Infinity, and Beyond

To usher in what will no doubt be another sporadic year of blogging* (though I hope to considerably beat the three posts I managed in 2014), I'm bringing you for the first time online a very silly and not entirely un-amusing tale I wrote back in 2002 at the tender age of 12 and the height of my 'random = hilarious' phase (featuring even more excessive usage of parenthetical statements than I am guilty of currently).

This story has a great deal of meaning to me, as I received some very wise input from my older sister Inger while putting it together. Inger always supported my creative projects, and was a constant source of constructive criticism and inspiration. If I ever manage to publish a book, it will be in large part thanks to her teaching me that my own weird voice was worth writing down.

As with all the childhood stuff I've uploaded, I've made only minor edits for spelling and grammar with editorial comments in [square brackets]. Please forgive the juvenile humour of my youth as generously as you forgive the juvenile humour of my adulthood.

*Do people still say blogging?

Infinity, and Beyond

by Austen Erickson

Prologue - The Joruney Begins

A long, long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away (well, actually it was a few hundred years in the future, in New York, New Jersey)...

STAR BUCKS

Outlet LCXIIXIVLLCIXX

The gazillionth Starbucks outlet opened to the horror of earth's citizens; now every car dealer, clothing warehouse, fast (and slow) food joint, and 70% of every other franchise (not to mention coffee), was under control of The Evil Star Bucks Empire (R). A brave rebellion led by Global-Omni-Time-Warner-McMicrosoft was beginning in the far north, but the citizens of New York, New Jersey (New York, by this time, had encompassed the entire Eastern coastline) had had enough. The citizens of The Far North East part of New York, New Jersey decided to form a union and leave the earth in search of a new, pristine world, to colonize and exploit.

They broke open all their piggy banks and somehow managed to raise enough money to build a spacecraft for the interstellar journey. It was called the A.Y.T. (As Yet un-Titled) Spaceship. It was fitted with a cyro-sleep system, which put the user into a state of suspended animation; it looked like a soda machine for no discernable reason [haha 'soda machine' so random... stupid young Austen]. The outside of the ship was painted in a sort of eight-week-old-banana color. It was as large as the Statue of Liberty and had the most sophisticated light drive system available. All in all it should have taken them about twenty years to complete their journey to the sun's nearest neighbor, Alpha Centauri,where it was believed there was not one, not three, but two habitable planets. They had already established a system of government: all the rejects, criminals, and lawyers [haha lawyers are bad... shut up kid] would be sent to the second, less inviting planet, named Centuri Secundus. Everyone else would be on the first planet, Centuri Prime.

Unfortunately, the people who staffed much of the crew neglected to appoint anyone who could use the light drive system. This was discovered slightly after they left the solar system, but before they sobered up from the celebrations. Thankfully, a car enthusiast rigged a makeshift engine made of pinball machine parts and a stripped down Subaru Outback. Just before they went into cyro-sleep the First Mate approached the Captain, "Sir, there is a problem with the new engines."
"What is it Number One," the Captain slurred his words, still tipsy from the party. [haha a drunken Patrick Stewart... actually, that is still quite funny - well done] "Make it quick, I'm going to have a hell of a hangover when I get out of cyro-sleep."
"They will take us a little longer to get there."
"How much longer... exactly?"
"About 100 times the original projected amount," the First Mate mumbled meekly.
"Oh good," the Captain's brow furrowed as he attempted the complex arithmetic, "Let's see, two and one are three, carry the one, divide by the square root... or is it multiply?"
"Actually sir, it will take us roughly 2000 years."
"Oh good," repeated the captain, and he toppled backwards into his cyro-sleep pod

Chapter 1 - Just a Minor Setback

1999 years 11 months and 30 days later...

As the ship tumbled onwards into space, a red light began to bleep on the cyro-sleep control on the bridge. No-one heeded it, there was no-one to see it, but ass it blinked, it was joined by others until the entire bridge was covered with lights and huge alarm signals began to sound.

The Captain awoke to the sound of commotion on the deck, "What's happening, where am I?"
The First Mate ran over to pull the Captain out of his pod, "There has been a problem, and the crew was automatically awakened. We found out the extended warranty on the ship ran out several hours ago - it's falling apart!"
"Bugger. Awake the citizens and bring them to the briefing room."
The First Mate turned to leave. "Wait," exclaimed the Captain. The First Mate turned back. "Get me some aspirin, I have a hell of a hangover."

The Captain faced the crew and civilians. He calmly explained the problem and gave instructions on what to do next. His exact words were "THE SHIP IS FALLING APART!!! EVERYONE GET TO AN ESCAPE POD OR WERE ALL GOING TO DIE!!!" as an afterthought he added "CHILDREN AND CAPTAINS FIRST!!!!!"
He then shoved the First Mate aside and sprinted down the hallway to the escape pods.

As the last escape pod broke away from the ship, the First Mate turned and inspected those on his pod. There was the man who had designed the M.P.S. (Makeshift Propulsion System), the ships' cook, and the martial arts instructor and her assistant. He decided to debrief those in his pod:
"As you know, the mission has been split men." The martial arts instructor, Kara, cleared her throat loudly. "And women," the First Mate corrected himself. "We must work together if we hope to reach the new planet alive and build a civilization. We have lost radio contact with the other ships, we are on our..." his words were cut short as the A.Y.T. Spaceship exploded loudly.
Before the First Mate could gather his wits to continue, Joe, the car enthusiast who designed the M.P.S. spoke up, "How exactly, does something make noise in an almost complete vacuum? And how come our ship had gravity? And why exactly is our ship filled with stereotypical characters and bad cliches..."
"Shut up!!!" blurted out Enrico, the cook, "I wanta to know how long it's gonna takes us to get there, please, what about you, please, yes?"
"How come you talk like that?" asked the First Mate.
"Yes, my English is not good, please"
"That's what I mean!" interjected Joe.
"Now that you mention it," the First Mate continued, ignoring Joe, "it should take us a few hours to get there."

