Think I should shave my head?
Well, this is addictive as all hell.
Sunday, July 31, 2005
More then whales, less then Mormons
Okay. Rant time. I think most of you all know me pretty well. You should also all know my biggest pet peeve: PDAs. Not Personal Data Assistants, I had one of them but Zoltan stole it from me. Im talkin bout makin out in public. Now take it, its ok to give a lil peck to someone in public, but 37 in 5 minutes? For fucks sake, lad. Im workin at the desk and theres a couple people playin games down here. Naturally, one guy's gf shows up. And smack, a couple words, smack, a couple words, smack, smack, words, smack, words, smack, words, silence, smack, smack, words, smack. You get my point? Im sure you all remember the parties where Id get all depressed/moody cuz you all were off with your female parts. AND I HATED IT. Im sure Ive said this before. Tis 1/2 the reason why hangin out with the Smiths is a hassle. Yes, the Smiths not the Romingers. Ugh! I can prolly say hating PDAs is like hating rich people cuz they have money and I dont. The point of this is that you dont have to OVERLY fucking show you love someone by making out with them in public. For fucks sake indeed.
Mascerade party. Mediocre. Reunion? I remember calling...and not getting very clear answers just a bunch of phone passes. DETAILS cuz I missed out.
Mascerade party. Mediocre. Reunion? I remember calling...and not getting very clear answers just a bunch of phone passes. DETAILS cuz I missed out.
Saturday, July 30, 2005
The Keeper of the Sacred Knowledge
marie says:
hey, can you please do me a favor?
tim (failed seducer) says:
sure
marie says:
pleeeeaaase, cant you tell me why goatheads name is goathead?
tim (failed seducer) says:
heh
tim (failed seducer) says:
i am afraid not
marie says:
WHY?
tim (failed seducer) says:
i have been sworn to secrecy
hey, can you please do me a favor?
tim (failed seducer) says:
sure
marie says:
pleeeeaaase, cant you tell me why goatheads name is goathead?
tim (failed seducer) says:
heh
tim (failed seducer) says:
i am afraid not
marie says:
WHY?
tim (failed seducer) says:
i have been sworn to secrecy
Friday, July 29, 2005
Ctrl+Shift+C motherlode;!;!;!;!;!;!;!;!;!;!;!;!;!;!;!;!;!;!;!;!
Cool glowing case & Power supply: $31
Video Card (1Ghz 6800gt): $295
3Ghz Pentium 4 w/Hyperthreading: $183
1Gb RAM (pc3200): $100.34
Motherboard ASUS: $92
DVD Burner: $50.95
CD Burner: $44.99
Hard Drive 200Gb: $93
Badass speakers: $49.99
USB 5jack: $10.00
WinXP (cuz of liscence shit): $146.95
Creative Audigy 2ZS (soundcard): $81
Shipping, Dancing, Prancing: $56
Total Price of Death Ray Omega: $$1236.39
Waiting for the loan to get approved: Painful.
There are some things you can't tolerate. For everything else, theres metal poles and rocks. Im goin to build this computer out of leaves and pine cones.
Video Card (1Ghz 6800gt): $295
3Ghz Pentium 4 w/Hyperthreading: $183
1Gb RAM (pc3200): $100.34
Motherboard ASUS: $92
DVD Burner: $50.95
CD Burner: $44.99
Hard Drive 200Gb: $93
Badass speakers: $49.99
USB 5jack: $10.00
WinXP (cuz of liscence shit): $146.95
Creative Audigy 2ZS (soundcard): $81
Shipping, Dancing, Prancing: $56
Total Price of Death Ray Omega: $$1236.39
Waiting for the loan to get approved: Painful.
There are some things you can't tolerate. For everything else, theres metal poles and rocks. Im goin to build this computer out of leaves and pine cones.
Things not to say to your boss:
"Up for doing up a couple charts in Excel?"
"Oh, maybe. I've never actually used it."
"I thought your resume said you were 'proficient in Excel'?"
"Well . . . that was a dirty lie."
So does anyone know how to add text boxes to an Excel chart?
"Oh, maybe. I've never actually used it."
"I thought your resume said you were 'proficient in Excel'?"
"Well . . . that was a dirty lie."
So does anyone know how to add text boxes to an Excel chart?
A resolution
I resolve to stop projecting unrealistic images of women onto women (and not just because the projector's bulb burnt out).
I resolve never again to kayak across the highways of america.
I resolve to give up on trying to figure out the mysteries of the universe. We're just never going to know why lemmings love peanut butter and lemon salmon.
I resolve to stop meddling in the personal lives of beetles. It might seem like fun, but insects are getting their hearts broken...
Finally I resolve to make myself a better person through alternative exercise techniques found on late night infomercials. They wouldn't give these people air time if it didn't work.
I resolve never again to kayak across the highways of america.
I resolve to give up on trying to figure out the mysteries of the universe. We're just never going to know why lemmings love peanut butter and lemon salmon.
I resolve to stop meddling in the personal lives of beetles. It might seem like fun, but insects are getting their hearts broken...
Finally I resolve to make myself a better person through alternative exercise techniques found on late night infomercials. They wouldn't give these people air time if it didn't work.
What I Found on the Floor of Dave's Shower
Go, you stupid bastard, go!
. . .
Okay, here's what pisses me off constantly. With IE, when you get a page with two open fields to fill out (whatever those are called), you have to wait a while to start filling them out or by the time you're in the middle of the second one the cursor resets to the first one so when I'm trying acceess blogger I'll get
zantimothee
zibar
instead of timothee/zanzibar
same thing with email
What the hell is going on here? What's to blame for this annoyance?
Okay, I'm done.
. . .
In a rehash of my chatbox post: I am but one of three (at least) birthdays here today. I'm keeping mine a dirty secret, but other people have brought cupcakes. I thought about kicking them in the stomach, taking all the cupcakes, and saying "Mine too, bitch!" but instead I waited until they reminded me a second time that there are cupcakes and that I should definitely have one. Then I had one. Listen: it was fucking tasty.
. . .
Okay, here's what pisses me off constantly. With IE, when you get a page with two open fields to fill out (whatever those are called), you have to wait a while to start filling them out or by the time you're in the middle of the second one the cursor resets to the first one so when I'm trying acceess blogger I'll get
zantimothee
zibar
instead of timothee/zanzibar
same thing with email
What the hell is going on here? What's to blame for this annoyance?
Okay, I'm done.
. . .
In a rehash of my chatbox post: I am but one of three (at least) birthdays here today. I'm keeping mine a dirty secret, but other people have brought cupcakes. I thought about kicking them in the stomach, taking all the cupcakes, and saying "Mine too, bitch!" but instead I waited until they reminded me a second time that there are cupcakes and that I should definitely have one. Then I had one. Listen: it was fucking tasty.
Rap Music Made Me Kill - Tim Dicks
I found the pamphlet from "A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur's Sodomy and Donkey Show" with Tim's scribble script on it saying those words. Plus Lindsey Paulsgrove's name (Who by the way, is one nice piece of ase. Ooooh yeah). So Andy: If you dont bag her this weekend, I know some orphans that wont have a Christmas.
I have a sad addiction. During the hours of 8-5, I check the blog constanty. Then I check Myspace and thefacebook. Its almost routine. Like I have that disease where I keep repeating myself. Like I have that disease where I keep repeating myself.
So yesterday, I was driving my car and it got hot. Damn hot. Red head in fishnets hot. And about 7/8 blocks from home I see smoke billowing from my hood. Oh Fuck indeed. Apparently the radiator cap jetesoned like a hampster thru a Mormon or a leg from Amish's very uncomfy chair. The nice part was I left a beautifully toxic path across Denver leading to my car's current resting place. Everythings ok, Ive been told, but I have to flush my coolant system. And something about ...infidels? I dont know.
Apparently someone leaked out pictures of Nail Bombs to the US media, and then it spread to other news agencies around the world. This apparently wasnt supposed to happen. Does any of you Irish folk remember the last nail bombing the IRA did back in the 90s? Yeah. I told you that the IRA was goin to do something again but no one believed me. All you did was talk about facial vomiting and something about raping a fish. Bah! The IRA will lose its guns&ammo, but what kind of cockameme weapons will they develop in their drunken fury at 2am? Only God knows.
And hes Catholic, apparently...or Hindu. Ive always pictured God as the multi-armed elephant who sorta made us in his image...but didnt.
I have a sad addiction. During the hours of 8-5, I check the blog constanty. Then I check Myspace and thefacebook. Its almost routine. Like I have that disease where I keep repeating myself. Like I have that disease where I keep repeating myself.
So yesterday, I was driving my car and it got hot. Damn hot. Red head in fishnets hot. And about 7/8 blocks from home I see smoke billowing from my hood. Oh Fuck indeed. Apparently the radiator cap jetesoned like a hampster thru a Mormon or a leg from Amish's very uncomfy chair. The nice part was I left a beautifully toxic path across Denver leading to my car's current resting place. Everythings ok, Ive been told, but I have to flush my coolant system. And something about ...infidels? I dont know.
Apparently someone leaked out pictures of Nail Bombs to the US media, and then it spread to other news agencies around the world. This apparently wasnt supposed to happen. Does any of you Irish folk remember the last nail bombing the IRA did back in the 90s? Yeah. I told you that the IRA was goin to do something again but no one believed me. All you did was talk about facial vomiting and something about raping a fish. Bah! The IRA will lose its guns&ammo, but what kind of cockameme weapons will they develop in their drunken fury at 2am? Only God knows.
And hes Catholic, apparently...or Hindu. Ive always pictured God as the multi-armed elephant who sorta made us in his image...but didnt.
Some of my Coworkers Might or Might Not Call me the Bone Collector
I dreamt that my Dad wore diapers and rolled on the floor. In my office. At least I had an office…
. . .
Last night I stubbed my toe so hard in the dark that there's a line on my toenail, near the base, and everything above the line is white. It is my belief that a large portion of this nail was bent back upon itself when I tried to walk through Alyssa's fan at one in the morning.
It still hurts today!
. . .
