Sunday, December 21, 2008
Space Junk Has Lifted Off!
For anyone interested, the location of Space Junk for Space Punks, the nerd blog I keep with Tabitha Vidaurri, has changed. And there's a bit on Oliver Reed up (including a link to a pretty good documentary) right now.
Thursday, December 11, 2008
You Make My Heart Sing
In honor of the upcoming holidays, and my latest post on SPACE JUNK , I present you with this, a most perplexing gift:
Saturday, December 6, 2008
Thursday, December 4, 2008
Manifesto
I read this piece at last night's Bedtime Stories.
Keeping up with the Jones -es has gone too far. It is an activity for those lacking imagination. My dad told me that there is a recession, and that we have to cut back. He is right, but for the wrong reasons. I think we value the wrong things in life. Getting an iPod Shuffle for Christmas is not as important as Matt Beverly thinks it is. We do not need videogames, or highlights for our hair, and I refuse to believe that getting a manicure is necessary before each CYO dance – especially since everyone just wears jeans anyway. We have been taught to lead lives of bourgeois excess. But we are young, and can still change.
It’s too late for our parents, the petty bourgeoisie. They have built entire lives and careers on one-upping each other, and looking like they know what they’re doing. I figured this out when my dad bought a new television, even when ours was just fine, just because it was a flat screen. He needed my brother to show him how to use the remote. My brother is nine. It isn’t just a problem in my family. My mom says that Bobby Cartica’s dad started his whole construction business just to spite his brother, who got into college. She says that he feels superior because he makes more money, even though he dropped out of high school. This is called class warfare, because the rich people are always trying to make the poor people feel bad, like when my mom heard that Mrs. Tierney gets new appliances every two years, even when they aren’t broken. She shouldn’t be upset that we can’t afford such waste. But, my parents, like all of yours, were taught to be materialistic, rather than introspective.
Karl Marx said that “the theory of Communists may be summed up in a single sentence: Abolition of private property.” When he said this, he wasn’t trying to steal stuff, but to free the proletariat from the iron hand of the bourgeoisie. He wanted the people, like you and me, to change the world so as to make it better for themselves. His ideas are called Marxism. Marxism is different from Communism, because Communism doesn’t work. They do it in China, but really it’s Totalitarianism, and it’s bad, because they make inferior products and steal jobs from Americans. They also steal American jobs in India, but that’s called outsourcing. I learned that when my mom tried to call the cable company, and I had to sit on the phone while she was waiting for her turn. It was a very bad connection, and our cultural differences made it hard to understand how to restart our DVR.
As students here, we already wear uniforms. This makes us united in a way that encourages teamwork, as well as discouraging gang colors. I think that Marx was right about a lot of things. I do not advocate stealing from one another, but instead working together for a greater good. We can free ourselves from the rampant consumerism of our bourgeois parents. Instead of demanding more things, like for Christmas in a few weeks, we should demand something else – freedom, equality, communism. If we refuse to become cogs in the machine of commerce, freeing ourselves from the shackles of our parents’ misconceptions, we can set an example that could become a revolution. There is nothing to lose but our chains. We have a world to win.
STUDENTS OF THE SEVENTH GRADE, UNITE!
Keeping up with the Jones -es has gone too far. It is an activity for those lacking imagination. My dad told me that there is a recession, and that we have to cut back. He is right, but for the wrong reasons. I think we value the wrong things in life. Getting an iPod Shuffle for Christmas is not as important as Matt Beverly thinks it is. We do not need videogames, or highlights for our hair, and I refuse to believe that getting a manicure is necessary before each CYO dance – especially since everyone just wears jeans anyway. We have been taught to lead lives of bourgeois excess. But we are young, and can still change.
It’s too late for our parents, the petty bourgeoisie. They have built entire lives and careers on one-upping each other, and looking like they know what they’re doing. I figured this out when my dad bought a new television, even when ours was just fine, just because it was a flat screen. He needed my brother to show him how to use the remote. My brother is nine. It isn’t just a problem in my family. My mom says that Bobby Cartica’s dad started his whole construction business just to spite his brother, who got into college. She says that he feels superior because he makes more money, even though he dropped out of high school. This is called class warfare, because the rich people are always trying to make the poor people feel bad, like when my mom heard that Mrs. Tierney gets new appliances every two years, even when they aren’t broken. She shouldn’t be upset that we can’t afford such waste. But, my parents, like all of yours, were taught to be materialistic, rather than introspective.