As the crew of Pod 389 gossiped, the Captain was similarly examining those on his pod...

Chapter 2 - Hangover

"Row, Row, Row your boat, gently down the stream! If you see a crocodile, don't forget to scream. AHHHHH!!"
"SHUT UP!!!" the Captain bellowed. "Can't you see I have a hangover???" The singing was emanating from two brothers sitting in a larger corner of the escape pod, taking up most if it. The ship's doctor, along with the Captain, were huddled on the other side. Fred, the doctor, finished examining the Captain and began his prognosis.
"Through a freak co-incidence resulting from cyro-sleep, it appears that your nausea, headache, and sensitivity to visual and auditory stimuli will not improve in your lifespan."
"Wha..??" burbled the Captain.
"Your hangover is permanent."
"Damn," cursed the Captain, "We're going to need more aspirin."
"Oh, I've got stacks," came a quiet voice from a pile of empty milk cartons, "You could have some of mine for a price, uh, I mean, that is, you can have it for free if you let us stay."
"Who are you?" inquired the doctor suspiciously.
"Actually, I'm a stowaway, but my friends call me Mick. Everyone else calls me Douglas J. Trenton, although I haven't the faintest idea why. I'm what some people call an opportunist. I co-founded my small, and perfectly legal, I assure you, business."
"Who is your partner? And why are you here?"
Mick looked somewhat sad. "Actually, the answer to both questions are the same." He gestured to the pile and everyone noticed a pointy hat protruding. It abruptly rose and revealed a small, rather dazed, and smiling man underneath. "He thinks he's magic," whispered Mick helpfully.

"Hello," said the new arrival. "I'm sorry to bother you, but I'm being pursued by a flock of cucumbers." He sank to the ground and started muttering to himself, a smirk on his face all the while.
"What's he talking about?" demanded the Captain.
"Actually, that's about as coherent as Mr. Stadler gets." Mick said with a sigh.
"How on earth did he make you come here?"
"Well, it's a long story, and it doesn't really take place on earth."
"We do have time, you know. Say, did I hear you mention aspirin a minute ago? I have a terrible hangover."

Mick chose to ignore this, and started his story:
"It all started some time ago, and before we begin, I should tell you I'm not human. At least not in the strictest sense of the word..."

Chapter 3 - Mick's Story

"As you might already know, my companion Mr. Stadler perceives reality in a rather different way. Some might even venture the word 'crazy.'  Nonetheless, he had money and wanted adventure, and I wanted money and had enough adventure for anybody. We eventually came to an agreement: he would provide funding for my research and I would find a way to get off our home planet and take him with me, exploring the galaxy.

You would probably be interested to know that several million years ago your moon was teeming with life. That's what we called home those days. Anyway, I set up a research center in one of the craters and began trying to find a way to travel through space at high speeds. Eventually I did,although not in the way you might expect. One day I was trying to find a way to make a liquid that my equipment suggested had an enormous amount of potential energy into fuel. I tried again and again to find a catalyst when suddenly, wouldn't you know, Mr. Stadler dropped a bottle of aspirin into the liquid 'Just to see what would happen' as he said later.

After the dust settled we found the testing chamber completely demolished. It turns out that my partner had finally discovered a way to efficiently produce enough energy to travel across vast amounts of space in seconds. After further, more careful experiments, we - well mainly me - discovered that a drop of liquid mixed with one aspirin tablet would produce enough energy to travel at six times the speed of light for a minute - that's six light years in a minute! [NOTE: I was aware that this was nonsense when I wrote it, and wanted to convey Mick's utter incompetence, but in retrospect the 'joke' might have been too subtle.]

We got a prototype ship working in a few days and took off. We traveled the galaxy until we reached the center. Our scanners picked up a subspace fluctuating anomaly, which is the fancy way of saying that they hadn't the faintest idea of what it was. We got closer to what we now know was some form of black hole. Unfortunately we didn't know then, and so we ventured just close enough to get sucked in. We were spewed out through a white hole, quite near our own solar system. What most people don't know is that for every black hole there is a white hole, and anything sucked in through the black is shot out the white one. Anyway, we crashed onto our home only to find it a barren and unforgiving landscape.

In desperation we made a small pod out of the debris and managed to launch ourselves into orbit around your earth. When we reached the surface we found it quite a long time in the future. I hypothesized that traveling through the black hole must have caused this jump into time. I think that what we saw in that hole may have some significance, it was..." [Aaaaand just about now I believe that the assignment deadline was looming so close that I abandoned my unfortunate foray into science fiction, and dove headlong into the absurd.]

Mick's words were cut short as a blast rocked the pod. Everyone peered out the windows.
"What is it?" asked the doctor in awe. Everyone stared at the black and white ship, somewhat avian in appearance, as it finished strafing the fleet of escape pods and turned back for another run.

Chapter 4 - The Penguins Attack

"Battle stations!" shouted the First Mate.
"What battle stations?" complained Joe, "That line is just another cliche!"
"SHUT UP!" shouted everyone.
"What I meant was," explained the First Mate, "find something to do that will help us!"
"Yes! Man the cannons! Please!" suggested Enrico, sprinting to one of the Laser control booths.
"Woman the cannons!" corrected Kara with equal enthusiasm, as she took her place at the other contorl booth.
"Power up the shields!" exclaimed her assistant, as she did just that.
"Take evasive action!" blurted out Joe, finally getting into the spirit of things.
As the crew bustled around getting ready to fight, the First Mate stood in the center of the deck shouting directions.
"We're being hailed on the radio, all ships are receiving the same message," said Kara.
"On screen," said the First Mate.

