Outside Providence...
Or rather, in it. Today I spent 11 hours in a "Magic the Gathering" tournament. Yeah, you remember that card game we all played back in middle school, the one with Vesuvian Dopplegangers and Black Lotusae. Well, it still exists, and actually is pretty fun. While the less nerdy of us continue to poke fun at those who find these kinds of things entertaining, I must confess that someday anthropologists, cultural and otherwise, sociologists, teleologists, and other social scientists will look back and examine this battling of wits, this communication of emoticon, expressed in the channelling of multi colored mana through, what else, cards, this phenomenon, if you will, and discover that our generation, the one without a purpose, the 'hijos aburridos', those forever claiming that there is nothing left to do, nothing left to see, we with all possible manner of information seeping in through the tips of our fingers, has produced this as merely another expression of our never ending quest for satisfaction, and it is just as good as anyone elses. Forgive me. I've been reading The Crying of Lot 49. A quote to come. Highlight of the torunament: I played. Well maybe it was meeting tacologic, whose last name closely resembles my own. Cheerio, tacologic. We are the great ones.
For those of you who don't understand the love of Los Angeles, I refer you to Pynchon:
"Somewhere beyond the battening, urged sweep of three-bedroom houses rushing by their thousands across all the dark beige hills, somehow implicit in an arrogance or bite to the smog the more inland somnolence of San Narcisco did lack, lurked the sea, the unimaginable Pacific, the one to which all surfers, beach pads, sewage disposal schemes, tourist incursions, sunned homosexuality, chartered fishing are irrelevant, the hole left by the moon's tearing-free and monument to her exile; you could not hear or even smell this but it was there, something tidal began to reach feelers in past eyes and eardrums, perhaps to arouse fractions of brain current your most gossamer microelectrode is yet too gross for finding."
(San Narcisco is a fictional town, right outside of LA)
For those of you who don't understand the love of Los Angeles, I refer you to Pynchon:
"Somewhere beyond the battening, urged sweep of three-bedroom houses rushing by their thousands across all the dark beige hills, somehow implicit in an arrogance or bite to the smog the more inland somnolence of San Narcisco did lack, lurked the sea, the unimaginable Pacific, the one to which all surfers, beach pads, sewage disposal schemes, tourist incursions, sunned homosexuality, chartered fishing are irrelevant, the hole left by the moon's tearing-free and monument to her exile; you could not hear or even smell this but it was there, something tidal began to reach feelers in past eyes and eardrums, perhaps to arouse fractions of brain current your most gossamer microelectrode is yet too gross for finding."
(San Narcisco is a fictional town, right outside of LA)