Karl Marx said that “the theory of Communists may be summed up in a single sentence: Abolition of private property.” When he said this, he wasn’t trying to steal stuff, but to free the proletariat from the iron hand of the bourgeoisie. He wanted the people, like you and me, to change the world so as to make it better for themselves. His ideas are called Marxism. Marxism is different from Communism, because Communism doesn’t work. They do it in China, but really it’s Totalitarianism, and it’s bad, because they make inferior products and steal jobs from Americans. They also steal American jobs in India, but that’s called outsourcing. I learned that when my mom tried to call the cable company, and I had to sit on the phone while she was waiting for her turn. It was a very bad connection, and our cultural differences made it hard to understand how to restart our DVR.
As students here, we already wear uniforms. This makes us united in a way that encourages teamwork, as well as discouraging gang colors. I think that Marx was right about a lot of things. I do not advocate stealing from one another, but instead working together for a greater good. We can free ourselves from the rampant consumerism of our bourgeois parents. Instead of demanding more things, like for Christmas in a few weeks, we should demand something else – freedom, equality, communism. If we refuse to become cogs in the machine of commerce, freeing ourselves from the shackles of our parents’ misconceptions, we can set an example that could become a revolution. There is nothing to lose but our chains. We have a world to win.
STUDENTS OF THE SEVENTH GRADE, UNITE!
Tuesday, November 25, 2008
Updates
In addition to ongoing work at Space Junk for Space Punks and next Friday's Toiling in Obscurity, I will be performing in Bedtime Stories on Wednesday, December 3, at the Shubin. I am also really into making crackers right now.
Oat Cakes:
2 c. Oatmeal
3/4 c. Flour
1/4 tsp. Baking Soda
1 tsp. Salt
4 tbl. Butter, melted
Boiling Water
Preheat oven to 400.
Pulse oatmeal in blender for a smoother texture.
Add wet to dry, using only as much water as is necessary to form a workable dough.
Roll flat and cut into circles.
Bake 10 - 15 minutes.
You can tart these up however you'd like. I made some with Rosemary (crushed, then worked into the dough), and some with Honey (1tsp. for a half-batch). They are delicious.
Oat Cakes:
2 c. Oatmeal
3/4 c. Flour
1/4 tsp. Baking Soda
1 tsp. Salt
4 tbl. Butter, melted
Boiling Water
Preheat oven to 400.
Pulse oatmeal in blender for a smoother texture.
Add wet to dry, using only as much water as is necessary to form a workable dough.
Roll flat and cut into circles.
Bake 10 - 15 minutes.
You can tart these up however you'd like. I made some with Rosemary (crushed, then worked into the dough), and some with Honey (1tsp. for a half-batch). They are delicious.
Monday, November 24, 2008
Wednesday, November 19, 2008
Additionally
I've started writing for noted comedienne Tabitha Vidaurri's sci-fi blog, Space Junk for Space Punks.
Monday, November 17, 2008
Movies to Watch:
Congo (1995)A monkey scientist, a mercenary (played by Ghostbuster Ernie Hudson), a technology specialist (legitimate actress, Laura Linney), and a Hungarian treasure hunter (Tim Curry) travel to the jungle with a gorilla (played by a lady in a monkey suit) tricked out with a magic glove that allows her to “speak” via sign language in order to find an ex-fiance (Bruce Campbell), a diamond, a lost city, and a home for a misfit gorilla. The scene on the airplane in which Amy the gorilla requests “raindrop drink” (a martini) is the most amazing thing ever captured on celluloid.
Surf Ninjas (1993)
A pair of brothers discover, after the untimely death of their adoptive father, that they are princes of a small island country called Patusan. With the help of a guy in an eye patch, a detective (played by Tone-Loc), and their friend (Rob Schneider, playing a high school student at age 30), they must save their homeland from the evil Colonel Chi (Leslie Neilson with a robot arm). This film ranked ahead of Woody Allen’s Manhattan Murder Mystery when first released in theaters.
Mrs. Doubtfire (1993)Robin Williams plays a man who, after his divorce, discovers a new life as an elderly Scottish widow (with help from Harvey Firestein). Pierce Brosnan costars as a dreamboat.