Two birthday anecdotes:
1) Last night I returned home to find a little box with 'Happy Birthday!' wrapping paper on the front, and the logo of some chocolate factory on the outside, and postage. This was exciting, because yesterday was not even my birthday yet! And chocolate is delicious! I thought my parents had sent some delicious chocolate. But I tore it open and found some note like
"Thanks for renting!
--Venture Management"
Which was nice, but a bit disappointing. My only birthday gift came from my landlord! I'm sort of hoping my parents don't give me anything so that I can keep this anecdote like a little treasure, and whip it out at key moments, to earn sympathy from attractive girls of the future.
So no one give me anything. Except free drinks. Free drinks are encouraged
constantly. Unless you're harboring some sort of family-passed-down treasure map. If you are, this would be a really great time to tell me.
Last summer Alyssa and I were going to collaborate on a story about an old guy who dies without revealing the location of his big sum of money, and all the hilarious antics/family dissolution that occurs. If your family has dissolved in the wake of a hidden cache of bullion, I will help you find it. I will.
2) This morning my Mom called at 8:03 to wish me happy birthday, because that is when I was born. Wow, I thought. That must have been a shitty way to wake up. But of course she was already awake, writhing in reproductive agony.
Let's all take a moment to be glad we're not women. And those of us who are women, let's be glad we're not pregnant. And if we're Michelle . . . well, fuck, Michelle. Fuck.
Anyway, the head cubicle-peeker and tardiness-tattler hobbled back here and stopped to peek in my cubicle, as usual. But then she stood there until I looked over the phone. And she told me someone brought cupcakes. Why? For their birthday? For it being Friday? The point of the story is that she relayed this detail with such malice that I am unable to walk down there for a cupcake, no matter how delicious they might be.
. . .
Did Kevin tell anyone else what he did after leaving the Goatranch last night?
He killed a prostitute.
That is what he did.
. . .
Amish, if anyone tells you about this: did you get the assless chaps for the reunion? I can make the sleeveless cowboy shirts.
. . .
Despite Goathead's three-day drunken blonde-bedding birthday this year, I'm sure he'll agree when I say that having a great birthday early on is sort of a curse, because it ruins all the ones to come. When I turned 21 and we went out to dinner—that was great. And greater still was me and Kevin and Dave driving to Ottumwa and then sitting around Dave's loft with lemon vodka at one in the morning, an hour into my legal boozing.
. . .
If you ever wonder why these posts are so long, it's because when I quit writing it's the start of the real work day. And nobody wants that.
Not that my workday resembles a real workday.
. . .
Always thought 'shammy' was a weird word.
. . .
Anyone ever read Martian Chronicles? I'm not acutally interested in reading, just curious about people's experiences with the book.
. . .
This is the birthday gift I would like from all of you. Everyone find one cat. Someone who doesn't find a cat will buy a harness. Someone who doesn't buy a cat or a harness will buy a sled. Someone who buys nothing will hitch the cats up to the harness and the harness up to the sled and this will be my birthday gift, a cat-drawn sled.
It could go up trees, you know.
. . .
So: Rousseau. Before the blog exploded yesterday, what was it we're to talk about? I'm maintaining minimal involvement with Follies this year, so if it's about them I might not be the best guy to talk to. But even so—what's up?
. . .
And whoever this "monki" fellow is (or is that a girl?)—you're right in assuming we care little about you. You terrible, terrible whore. Okay, so we love you. We love you love you. Come back from your godforsaken absence. Or, if you'd like, I could come collect you in the cat sled.
. . .
Last night I stubbed my toe so hard in the dark that there's a line on my toenail, near the base, and everything above the line is white. It is my belief that a large portion of this nail was bent back upon itself when I tried to walk through Alyssa's fan at one in the morning.
It still hurts today!
. . .
Two birthday anecdotes:
1) Last night I returned home to find a little box with 'Happy Birthday!' wrapping paper on the front, and the logo of some chocolate factory on the outside, and postage. This was exciting, because yesterday was not even my birthday yet! And chocolate is delicious! I thought my parents had sent some delicious chocolate. But I tore it open and found some note like
"Thanks for renting!
--Venture Management"
Which was nice, but a bit disappointing. My only birthday gift came from my landlord! I'm sort of hoping my parents don't give me anything so that I can keep this anecdote like a little treasure, and whip it out at key moments, to earn sympathy from attractive girls of the future.
So no one give me anything. Except free drinks. Free drinks are encouraged
constantly. Unless you're harboring some sort of family-passed-down treasure map. If you are, this would be a really great time to tell me.
Last summer Alyssa and I were going to collaborate on a story about an old guy who dies without revealing the location of his big sum of money, and all the hilarious antics/family dissolution that occurs. If your family has dissolved in the wake of a hidden cache of bullion, I will help you find it. I will.
2) This morning my Mom called at 8:03 to wish me happy birthday, because that is when I was born. Wow, I thought. That must have been a shitty way to wake up. But of course she was already awake, writhing in reproductive agony.
Let's all take a moment to be glad we're not women. And those of us who are women, let's be glad we're not pregnant. And if we're Michelle . . . well, fuck, Michelle. Fuck.
Anyway, the head cubicle-peeker and tardiness-tattler hobbled back here and stopped to peek in my cubicle, as usual. But then she stood there until I looked over the phone. And she told me someone brought cupcakes. Why? For their birthday? For it being Friday? The point of the story is that she relayed this detail with such malice that I am unable to walk down there for a cupcake, no matter how delicious they might be.
. . .
Did Kevin tell anyone else what he did after leaving the Goatranch last night?
He killed a prostitute.
That is what he did.
. . .
Amish, if anyone tells you about this: did you get the assless chaps for the reunion? I can make the sleeveless cowboy shirts.
. . .
Despite Goathead's three-day drunken blonde-bedding birthday this year, I'm sure he'll agree when I say that having a great birthday early on is sort of a curse, because it ruins all the ones to come. When I turned 21 and we went out to dinner—that was great. And greater still was me and Kevin and Dave driving to Ottumwa and then sitting around Dave's loft with lemon vodka at one in the morning, an hour into my legal boozing.
. . .
If you ever wonder why these posts are so long, it's because when I quit writing it's the start of the real work day. And nobody wants that.
Not that my workday resembles a real workday.
. . .
Always thought 'shammy' was a weird word.
. . .
Anyone ever read Martian Chronicles? I'm not acutally interested in reading, just curious about people's experiences with the book.
. . .
This is the birthday gift I would like from all of you. Everyone find one cat. Someone who doesn't find a cat will buy a harness. Someone who doesn't buy a cat or a harness will buy a sled. Someone who buys nothing will hitch the cats up to the harness and the harness up to the sled and this will be my birthday gift, a cat-drawn sled.
It could go up trees, you know.
. . .
So: Rousseau. Before the blog exploded yesterday, what was it we're to talk about? I'm maintaining minimal involvement with Follies this year, so if it's about them I might not be the best guy to talk to. But even so—what's up?
. . .
And whoever this "monki" fellow is (or is that a girl?)—you're right in assuming we care little about you. You terrible, terrible whore. Okay, so we love you. We love you love you. Come back from your godforsaken absence. Or, if you'd like, I could come collect you in the cat sled.
Thursday, July 28, 2005
A Series of Unfortunate Circumstances.
Deev....
Turns out, I prolly won't be hittig Larkspur this weekend. All my "friends" in this vicinity bailed on me.
there is, however, a class reunification in teh South Park and I'm welcome to bring a "friend." Care to join? It's going to consist of a picnic in the park or some stupid shit like that. Mebbe a screening of Chocolate Factory with my siblings afterwards. Dunno yet.
Detailes on the masquerade? Sounds potentially quite fun. I can bring my
Crap, I left the ramen noodles boiling.
Turns out, I prolly won't be hittig Larkspur this weekend. All my "friends" in this vicinity bailed on me.
there is, however, a class reunification in teh South Park and I'm welcome to bring a "friend." Care to join? It's going to consist of a picnic in the park or some stupid shit like that. Mebbe a screening of Chocolate Factory with my siblings afterwards. Dunno yet.
Detailes on the masquerade? Sounds potentially quite fun. I can bring my
Crap, I left the ramen noodles boiling.
You still drink water to restore life (mimes how the Prince drinks)
MAU: Do you want to go to a mascerade party? Or do you want to meet in wherever 37 miles south of denver? Need the info!!!
Theres apparently a newer Godzilla flick I didnt know about. Its basically a giant bukkake of all the old 50s thru 70s godzilla monsters made into one movie of ass thwomping. As well, they made a japanese version of the american godzilla. And yeah...it tries to fight the Japanese one and dies instantly.
In other news, I somehow have the picture of Kevin, Tim, and Amish drunk at Kum&Go as my desktop image. Its the one where theyre pointing and laughing. Anywho, someone had told me about illicit pics of Lindsey Lohan. Being a sad, sad, SAD individual I let curiosity take the best of me. After seeing said pics I close the window and theres 3 people pointing and laughing at me. Just...too.... eerie.
And also: Gator tastes like gritty chicken. SOooooooo good. Theres a gator farm in Colorado. I dont know how.
Theres apparently a newer Godzilla flick I didnt know about. Its basically a giant bukkake of all the old 50s thru 70s godzilla monsters made into one movie of ass thwomping. As well, they made a japanese version of the american godzilla. And yeah...it tries to fight the Japanese one and dies instantly.
In other news, I somehow have the picture of Kevin, Tim, and Amish drunk at Kum&Go as my desktop image. Its the one where theyre pointing and laughing. Anywho, someone had told me about illicit pics of Lindsey Lohan. Being a sad, sad, SAD individual I let curiosity take the best of me. After seeing said pics I close the window and theres 3 people pointing and laughing at me. Just...too.... eerie.
And also: Gator tastes like gritty chicken. SOooooooo good. Theres a gator farm in Colorado. I dont know how.
My Stupid Life
A lot of the research requests I get are basically
"My client wants to know if she can work as a CAD drafter from home." (this one just came in).
"My client would rather not leave her house. Can you find CEO jobs for her? She has part of an AA from Indian Hills."
