
    God's only way of building the rickety structure of
    to hold the bags to send on the roads, to carry our
    luggage from place to place
    looking for a bus to ride us back home to Eternity
    where the heart was left and farewell tears


    A swarm of baggage sitting by the counter as the trans-
    continental bus pulls in.
    The clock registering 12:15 A.M., May 9, 1956, the
    second hand moving forward, red.
    Getting ready to load my last bus.-Farewell, Walnut
    Creek Richmond Vallejo Portland Pacific
    Fleet-footed Quicksilver, God of transience.
    One last package sits lone at midnight sticking up out
    of the Coast rack high as the dusty fluorescent
    The wage they pay us is too low to live on. Tragedy
    reduced to numbers.
    This for the poor shepherds. I am a communist.
    Farewell ye Greyhound where I suffered so much,
    hurt my knee and scraped my hand and built
    my pectoral muscles big as a vagina.

    - May 9, 1956
    1:30 am
    Ginsberg. Gins-o-rama. Gins-meister. Alan Ginsberg?
    An Asphodel
    O dear sweet rosy
    unattainable desire
    . . .how sad, no way
    to change the mad
    cultivated asphodel, the
    visible reality. . .

    and skin's appalling
    petals--how inspired
    to be so Iying in the living
    room drunk naked
    and dreaming, in the absence
    of electricity . . .
    over and over eating the low root
    of the asphodel,
    gray fate . . .

    rolling in generation
    on the flowery couch
    as on a bank in Arden--
    my only rose tonite's the treat
    of my own nudity.

    - Fall, 1953
    1:17 am
    A Non-redundant title
    Bravely bold Sir Robin, rode forth from Camelot.
    He was not afraid to die, O Brave Sir Robin.
    He was not at all afraid to be killed in nasty ways.
    Brave, brave, brave, brave Sir Robin!
    He was not in the least bit scared to be mashed into a pulp,
    Or to have his eyes gouged out, and his elbows broken.
    To have his kneecaps split, and his body burned away,
    And his limbs all hacked and mangled, brave Sir Robin!
    His head smashed in and his heart cut out,
    And his liver removed and his bowels unplugged,
    And his nostrils raped and his bottom burned off,
    And his penis...

    (Robin interrupts the song)

    (Robin encounters the 3-Headed Knight)

    (After Robin runs away from the 3-Headed Knight)

    MINSTREL: Brave Sir Robin ran away
    ROBIN: No!
    MINSTREL (singing): Bravely ran away away
    ROBIN: I didn't!
    MINSTREL (singing): When danger reared its ugly head, He bravely turned his tail and fled
    ROBIN: No!
    MINSTREL (singing): Yes Brave Sir Robin turned about
    ROBIN: I didn't!
    MINSTREL (singing): And gallantly he chickened out Bravely taking to his feet
    ROBIN: I never did!
    MINSTREL (singing): He beat a very brave retreat
    ROBIN: Oh, lie!
    MINSTREL (singing): Bravest of the brave Sir Robin
    ROBIN: I never!
    (Later, when Robin meets up with King Arthur)
    MINSTREL (singing): Packing it in and packing it up
    And sneaking away and buggering off
    And chickening out and pissing off home
    Yes, bravely he is throwing in the sponge
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