TiO IV: Further Updates
My comrades in the next Toiling in Obscurity will be, as follows:
Giaco Furino
Gregg Gethard
Ashley Jerome
Alejandro Morales
Jeremy Eric Tenenbaum
Lineup subject to change.
Giaco Furino
Gregg Gethard
Ashley Jerome
Alejandro Morales
Jeremy Eric Tenenbaum
Lineup subject to change.
Tuesday, November 11, 2008
Toiling in Obscurity IV: Up for Consideration
Past Readers, or Future Reading Hopefuls,
If you, or someone you know would like to read at the next Toiling in Obscurity, to be held on Friday, December 5th, please send a writing sample with a note of intention (as in what you'd want to read and for how long) to jaime.fountaine@gmail.com by this Friday, November 14th.
I hope to hear from and disappoint many of you.
Jaime
If you, or someone you know would like to read at the next Toiling in Obscurity, to be held on Friday, December 5th, please send a writing sample with a note of intention (as in what you'd want to read and for how long) to jaime.fountaine@gmail.com by this Friday, November 14th.
I hope to hear from and disappoint many of you.
Jaime
Thursday, October 23, 2008
Toiling in Obscurity IV
The next Toiling in Obscurity reading will be held on Friday, December 5, at 7pm at The Dive.
Tuesday, October 14, 2008
The Single Greatest Literary Conversation of My Life
I had just finished the first page of “Imagine Kissing Pete” from John O’Hara’s Sermons and Soda Water when a sweaty, middle-aged man missing his two front teeth peered around the pole.
"IS THAT A GOOD BOOK?" he asked.
"I'm only on page two." I tried to go back to the reading.
"You know how you can tell if a book is really good? If it grabs you from the first page."
"Yep."
"You know who's a good author? You probably saw the movie. Tom Clancy?"
"I haven't actually seen that one."
"Oh you should. He's good. And Dean Koontz. Stephen King writes some good books, too. Dark Tower, all of that stuff. And man, the books are even better than the movies!"
"They usually are."
"Man, The Godfather? That book was EVEN BETTER."
“Well, The Godfather was a pretty good movie.”*
"And Star Wars? That book was great. William Shatner is a great author!"
He proceeded to tell me about how I should go to Borders and read the books there**, so that I don't have to pay for them. He balked when I mentioned the Library.
*I’ve read The Godfather, and while it made me really, really hungry, I think that the first two Godfather movies are better than the book.
**I actually did that in high school, when I spent my Friday nights as a really cool person at the bookstore, hoping someone I vaguely knew would show up so that I could impress them*** with the fact that I could read an entire book in two hours.
***This never actually worked.
Thursday, October 9, 2008
I Deny This Reality
I should preface this with a few facts. Despite years of threats, I have never seen Star Wars, or any of its subsequent sequels, prequels, or whatever George Lucas is calling “movies” these days. Aside from a handful of classic dystopian tales that have been assigned over the years, I have never been a big reader science fiction. I find the actual world hard enough to believe as it is. The last time I was likely to indulge in any sort of fantasy world was between 1989 and 91, when I was particularly enamored with The Little Mermaid. This isn’t to say that I lack imagination, or to deny that my childhood was spent buried in books, barely dodging insults. I only offer this as contrast.
Last October I was the secretary to an alarmingly inept young lawyer who looked like a khaki-clad (Hangin’ with) Mr. Cooper, and had the patience and intellectual capacity of a hungry toddler. I was unhappy, but that was to be expected. It was, after all, my first job out of college. I wasn’t supposed to like it. I was supposed to phone it in while I wrote my novel on lunch breaks. I wasn’t supposed to take it personally, but it was getting more and more difficult to leave work in that tiny, windowless office, where I was left alone with the abstract expressionist Ikea painting to field phone calls from my boss, asking me how to be a lawyer. I do not respond well to the sorts of demands that were lobbed at me; I was told in the beginning that my $10 and hour under-the-table job consisted of copies, answering the phone, and taking things to the courthouse, but it became clear within a month that my boss expected me to shoulder the burden of his responsibilities as an attorney. He wasn’t qualified to do it, so how could I be?
One drunken Saturday, after a couple of movies, the evening’s companion lurched forward with a VHS copy of Logopolis. “Just one episode, I swear.” I didn’t have a good argument, and he was bigger than me, so I allowed it. Maybe it was the wine, but with every chime of the cloister bell, I suspended a little more disbelief. By the time the Watcher faded into Peter Davison, something clicked.