"Can you list all the work-at-home police negotiater jobs in the Lovilia area?"
I've actually had to write a report for someone who wanted me to list occupational details and Iowa jobs for cartoonists. And logo designers. Writers. Non-academic historians.
We get a lot of "my client can't move his legs or his left arm. Can you find a kickboxing job for him?"
As well as reports that just come in with requests like "treasure hunter jobs des moines area not willing to travel no small treasure just big treasure."
Any starring movie roles? who do i contact to get my client into the lead role?
I want to swear but I can only sigh.
this morning I was unable to find my phone. And this is Dinner with Kevin day! Damn!
Damn it again!
Because I have elected not to drive all the way home before coming over. Is this okeydokey? when do you guys get home?
"My client wants to know if she can work as a CAD drafter from home." (this one just came in).
"My client would rather not leave her house. Can you find CEO jobs for her? She has part of an AA from Indian Hills."
"Can you list all the work-at-home police negotiater jobs in the Lovilia area?"
I've actually had to write a report for someone who wanted me to list occupational details and Iowa jobs for cartoonists. And logo designers. Writers. Non-academic historians.
We get a lot of "my client can't move his legs or his left arm. Can you find a kickboxing job for him?"
As well as reports that just come in with requests like "treasure hunter jobs des moines area not willing to travel no small treasure just big treasure."
Any starring movie roles? who do i contact to get my client into the lead role?
I want to swear but I can only sigh.
this morning I was unable to find my phone. And this is Dinner with Kevin day! Damn!
Damn it again!
Because I have elected not to drive all the way home before coming over. Is this okeydokey? when do you guys get home?
He's a pinball wizard..buh duh na na da na
LINCOLN, Neb. - Brice Mellen is a whiz at video games such as "Mortal Kombat."
In that regard, the 17-year-old isn't much different from so many others his age.
Except for one thing: He's blind.
So tired. So...tired.
I just went into the bathroom for paper towels and the guy in there was toweling off his whole arms, above the elbow and then higher, into the short sleeves.
It was the bathroom where the Czech spy towels off his head and spews code.
But the arms guy—let me just say, he has a weirdass body. It's like his torso is 20% too short or something, like all his upper body is crammed into a tiny package. And his chest is huge, not in a muscular way but in a deformed way. The thing with this guy—the reason I don't feel bad posting about him—is that every time I've ever seen him he immediately glares at me, as if to challenge me to stare at him. And I never would have noticed, really, without these glares.
Cage fighting in the Midwest! (NYT--registration required?)
The woman on the other side of my cubicle wall spends all day on the phone with countless contractors and retail people--today, in the past hour, she's haggled over the price of her refrigerator, negotiated a deal on insulation, and talked with roofers.
It was the bathroom where the Czech spy towels off his head and spews code.
But the arms guy—let me just say, he has a weirdass body. It's like his torso is 20% too short or something, like all his upper body is crammed into a tiny package. And his chest is huge, not in a muscular way but in a deformed way. The thing with this guy—the reason I don't feel bad posting about him—is that every time I've ever seen him he immediately glares at me, as if to challenge me to stare at him. And I never would have noticed, really, without these glares.
Cage fighting in the Midwest! (NYT--registration required?)
The woman on the other side of my cubicle wall spends all day on the phone with countless contractors and retail people--today, in the past hour, she's haggled over the price of her refrigerator, negotiated a deal on insulation, and talked with roofers.
Wednesday, July 27, 2005
LINCOLN BEATS UP JESUS, CURTAIN-END
Someone pointed out to me a fatal flaw with our original skits:
We always end them with a scene of violence against Ryan/Tim/Nick.
Cases in point:
-Nick gets beaten down by irishmen, jig to the end
-Whiplash beats down Britt
-Santa Claus comes in, beats down
-Chokeslam, end
-Lincoln Bot beats down people, ozzy rips out circuitry
Not that thats a bad thing, but I think this new script falls into this category, and that is totally sweet. I think Naysayer should be dressed up in abosutely obsurd costumes too, but not fully dressed up and has to explain.
NAYSAYER: Whats going on? Youre not following the script!
A: What the hell are you again?
NAYSAYER: Im the wacky Toaster Robot! I come in to give you all Irish toast! Toast goes in here! Badum Ching! ...wait...
B: Bless the Blarney stone!
NAYSAYER: Oh my goodness...that is redundent of every script we do isnt it?
Just thought that would be a good twist to add another costume to this skit, seeing as how its a lot of Show & Tell.
Jaime has an idea for a skit if your interested. See the comments.
We always end them with a scene of violence against Ryan/Tim/Nick.
Cases in point:
-Nick gets beaten down by irishmen, jig to the end
-Whiplash beats down Britt
-Santa Claus comes in, beats down
-Chokeslam, end
-Lincoln Bot beats down people, ozzy rips out circuitry
Not that thats a bad thing, but I think this new script falls into this category, and that is totally sweet. I think Naysayer should be dressed up in abosutely obsurd costumes too, but not fully dressed up and has to explain.
NAYSAYER: Whats going on? Youre not following the script!
A: What the hell are you again?
NAYSAYER: Im the wacky Toaster Robot! I come in to give you all Irish toast! Toast goes in here! Badum Ching! ...wait...
B: Bless the Blarney stone!
NAYSAYER: Oh my goodness...that is redundent of every script we do isnt it?
Just thought that would be a good twist to add another costume to this skit, seeing as how its a lot of Show & Tell.
Jaime has an idea for a skit if your interested. See the comments.
Tim's Infantile Birthday Demands
I just read the blog of some guy who bent his friends to his will with his "infantile birthday demands," and let me tell you: that phrase has changed all my weekend plans.
Stuck in Folsom prison, listening to that train pass by
My favorite writer among the bank of writers we have here is Greg. Greg is absolutely batshit nutso and I love it. He's about fifty years old and he is a veteran of the newspaper scene. He started out as a copyeditor at some small newspaper in Mass. and he's done everything from typesetting to reporting--he's done it all.
One of the first things I noticed about Greg was how really red his nose was. It's a really veiny nose with a deep red tint to it and it betrayed him to me immediately. I've seen that sort of nose on plenty of the old farmers in Melrose. That's the nose of a true alcoholic.
My suspicions were confrimed when he started telling me stories about working in the newspaper business and just random anecdotes from his life. About every story he's ever told me has at least included booze or drinking as a minor character, or subplot. And he loves to tell stories.
I've missed Greg the last couple weeks because he took off suddenly on vacation and didn't really tell anyone what he was doing. It was really strange, but Greg is kind of a strange guy so I just tried to imagine what kinds of things he might be doing. My first thought was that he could be a sort of Indiana Jones and he was off in Bulgaria hunting for treasure. I recently read that there are tombs in Bulgaria, and the surrounding area, that still contain treasure from two thousand years ago and earlier. I imagined that Greg was trying to work his way into one of the still-intact tombs to find his retirement in the form of gold rings and armor.
Probably could have guessed that he was doing something less kickass and more...drunk.
So I got back from lunch and I'm stopping in the bathroom and who should be in there but Greg. I said hello and asked him where the heck he'd been, which was a big mistake. Greg likes to talk, and he doesn't really tell simple stories, he likes to branch off into all sorts of related topics and circle back around until he finally gets to the point. I usually don't mind because it's generally pretty interesting, but I was standing next to the urinals in the bathroom while he related a long tale about how he found his biological parents.
It turns out Greg was not hunting for treasure in Bulgaria. Instead, he was paying his last respects to his recently deceased mother. He had tracked her down many years ago and had got to know the family pretty well. It didn't sound like they were close, but they kept in touch.
A little side story he told me was about how his biological father died. Before he was able to track his bio-family down, his father was accidently killed in a moving accident. The oldest son was behind the wheel of the moving truck and pushed the gas instead of the brake. Ouch.
Despite the lack of a father figure, Greg's bio-mother was able to raise ten children to adulthood. It doesn't sound like it was easy for her and the children were very appreciative of all she had done for them. In turn, they were very mournful in her passing. And they must have been Irish.
Greg finished his story by telling about the roast after the funeral. Considering how many children she had, you can imagine how many guests were at this roast. Aside from the children and grandchildren there were the extended family and friends. And they all must have been Irish. Greg said he hadn't seen so many drunk people in one place since he went to Boston for St. Patrick's day.
He told me all of this while I stood next to the urinals, waiting to pee. I was really happy when that story ended. He could have at least had something interesting to tell me, like how he was hunting for treasure in Bulgaria.
__________________________
My mom called me yesterday and told me that I'd got a strange letter in the mail. She said it was really long, so she couldn't read it all to me, but she wanted to read a few little snippets.
It was from some guy claiming to be a member of a secret society. He wanted to assure me that this was not a mass-mailing, nor a solicitation for some product. According to the letter, I had been chosen by an elite team of screeners to be a part of their secret society. The letter assured me that I would be very flattered if I knew who those screeners were and the writer really wished that he could tell me, but it was as secret.
That probably would have been enough for me, because you know anytime you get a letter that says, "This is not a mass-mailing or a solicitiation" then it's a mass-mailing and a solicitation. I told my mom to throw it away. "Hold on" she said, "you've got to hear the rest of this."
This secret society wanted to send me a free book. They claimed I was about to enter the 2nd cycle of growth, or some bullshit like that, and the information in this book would help me to really grow during this important time. My mom said they talked about how I could control people's minds and be financially and socially successful beyond my comprehension.
Blah, blah, blah...
The information in this secret book (a book so secret that I found an online version) would tell me how I could do all this cool stuff. The book was found (not written, but found) by Dr. Frank R. Wallace. Dr. Wallace was given the book by some successful gambler who he met in a casino. He never got the gambler's name, but he was told that this book was over 2,300 years old and contained the secrets to success on every level.
So after hearing all of this I decided to Google Dr. Frank R. Wallace. That led me to all kinds of interesting stuff about him, his book, and his organization called Neo-Tech.
The wikipedia article on Neo-Tech pretty much says it all.