The screen crackled to life. A penguin appeared with a Napoleonic three-point hat and an array of medals attached to his chest. As he quacked, the universal translator took effect.
"Greetings, weak humans. We are the Galactic Penguin Empire, and we hereby declare you our prisoners."
The Captain's response could be heard over the radio "Over my dead body!" The Captain's pod swooped towards the Penguin Battleship, lasers blazing. The penguin general paused only momentarily before saying, or rather quacking, "Your offer is acceptable."
An icicle shaped projectile fired out of the enemy ship's beak. It streaked towards the Captain's pod and hit it straight on. The ship froze solid and began drifting away.
"NOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!" screamed the First Mate.
"Yeeeeeeesssssssssssss!!!!!" mocked the penguin.
The First Mates face hardened and he switched to a friend only frequency. "All ships attack full firepower, on my command. I'm going after the captain. NOW!"

The entire fleet of escape pods flew in towards the Penguin Mother Ship simultaneously. The Penguin Ship's beak opened again and waves of smaller penguin fighters launched out [Trust me, this looked really cool in my head]. As the firefight continued, the First Mate and his crew sped toward the Captain's crippled ship, hoping they could get there in time.

Chapter 6 - The Battle for Centauri Prime

As lasers and icicles streaked across space, immobilizing dozens of ships on either side, the First Mate sped toward the Captain's frozen ship. Once they arrived, they docked their ship to the Captain's and boarded. They peered around, expecting to see devastation. Instead, they found the crew huddled around a campfire coming from a tin can in the midst of the ship. Two people who the First Mate did not recognize were sitting around the fire. The one with the pointy had walked up to them.
"Well pickle me tink!" he chuckled, "If it isn't my old pal Mr. Groucho!" He collapsed to the ground in a giggling heap.
The second stranger came up to them also, "I'm sorry, you'll have to forgive Mr. Stadler's behavior. I'm Mick, pleased to meet you." He thrust out his hand.
"Er... nice to meet you too," the First Mate tried not to look surprised. "Say, you aren't the one's who set up that campfire are you?"
"As a matter of fact I am, I call it the 'Campfire-in-a-Can.'"
"I see."
At this point the Captain interjected, "I hate to interrupt the festivities, but it appears we're winning."
Once again all eyes peered out the ice-covered windows.

Several penguin ships were forming a pyramid shaped formation and charging up, but a single escape pod ran headlong into the first one, sending them all flying in different directions. More penguin ships surrounded and converged on the escape pod, but it merely sped off in a different direction causing a spectacular traffic jam. It was obvious that the penguins had lost, their battered ships flew back into the open beak and the mother ship turned and sped off into the distance until it was merely a distant receding dot, and then nothing at all.

Epilogue - Ever After

The Human Colony on Centuri Prime was prospering well, with a second colony being built not far away. Although the Penguins frequently attacked from Centuri Secundus, with the aid of Mick's technology they drove them off easily every time. The doctor found a good suppressant for the Captain's hangover made with native plant life. The First Mate was elected the Planetary Governor. News reached the colonies that the Starbucks Empire had been defeated and the world was a democracy once more. More ships were on their way with more building materials, a much needed soda shipment, and due to a typographical error, fourteen cats and a Scottish terrier. It seemed a bright future for humanity, and Joe, by now having embraced the spirit of cliches, stepped into the alien sunset to utter those famous words and thus end the story:

"And they all lived happily ever after, The End."

An Occurrence at Coogee Beach

I wrote this moderately fictionalized 'descriptive personal narrative in my Year 10 English class. I think its an (albeit primitive) example of my 'silly' voice which I tend to use fairly frequently - its a lot of fun to write in, and hopefully at least comparably enjoyable to read.

The day started like any other summer day in Australia. I awakened from my log-like slumber and yawned. Pulling myself to my feet, I peered out the window and was greeted by the inviting sight of the ocean. Still partially asleep, I called my friend Dimitri and mumbled something vague involving the beach. Obviously just having woken up himself, he grunted in return, expressing his reaction, possibly positive, to the idea. An hour or so later we met at the nearest beach, Coogee, clad in bathing suits and ridiculously oversized wetsuits.

It was early in the day, so the water was still a little cool for swimming in. Instead we proceeded to cover every exposed square inch of skin with at least a tangible layer of sunscreen. After this ritual had been completed, Dimitri suggested we build a sand castle. I agreed, all the time knowing full well that our own feeble attempts of constructing a sand castle could be more adequately described as 'digging a rather large hole' or possibly 'building a big mound.' Following the completion of our veritable masterpiece, we assessed our efforts. "That thing there looks a bit like a wall, and that hole could be a moat," Dimitri stated.

"I think it sorta looks like when they blew up New York in Independence Day, only messier and less organized," I replied. Dimitri indicated his approval of my appraisal and we decided it was tiem to enter the water. Little did I know what a terrible fate awaited me inside the murky depths of the ocean.

We experimentally waded into the water, it was warm enough to satisfy us, and so we jumped in and started splashing around like enraged hippos. We were in the water for less than fifteen minutes when an unthinkable calamity occurred.

A lance of agony shot up my leg as the horrid monster struck. I gritted my teeth and, showing calm cool judgement in the face of danger, screamed like a baby. Hobbling back to the shore, I grabbed a handful of sand, using it to rub the fiendish aberration's groping arms off my mutilated shin. As the creature expired form the exposure to the alien environment, I sighed in relief. Peering down at my vanquished foe, I paused to think of how dire the situation could have become had I lost my head. Then I remembered my crippled leg and resumed my frantic spasms.

Looking back, I may have overreacted slightly, considering that my enemy was a three-inch long bluebottle. It may actually have been dead before it latched onto my leg, but it still burned like hell. The best way I can describe the pain is like having a line of beestings wherever its tentacles touched my bare flesh. The 'bluey,' as many Australians call it, had become wrapped tightly around my right leg from the knee down; its body was trapped between my toes. This was the first, and last, time I have experienced pain to this extent, but the occurrence will neither be forgotten nor, I hope, repeated.

The pain continued in full for about half an hour. I spet this duration with my leg buried underneath the sand, as this is supposed to help relieve the suffering, but if it did I could not tell. The area soon after subsided into a dull ache, and by that evening it was gone, replaced by a persistent itching sensation around the affected area. The next day my leg was criss-crossed by a series of reddish welts, lined up wherever contact with the devilish beast had occurred. The welts became scabs, the scabs become scars, and eventually these too disappeared.