I should now take the time to explain to the uninitiated, that I am talking about Doctor Who, the longest running science fiction television series in the world. Without going too much into history, the show is about The Doctor, who is a Time Lord, which is a kind of time and space traveling alien from the planet Gallifrey. During the 9th Doctor’s tenure, it’s explained that he is the last of the Time Lords, and Gallifrey was destroyed during the time war. But, I’m getting ahead of myself. All you really need to know is that he’s an alien from a race with the ability to regenerate —that is, instead of dying (most of the time) they become a completely different person in a different body. The Doctor retains his memories with each new incarnation, but has had several different personalities. There have been ten Doctors since the Kennedy Assassination. From the first episode, the Doctor has traveled in what appears to be a 1960’s police telephone box, but is actually his spaceship, the TARDIS, which is an acronym for time and relative dimensions in space, which translates to “It’s bigger on the inside.” All of this is probably news to you, unless you are British, or watched the show on PBS at some point in your childhood. I fit into neither category, so it was very difficult for me to explain to my friends, or even myself how such a thing had come to pass.
Like anyone with basic cable in the 1990’s, I’ve seen Back to the Future, and its sequels a hundred times, and therefore, have a casual interest in fictional time travel and young Michael J. Fox. My interest in space travel extends only as far as the 1970’s, and really only for Ziggy Stardust and Logan’s Run-style set pieces. I spent most of college proclaiming, “I have no suspension of disbelief!” as the stock answer to why I hated The Matrix and Lord of the Rings and your fantasy short story with the nowhere plot and several made up words that meant “dragon,” and “sword” that was somehow also about your ex-girlfriend. I was put off aliens almost entirely at the age of three by the movie E.T., not because of the scary government interference parts, but because E.T. looked as though he smelled awful. That was enough for me. Nothing in my intellectual makeup allowed for my almost autistic interest in the continuing adventures of the Doctor and his companions. But, in the past year alone, I’ve had six jobs, which is twice as many as I’d ever had before. Since quitting my secretary job in late November, I have been a temp, a linguistic annotator, a production assistant for an educational publishing company, an advertising copywriter, and am now, for the time being, a barista again. I have not settled into a single position, either because it was temporary, or because my sanity was too important to me.
We define ourselves by our goals, our jobs and incomes and relationships. When none of them give even the illusion of certainty, without a clear station or direction, it’s easy to lose track of things. It’s not any easier creatively, especially if your end point seems further away than health insurance. To be young now is to sit amongst the intangible, to be thoroughly separate from comfort and safety. It’s why our cultural and social milestones are so tied to our interests, why we update our MySpace and Facebook profiles – because they’re safe, and offer immediate, though shallow connections, and because, in some ways, they give a faint impression of a fully formed person with those few improperly punctuated lists. Man is not the sum of his interests, but without clear markers for growth or success, we’re limited to bullet points of our capabilities, lines on our resumes, and detailed explanations of extracurricular activities.
The Doctor has been ten different people. It’s not just a convenient plot device – it allows the audience to see consistency through change. We are born and become and remain ourselves. It’s not a simple or pleasant process, and it goes wrong as often as it goes right, but it’s what makes us human. He has been young and old and silly and serious. He has been an egomaniac, an asshole, the inspiration for (and salvation from) an evil computer bent on eugenics experiments in the outer reaches of space. It’s not real, and we know that, but it reflects some part of reality that’s hard to contain within television plotlines. Change is not something that happens in easy arcs with clear midpoints, step by cinematic step before our very eyes. It is often something that happens out of necessity which we accustom ourselves to later. The Doctor hasn’t our human luxury, and so all of his differences and similarities are physical, played out for all of us to see. Whether or not we agree with each casting, he’s the same character the audience accepted forty-five years ago. And I like that. I respect that.
With all that’s changed and changed and changed in my last year, it feels good to have some constant, an escape from thinking about how, at the rate I’m going, I’ll never finish this book or have health insurance or a savings account, or get anywhere close to touching what I’ve worked my whole life toward. Because while the world is not fair or kind, I know that the Doctor will always come back in the end with the answer that, might not be a solution, but does the least harm. It's a comfort to imagine some sense of kindness in the world, even if it’s by way of a fictional alien traveler with a soft spot for planet Earth. I’m only human, but there’s no one on earth with more faith in humanity than the Doctor.
