StephanKinsella.com

And speaking of drug-experimentation… check out the posts on this thread by Tetrahedron Omega (aka Count Lithium von Chloride, aka James Redford) on his various drug trips and how they allegedly generates various so-called Levels of so-called God-Trips and all kinds of so-called direct revelation. I think he actually believes this stuff.

In a recent article by him that was called to my attention, Jesus is an Anarchist, I noticed this sign off, which led me to wonder about this Omega Point and Direct Revelation:

Born in Austin, Texas and raised in the Leander, Texas hill country, the native-born Augustinian James Redford is a young born again Christian who was converted from atheism by a direct revelation from Jesus Christ. He is a scientific rationalist who considers that the Omega Point (i.e., the physicists’

technical term for God) is an unavoidable result of the known laws of physics. His personal website can be found here: http://geocities.com/vonchloride

My wife wonders why I sometimes tend to attract … strange people as friends. I am not sure. But it does happen on occasion. After all, I am a libertarian. So some of my friends are from that group, which probably tends to draw a disproportionate share of weirdos.

Anyway. A student named Per Christian Malloch emailed me sometime in the late 1990s I believe (probably 1997-98 or so), with some bizarre, mocking, but not entirely unfriendly comments about Hans Hoppe’s argumentation ethics and some of my related rights theories. I think he was initially silly, saying things like “I’m so Hoppy I found Hoppe.”

We ended up corresponding for a while. He was a very bright young student at Columbia at the time, as I recall. He was also into Satanism, and we corresponded about that too. I think it’s silly, but did not realize until he enlightened me that Satanism is apparently not about evil or Satan. I think. Whatever.

Per was into video games and writing about them, and weird projects like The Chicken Musical (2). I once theorized he had made up his name since it seemed to connote “Of Good and Evil” (“Per” meaning of, or pertaining to; Christian meaning good; and Mal meaning “evil”) which seems to go along with his obsession with amoralism, Satanism, even libertarianism. He never replied to this question, when I asked him. (It always bugs me when people simply evade a direct question.)

He must also have been into drugs because he apparently overdosed and was found dead in his dorm room or apartment in November 2000 (obituary). I found out from an email subject lined “Remembering Per” from one of his friends, who must have found Per’s email address list and sent it out. As I recall the others on the list appeared to be a bunch of black-leather wearing Goth types. I asked one of them what happened and I believe he told me about the drugs, but I have lost the emails.

Anyhoo, Per sent me a couple of articles, which I recently found and scanned (Daddy’s going paperless big-time). So I posted them here: Amoralism in One Lesson and The Theory of the Satanic Ritual and Satanic Magic.

Per was obviously bright, but burned out and snuffed out what would in all likelihood have been an interesting, possibly intellectually productive, life. Sad. De mortuis nil nisi bonum.

Coda: In Jan. 2005, a friend of Per’s, Canon Pence (so-called), stumbled across my post about Per and sent me this: For Per: Collected Works of Per Malloch, compiled by Canon Pence, 10/6/2001–12/6/2001.

Coda 2: In August 2005, I received this email:

By chance, I came across your blog article about Per Malloch. In it you write, “I once theorized he had made up his name since it seemed to connote “Of Good and Evil” (“Per” meaning of, or pertaining to; Christian meaning good; and Mal meaning “evil”) which seems to go along with his obsession with amoralism, Satanism, even libertarianism. He never replied to this question, when I asked him. (It always bugs me when people simply evade a direct question.)”

I can provide a bit of resolution, though I imagine you’ll be disappointed. I worked with Per’s father during the time that he (renowned broadcaster and composer/musicologist William Malloch) and Per’s mother were married and subsequently conceived Per. They were living at Bill’s long-time family home on Windsor Blvd in the Larchmont neighborhood of Los Angeles, near Hollywood. I’m not sure how Bill met his wife (and cannot recall her name, it was so long ago), but their wedded bliss was short-lived and not long after Per was born, she took the baby and left for home, which was in Scandinavia. (She was a stunningly beautiful woman, very Scandinavian looking — statuesque, blond, very pretty.) Bill was deeply bereft, not of her leaving, but of her taking their son; there was nothing he could do about it, however.