Soon after the fiasco was over, I looked up the Bluebottle on the Internet and found out some interesting facts, not least of which was that I had done everything in the situation wrong. Rubbing the area will actually cause the pain to increase, as will attempting to remove it using wet sand, both of which I performed under the ever helpful instruction of my friend's mother, who claimed to be an expert in the area of Bluebottle Sting Treatment.

Today I am left with no visible physical signs of the event, but it will be seared into my memory as one of my most intense experiences ever.

What fun we have together, you devoted readers and I. Join me next time when I reveal which House I have been sorted into (HINT: Its Slytherin)

Faith & Progress

I had a double free period, some delicious Brighton High School lunch (complete with the standard rice & gravy) and 1000 words of rough draft to write for the Cornell Club of Rochester Essay Competition.

To be fair, my English teacher had assigned us the task with plenty of notice, but important tasks like being awkward around girls and playing Halo 2 got in the way. My first draft ended up only being 650 words, but I was able to fluff it up in time for submission and ended up winning an Honorable Mention - my greatest and only literary accolade.

I'm currently working my way through a recording of The Illiad, so it seemed appropriate to revive the essay starting with a quote from The Odyssey. As with all my work from the archives, I make no claim to factual accuracy or quality of content. Its written quite naively from a period when I honestly believed that everyone subscribed to some form of rational, objective philosophy, and merely disagreed on the details. The strange alternatives of subjectivism and nihilism had simply not occurred to me as things that people would seriously believe.

However, I can see early glimmers of my current philosophical deism in the text, and an unstated notion of 'God as axiom'. It would be a fun concept to revisit today!

"Without gods, men are nothing"

-Homer, The Odyssey

Since the beginning of human existence, we have searched for ways to describe and explain the world around us. When something was inexplicable, we attributed it to some sort of divine force, whether it be angry spirits, a pantheon of deities, or a single omnipotent God. Even today, there are some things that science simply cannot explain, perhaps things that never will be explained. The idea of a higher power has contributed immensely to the fields of science and the arts, whether indirectly or directly. Also, faith has been a decisive factor in determining global politics and shaping the world as it is today. Without a belief in something - an idea, a philosophy, or a deity - humanity would remain stagnant and progress in almost all areas would be halted.

In ancient times, the advent of civilization was marked with further development of religions. In many classical and pre-classical societies, priests or religious leaders served also as the teachers, keepers of knowledge, scientists, and political rulers. For example, the Pharoah of Egypt was said to have descended from the gods. The people's faith in his divinity [and lots and lots of slave labour] inspired them to create such wonders as the Pyramids of Giza, and all of the archaeological artifacts that were buried within. Later, the split between the Pope of Rome and the Patriarch of Byzantine led to the separation of the Roman Empire and eventually the creation of the Byzantine civilization. This split had extremely far reaching consequences, providing the cultural basis of both European and Russian society. In addition, the Catholic Church was virtually the only Roman institution to survive the Dark Ages, bringing the wealth of knowledge from Greco-Roman civilization through intact.

Religious fervor also had a hand in the creation and destruction of some of the greatest empires the world has known. The spread of Islam across Asia and northern Africa saw the creation of one of the largest nations of all time. In the same way, a schism in the Islamic faith, concerning the rightful successor to Mohammad, caused the vast territory it controlled to fragment into dozens of new countries, which in turn gave rise to their own cultures and empires. All across history, the spread of religions is virtually inextricable from cultural diffusion, in many cases with the arrival of missionaries or travelling monks becoming a prelude to increased trade or conquest. The arrival of Buddhism form China to Japan and the surrounding regions led to the rise or combination of the various writing systems present in the area, not to mention the intermingling of cultures.

Contrary to popular belief [this is almost certainly not popular belief], which states that faith and science are entirely opposite and irreconcilable, the two are more times than not proponents of one another. During the European Renaissance, although the Church did try to hinder certain advances with which they disagreed, the majority of scientists and mathematicians were actually seeking better ways to understand and explain their God. In their view, they had been granted intelligence and conscience by a higher force and to let this gift go to waste was irresponsible. They used the power of observation and reason to discover more about the world around them. Even today, much of science is fueled by a desire to discover the reasons why things exist, and laws to govern how they exist. Ultimately, this is what God has always been, a universal force. Scientific progress is not only motivated, but in fact governed by faith, a strong belief that something is pushing the universe forward in a defined (or random) pattern. Even those who firmly believe that God is a myth created by man are driven by this very same myth when they seek to disprove it.

If science and politics were heavily influenced by religion, or lack thereof, art was born of it. The earliest cave paintings were symbolic of early faith, and all of the earliest stories and myths attempted to explain the creation and nature of the world, or celebrating ritual hunts and harvests. Throughout the ages, some of the greatest artistic and literary works were created in an expression of the divine, or an interpretation or allegory of a religious story or parable. The best selling book of all time is the Bible; it has been translated into dozens of languages and published in virtually every country. The greatest architectural feats, the most recognizable sculptures, almost every fictional story; all have been touched by religion.

It makes sense that culture would have been affected most by the presence of religious ideals. Ancient law codes were inspired by and in turn inspired many of the moral guidelines present in religious texts. In every region, country, state, and household the ways of life present are dictated by faith. It could be as simple as a pre dinner prayer or as complex as a ritualized worship ceremony. Whatever the case, religion affects us on all levels of life.

Although it goes by many names - God, karma, nature, and science - the belief that the universe is governed by some set of unbreakable regulations or a divine force is a common factor uniting all of humanity. Without belief, the fields of art, science, politics, culture, and life itself would be empty. Without faith, the world we know today would not exist. Without gods, men are nothing.