These guys are crazy. And not fun-crazy either. This is a full-blown world domination, cackle maniacally, living inside a hollowed-out volcano and ordering around henchmen crazy. This is Batman-villain crazy.
These guys are like scientology without the pretense of religion. They tell you exactly what they're agenda is. They want to brainwash themselves (brainwash isn't exctly the correct term, but the methods are similar and I don't want to try to explain neuro-linguistic programming) until they're basically superhuman, then they want to upload their consciousness onto a computer and be immortal. After which, the superhuman computer people would rule over all the inferior meat puppets.
I'm sure most of you have heard of transhumanism, well this is transhumanism with a cartoon villain sort of twist.
Very sqrewed up.
And if anyone is interested in transhumanism...
Here's an interview in Asimov's, written by Cory Doctorow. They talk about the Singularity in Sci-Fi and Reality.
I also recommend reading A Brave New World (Aldous Huxley) and That Hideous Strength (C.S. Lewis). You think transhumanism is a new idea? Hardly.
Does anyone else smell propane?
One of the first things I noticed about Greg was how really red his nose was. It's a really veiny nose with a deep red tint to it and it betrayed him to me immediately. I've seen that sort of nose on plenty of the old farmers in Melrose. That's the nose of a true alcoholic.
My suspicions were confrimed when he started telling me stories about working in the newspaper business and just random anecdotes from his life. About every story he's ever told me has at least included booze or drinking as a minor character, or subplot. And he loves to tell stories.
I've missed Greg the last couple weeks because he took off suddenly on vacation and didn't really tell anyone what he was doing. It was really strange, but Greg is kind of a strange guy so I just tried to imagine what kinds of things he might be doing. My first thought was that he could be a sort of Indiana Jones and he was off in Bulgaria hunting for treasure. I recently read that there are tombs in Bulgaria, and the surrounding area, that still contain treasure from two thousand years ago and earlier. I imagined that Greg was trying to work his way into one of the still-intact tombs to find his retirement in the form of gold rings and armor.
Probably could have guessed that he was doing something less kickass and more...drunk.
So I got back from lunch and I'm stopping in the bathroom and who should be in there but Greg. I said hello and asked him where the heck he'd been, which was a big mistake. Greg likes to talk, and he doesn't really tell simple stories, he likes to branch off into all sorts of related topics and circle back around until he finally gets to the point. I usually don't mind because it's generally pretty interesting, but I was standing next to the urinals in the bathroom while he related a long tale about how he found his biological parents.
It turns out Greg was not hunting for treasure in Bulgaria. Instead, he was paying his last respects to his recently deceased mother. He had tracked her down many years ago and had got to know the family pretty well. It didn't sound like they were close, but they kept in touch.
A little side story he told me was about how his biological father died. Before he was able to track his bio-family down, his father was accidently killed in a moving accident. The oldest son was behind the wheel of the moving truck and pushed the gas instead of the brake. Ouch.
Despite the lack of a father figure, Greg's bio-mother was able to raise ten children to adulthood. It doesn't sound like it was easy for her and the children were very appreciative of all she had done for them. In turn, they were very mournful in her passing. And they must have been Irish.
Greg finished his story by telling about the roast after the funeral. Considering how many children she had, you can imagine how many guests were at this roast. Aside from the children and grandchildren there were the extended family and friends. And they all must have been Irish. Greg said he hadn't seen so many drunk people in one place since he went to Boston for St. Patrick's day.
He told me all of this while I stood next to the urinals, waiting to pee. I was really happy when that story ended. He could have at least had something interesting to tell me, like how he was hunting for treasure in Bulgaria.
__________________________
My mom called me yesterday and told me that I'd got a strange letter in the mail. She said it was really long, so she couldn't read it all to me, but she wanted to read a few little snippets.
It was from some guy claiming to be a member of a secret society. He wanted to assure me that this was not a mass-mailing, nor a solicitation for some product. According to the letter, I had been chosen by an elite team of screeners to be a part of their secret society. The letter assured me that I would be very flattered if I knew who those screeners were and the writer really wished that he could tell me, but it was as secret.
That probably would have been enough for me, because you know anytime you get a letter that says, "This is not a mass-mailing or a solicitiation" then it's a mass-mailing and a solicitation. I told my mom to throw it away. "Hold on" she said, "you've got to hear the rest of this."
This secret society wanted to send me a free book. They claimed I was about to enter the 2nd cycle of growth, or some bullshit like that, and the information in this book would help me to really grow during this important time. My mom said they talked about how I could control people's minds and be financially and socially successful beyond my comprehension.
Blah, blah, blah...
The information in this secret book (a book so secret that I found an online version) would tell me how I could do all this cool stuff. The book was found (not written, but found) by Dr. Frank R. Wallace. Dr. Wallace was given the book by some successful gambler who he met in a casino. He never got the gambler's name, but he was told that this book was over 2,300 years old and contained the secrets to success on every level.
So after hearing all of this I decided to Google Dr. Frank R. Wallace. That led me to all kinds of interesting stuff about him, his book, and his organization called Neo-Tech.
The wikipedia article on Neo-Tech pretty much says it all.
These guys are crazy. And not fun-crazy either. This is a full-blown world domination, cackle maniacally, living inside a hollowed-out volcano and ordering around henchmen crazy. This is Batman-villain crazy.
These guys are like scientology without the pretense of religion. They tell you exactly what they're agenda is. They want to brainwash themselves (brainwash isn't exctly the correct term, but the methods are similar and I don't want to try to explain neuro-linguistic programming) until they're basically superhuman, then they want to upload their consciousness onto a computer and be immortal. After which, the superhuman computer people would rule over all the inferior meat puppets.
I'm sure most of you have heard of transhumanism, well this is transhumanism with a cartoon villain sort of twist.
Very sqrewed up.
And if anyone is interested in transhumanism...
Here's an interview in Asimov's, written by Cory Doctorow. They talk about the Singularity in Sci-Fi and Reality.
I also recommend reading A Brave New World (Aldous Huxley) and That Hideous Strength (C.S. Lewis). You think transhumanism is a new idea? Hardly.
Does anyone else smell propane?
Tired of Bein Compard to Damn Britney Spears
It's been a tough few weeks and I'd like to share the lyrics of a song that's helping me get by. Here, it's by Pink:
…
No, no, I'm not going to do that thing you thought I was going to do. But I was walking home from the café and some girl in a red sportscar drove by with Pink lyrics spewing out of her car and I was wondering what she'd do if I started dancing there on the sidewalk, just flailing, kicking, biting the strap of my satchel and swinging it around my head. Probably she wouldn't even notice.
But maybe, just maybe, she'd crash into the coffee shop.
Anyone think it's weird for a guy to carry around a messenger bag? I've never thought it was strange at all, but I've had a couple people jokingly ask about my purse. It was probably Rominger. Well, guess what, Rominger? When I was dating Michelle I found the results from a little-known STD test in her purse. And now your body is racked with disease!
That's not true either.
Fuck.
All these untruths.
Here is something that is true: when I dated Michelle I didn't drink, and we consumed a lot of grenadine. On our first date I ordered a Cherry Coke, expecing standard fountain fare (this was before the days of DCVDP, by the way), but instead I got this glowing black-tinted-with-crimson drink that was Coke mixed with grenadine and whoa, damn, my mouth could have exploded, imploded, taking all that sugar with it to the depths of my tummy tum. Michelle talked about ordering those at bars, because bars always had Coke and grenadine. And thus an addiction was born.
Grenadine, though, is completely unstorable. A bottle will last you all year but no matter what you do it will leak like [disgusting Amish zinger deleted], will leak bright syrup all over your refrigerator floor. I've rinsed the bottle after use, I've swaddled it in a nest of napkins, and nothing will stop this leaking. That syrup wants to be free.
When I started drinking again—it was magnificent. It had been three months, three dry months without any sort of real religious conviction that I should go dry but with the certainty that if I drank Michelle would not decapitate me but would look away, disappointed. But by the point I drank again I'd been at college a while, had Carol and Sarah hanging out in my room all the time, I was frustrated with our relationship and depressed about our prospects—I'd beg her father to let her date and he'd say no, no you silly boy, as if I were asking for a loan of the house, of $50,000 in gold bullion, and in their family there was no way around this disapproval short of my joining the military in California and her coming out to live with me and then us getting married and going camping a lot and ending up in Oskaloosa working for Subway and a video game shop and then getting pregnant. And there was this glorious moment where I was in Scrote's and Andy's room across the hall—I had books in here or something, who knows, we used each other's rooms all the time (I had GTA)—and there was their bottle of vodka.
(edit: No! You know how this really happened? There was going to be some sort of room raid, one of those fabled room raids that never, ever happens, and I was keeping their alcohol for them, and pipes, and all other manner of illicit goods. We had bottles and other contraband crammed into underwear drawers, into sweaters. The Hawkeye was on my shelf, on the far shelf in my room, behind the standard hanging drape with the consistency of a hair shirt)
"Hello, vodka," I thought, and the music played and my liver, even my liver, danced. I can't remember for sure but probably Carol had been down earlier in the evening, had flirted and tried to win me away from Michelle, and I was all screwed up. The vodka was a big jug, a 1.75 jug, and was the cheapo variety, Hawkeye, marked with pale gold and white labels. And I thought: they won't miss a shot.
But there wasn't much more than one shot left. There were maybe three shots. And I drank them all! And it was great, oily, loose, and I felt like myself again. Not because of booze, but because I could drink if I wanted to, and I wasn't telling myself that it was sinful, and I wasn't worrying about the consequences of Michelle finding out or of her parents finding out about us.
Here is something else that is true: [I was forced at gunpoint to delete this]
…
No, no, I'm not going to do that thing you thought I was going to do. But I was walking home from the café and some girl in a red sportscar drove by with Pink lyrics spewing out of her car and I was wondering what she'd do if I started dancing there on the sidewalk, just flailing, kicking, biting the strap of my satchel and swinging it around my head. Probably she wouldn't even notice.
But maybe, just maybe, she'd crash into the coffee shop.