During the ensuing years, Per would visit his father for several weeks each year, and the two would “bach it” at the house on Windsor. Since I was working there doing research, copying parts, etc., I would see their interaction. They were very close, and nothing was too good for his son, as far as Bill was concerned. I remember one morning arriving for work and the two of them were starting in on their second pound of fried bacon! And giggling with delight the whole time. Per was a tow-headed 4 or 5 year old at the time, but built like a boy Viking.

Anyway, to answer your question about Per’s name, his mother chose his name, Per Christian, after family members on her side; of course he got Bill’s surname. And he also got Bill’s “pun”ishing sense of humor, apparently. Anyway, that’s all I had to tell you.

Jeannie [xx]

I wrote her back: “interesting; I am not disappointed, I am glad to finally have an answer to my question. Some of his goth (?) friends informed me of his death, since I guess I was on his email list. But I never heard the story. Was he just precocious? Experimenting w/ drugs? Depressed? What happened? He was very bright. It is sad.”

Her reply, somewhat expurgated:

I worked with Per’s father, award-winning broadcaster and composer/musicologist William Malloch, during the time when he and Per’s mother were married. They were living at Bill’s family home on Windsor Blvd in the Larchmont neighborhood of Los Angeles, near Hollywood. I don’t know how Bill met his wife, Gudrun, but their marriage was short-lived and dissolved not long after Per was born. Gudrun took the baby and returned home to Scandinavia. Gudrun was a strikingly beautiful woman, statuesque, blond and blue-eyed. Bill was deeply bereft, not of her leaving, but of her taking their son; there was nothing he could do about it, however.

During the ensuing years, Per would visit his father for several weeks each year, and the two would “bach’ it” at the house on Windsor. When I was working there assisting Bill’s research on authentic tempi of Handel’s music, I would see their interaction. They were very close, and nothing was too good for his son, as far as Bill was concerned. I remember one morning arriving for work and the two of them were starting in on their second pound of fried bacon, and giggling with delight the whole time. Per was a tow-headed boy with shining blue eyes, only 4 or 5 years old at the time, but built like a boy Viking. He was a sweet boy, but very strong-minded once he made his mind up about something.

As I recall, Gudrun chose his name, Per Christian, after family members on her side; of course he bore the Malloch surname. He also inherited Bill’s “pun”-ishing sense of humor, apparently.

Jeannie [x]

I made the mistake of seeing parts of the 1994 movie The Road to Wellville on HBO this weekend. I believe it is just about The Worst movie I have ever seen. Like an Ishtar, but worse, because it gives you this grimy, unsettling feeling watching it. It’s almost worth watching if only to see how horrible it is. There’s a horrible scene when Anthony Hopkins actually makes Mathew Broderick crap into a pan and then examines the stool and criticizes it for being too smelly. Endless stuff like that. It’s really ghastly. And I am flabbergasted–Ebert gave it 3 stars….

In a chat with mi amigo Jeremy Sapienza, we were ranting over expressions we hate, and also hickisms.

For example: people who say ICKsetera or exetera, for et cetera.

My mom says, instead of “This morning,” “tuh-smornin'”. Where I come from, they call a water hose a “hose pipe”, a wash cloth is a “rag”, and a closet is a “locker”. And going grocery shopping is called “makin’ groceries”, as in, I was out makin’ groceries. And Bill Clinton just “caught a heart attack”–you know, like you catch a cold, you can catch a heart attack.

The only improvement we Southrons made to the language is “y’all.” Much better than you’ns or yous, or even “you” for plural.

However, most people are too stupid to spell it right, they spell it “ya’ll”. No comprehension of what the apostrophe is really for. Speaking of contractions–there was a great hamburger place in Baton Rouge, but the way they spelled their name bugged me: The Ground Pat’i. I’m like you dumb idiots. The ‘ is meant to replace missing stuff, like in can’t it replaces “no” and in y’all it replaces ou. What does it replace in “Pat’i”? the letter “t”?? Idiots. Morons.

