of summer fever and annabiotics

Sat, 13 Dec 2003 14:09:20 GMT

Regarding that peculiar institution you homo saps so reverently refer to as "love", vast libraries can be dedicated. Though my noble and most honorable keeper often references the work of Nick Drake, Patsy Cline and the late Elliot Smith when attempting to grapple with the complexities and vicissitudes of said institution, I, your loyal purveyor of truth and beauty, prefer to cite everyone's favorite opium consuming romantic Samuel Taylor Coleridge. While, no doubt, hunting down albatrosses through some laudanum induced Xanadu, Sammy somehow managed to scribble out:

Sympathy constitutes friendship;
But in love there is a sort of antipathy, or opposing passion.
Each strives to be the other, and both together make up one whole.

Young Seth (along with all you august denizens of the Orange County-of-the-mind) would do well to heed these three simple yet profound lines of verse, particularly in regards to those two most exquisite young mares, Summer of the flowing dark mane and Anna of the delicate blonde mane. I hesitate at this late hour to commit to an exhaustive exploration of what I have come to refer to as Seth's Dilemma, a conundrum if there ever was one, but for now I suggest meditating on Sam 'slammin' Coleridge's thoughts, particularly his observation that antipathy is intrinsically bound to that "beauteous flower" and where both young Summer and Anna fall on love's multidimensional amorous continuum.

i have arrived

Fri, 12 Dec 2003 13:55:26 GMT

Call me Captain Oats. To the undiscerning eye I am but a plastic mold, painted and shaped to resemble little more than a common exemplar of 'Equus caballus', or what the less taxonomic nomenclaturely inclined refer to as a "horse". But like Odysseus disguised as a poor wayfarer upon his return to Ithica, I am simply biding my time—ever vigilant, ever watchful. I presume you are familiar with my keeper and loyal friend, the venerable Seth Cohen of Newport Beach? As a stalwart guardian of Seth's pen in his glorious beachside stable, I am privy not only to the intimate details of my keeper's life, but my Foucaultian gaze falls lustily upon all that transpires in the decadent land that is Orange County. And though I choose to keep my motives cloaked in ambiguity and my endgame shrouded in mystery, I assure you—oh gentle readers—my intentions are virtuous and just. In closing, I think it important to stress that, counter Barthes' adage that "what the public wants is the image of passion, not passion itself", I, Captain Oats, pledge to untangle the multiplicity of meanings in the great metanarrative that is The O.C. with a passion rivaling that of both Captain Ahab during his relentless search for the great white whale in Moby Dick and Lincoln Hawk through his Herculean trials and tribulations in Over the Top. Your loving panopticon.