Anyone think it's weird for a guy to carry around a messenger bag? I've never thought it was strange at all, but I've had a couple people jokingly ask about my purse. It was probably Rominger. Well, guess what, Rominger? When I was dating Michelle I found the results from a little-known STD test in her purse. And now your body is racked with disease!
That's not true either.
Fuck.
All these untruths.
Here is something that is true: when I dated Michelle I didn't drink, and we consumed a lot of grenadine. On our first date I ordered a Cherry Coke, expecing standard fountain fare (this was before the days of DCVDP, by the way), but instead I got this glowing black-tinted-with-crimson drink that was Coke mixed with grenadine and whoa, damn, my mouth could have exploded, imploded, taking all that sugar with it to the depths of my tummy tum. Michelle talked about ordering those at bars, because bars always had Coke and grenadine. And thus an addiction was born.
Grenadine, though, is completely unstorable. A bottle will last you all year but no matter what you do it will leak like [disgusting Amish zinger deleted], will leak bright syrup all over your refrigerator floor. I've rinsed the bottle after use, I've swaddled it in a nest of napkins, and nothing will stop this leaking. That syrup wants to be free.
When I started drinking again—it was magnificent. It had been three months, three dry months without any sort of real religious conviction that I should go dry but with the certainty that if I drank Michelle would not decapitate me but would look away, disappointed. But by the point I drank again I'd been at college a while, had Carol and Sarah hanging out in my room all the time, I was frustrated with our relationship and depressed about our prospects—I'd beg her father to let her date and he'd say no, no you silly boy, as if I were asking for a loan of the house, of $50,000 in gold bullion, and in their family there was no way around this disapproval short of my joining the military in California and her coming out to live with me and then us getting married and going camping a lot and ending up in Oskaloosa working for Subway and a video game shop and then getting pregnant. And there was this glorious moment where I was in Scrote's and Andy's room across the hall—I had books in here or something, who knows, we used each other's rooms all the time (I had GTA)—and there was their bottle of vodka.
(edit: No! You know how this really happened? There was going to be some sort of room raid, one of those fabled room raids that never, ever happens, and I was keeping their alcohol for them, and pipes, and all other manner of illicit goods. We had bottles and other contraband crammed into underwear drawers, into sweaters. The Hawkeye was on my shelf, on the far shelf in my room, behind the standard hanging drape with the consistency of a hair shirt)
"Hello, vodka," I thought, and the music played and my liver, even my liver, danced. I can't remember for sure but probably Carol had been down earlier in the evening, had flirted and tried to win me away from Michelle, and I was all screwed up. The vodka was a big jug, a 1.75 jug, and was the cheapo variety, Hawkeye, marked with pale gold and white labels. And I thought: they won't miss a shot.
But there wasn't much more than one shot left. There were maybe three shots. And I drank them all! And it was great, oily, loose, and I felt like myself again. Not because of booze, but because I could drink if I wanted to, and I wasn't telling myself that it was sinful, and I wasn't worrying about the consequences of Michelle finding out or of her parents finding out about us.
Here is something else that is true: [I was forced at gunpoint to delete this]
Amish has a mystery date for the class reunion.
Mystery daaaaate. . . .
He's going to need help. When it comes to women, that boy's like a shaky-legged fawn stumbling into an industrial grade dough mixer. Use the comments board at the end of this post to leave hints and tips on the wooing of women! We'll deliver them to Amish unless they're too cruel, mocking, non-helpful, mean-spirited, or threatening. And maybe we'll deliver those anyway.
I am so fucking excited because his mystery date is not some wildly obese woman, nor was she deformed in some sort of Algerian eyelid- and nose-cutting ritual. Her face is not tattood with the Sri Lankan creation tableau, nor have her fingers been sewn shut by a maniacal parent in an attempt to create a living puppet. I hope everyone is like "Amish? I thought he didn't have a girlfriend." "I guess he does now." "Wow! Let's all sleep with him!" "Okay!"
Of course, it will be the jocks saying that.
Goathead and I were just discussing, very briefly, some of our romantic buffoonery—mostly mine—and so to the people I've made an idiot of myself around: sorry. I really am sorry for being selfish or otherwise idiotic, when it happens.
I have to write a report on Iowa munitions workers. Does anyone know where munitions workers work? (I know I asked this the other day, but . . . go to hell). Looks like there used to be a factory in Middletown, but nto sure if that still stands.
Does anyone read SF or fantasy magazines? Either online or in print? If so: titles?
He's going to need help. When it comes to women, that boy's like a shaky-legged fawn stumbling into an industrial grade dough mixer. Use the comments board at the end of this post to leave hints and tips on the wooing of women! We'll deliver them to Amish unless they're too cruel, mocking, non-helpful, mean-spirited, or threatening. And maybe we'll deliver those anyway.
I am so fucking excited because his mystery date is not some wildly obese woman, nor was she deformed in some sort of Algerian eyelid- and nose-cutting ritual. Her face is not tattood with the Sri Lankan creation tableau, nor have her fingers been sewn shut by a maniacal parent in an attempt to create a living puppet. I hope everyone is like "Amish? I thought he didn't have a girlfriend." "I guess he does now." "Wow! Let's all sleep with him!" "Okay!"
Of course, it will be the jocks saying that.
Goathead and I were just discussing, very briefly, some of our romantic buffoonery—mostly mine—and so to the people I've made an idiot of myself around: sorry. I really am sorry for being selfish or otherwise idiotic, when it happens.
I have to write a report on Iowa munitions workers. Does anyone know where munitions workers work? (I know I asked this the other day, but . . . go to hell). Looks like there used to be a factory in Middletown, but nto sure if that still stands.
Does anyone read SF or fantasy magazines? Either online or in print? If so: titles?
Top 5 list, or: I watched high fidelity again and look what's happened.
Things I should be doing (by priority) and the things I end up doing instead.
1. Packing to move is replaced by the 10th anniversary Megaman collection, and Burnout. The Packing monster will soon devour me. No fear though, megaman will protect me. So will my blunt object collection.
2. Sleep and rest is replaced by design work. Who needs sleep anyway? Though I do miss dreams... I did have an odd one about bees monday night.
3. Running for funning is replaced by hiding indoors from the heat. Heat has made an unexpected departure and the role of heat will be played by sleep. Thank you, and enjoy the show.
4. Work is replaced by websurfing and spending a lot of time here and mcsweeny's (thanks tim!)
5. Eating has had to make room for side-projects (like the movie project, machinima projects, web projects). These will probably never be completed for various reasons, least of which being I've starved to death focusing too much on them.
*dies* ... yes, as I'm dying I'm typing this out so that you know I'm dead and goanawa, mx
1. Packing to move is replaced by the 10th anniversary Megaman collection, and Burnout. The Packing monster will soon devour me. No fear though, megaman will protect me. So will my blunt object collection.
2. Sleep and rest is replaced by design work. Who needs sleep anyway? Though I do miss dreams... I did have an odd one about bees monday night.
3. Running for funning is replaced by hiding indoors from the heat. Heat has made an unexpected departure and the role of heat will be played by sleep. Thank you, and enjoy the show.
4. Work is replaced by websurfing and spending a lot of time here and mcsweeny's (thanks tim!)
5. Eating has had to make room for side-projects (like the movie project, machinima projects, web projects). These will probably never be completed for various reasons, least of which being I've starved to death focusing too much on them.
*dies* ... yes, as I'm dying I'm typing this out so that you know I'm dead and goanawa, mx
Tuesday, July 26, 2005
Violent pornography: choking chicks and sodomy. The kind of shit thats on your tv.
Searching thru my clutter for old SNES games, I ran across a couple things I thought long gone. Mainly I found a picture of Marie, Heather, and Other Girl and an old notebook. Flipping thru I found several old memories I had long since forgotten. I know, I know. I am king of obscure memories, but do hear me out.
-Junior year, we are all returning from Ottumwa before/after practice on the old highway. En route, we see a dead dear in someones yard and a Wishbone (jack terrior for you smarties) eating the entrails of it. Horrified with happiness, we whip around to get another look at this sight. The dog turns his head over his widdle puppy shoulders and gives us this look that protrayed, "What?! Its just going to go to waste!" So we go to Pizza Hut. I put money on the table and Novo takes it, saying "I said I would cover you all!" -Well can I have my money back? "Heh. No! You left it on the table!" Bollocks...
-Same year: Kevin, Rommy, Nick, and Branden Scott have pissed tim the fuck off. I believe it was by swearing. And somehow they upset Tammie. Anywho, Tim has a hissy fit, screams FUCK in front of his mom, and I suggest "lets go walkin" or somethin. Anywho, we go thru the mesa that is Meagans yard and tim asks "What the fuck else can happen today?!?" Just then, a man on horseback comes around the corner of the high school. WTF, right? Our attention then goes to Elmo, that fat son of a bitch (he is a jack terrior too, mind you), who also gives us the over the shoulder look but says "Yeah. I have no fucking idea either...."
-The Devil Day. October 27th always brings bad stuff around. Tim stole tammie, mary kay dumped tim, almost got caught by cops underage drinking, the bad BAD Halloween party, Me moving into the attic apartment, wow. That really is a bad bad bad bad day.
-House Days: Rob Fuckhole throws cards into ceiling. Then lights toilet paper and throws roll into ceiling. Then steals money to buy cancer sticks and porno. Then someone eats Andy's roast beef sandwich. We all believe it was Camboo because asians steal. Nope. It was Ryan McRebound. Then Ryan put a gunblade-esque sword knife to my throat, and Denise flopped onto Amish asleep as Andy grabbed nuts left and right. Then everyone fucked on my bed, minus me amish and wes. Then eveyrone made out with Marie. Except me and wes. Amish was flat out. Then Eric Jordan jumped on a fire and andy pulled Blackmans pants down. And lucas ripped a quarter off the floor where we glued it, but we had to hide the booze in every oraphis the house had to conceal it from Roller Bladin' Granny Henderson. Confused yet? I sure am.