Another pet peeve is using an apostrophe for plural, as in cat’s when you mean cats. Or, even worse: it’s for its. A sign of utter stupidity and illiteracy.

A friend recently saw something on my blog, and he said, “Isn’t the blog wonderful?” Uhhh, “the blog”? as if it’s the Internet. As if there is one big “blog” out there that my blog sits on or something. I’m like, let the professionals use the tech talk, dude. Don’t try it on your own.

This guy I know keeps talking about Iraqians. Uhhh, Iraqis, you mean? As Jeremy says, “he needs to be sausage. call Sweeney Todd.” Which means, stupid people are more valuable as sausage; Sweeney Todd is a reference to a play where this guy who returns to London from the Aussie penal colony he cuts the throats of all the people who crossed him decades back, and sends them down to the pie maker downstairs who makes mincemeat and sausage out of them.

Another one that irks me is these stupid over-the-top I’m proud to be a New Yawk Eye-tie types who refer to pizza as “pie”. Look, pie is fricking lemon or chocolage pie, you know, dessert, not pizza. And the sing-song term pizza-pie is even worse, makes you sound like a silly Italian. Stupid New Yorker Italian pizza maker types. Pie means apple. Like I’m gonna call “Pie Hut” for delivery. Domino’s Pies Delivers. Gag me.

And I hate it when people refer to soft drinks as “sodas”. Or worse, “pop”. It’s a soft drink, man! And these stupid yankees who say that Southerners refer generically to all soft drinks as “Coke”–I’m from Louisiana and don’t recall ever once hearing someone do that. Anyway–hi, I’ll have a sodee-pop? What are we, in the friggin’ ’50s? Hi, I’m a soda-jerk!

Speaking of jerk–that’s anoher one: the stupid name “Jerk Chicken”. Give me a break. I knoq, I know, Jeremy tells me, “but that’s the name!” Well I dont like it. Jeremy says, “it’ Jamaican dumbass!” I say, no excuse! “Jerk” chicken. Harumph! How about Choke Chicken? Or Jolt Cola (oops). If you can have jerk chicken, why not shake trout, or whiplash pig. Or vibrate duck.

And i hate the word “condom”. When I grew up, it was RUBBER.

All this stupid Dilbert lingo drives me nuts. Stupid buzzwords. Like, “Well, to look at this more closely, let’s copter down to the blueprint level”. Also: “Mission critical”. Anyone who uses buzzwords is in a low level job.

I hate that accent of Kerry when he said “in a fashion reminiscent of Genghis Khan,” sounded like Thurston Howell the III. What’s up with people who name their kids after themselves? I mean get over yourself. Jesus.

It’s kind of funny how people call J.C. Penney “Jacque Puh-NAY”. Target is called Tarzhay. Or Neiman Marcus Needless Markup.

My wife likes HGTV but why do they always have a stupidly low budget on this fix-up design shows. Like, remodel the family room for $750! “We can make a lampshade for $2! All you need is some beeswax and old newspaper!” Wooooo.

Back on lingo–the illiterates where I grew up also say “come” instead of “came,” as in “Yestiddy he come over to the house.” And they say “cain’t” instead of “can’t”. “Ah cain’t hep it, Steph.” And they say “Aint” for Aunt. Mah aint betsy. It’s better than the New England way of saying Ahhhhnt. But I was raised with Aint Janice and Aint Myrtle etc.

Now what they really need to do is standardize the informal term for grandmother and grandfather. It’s too diverse. There is mammy, pappy, meemaw, Maw Maw, Ma Ma, Granma, Grammy. Me, I prefer Maw Maw and Paw Paw, me. (Another Coonass-ism from South Louisiana is repeat “me” at the end of a sentence, as in, “I’m gonna get me some crawfish, me.”) And if you need to distinguish, the first name of the husband, or something like that. For example, my grandparents were Bill and Pep Rodgers, and Pete and Theda Kinsella. So we called them, natrally, Maw Maw Bill and Paw Paw Bill… and… Maw Maw Kin and Paw Paw Kin. See, in Louisiana you call adults by their first name, but with Mr. or Mrs. So my neighbor quite literally was Mr. Ed and Mrs. Mary Jo. I still call him Mr. Ed when I see him. Except they say “Miss” for Mrs. so my mother in law is Miss Sue. No one sais “mizz-rizz” or “misses” for Mrs. They say “Miss”.