The Veterinarian

I wrote this piece in my last year of high school. Definitely didn't do any research so blame any factual inaccuracies on that! Its an uncharacteristic story for me - aimlessly cynical, bordering on nihilistic. The narrator's voice isn't my own, obviously, and all I really did was let him tell his story. He says some stuff I don't like, and some stuff I can relate to.

 Shit, I was probably doomed from the beginning, or blessed, if you're into that sort of thing. Looking back, I can see that what happened had to happen. After that night, everything else was inevitable. Funny though, how so much of your life can depend on one moment. The next two years of my existence determined by signing a few papers one Saturday morning. Back when it started, God - how long ago was it? - eleven years, I think; we were just a few months away from graduation.

Jason, you remember Jason right? Anyway, he had just got his acceptance letter to Stanford, he was going to study physics, I think. Hell of a smart guy, Jason; he has... had it all going for him. We went out and partied that Friday, the five of us, four if you don't count Mark. He was always the odd one out. But he showed up anyway, walking his little shuffle, lips slightly apart, with that god-awful Aerosmith sweater, always too small and a bit grungy.

He probably turned out the best of us, for all his awkwardness. Life is funny like that. I hear he got married, made a bundle in software. Lives in London, I think. We kinda lost touch after that summer. Mark - man, I should call him. He probably still has that sweater.

We all met freshman year: Reswan was my roommate, and he knew Dennis and Mark from high school. I was always surprised that Reswan made it into college; he got a soccer scholarship, but he was never too good. His real passion was girls, always had one, or five. He tended to attract stares, a five foot Sri-Lankan with a girl wrapped around him, usually a good three or four inches taller than he was. His dark eyes and skin and long black hair looked odd against his customary tie-dyed shirts and frayed jeans.

But yeah, right, the party. Anyway, we all met there, Reswan didn't have a girl, I remember being surprised at that, but he told me that some things were too important to bring a chick to. Dennis was the last guy there. Always showing up late. I hear he actually missed his sister's wedding that way. Dennis was a jock, tanned and buff like a Greek hero of old. You had to feel bad for him, he was pretty smart in his own way, and was attractive enough to cause suspicion amongst the female campus population; he only had eyes for Reswan. Kinda strange when he told us, but I guess we all got used to it. Life is funny like that sometimes; you always want what you can't have.

I can't really remember who brought it up. Seems like something I would say. I mean, besides Jason, we didn't have plans after college. I had thought about the Army a lot; my dad and his dad were both NavyDefinitely didn't do any research so blame any factual inaccuracies on that! men, marines, and I knew it would piss the hell out of them if I enlisted. My dad especially, he rarely brought it up, but when he did, you could almost see the scars that had been branded into his psyche from a mere six months on the deck of a riverboat.

We gave a toast to Jason, who for his part was grinning the whole time. His gums were his most prominent feature, appearing like a bloody fringe whenever he pulled back his lips. Anyway, it was after probably the third round of beers that we started talking in earnest about the Army. Mark, of course, was completely against it. He had recently got into the whole Buddhism and Karma crap, golden rule and all. Didn't seem like the type. I wonder if he's still into that... I really gotta call him. The rest of us thought it was a pretty damn good idea. I mean, you can blame the media or video games or music or whatever else is the buzzword today, but nothing excites a young man like the thought of ending the life of another young man. God, when you're 22 years old, you can live forever.

We lost count of the beers, Reswan said it was on him, his parents were loaded, both neurosurgeons - making more each year than most Americans would in a decade. They sent him a damn car for his birthday one year, a new one too. Mark started getting more and more heated up, his pale cheeks getting flushed red as he denounced the Army. "Turning Young Men into Dead Men," he said. Of course we weren't listening. Reswan and I were fully committed to joining the next day, and of course Dennis would follow Reswan anywhere. Poor guy.

The night ended badly, Mark left early in a huff, and then Reswan found some hcick to take him home, which only upset Dennis. Pretty soon it was just Jason and I. His body always seemed too small for his head, and his lanky frame fit strangely into any seat. I knew Jason the longest, we met at a summer job before college. He grinned as he flipped burgers, he was always grinning. We talked; he stretched, yawned, left. And then I was alone.

I often hear the question, "If you could go back, would you have gone?" And I don't know what to say. Life is funny; things can seem so clear when you do them, but when you look back you just don't know. It doesn't really matter in the end. I can't go back, I can't ever go back, so why linger?

Speaking from my own experience, we all woke up in bad shape. My brain felt like the energizer bunny was running a marathon inside, hitting his damn drum again and again. BOOM. BOOM. I got up and opened the window. BOOM. Somehow I managed to wake up Reswan, who had returned about an hour before with no pants. Together we went across the hall to get Dennis. BOOM. He got dressed quickly, and we all went down to the breakfast hall.

"Shit guys. We really gonna do this?" I asked, more to reassure myself that my voice still worked than anything.

"I'm still for it. What the hell else would we do?" Reswan gave the verdict. We were in it now, no turning back. The proud, the few, the fools. Drum roll please.

The rest of the morning was pretty blurry. We stumbled into the recruiting office, hangovers and all, a bunch of drunken college Boys. Less than an hour later we were Men, told to report back there on the Monday after graduation. Sitting outside on a bench was Jason, letter from Stanford in his hand. The words he spoke next were neither expected nor a surprise, they just sort of came out, not even a ripple in the flow of the day, "I'm going too."

So, there we were. Defenders of the free world. We knew that we would be sent to Iraq, there was never any question about that. We called our parents, said our goodbyes, they weren't happy, and we all cried at one point or another. Damn I miss Dad, he never understood, never could understand me.

The rest of the year passed without event. Mark seemed to forgive us, but our friendship was never the same. He got accepted to MIT, and was going home a day after we left. Life is funny sometimes. Everything happens, the world turns, people grow, and you just stand still.

Graduation came around, we sat, waited to be called, and just as easily, passed out of college and into the army. Sunday arrived, we said goodbye to Mark. He was wearing the sweater, as always, his curly hair cut short. Strange, I can't remember the last thing I said to him. I need to call him sometime, catch up on old times.