-Junior year, we are all returning from Ottumwa before/after practice on the old highway. En route, we see a dead dear in someones yard and a Wishbone (jack terrior for you smarties) eating the entrails of it. Horrified with happiness, we whip around to get another look at this sight. The dog turns his head over his widdle puppy shoulders and gives us this look that protrayed, "What?! Its just going to go to waste!" So we go to Pizza Hut. I put money on the table and Novo takes it, saying "I said I would cover you all!" -Well can I have my money back? "Heh. No! You left it on the table!" Bollocks...
-Same year: Kevin, Rommy, Nick, and Branden Scott have pissed tim the fuck off. I believe it was by swearing. And somehow they upset Tammie. Anywho, Tim has a hissy fit, screams FUCK in front of his mom, and I suggest "lets go walkin" or somethin. Anywho, we go thru the mesa that is Meagans yard and tim asks "What the fuck else can happen today?!?" Just then, a man on horseback comes around the corner of the high school. WTF, right? Our attention then goes to Elmo, that fat son of a bitch (he is a jack terrior too, mind you), who also gives us the over the shoulder look but says "Yeah. I have no fucking idea either...."
-The Devil Day. October 27th always brings bad stuff around. Tim stole tammie, mary kay dumped tim, almost got caught by cops underage drinking, the bad BAD Halloween party, Me moving into the attic apartment, wow. That really is a bad bad bad bad day.
-House Days: Rob Fuckhole throws cards into ceiling. Then lights toilet paper and throws roll into ceiling. Then steals money to buy cancer sticks and porno. Then someone eats Andy's roast beef sandwich. We all believe it was Camboo because asians steal. Nope. It was Ryan McRebound. Then Ryan put a gunblade-esque sword knife to my throat, and Denise flopped onto Amish asleep as Andy grabbed nuts left and right. Then everyone fucked on my bed, minus me amish and wes. Then eveyrone made out with Marie. Except me and wes. Amish was flat out. Then Eric Jordan jumped on a fire and andy pulled Blackmans pants down. And lucas ripped a quarter off the floor where we glued it, but we had to hide the booze in every oraphis the house had to conceal it from Roller Bladin' Granny Henderson. Confused yet? I sure am.
Red Team: Scored....
Email between the Daves (me and paxton) today:
Oh Boy! Will you be wearing the tuba or using it to sacrifice a virgin? Don't tell me. I'll line it up. God, strike me dead...Now!
I'll have the costumes ready.
A Bee?????
A very frightened director, Paxton
----------
From: DaveW
To: dave@albianews.com
Subject: additional
Here is a list the costumes/props we need
-Santa Outfit
-Bee Outfit
-Large Lil Bo Peep outfit or Tutu (tootoo?)
-Tuba
-Dave Wells
Oh Boy! Will you be wearing the tuba or using it to sacrifice a virgin? Don't tell me. I'll line it up. God, strike me dead...Now!
I'll have the costumes ready.
A Bee?????
A very frightened director, Paxton
----------
From: DaveW
To: dave@albianews.com
Subject: additional
Here is a list the costumes/props we need
-Santa Outfit
-Bee Outfit
-Large Lil Bo Peep outfit or Tutu (tootoo?)
-Tuba
-Dave Wells
Bollucks. Richard Bollucks.
New teacher's aid here named Richard Bollucks. I about died. That cant be real.
I think that I must harbor some sort of sickness towards Donald Duck. But fuck. This is worse.
I sent Paxton the list of costumes. A santa, a bee, and a bo peep. And a tuba. Im sure weve confused the fuck out of him. Props to tim for writin it fast. But can I still take a dump on stage?
Maybe I should be paying attention to class instead of typin on the blog. Eh.
I think that I must harbor some sort of sickness towards Donald Duck. But fuck. This is worse.
I sent Paxton the list of costumes. A santa, a bee, and a bo peep. And a tuba. Im sure weve confused the fuck out of him. Props to tim for writin it fast. But can I still take a dump on stage?
Maybe I should be paying attention to class instead of typin on the blog. Eh.
Whoa...
Today at lunch I had to sit near a table of female hospital workers. One was 26 and the rest were all middle-aged, 40s and 50s. They spent the beginning of their meal talking about how "sensual" Johnny Depp is, and then going through a detailed filmography. All this while I tried to read about vampire hunters!
But then things got worse. From J. Deppity Dogg they jumped to how attractive Leonardo DiCaprio is, but not compared to Ben Affleck. "But George Clooney," one of them said, "he's the man."
"Yeah," another said. "He's the man."
At this point I escaped into the vampire book. But then I was dragged back out:
"Do you ever sleep all night?"
"*snort* No."
"I sleep like a log."
"Me too! I could probably be raped and I wouldn't even notice."
This is when the what-the-fuck sensors went off in my ears.
"That's cause it's dead down there," another of the women said. "There's no feeling left. It's dead!"
But then things got worse. From J. Deppity Dogg they jumped to how attractive Leonardo DiCaprio is, but not compared to Ben Affleck. "But George Clooney," one of them said, "he's the man."
"Yeah," another said. "He's the man."
At this point I escaped into the vampire book. But then I was dragged back out:
"Do you ever sleep all night?"
"*snort* No."
"I sleep like a log."
"Me too! I could probably be raped and I wouldn't even notice."
This is when the what-the-fuck sensors went off in my ears.
"That's cause it's dead down there," another of the women said. "There's no feeling left. It's dead!"
Masterpiece of a Follies Script
So: I'd really love if we could alternate roles. I require the . . . well, the role that will make you think of Ryan, at least for one night. I think we should switch every night, to keep things interested.
This is a rough script, meaning if you think of something to add or change we can viciously fight about it in the comments.
SCENE: Two chairs near front of stage. Plenty of room to either side, and behind.
TWO IRISHMEN SIT IN CHAIRS. THEY WEAR ROBES. I'M IMAGINING ANDY AND ME IN THESE ROLES, BUT IT'D BE FUN TO SWITCH ALL THE ROLES EVERY NIGHT. THAT'LL REALLY PISS EM OFF.
BECAUSE I DON'T WANT TO ASSIGN PEOPLE TO CHARACTERS, I'M CALLING THE FIRST IRISHMAN 'NICARAGUA' AND THE SECOND 'BLOWHOLE.'
NICARAGUA AND BLOWHOLE…WAIT, THOSE ARE TOO LONG.
Bjork and Kazakhistan.
No: A & B.
A & B sit in chairs, facing audience. They wear robes. They speak in ridiculous, overblown Irish accents.
B: The young ladies at this class reunion are quite . . . appeeeealing.
A: They are, they are! (considers) but they're not really young, you know.
B: Well, younger than us!
A: (confused and mournful) No. No, they're not.
B: Hey! Hey, you, pretty thing! You've got the face of an angel and the soft blonde hair of a lowlands sheep!
A: (considers) . . . isn't that whole "lowlands/highlands" stuff Scottish?
B: What the hell are you talkin about?
A: I mean, we're supposed to be Irish.
B: Quit yer bellyachin! Ya slime toothed sluggernaut!
A: (shrugs)
B: Care for a tipple?
A: What's in your flask?
B: Ah . . . I don't really care a flask anymore . . . (removes a vial of pills from inside his robe). The liver. She went bad. Coughed er up last Octoober. Had the consistency of a three-day old liver steak and the color of a melted box of crayons.
A: Ach. That's a terror.
B: She is, she is. (takes a swig of pills). Have a pull?
A: Don't mind if I do. (takes a pull). What's in this?
B: Oh, it's all Viagra. (laughs uproariously)
A: You know, it's not that common, but Viagra's been known to cause blindness.
B: . . . what the hell's wrong with you, boy?
A: (long sigh, continues without accent. Stands, removes robe. Is wearing something decent beneath) I dunno. It's just—we do this Irishman skit every year. It's the same scene, over and over, infused with different jokes.
B: What the hell's wrong with that? And what's the meanin o' this word—"infyooooosed"?
A: (shakes head) It's just that I'd like to do something different. You know, something a little surreal—
B: (without accent now too) Like what?
A: I dunno. Something unusual?
B: What's better than this? What do you want? Ryan (or whoever's doing this) to come charging on stage in a bee costume, screaming about being "bee royalty" or something—
RYAN (OR WHOEVER'S DOING THIS) CHARGES ON STAGE IN A YELLOW SWEATER WITH ELECTICAL TAPE STRIPES, BLACK PANTS, AND THE 'QUEEN OF THE BEES' BRA ON HIS HEAD. WINGS WOULD BE NICE TOO.
BEE QUEEN: I'm Queen of the Bees! Queen of the bees!
A: See, that's not so bad.
BEE QUEEN: Queen of the freakin bees!
B: This is ridiculous—
BEE QUEEN VIOLENTLY PICKS UP 'B', HEADS OFFSTAGE: Back to the hive! CARRIES 'B' OFFSTAGE.
NAYSAYER ENTERS, DRESSED IN STREET CLOTHES WITH A LOOSE ROBE. CARRYING A CLIPBOARD, MAYBE.
NAYSAYER: (actor name)! Where's (actor who was carried off)?
A: I think he went to get some royal jelly.
NAYSAYER: Did Ryan just rush the stage in a bee costume and carry him off?
A: It was the Queen of the Bees.
NAYSAYER: Are you sticking to the script at all?
A: I'm—
BEE QUEEN DASHES BACK ONSTAGE.
BEE QUEEN: I have fed him to my larva!
NAYSAYER: What the—
BEE QUEEN: He was full of vital noooootrients!
NAYSAYER (shaking script): This is just . . . stupid! (continue rant until—)
IRISHMAN B REENTERS. NOW HE'S WEARING A SANTA SUIT.
NAYSAYER: What is going on?!
B (TO A, in Irish accent): Ho ho ho! Is this what you want?
A: You're talking in the accent again.
B: (without accent, sad) Ho ho ho.
A: Nice Santa suit.
B: You want something surreal, right? Something that doesn't make sense. Here I am. Santa, baby!
A: Okay—
B: Now give me back that bottle of Viagra pills. (swallows them all).
A: Maybe you should do a dance or something.
B: What do you mean?