Last October I was the secretary to an alarmingly inept young lawyer who looked like a khaki-clad (Hangin’ with) Mr. Cooper, and had the patience and intellectual capacity of a hungry toddler. I was unhappy, but that was to be expected. It was, after all, my first job out of college. I wasn’t supposed to like it. I was supposed to phone it in while I wrote my novel on lunch breaks. I wasn’t supposed to take it personally, but it was getting more and more difficult to leave work in that tiny, windowless office, where I was left alone with the abstract expressionist Ikea painting to field phone calls from my boss, asking me how to be a lawyer. I do not respond well to the sorts of demands that were lobbed at me; I was told in the beginning that my $10 and hour under-the-table job consisted of copies, answering the phone, and taking things to the courthouse, but it became clear within a month that my boss expected me to shoulder the burden of his responsibilities as an attorney. He wasn’t qualified to do it, so how could I be?
One drunken Saturday, after a couple of movies, the evening’s companion lurched forward with a VHS copy of Logopolis. “Just one episode, I swear.” I didn’t have a good argument, and he was bigger than me, so I allowed it. Maybe it was the wine, but with every chime of the cloister bell, I suspended a little more disbelief. By the time the Watcher faded into Peter Davison, something clicked.
I should now take the time to explain to the uninitiated, that I am talking about Doctor Who, the longest running science fiction television series in the world. Without going too much into history, the show is about The Doctor, who is a Time Lord, which is a kind of time and space traveling alien from the planet Gallifrey. During the 9th Doctor’s tenure, it’s explained that he is the last of the Time Lords, and Gallifrey was destroyed during the time war. But, I’m getting ahead of myself. All you really need to know is that he’s an alien from a race with the ability to regenerate —that is, instead of dying (most of the time) they become a completely different person in a different body. The Doctor retains his memories with each new incarnation, but has had several different personalities. There have been ten Doctors since the Kennedy Assassination. From the first episode, the Doctor has traveled in what appears to be a 1960’s police telephone box, but is actually his spaceship, the TARDIS, which is an acronym for time and relative dimensions in space, which translates to “It’s bigger on the inside.” All of this is probably news to you, unless you are British, or watched the show on PBS at some point in your childhood. I fit into neither category, so it was very difficult for me to explain to my friends, or even myself how such a thing had come to pass.
Like anyone with basic cable in the 1990’s, I’ve seen Back to the Future, and its sequels a hundred times, and therefore, have a casual interest in fictional time travel and young Michael J. Fox. My interest in space travel extends only as far as the 1970’s, and really only for Ziggy Stardust and Logan’s Run-style set pieces. I spent most of college proclaiming, “I have no suspension of disbelief!” as the stock answer to why I hated The Matrix and Lord of the Rings and your fantasy short story with the nowhere plot and several made up words that meant “dragon,” and “sword” that was somehow also about your ex-girlfriend. I was put off aliens almost entirely at the age of three by the movie E.T., not because of the scary government interference parts, but because E.T. looked as though he smelled awful. That was enough for me. Nothing in my intellectual makeup allowed for my almost autistic interest in the continuing adventures of the Doctor and his companions. But, in the past year alone, I’ve had six jobs, which is twice as many as I’d ever had before. Since quitting my secretary job in late November, I have been a temp, a linguistic annotator, a production assistant for an educational publishing company, an advertising copywriter, and am now, for the time being, a barista again. I have not settled into a single position, either because it was temporary, or because my sanity was too important to me.
We define ourselves by our goals, our jobs and incomes and relationships. When none of them give even the illusion of certainty, without a clear station or direction, it’s easy to lose track of things. It’s not any easier creatively, especially if your end point seems further away than health insurance. To be young now is to sit amongst the intangible, to be thoroughly separate from comfort and safety. It’s why our cultural and social milestones are so tied to our interests, why we update our MySpace and Facebook profiles – because they’re safe, and offer immediate, though shallow connections, and because, in some ways, they give a faint impression of a fully formed person with those few improperly punctuated lists. Man is not the sum of his interests, but without clear markers for growth or success, we’re limited to bullet points of our capabilities, lines on our resumes, and detailed explanations of extracurricular activities.