Monday saw us all out in the fog, the remnants of a summer storm still weighed down oppressively on the earth. The bus appeared out of the murk, and we filed on with about seven others from our class. The door squealed shut, and we were off. Our home for the last four years had just been left behind forever.

You see in movies and books that boot camp is hell on earth, but you can survive it. Everyone gets humiliated a few times. One in six marines wets his bed in the first two weeks. Basically, you just laugh at yourself, do what you're told, and after a few grueling months you are certified soldier material. Approved to kill for Uncle Sam. Dennis ended up as a helicopter pilot, and Reswan became a medic for one of those elite tank squads. Jason and I, probably the smartest of the group, ended up as grunts; we were both assigned a tour of duty in the north of Iraq, around Mosul.

Everyone usually wants to hear daring war stories, patriotic tales of heroism in the face of democracy-hating barbarians. Or sometimes they're looking for brutal accounts of the horrors of battle, with shattered and burning bodies. Truth is, there isn't much to tell. We did sweeps, frequently found nothing, living in fear of an attack that rarely came. The few times we did see battle, it was just some frantic gunfire and explosions, and then the tallying of the dead and wounded.

Occasionally Reswan and I meet and reminisce, but the meetings are becoming less and less frequent. He has a private practice in St. Paul, and he just got engaged. Can you imagine him married? I'm telling you, life is funny like that. He'll make a good father though; he seems to have a certain paternal instinct in him. Dennis survived the war too, but he lost most of his functions when his chopper went down. He lives with his sister now: the Greek hero who flew too close to the sun and burned.

Myself? I guess I can't complain too much. The blast that killed the rest of my squad spared me, taking my legs as a constant reminder of its mercy. The chaplain isn't the only one to say I am blessed. Shit, for all I know, I could be. From time to time, I find myself sitting by Jason's grave, wondering how holy he would feel in my position.

I'm a veterinarian now, always liked animals, you always know where you stand with an animal. Dating again too, more and more girls can overlook the wheelchair, someday I might be able to as well.

Life is funny sometimes, the problem is you just never know if you should be laughing or crying.

Austen the Humourist: Through the Years III

Time Enough... for MURDER
Part of my Creative Writing portfolio from my final year of High School - my teacher's comments: "Very entertaining piffle... subtle hyperbole - possible?"

Throughout his six years on the police force, Detective Philip Cosgrove had been in many uncomfortable situations, but this certainly beat them all. Unlike some of the other uncomfortable situations, this one ended well, with the proctologist announcing that he was quite fit. "As fit as a fiddle, you might say," Philip Cosgrove replied, mentally commending himself for his cleverness. Whenever he managed to apply a witty witty saying like that he felt smart, like one of those real detectives on TV. His wide face would break into a crooked grin, like a Halloween pumpkin carved by a demented four-year-old, and his bushy black eyebrows would curl up at the edges.

This happy feeling stuck with him all the way to the station, when he realized with an unpleasant start that he had forgotten something important, a date of some sort. He came to the conclusion that it was his father-in-law's birthday, and he had completely neglected to purchase him a gift. Ever since the old man, Chief Inspector Harold Jenkins, had gotten him this job, it was as though he had expected Philip to be thankful, or something, as if Cosgrove couldn't have procured it himself. Cursing his "dad," Philip tried to think of a solution as he nibbled at the tuna sandwich he brought in every day for lunch. It wasn't until he was heading to the recreation room on his second mid-morning break that a single idea managed to burrow its way through his sparse covering of wiry black hair and a skull thick enough to sink in concrete.

Once again put in a good mood, this time by his resourcefulness, Cosgrove rummaged through the various boxes in the small windowless room marked, "Evidence & Confiscated Goods: Employees Only." He tossed aside a child's doll with some questionable red stains on it, a single orchid encased in glass, and a crime scene photo of a ramshackle red barn, one entire side peppered with bullet holes. Suddenly he saw it, the mother lode. It was a pocket watch, but not just any timepiece. This watch was special somehow, even Philip could tell, or perhaps that was just indigestion. After all, the tuna had tasted a little funny today.

Prize in hand, the Detective strode purposefully down the hallway towards the corner office of Chief Inspector Harold Jenkins. Peering through the door window, Philip noticed that he was not the first one to arrive; two others, ordinary policemen, were standing beside the large desk. He had never seen his father-in-law so red in the face. "Must be something important," the portion of his brain devoted to reasoning suggested, "maybe we should come back later." "Ha!" shouted the majority of his synapses, "what's more important than my gift?"

Without a second thought, Philip strode in purposefully, cutting off the stranger in mid-sentance, "We have some leads on the Peterson murder but until we can find that watch..."

"Happy Birthday Harold!" Cosgrove ejaculated, plopping his sizeable buttocks down upon the desk. There was a sickening noise, that of breaking glass and rending metal, followed by a rather awkward silence. "Ah..." Philip looked at the stricken face of the shorter intruder, "Are those your glasses?" The man just nodded mutely. At about this time, the young Detective noticed the look on Jenjins' face. Cosgrove's mind tried to comprehend why the Chief Inspector didn't look happier, but all it could think was that the sky had never seemed so blue as it did now out the window, and how nicely it contrasted with the mauve of Harold's face.

"Son..." Harold began, spitting out each word. "Would you mind explaining just what the hell you are doing in here?"

"Well... you see..." came the halting reply.

"SPEAK!" thundered the man behind the desk, like an angry and vengeful demigod, albeit with more spittle projection. Neither of the two guests had spoken yet.

"I just thought that I should give you this..." he handed over the pocket watch, noticing for the first time the initials stencilled on the back: "J.P." By this time he just wanted to leave and go back to his sandwich, maybe even open a bag of chips, but he knew that he wouldn't get off so easily.

To Philip's surprise, Harold didn't seem any angrier. In fact, his mood seemed to brighten a bit. "Where did you get this, son?"

