In case you’ve been planning on assassinating me to stop the voices in your head, I am going to be at Cosmic Monkey Comics rocking faces, kicking ass, breaking hearts, taking names, and drawing a comic book in twenty-four hours of the day. What are YOU going to be doing for the next twenty-four hours?
Sleeping. Working. Pooping. Wishing you were me.
WATCH THIS SPACE!
Well. This announcement has been a long time coming.
What follows is an account of my night at Rock Band Tuesdays here in lovely Portland. It is an experiment in liveblogging, and entirely useless, since it is a simple night out with friends (and nobody reads my blog after about six o’ clock) but it is a style which I hope to refine and use in other situations, like the next Anonymous protest. Errors are not corrected, but remarks have been added in brackets — read at your own risk (of boredom).
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Last week, a friend and I stopped by Lloyd Center, located in inner north Portland. Those of you who know me (although none of you really understand me) are well aware of my distaste for malls, having been subjected at least half an hour of my respected four-hour lecture on the subject.
However, Lloyd Center has an ice skating rink and my friend agreed to buy me a snack, so I decided to make the best of the situation.
But who would I discover after entering this stockyard of capitalism? None other than my old nemesis… Scientology.
Anonymous is the collective name for the users of 4Chan, an internet message message board previously noted for its fondness for stale jokes, ironic racism, and the occasional harassment of people who take themselves too seriously.
They are not hackers or terrorists. They have no leader. They were, for the most part, content to send each other amusing pictures and tasteless videos.
But after the Church of Scientology attempted to suppress the distribution of a propaganda video featuring Tom Cruise, their most famous adherent, the collected forces of Anonymous declared war.
What began as a round of prank calls and DDoS attacks quickly evolved into a great cause: all illegal tactics were abandoned and disavowed, and a new direction was chosen: everyone was asked to attend a worldwide protest on February 10th, at Church of Scientology locations all over the world. Their new agenda: to spread awareness of Scientology’s past misdeeds, to warn the public of their current actions, and to provide an escape route for those trapped within the church’s toxic system.
What follows is a journal of the Portland protest — from my own limited perspective.
I’m feeling better now, but the last few days were pretty rough.
This is the second time in a month; I think I’m still adapting to the vibrant new Oregon viral ecosystem. The first warning signs hit me while I was downtown: one minute I’m digging through Powell’s looking for the one book they don’t actually have (not that I can blame them) and the next I’m stuffy and feverish. It’s not pleasant, to be alone and sick in the middle of an unfamiliar city: pass out in the wrong place and you’ll wake up and find a hobo licking your scars and muttering about Ron Paul.
I’ve got some stuff saved that I’ll be putting in the archives. More regular updates to follow, hopefully.
Dear Hungry-Man Foods,
I recently purchased a “Hungry-Man” boneless fried chicken dinner from a local grocery store and was somewhat unsettled to note a distinct lack of chicken.
Any chicken. At all.
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Some girls like random humor. I, personally, do not think people screaming “CHEESE MONKEY” is very funny.
However, some girls will pay me money to draw random things for them.
These girls are my friends.
Today is the day I move to Oregon.
In order to properly prepare myself, I have refrained from sleeping for two days and packed the night before I leave. I have to repack my suitcases three times in order to take out more books so that I can pack clothes instead. I am irritable and exhausted and forget to bring my favorite shoes.
At the airport, the clerk points out that I have managed to go over the weight and size limit. When it appears as though she might not let my box on the plane, I spin an elaborate and fantastic tale of how I am an idiot child who has never flown before or even left the state and how frightened and disoriented I am. Even I am mildly astonished by the amount of bullshit that is flowing out of my mouth.
She lets it on the plane.
I have left behind a mess for someone else to fix. I am being picked up by someone who is going to take care of me until I get on my feet. All of this serves as further encouragement to write a novel that is totally awesome, since only the most astonishing masterpiece can possibly excuse what a pain in the ass I’ve been lately. Brilliant art is history’s Get Out of Jail Free card: nobody cares about Tolstoy’s personal failings.
That’s what I keep telling myself, anyway. It occurs to me at the gate that I’ll show them all may not be the best thing to mutter in front of airport security.
I’m asleep before the plane takes off.
I have a few hours to kill at the airport before B picks me up. I plan to spend it drawing and writing, but manage only a handful of sketches before passing out again.
I’ve never actually met B before. We’ve been internet friends for about a year, and we speak on the phone occasionally. Some people think I’m taking a risk.
They’re right. But I’m at a reckless age.
It’s a long drive to Medford. All I see on the way is highways and cars, and with the weather as bad as it is I don’t even see much of either. B and I talk for most of the trip, and our conversation quickly enters previously uncharted territory. Nothing really unusual or deep, mind you — but it’s odd, all the same. I suppose every medium lends itself to certain conversations over others.
It’s a long damn drive to Medford.