The Doctor has been ten different people. It’s not just a convenient plot device – it allows the audience to see consistency through change. We are born and become and remain ourselves. It’s not a simple or pleasant process, and it goes wrong as often as it goes right, but it’s what makes us human. He has been young and old and silly and serious. He has been an egomaniac, an asshole, the inspiration for (and salvation from) an evil computer bent on eugenics experiments in the outer reaches of space. It’s not real, and we know that, but it reflects some part of reality that’s hard to contain within television plotlines. Change is not something that happens in easy arcs with clear midpoints, step by cinematic step before our very eyes. It is often something that happens out of necessity which we accustom ourselves to later. The Doctor hasn’t our human luxury, and so all of his differences and similarities are physical, played out for all of us to see. Whether or not we agree with each casting, he’s the same character the audience accepted forty-five years ago. And I like that. I respect that.
With all that’s changed and changed and changed in my last year, it feels good to have some constant, an escape from thinking about how, at the rate I’m going, I’ll never finish this book or have health insurance or a savings account, or get anywhere close to touching what I’ve worked my whole life toward. Because while the world is not fair or kind, I know that the Doctor will always come back in the end with the answer that, might not be a solution, but does the least harm. It's a comfort to imagine some sense of kindness in the world, even if it’s by way of a fictional alien traveler with a soft spot for planet Earth. I’m only human, but there’s no one on earth with more faith in humanity than the Doctor.
Friday, September 19, 2008
Tonight!
Alejandro Morales
Ashley Jerome
Meg Favreau
Tabitha Vidaurri
Jeremy Eric Tenenbaum
Jan Cohen
Jason Messina
Giaco Furino
Jaime Fountaine
Sunday, September 7, 2008
Tuesday, August 5, 2008
“and now spiritually constipated I’ve grown testy”
I’ve never been a great reader of Bukowski, but, my freshman year of college, when I racked up a fistful of store credit shelving books at the old Book Trader on South Street, I bought his Last Night of the Earth Poems. I wasn’t all that impressed, but I’ve kept page 192, “Only One Cervantes” bookmarked with my receipt ever since. Old Chuck and I don’t have all that much in common, but every so often, when writing’s rough and I’m stuck – watching cartoons and listing failures, doodling endless circles in my ideas notebook, getting in touch with my inner Hank Chinaski – I’ll skim it. The last lines don’t help, exactly, but provide some distant commiseration:
yet look, I am still
lucky,
for writing about a
writer’s block
is better than not writing
at all.
Sometimes, it’s all you have.
Monday, July 21, 2008
Toiling in Obscurity III
The next reading will be held on Friday, September 19 at the Dive.
More to follow.
More to follow.
Toiling Obscurity Mentioned on the Internet; Tourists Rejoice
I was recently interviewed by Meg Favreau for the Philadelphia Greater Tourism and Marketing Board's blog, uwishunu.com. Though their spelling choice offends me, it's worth reading the article because she said really nice things about me.
http://www.uwishunu.com/philly-writers-jaime-fountaine/
It's also possible that you, having read the aforementioned interview, are now looking to this "blog" for some sort of information or entertainment. I swear, there will be some of that eventually.
http://www.uwishunu.com/philly-writers-jaime-fountaine/
It's also possible that you, having read the aforementioned interview, are now looking to this "blog" for some sort of information or entertainment. I swear, there will be some of that eventually.
Tuesday, July 1, 2008
Reluctantly Yours
I am of a generation (by birth, not by choice) that has been accused of loathsome self-involvement, undue self-confidence, and an overall lack of understanding of the pulling-yourself-by-the-bootstraps world of America. And, if we’re going to speak in broad, patronizing generalizations, than, yeah, I guess you’re right. Because the internet especially allows anyone who thinks they have something important to say about whose boobs they touched last week or the process of making vegan scrapple is able to put it somewhere and pander for an audience while posting semi-clothed shots on MySpace via a Flickr account that’s also linked to their Facebook page, there’s an air of self-obsession that seeps through the computer screen. Like so many others, I have believed since childhood, that my particular worldview is fascinating to others. I would like to believe that this is a result not of the “everyone is special” movement in primary education, or the internet age (to which I came rather late -- I didn’t have regular internet access until 2003), but because I have always been a raging egomaniac with a superiority complex. Just because no one has confirmed my utter brilliance, doesn’t mean that I’m wrong. Right? Right? It’s a dilemma.
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