"Its... its..." Cosgrove stuttered, not believing his good luck. "Its your birthday present."

There was silence around the table, and Philip got the horrible feeling that he had said something wrong. Suddenly the Chief Inspector smiled, and then grinned, and then... he began laughing. The two policemen looked at each other, and then they also laughed. Cosgrove, always hating to be the last one to get a joke, which happened far more frequently than he would like, also joined in, making sure he laughed louder than the others.

"That's my son!" said Harold, "Now that we have the watch, we can really make some headway on the Peterson case. Let me tell you, you almost had us fooled with the birthday routine. But thank you, I had almost forgotten my daugher's birthday, clever of you to remind me like this. Say, what did you get her?"

Cosgrove turned green and rushed out of the room, stopping only long enough to retrieve his sandwich on his way to the mall.

The End

Thanks for reading my recycled rantings! Next week I describe how I conquered the crab people.

Austen the Humourist: Through the Years II

Quomodocunquize: Man or Myth?
I believe the goal of this Year 9 assignment was to write a definition essay for some word or concept. But that seemed boring so I wrote this instead. According to this source its even a real word!

Many nights I have lain awake in bed, pondering the secrets of life, the universe, and everything. Many nights have I asked myself the great questions: Why are we here? What's life all about? Is God really real, or is there some doubt? [A Douglas Adams and a Monty Python reference in the first paragraph - CREATIVITY!] What exactly is quomodocunquization? "Ah yes," as some great Greek philosopher may have once thought, "to quomodocunquize is indeed a great and mysterious ting." This was made even more amazing in that English was not even a language at the time. After grueling minutes of study, I have finally unlocked the secrets behind the word that has puzzled generations of scholars and theologians, kings and saints, and driven many more mad in its pursuit: quomodocunquize.

In its simplest form, to quomodocunquzie is to make money in any way possible. The first aspect of this is basically the idea of money. The evolution of money begins with the birth of humankind. Originally, humans utilized a barter economy, in which 'money' was not currency, but actually various goods themselves. For example, in order to purchase an ancient soft drink (historians call this "water"), one would need to pay three sheep and a half-chicken. Naturally, this sort of exchange made drive thru restaurants very inefficient, not to mention messy. For this reason, early peoples began using objects like shells or rocks as currency, which in turn bred metal coins and paper money through a process known as 'meiosis.' Obviously, money can refer to any material good, but in today's day and age, and for all intents and purposes it means currency.

Since the dawn of time, humans have been developing more and more sophisticated ways of relieving other humans of the uncomfortable burden of too much money. From the time honoured "hitting-over-the-head-with-big-stick" method to the modern and genteel "corporate fraud" method, moneymaking strategies run the gamut for profitability, morality and legality. Typically speaking, profitability is inversely proportional to morality and legality, unless one is a politician, when morality loses all meaning. Essentially, any sort of activity wherein a certain amount of money exchanges possession can be classified as a moneymaking venture, the core of quomodocunquization.

However, there is one thing that separates the everyday businessman from the dedicated quomodocunquizer. Although both make money, hopefully in vast quantities, in order to truly quomodocunquize, one must in addition be willing to sacrifice all that is good and holy for the sake of cold hard cash. Making money in any way possible means just that. If an activity will be profitable, it is fair game. For example, although many businessmen would not sell, for example, their eternal soul, to someone as unscrupulous as Satan, the Lord of the Abyss and Devourer of Souls or a law firm, if the quomodocunquizer thinks that he or she can come off with some capital, they would not give it a second thought.

Sure, many would argue that quomodocunquization is unethical, even downright immoral, and true, they may be completely correct, but in the end none of them will ever become wealthy enough to leave golden likenesses of themselves as tips. To sum it up, to quomodocunquize is to perform any activity, without caring about the consequences regardless of how far reaching and terrible they might be, for the sake of currency. Remember, quomodocunquization is not just a way of obtaining gargantuan quantities of wealth; it is a way of life.

Austen the Humourist: Through the Years I

This week I've collected three works of 'humorous' writing that I wrote at various points in my life- no promises in the quality of the jokes. I notice that the younger me found quite a lot of funnies in non sequitur and 'lawyers are greedy/immoral' quips. Of course today my sense of humour is considerably more mature and focuses exclusively on puns (my favourite type of bread - hey-oh!). The next two entries will be up Wednesday & Friday.

The Bear and the Three Goldilocks: A Fairy Tail
Originally written in Year 6, I believe I intended this to be a part of a series of revisited fairy tales and then promptly forgot about it. I believe Mozart was already composing at this age, and I'd like to think that this holds up at least as well as his early work. I can't, but I'd certainly like to. Its worth noting that the original piece had a WordArt title, was written in Comic Sans, and contained a beautiful hand drawn illustration.

Once upon a time there was a little girl named Goldilocks. One day through a bizarre incident involving a berserk photocopier, half a salami sandwich and a rabid weasel flying at terminal velocity, Goldilocks multiplied three times. Her clones had the names of Big Goldilocks, Medium Goldilocks and Small Goldilocks according to their sizes. The original Goldilocks was so surprised she ran away and became an image consultant. The remaining Goldilocks bought a house in the middle of the forest for a very decent price. Every morning they would eat some cereal. Big Goldilocks had a bland non-flavoured oatmeal. Medium Goldilocks had some Sugar-coated Chocolate Bombs in chocolate milk. Small Goldilocks had Honey Bunches of Oats. Since they all liked their cereal soggy they would first go for a walk. The story begins here...

