You are currently browsing the monthly archive for April 2006.

Content soon!

Also, this guy showed up in my serious freaggin' journalism class on Wednesday. The same class I wrote a magnanimous blog entry for, which I now notice has one of the most awesome comment-bot spams i've ever seen. Seriously.

Anyways, that guy (nice guy too!) said that if we namedrop him or SJSU in our blogs, he'll invariably end up returning the favor. Well, hop to it!

Everyone needs a pocket copy of the I Ching. It says more in five lines than the Bible does in five books. Taoism is just lazy and complacent enough for it to speak to me.

Let's see… stuff. Tomorrow I get to take that test that I was supposed to have taken two and a half semesters ago to be able to take upper div courses (the reason why i'm taking BS courses this semester). I haven't studied much at all, much less have an idea what the test actually is. So business as usual in other words.

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        Lesser Evening in Lihanpithioun, baroque coast ranges metropolis of the Old Easterlies, is a man-led cacophony that reverberates off the plastered and sloped walls of the Fishery- Commerce Aqua district, up over the cobblestones towards the perfume-draped verandas of the Harlots’ Bedsit, all the way to the condemned odeons on the outskirts of Old Acdemysus.

            In the rheumy purple of a Laborsworth circumferal, the only stretches of urban free of human rumblings and the aural high tide were the Peliyan Gardens and Filial Heights on the slopes of Mallardback Hill- prowling grounds of the oligarchs and their entourages. 

            Erzsomi Pdelos Amidr waded against the tide of tight-wound sailors flowing from the archaic naos and caravels (as old as Liha herself) docked at the ‘Imperial’ Harbor.

            The Pithiounis Mercantile-maintained blocks of Commerce Aqua were given their scheduled beating under a legion’s worth of salt-caked sailing clogs, boots, and stompers.  Seahounds, wind-winders, rudderjacks, and their deck thrall all bled like syrup from a vein, down into the narrow runnels leading to the Harlots’ Bedsit.

Bitching 'bout the things we see,

Bitching 'bout the things to be