My own sandbox
Recently, the on-line chat group undertook to accomplish a survey called
the Keirsey Temperament Sorter, with interesting results. Most of the guys
turned out to be INTP (Architects) which makes sense. Those of the female
type seemed to gravitate towards INFP (Healer). Eric, Lord Sabre, apparently
ruined this trend by being something bizarre. Trend-bucker! I, on the other
hand, was the stately INTJ (Mastermind). I'm not making that up, either.
Well, okay, so that's stretching it a little. I was only narrowly on the
INTJ side, so I could be a Mastermind or an Architect, depending on my
mood at the time I took the little test thing. For those of you who haven't
been badgered into this temperament thing, it's sort of a 'find your
Archetype' deal. It ranks Introvert vs Extrovert (I/E), iNtuition vs Sensing
(N/S), Thinking vs Feeling (T/F) and Judgement vs Perception (J/P). Hijinks
generally ensue.
I suppose it makes sense for most (if not all) of us in the on-line circle
to be introverts. I mean, if we were extroverts, we probably wouldn't be
spending so much time sitting in front of a computer 'talking' with people
from Outer Mongolia. And with such an engineering/problem solving bend,
there's a certain predisposition to smaller groups, where interactions can
be anticipated and manipulated with greater precision.
Curses. No wonder I'm so whacked in the head. I can't figure out wether my
archetype should be the leader-oriented Mastermind or the project-oriented
Architect. Curses. Currrrrses. The end result is I seem to end up doing
neither. Embarking on projects I never finish, continually seeking leadership
in bloody contests of personal charisma, but without any firm idea of what
to do with it. I love pop psychology; now I can blame all my problems on
Meyers-Briggs and their accursed temperaments!
Another amusing pop psychology bit I encountered was the theory that because
we originated as a hunter-gatherer culture, any human group above a certain
size will immediately begin to fracture along doctrinal lines because it's
written in our genes that large groups are Not A Good Thing. Society exists
merely as an artificial construct to prevent us from executing our genetic
imperitive to gather up a few friends, sling a female type or two over our
shoulders, and go establish a stomping ground over the next hill or two.
Cripes. This would explain a lot, wouldn't it. It does seem to shed some
light on the eternal conflict between the Forpites and the Heenites, in our
doctrinal war which can only end when one of us is utterly defeated!
The DragonBall Z Update: Vegita is finally defeated, after only 12 episodes
of furious battle! And the heroes, in a magnificent fit of idiocy, let the
schmuck go free. Uh, okay. Bulma (one of only two female main characters,
both of whom are stuck on Goku like flies on super-glue) the Team Techie
flies in an aircar to evacuate the surviving heroes to the hospital. Much
angst and general exhausted thinking occurs, as they try to figure out
how to bring back their fallen allies with the Dragon Balls. Unfortunately,
the only person who could find them, Piccolo the alien, got killed... oh,
sorry, sent to the next dimension by the alien Saiyans. But wait!
There's more where he came from! They just have to find the aliens home
planet! Goku puts in a collect call to God and wrangles the coordinates
from him.
Meanwhile, a monkey dances around for no clear reason.
Bulma does some quick calculations and laughs condescendingly, because hte
planet is over 4,000 years away in any of her space-ships. Until
Spots Guy (whose name continues to elude me), one of the surviving heroes,
points out that there were two Saiyans, only one of whom survived to escape,
so there must be a space Saiyan spacecraft lying around. He also pulls a plot
device out of his... jacket by revealing he stole the remote control from the
dead Saiyan. Bulma laughs (confidently now) as she takes the control.
The entire crew goes to the hospital, and are promptly swathed in bandages.
Well, the injured ones, anyway. They're also drugged to the gills, because
one of their associates is a floating, anthropomorphic cat with an axe. An
axe for pity's sake. I'd be at least mildly concerned at the floating
cat bit, but a floating cat with an axe? Anyway, Bulma spots the Saiyan
pod being taken away on TV, manipulates the remote, and causes it to
detonate. Some technical genius. Immediately, everyone begins the ever so
human task of trying to foist the blame off on someone else.
They're saved by a deus ex machina (literally, in this case) as one of the
zillions of minor characters shows up and runs off with Bulma to show her
the location of another space-ship. One run by voice commands in a language
they only barely know. Hijinks ensue. (Bulma: "Hmm... what happens if I
press this button...")
Todays' Costume Boy Sightings: None.
The Morning Weather: Pleasantly cool, cloudy, lots of rain likely.
The Filler:
As demanded, a picture of Eat-Man.
Rant 'o the day contains no additives, preservatives or
small woodland creatures of any kind. Use only as directed. Do not expose to
direct sunlight. Do not fold, spindle, multilate or remove identifying tags.
Handle with care. Contains less than 3% milk fat by weight, not by volume.
Squeeze the lemon.
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