The Three Goldilocks had just left for their morning walk when a burglar bear came to their house. He immediately broke down the door and went inside. The first thing he saw was The Three Goldilocks' breakfast. He tried Big Goldilocks' oatmeal but it was too bland. Then he tried Medium Goldilocks cereal but it was too sweet. Finally, he tasted Small Goldilocks' cereal and it was just right so he ate it all up. As he was no longer hungry he walked into the living room to try and steal something. The first thing he saw was Big Goldilocks' Wide Screen Colour TV. He tried to lift it but it was too heavy and it fell to the ground immediately, fortunately it was strong enough to withstand the blow. The next thing he saw was Medium Goldilocks' 12" Black & White TV. He picked it up but put it on the floor as soon as he realized it was too inexpensive. Finally he moved on to Small Goldilocks' 17" Colour TV - he lifted it into his sack because he knew it was just right. He hefted the bag over his shoulder and moved upstairs to see what he could see. When he reached the top he saw three beds. He went into the one belonging to Big Goldilocks' but it was too hard so he smashed it to bits. Then he went to Medium Goldilocks' bed but it was too soft so he smashed it to bits. In a temper he ran to Small Goldilocks' bed and smashed it to bits. Then he went through a rampage and destroyed most of the house. By the time The Three Goldilocks got back there was practically nothing left.

What followed could only be described as chaos. The Three Goldilocks angrily chased the bear around the forest. After about an hour of sweating, running and panting they managed to catch him. They were about to force feed him a kilo of mixed vegetables when a finicky Forest Ranger stopped them and gave them a long lecture about treating endangered species with care. During this time the bear escaped only to fall into the arms of the police. Both of the parties went to court and the bear was sent to jail. Unfortunately  The Three Goldilocks were fined for harming an endangered creature so the only ones who lived happily ever after were the lawyers.

Austen the Poet

I present for your consideration two poems written by me in lieu of paying attention in high-school English:

Shortest Poem Ever
I,
Spy.

English Class
This class is extremely dull,
I would rather drill holes in my skull,
But I have no choice,
And I can't raise my voice,
To break the monotonous lull.

Obviously, I have a hard time with poetry. I think that in many ways this stems from it being a very ill-defined concept in my head. Wikipedia calls it "a form of literary art which uses the aesthetic qualities of language to evoke meanings in addition to, or in place of, the prosaic ostensible meaning," or in layman's terms, words that are more than words. Of course the problem with that definition is anything besides an extremely technical piece of writing will qualify as poetry.

I am more and more of the opinion that art is a purely relational class of things - a method of communication between an artist and a consumer or even artists and themselves. This supposition has the added benefit of allowing it to be coupled onto any sort of medium. In all honesty though, my entire aesthetic philosophy still needs a lot of work!

Austen the Artist

First things first: Moved to Evanston and have settled into my typical man-cave routine of wearing nothing but a robe most of the day. Classes start in a few short (six days each - screw you Tuesday) weeks, so I'll soon be finding out how little of that number stuff I actually remember.

Now on to business! I have some more high school stuff from the archives.

If anyone hasn't seen it, I used to run a comic in the UR campus times called the Grimoire. The roots of the comic actually date back to a silly idea I came up with in High School. 'Deth Omelet' (featured in Grimoire XIV) was a band featuring the Grim Reaper (and in its early days, the Easter Bunny). Here is the original album cover for 'Corn on the Macabre' drawn circa 2005:
To keep canon continuity (which is oh-so important in the world of discontinued campus comics), I'm gonna say that this is a solo country album released by Deth Omelet after the unfortunate events in Grimoire XIV.

I also dug up a t-shirt design for my school's Science Olympiad team, which I recall was rejected immediately upon submission:


Finally, here is... something. I have no idea of the context but don't doubt that I had some incredible conclusion planned:

My money is on the pirate.

The 'Finally Blogging Again' Award

I am currently cleaning out my room in preparation of my move to Evanston in a few weeks where I will be attending Wizard Camp for a PhD in Awesome.

Mostly I am being forced to sort through piles of clothes I don't fit into and old cords and computer junk that my tech hoarder inclinations previously prevented me from throwing away (I found a ZIP drive which I am pretty sure no one used even when it was remotely cutting edge).

However, I did uncover a wonderful treasure trove in the form of a box of high school writing assignments and various other memorabilia. In the interest of promoting child literacy, I will be painstakingly retyping and uploading choice samples from this for your amusement whenever I can be bothered to.

Also in the box were the paper plate awards I received after my church production of Jekyll and Hyde (in which I played the Right Honorable Sir Archibald Proops - *SPOILERS* he gets murdered by David Hasselhoff). For those of you not familiar with this venerable thespian/sporting tradition, these are awards given typically by the older members of a group to the rest of the cast/team.

It is a very serious and solemn occasion, and as a graduating actor, I had the privilege of both attending the creation ceremony, and receiving the following accolades:

1. The 'X(' Award: In honor of my character's fate, tastefully displays a dead stick figure in a pool of blood.
2. The 'So Good in Your Scenes (Is it Method Acting)' Award: In honor of the convincingly effeminate way in which I portrayed my character.
3. The 'Way to Spill all over the Counter' Award: In honor of my over-excited gesticulation (as a result of method acting) knocking my drink over backstage
4. The 'Caitlin Chan Loves You' Award: In honor of Caitlin Chan being an awesome friend.
5. The 'Way to be a Nerd' Award: Not all awards were honors, to be fair.
6. The 'You Spell your Name with an 'E' you Loser' Award: Kids can be so cruel
7. The 'WOAH! Ass Ahoy!' Award: I have a big butt, true, but I don't think its so large as to be award-worthy...
8. The 'How did YOU get a girl like HER?!' Award: Girls who are far nicer, funnier, and prettier than I am keep inexplicably dating me, and the high school girlfriend this refers to was no exception. Perhaps its my aforementioned prize-winning posterior?
9. The 'Way to Want a lot of Awards' Award: I may have been slightly over-vocal about my desire for many accolades after catching a glimpse of award #7. After all, if you can't get quality, sometimes quantity has to suffice!
10. The 'Austen Shut Up' Award: Slightly over-vocal may have been understatement...
11. The 'I Don't Have Enough Awards' Award [Self-Awarded]: Extreme understatement...

And to you, my readers whose loyalty is only exceeded by your imaginary-ness, I present the '10000000th Reader of my Blog' Award.