A guy just emailed in a list I’m on: “There is no cut-and-dry way to determine this…” Uhhh cut and DRIED maybe? People are so STUPID. Same dumbasses say “ice tea”. WTF is ice tea? Tea made from ice?It’s ICED TEA, MORON.

CODA: Jesse Ogden has a funny take (2) on this. Yes, I admit it, I’m a language nazi! My way or the highway, pal! While I might have seemingly arbitrary exceptions for some deviations from standard rules, by and large my exceptions are based on an aversion to deviations from (a) yankees (“pop”); (b) fops and other pretentious types (“ahhhnt” or “at university”); or (c) where the expression is just goofy (quoting Mr. Dooley; hey, presto!; willy-nilly).

The latest from the indefatigable Tucker Max is disgustingly hilarious. Is a warning really necessary?

Someone emailed this to me. It’s hilarious.

EXCERPTS FROM A DOG’S DAILY DIARY:

8:00 a.m. Oh, boy! Dog food! My favorite!

9:30 a.m. Oh, boy! A car ride! My favorite!

9:40 a.m. Oh, boy! A walk! My favorite!

10:30 a.m. Oh, boy! Getting rubbed and petted! My favorite!

11:30 a.m. Oh, boy! Dog food! My favorite!

Noon- Oh, boy! The kids! My favorite!

1:00 p.m. Oh, boy! The yard! My favorite!

4:00 p.m. Oh, boy! To the park! My favorite!

5:00 p.m. Oh, boy! Dog food! My favorite!

5:30 p.m. Oh, boy! Pretty Mums! My favorite!

6:00 p.m. Oh, boy! Playing ball! My favorite!

6:30 a.m. Oh, boy! Watching TV with my master! My favorite!

8:30 p.m Oh, boy! Sleeping in master’s bed! My favorite!

EXCERPTS FROM A CAT’S DAILY DIARY:

Day 283 of My Captivity: My captors continue to taunt me with bizarre little dangling objects. They dine lavishly on fresh meat, while I am forced to eat dry cereal. The only thing that keeps me going is the hope of escape, and the mild satisfaction I get from ruining the occasional piece of furniture. Tomorrow I may eat another house plant.

Today my attempt to kill my captors by weaving around their feet while they were walking almost succeeded; must try this at the top of the stairs. In an attempt to disgust and repulse these vile oppressors, I once again induced myself to vomit on their favorite chair, must try this on their bed.

Decapitated a mouse and brought them the headless body, in an attempt to make them aware of what I am capable of, and to try to strike fear into their hearts. They only cooed and condescended about what a good little cat I was. Hmmm, not working according to plan.

There was some sort of gathering last night of their accomplices. I was placed in solitary confinement throughout the event. However, I could hear the noise and smell the food. More importantly, I overheard that my confinement was due to my power of “allergies.” Must learn what this is and how to use it to my advantage.

I am convinced the other captives are flunkies and maybe snitches. The dog is routinely released and seems more than happy to return. He is obviously a half-wit. The bird, on the other hand, has got to be an informant, he speaks with them regularly. I am certain he reports my every move. Due to his current placement in the high metal room, his safety is assured.

But I can wait, it is only a matter of time ….

In the TV commercials for Jaguar cars, there is an American asking, “Honey, should we get the blue Jaguar, or the green one?” She pronounces it “Jagg-war”, as we do. Then the pretentious Brit announcer chimes in about the “JAG-yoo-ar”. God. Gag me.

“Giambra taps Weiner for post“. ‘Nuff said.

Intellectual Property Rights: Theory & Indian Practice, by Garima Gupta & Avih Rastogi, Working Paper Series, Centre for Civil Society, New Delhi, India. (Also see their apparently related paper, Intellectual Property Rights: Who Needs Them?)

More IP-related stuff here.

Da Ali G Show (2) is fricking hilarious. Booyakasha!

A colleague keeps referring to Iraqis as “Iraqians”.