A: I dunno, something to make this weirder, more entertaining—
BEE QUEEN RUSHES BACK ONSTAGE, LOOKING FURIOUS, TRIUMPHANTS.
BEE QUEEN: He has escaped from the hive!
B: …poopy.
BEE QUEEN: But he has been foooound!
NAYSAYER: This is. Really. Stupid.
AMISH (sorry, Amish, this one's pretty non-negotiable) PRANCES ONSTAGE. HE'S WEARING SOMETHING RIDICULOUS—I'M SEEING LITTLE SHORTS, A JACKET, A TIE, A LITTLE SCHOOLBOY OUTFIT—AND CARRYING A CARDBOARD TUBE WITH A PILLOW DUCTTAPED TO THE END. HE'S LAUGHING THE WHOLE TIME, IN AN IDIOTIC/MANIACAL WAY.
NAYSAYER (shaking head): What—
AMISH (IN TERRIBLE HICK ACCENT): This here's my clubbin mallot! (SWINGS AT NAYSAYER, WHO GOES DOWN.
AMISH: Hyuck! SWINGS AT B, WHO DODGES AND IS THEN GRABBED BY BEE QUEEN. SWINGS AT BEE QUEEN AND BOTH B AND BEE QUEEN GO DOWN.
A: (thrilled) That was awesome! Awesome! RUNS OVER FOR THE HIGH FIVE BUT AMISH STRIKES HIM DOWN.
END.
This is a rough script, meaning if you think of something to add or change we can viciously fight about it in the comments.
SCENE: Two chairs near front of stage. Plenty of room to either side, and behind.
TWO IRISHMEN SIT IN CHAIRS. THEY WEAR ROBES. I'M IMAGINING ANDY AND ME IN THESE ROLES, BUT IT'D BE FUN TO SWITCH ALL THE ROLES EVERY NIGHT. THAT'LL REALLY PISS EM OFF.
BECAUSE I DON'T WANT TO ASSIGN PEOPLE TO CHARACTERS, I'M CALLING THE FIRST IRISHMAN 'NICARAGUA' AND THE SECOND 'BLOWHOLE.'
NICARAGUA AND BLOWHOLE…WAIT, THOSE ARE TOO LONG.
Bjork and Kazakhistan.
No: A & B.
A & B sit in chairs, facing audience. They wear robes. They speak in ridiculous, overblown Irish accents.
B: The young ladies at this class reunion are quite . . . appeeeealing.
A: They are, they are! (considers) but they're not really young, you know.
B: Well, younger than us!
A: (confused and mournful) No. No, they're not.
B: Hey! Hey, you, pretty thing! You've got the face of an angel and the soft blonde hair of a lowlands sheep!
A: (considers) . . . isn't that whole "lowlands/highlands" stuff Scottish?
B: What the hell are you talkin about?
A: I mean, we're supposed to be Irish.
B: Quit yer bellyachin! Ya slime toothed sluggernaut!
A: (shrugs)
B: Care for a tipple?
A: What's in your flask?
B: Ah . . . I don't really care a flask anymore . . . (removes a vial of pills from inside his robe). The liver. She went bad. Coughed er up last Octoober. Had the consistency of a three-day old liver steak and the color of a melted box of crayons.
A: Ach. That's a terror.
B: She is, she is. (takes a swig of pills). Have a pull?
A: Don't mind if I do. (takes a pull). What's in this?
B: Oh, it's all Viagra. (laughs uproariously)
A: You know, it's not that common, but Viagra's been known to cause blindness.
B: . . . what the hell's wrong with you, boy?
A: (long sigh, continues without accent. Stands, removes robe. Is wearing something decent beneath) I dunno. It's just—we do this Irishman skit every year. It's the same scene, over and over, infused with different jokes.
B: What the hell's wrong with that? And what's the meanin o' this word—"infyooooosed"?
A: (shakes head) It's just that I'd like to do something different. You know, something a little surreal—
B: (without accent now too) Like what?
A: I dunno. Something unusual?
B: What's better than this? What do you want? Ryan (or whoever's doing this) to come charging on stage in a bee costume, screaming about being "bee royalty" or something—
RYAN (OR WHOEVER'S DOING THIS) CHARGES ON STAGE IN A YELLOW SWEATER WITH ELECTICAL TAPE STRIPES, BLACK PANTS, AND THE 'QUEEN OF THE BEES' BRA ON HIS HEAD. WINGS WOULD BE NICE TOO.
BEE QUEEN: I'm Queen of the Bees! Queen of the bees!
A: See, that's not so bad.
BEE QUEEN: Queen of the freakin bees!
B: This is ridiculous—
BEE QUEEN VIOLENTLY PICKS UP 'B', HEADS OFFSTAGE: Back to the hive! CARRIES 'B' OFFSTAGE.
NAYSAYER ENTERS, DRESSED IN STREET CLOTHES WITH A LOOSE ROBE. CARRYING A CLIPBOARD, MAYBE.
NAYSAYER: (actor name)! Where's (actor who was carried off)?
A: I think he went to get some royal jelly.
NAYSAYER: Did Ryan just rush the stage in a bee costume and carry him off?
A: It was the Queen of the Bees.
NAYSAYER: Are you sticking to the script at all?
A: I'm—
BEE QUEEN DASHES BACK ONSTAGE.
BEE QUEEN: I have fed him to my larva!
NAYSAYER: What the—
BEE QUEEN: He was full of vital noooootrients!
NAYSAYER (shaking script): This is just . . . stupid! (continue rant until—)
IRISHMAN B REENTERS. NOW HE'S WEARING A SANTA SUIT.
NAYSAYER: What is going on?!
B (TO A, in Irish accent): Ho ho ho! Is this what you want?
A: You're talking in the accent again.
B: (without accent, sad) Ho ho ho.
A: Nice Santa suit.
B: You want something surreal, right? Something that doesn't make sense. Here I am. Santa, baby!
A: Okay—
B: Now give me back that bottle of Viagra pills. (swallows them all).
A: Maybe you should do a dance or something.
B: What do you mean?
A: I dunno, something to make this weirder, more entertaining—
BEE QUEEN RUSHES BACK ONSTAGE, LOOKING FURIOUS, TRIUMPHANTS.
BEE QUEEN: He has escaped from the hive!
B: …poopy.
BEE QUEEN: But he has been foooound!
NAYSAYER: This is. Really. Stupid.
AMISH (sorry, Amish, this one's pretty non-negotiable) PRANCES ONSTAGE. HE'S WEARING SOMETHING RIDICULOUS—I'M SEEING LITTLE SHORTS, A JACKET, A TIE, A LITTLE SCHOOLBOY OUTFIT—AND CARRYING A CARDBOARD TUBE WITH A PILLOW DUCTTAPED TO THE END. HE'S LAUGHING THE WHOLE TIME, IN AN IDIOTIC/MANIACAL WAY.
NAYSAYER (shaking head): What—
AMISH (IN TERRIBLE HICK ACCENT): This here's my clubbin mallot! (SWINGS AT NAYSAYER, WHO GOES DOWN.
AMISH: Hyuck! SWINGS AT B, WHO DODGES AND IS THEN GRABBED BY BEE QUEEN. SWINGS AT BEE QUEEN AND BOTH B AND BEE QUEEN GO DOWN.
A: (thrilled) That was awesome! Awesome! RUNS OVER FOR THE HIGH FIVE BUT AMISH STRIKES HIM DOWN.
END.
And Now We Have Discovered the Vampires' Lair
The two most interesting roadside anomalies of my life:
Freshman year at college. Jimmy and I are driving back to see Meagan and the Deutschlander, and we're taking my vehicle because I am the more obsessed of us both, the more diehard. This is unfortunate because the weather is terrible, insane, and also because my vehicle is my Dad's bigass van. The thing weighs about 10 pounds and rides on the size of wheels you'd normally find on a Matchbox racer.
There was a weather advisery—the sort where they tell you, over and over, stay the fuck off the road! Dumbass! We paid no heed to those panzyass weathermen! To hell with them! Crank up the Metallica and screw those bastards!
Then we started seeing the cars on the shoulder. Then we saw pickups on the shoulder. We saw—no lie, no exaggeration—an upside down pickup. And not a little pickup: the kind the farmboys drive around Albia. And then, finally, we saw a semi on its side. Still we pressed on, and finally got a bit scared when my Dad's van did a 45 mph 180 on the 2-way highway between Tama and Montezuma. We just started spinning and then we were going backward at highway speed, into oncoming traffic! Magically we reversed into the other shoulder, facing completely backward, without smashing into anything.
"Well," I said.
"Well," Jimmy said.
And then we continued for Albia.
Anyway, the second roadside anomaly: today on 35 South, coming from Ankeny, there is a car in the shoulder. But the amazing thing is this, my friend: this little white Grand Am somehow shot off the interstate, went down a maybe 10 foot hill, across a ditch at least three feet deep and three wide, back up another hill, and stopped. I mean, this car . . . is maybe 20 feet from the road, over shrubs and hills and a bigass ditch. And it couldn't come from the other way because there is thick brush and treeline.
. . .
This morning I walked up behind the other researcher. "Did you hear?" I whispered. "Our boss is dead!"
"No!"
"She's dead!"
This is a very satisfying thing to tell your coworkers. Not because you actually want your boss dead, or think she's dead. It's something about the sound of dead! exploding out of your mouth in a charged whisper. I suppose that, tomorrow, it might be even more fun to say "our boss is undead!" It just might be.
. . .
Andy, the name of that movie Nick liked was "From Dusk Till Dawn.Assuming that's the movie you meant.
And now we have discovered the vampire headquarters in Des Moines.
And now we have discovered the catacombs beneath the loft.
Let us compose timeless verse:
And now we have found your underground lair
And now we have found the empty hanging chains
in your basement. Fiends! The relentless bass
music pounds from the danceclub above, masks
the screams of innocents caught in your dungeon.
. . .
Yesterday I said that the mashed potatoes at the Mercy Café were as bland as a mummy's bituminous wrappings, but then realized: probably those would not taste so bland.
. . .
In my college poetry class, there was only one other person who knew what "bitumen" was. Everyone else looked at me like "is that some sort of sandwich spread?"
We had this guy in there who would type up the most obtuse poetry, painfully rhymed couples loaded with arcane vocabulary…stuff like
The eldritch stooped apothecary toils in his antechamber
Oh for our bodies to entwine in Eros's dance, a passionate
and ancient embrace, fluid and enchanting . . .
except even weirder, apparently weirder and more forced than even I can muster. And the wosrt part was that all the girls who had no idea how to manipulate words were enthralled, were held in thrall by the freshman English equation: Big Words + Tortured Syntax = Brilliant!
. . .
Discovery last week: my days pass much, much faster if I spend the first 45 minutes writing a blog post and bopping around in old projects. I think it rockets me forward through time, so that suddenly it's almost nine and thus almost breaktime. The other option is to crawl through the 8 o'clock hour, all those minutes, with nothing for footholds but new reports and mass emails from my higher-ups...
. . .
I have to write a report today on the occupational outlook for a munitions worker in Iowa. Anyone know if there are munition workers in Iowa? Places with lots of munitions? Outside of Melrose?
Freshman year at college. Jimmy and I are driving back to see Meagan and the Deutschlander, and we're taking my vehicle because I am the more obsessed of us both, the more diehard. This is unfortunate because the weather is terrible, insane, and also because my vehicle is my Dad's bigass van. The thing weighs about 10 pounds and rides on the size of wheels you'd normally find on a Matchbox racer.
There was a weather advisery—the sort where they tell you, over and over, stay the fuck off the road! Dumbass! We paid no heed to those panzyass weathermen! To hell with them! Crank up the Metallica and screw those bastards!
Then we started seeing the cars on the shoulder. Then we saw pickups on the shoulder. We saw—no lie, no exaggeration—an upside down pickup. And not a little pickup: the kind the farmboys drive around Albia. And then, finally, we saw a semi on its side. Still we pressed on, and finally got a bit scared when my Dad's van did a 45 mph 180 on the 2-way highway between Tama and Montezuma. We just started spinning and then we were going backward at highway speed, into oncoming traffic! Magically we reversed into the other shoulder, facing completely backward, without smashing into anything.
"Well," I said.
"Well," Jimmy said.
And then we continued for Albia.
Anyway, the second roadside anomaly: today on 35 South, coming from Ankeny, there is a car in the shoulder. But the amazing thing is this, my friend: this little white Grand Am somehow shot off the interstate, went down a maybe 10 foot hill, across a ditch at least three feet deep and three wide, back up another hill, and stopped. I mean, this car . . . is maybe 20 feet from the road, over shrubs and hills and a bigass ditch. And it couldn't come from the other way because there is thick brush and treeline.
. . .
This morning I walked up behind the other researcher. "Did you hear?" I whispered. "Our boss is dead!"
"No!"
"She's dead!"
This is a very satisfying thing to tell your coworkers. Not because you actually want your boss dead, or think she's dead. It's something about the sound of dead! exploding out of your mouth in a charged whisper. I suppose that, tomorrow, it might be even more fun to say "our boss is undead!" It just might be.
. . .
Andy, the name of that movie Nick liked was "From Dusk Till Dawn.Assuming that's the movie you meant.
And now we have discovered the vampire headquarters in Des Moines.
And now we have discovered the catacombs beneath the loft.
Let us compose timeless verse:
And now we have found your underground lair
And now we have found the empty hanging chains
in your basement. Fiends! The relentless bass
music pounds from the danceclub above, masks
the screams of innocents caught in your dungeon.
. . .
Yesterday I said that the mashed potatoes at the Mercy Café were as bland as a mummy's bituminous wrappings, but then realized: probably those would not taste so bland.
. . .
In my college poetry class, there was only one other person who knew what "bitumen" was. Everyone else looked at me like "is that some sort of sandwich spread?"
We had this guy in there who would type up the most obtuse poetry, painfully rhymed couples loaded with arcane vocabulary…stuff like
The eldritch stooped apothecary toils in his antechamber
Oh for our bodies to entwine in Eros's dance, a passionate
and ancient embrace, fluid and enchanting . . .
except even weirder, apparently weirder and more forced than even I can muster. And the wosrt part was that all the girls who had no idea how to manipulate words were enthralled, were held in thrall by the freshman English equation: Big Words + Tortured Syntax = Brilliant!
. . .
Discovery last week: my days pass much, much faster if I spend the first 45 minutes writing a blog post and bopping around in old projects. I think it rockets me forward through time, so that suddenly it's almost nine and thus almost breaktime. The other option is to crawl through the 8 o'clock hour, all those minutes, with nothing for footholds but new reports and mass emails from my higher-ups...
. . .
I have to write a report today on the occupational outlook for a munitions worker in Iowa. Anyone know if there are munition workers in Iowa? Places with lots of munitions? Outside of Melrose?
Doom and gloom alert!
That said. I had a thought. Obviously, 6+ billion of us are causing some effect on the world.
Duh.
That said, what about the appliances that outnumber us? All the cars that we have? All the air conditioners (that make air hot to make it cold)?
I want a remote to turn them all off for awhile. A few years. You know, so we might actually see an effect. As it took most of the 90's and now half the aught's/(naught's?) to realize it's consistently freakin' hot (though I blame as much the weather patterns than just a consistent heating) this might take awhile. Buy a horse, name it Flicker and watch that hoof and mouth stuff. Oh, and remember which end is the front.
Don't worry, we'll get our cars back. Just as soon as I prove that maybe just eliminating some of our convinences (we could still have both cars and air conditioning, just less of it). And yes, it's all about me. My theories. My insanity. My cupcake. Hands off bitch!
That said, I'm going to enjoy the cold front that has rolled through. As my body has aclimatized to the triple digit weather, 70's feels brisk, nearly jacket weather.
-Cricket, the only one who will not complain when it's flesh shattering cold out. Why? Cause I'm a damned freak.
Duh.
That said, what about the appliances that outnumber us? All the cars that we have? All the air conditioners (that make air hot to make it cold)?
I want a remote to turn them all off for awhile. A few years. You know, so we might actually see an effect. As it took most of the 90's and now half the aught's/(naught's?) to realize it's consistently freakin' hot (though I blame as much the weather patterns than just a consistent heating) this might take awhile. Buy a horse, name it Flicker and watch that hoof and mouth stuff. Oh, and remember which end is the front.
Don't worry, we'll get our cars back. Just as soon as I prove that maybe just eliminating some of our convinences (we could still have both cars and air conditioning, just less of it). And yes, it's all about me. My theories. My insanity. My cupcake. Hands off bitch!
That said, I'm going to enjoy the cold front that has rolled through. As my body has aclimatized to the triple digit weather, 70's feels brisk, nearly jacket weather.
-Cricket, the only one who will not complain when it's flesh shattering cold out. Why? Cause I'm a damned freak.
Monday, July 25, 2005
On top of Epcot with shotguns blazing...
Mein Furher! (sic) Uncle Donald!
So yes. Let me bold this. IF YOU ARE TRYING TO CALL ME, I CANT ANSWER BECAUSE MY PHONE IS TURNED OFF TILL FRIDAY. WHY? NO MONEY TO BUY MINUTES. Dont try to call, dont try to text. I cant get em till Friday anyway, wait till then to tell me. This comes after my phone rings and rings. It could not be group members, although Ryan likes to call and see whats up a lot. And theres the hot babes I talk to on the internet for 4 hours everyday.
So...yeah. Wait till Friday to tell me.
Oh and hopefully by the time most you read this the blog wont take 1000 hrs to load the damn javascript. Even on my cable modem and crashetron. Ill shut up now.
So yes. Let me bold this. IF YOU ARE TRYING TO CALL ME, I CANT ANSWER BECAUSE MY PHONE IS TURNED OFF TILL FRIDAY. WHY? NO MONEY TO BUY MINUTES. Dont try to call, dont try to text. I cant get em till Friday anyway, wait till then to tell me. This comes after my phone rings and rings. It could not be group members, although Ryan likes to call and see whats up a lot. And theres the hot babes I talk to on the internet for 4 hours everyday.
So...yeah. Wait till Friday to tell me.
Oh and hopefully by the time most you read this the blog wont take 1000 hrs to load the damn javascript. Even on my cable modem and crashetron. Ill shut up now.
Diluting the Soda
I regularly receive mass emails from farflung supervisors and consultants. They're always irrelevant and ridiculous, with subjects like "Remove 225 approved individuals from SDA waiting list" and "update to manual 24.5.anteater." The mass emailing, I suppose, is used to save time—instead of typing 50 counselors' names, the supervisor just mass emails to 400 people. But couldn't they just use a little mailing list or something?!
All this because I just opened a division-wide email with the subject line "CWHM Waiver: this waiver will only apply to 325 children." And I was like…"no... no..." And I just moved on.
I just walked in on a bald man in the bathroom towelling the sweat from his newly shorn head. He's a young guy, and with that shaved head and craggy features I've always assumed he was Russian or Romanian, some sort of international spy. Well, today when I walked into the bathroom and bathed my soda bottle (the soda had exploded, boom, and now I have no eye and only three testicles) he said in some Eastern-European language:
"Yooodilthingdesodapop?"
And I said, "What?"
"The soda. You diluting the soda pop?"
"Oh," I said. "No, just washing it off."
And he looked so sad! I mean, fuck! When he asked if I was diluting the soda, such an expression of joy and connection on his mysterious spy's face! We were brothers, for just a few seconds!
"It is not too thick?"
"Nah," I said. "It just exploded."
. . .
Now, some links:
Giving those damn nazzies whatfor (I haven't read all this yet, but it looks interesting)(also, you may need to register, but i'm not sure)
An ant's agonizing death
All this because I just opened a division-wide email with the subject line "CWHM Waiver: this waiver will only apply to 325 children." And I was like…"no... no..." And I just moved on.
I just walked in on a bald man in the bathroom towelling the sweat from his newly shorn head. He's a young guy, and with that shaved head and craggy features I've always assumed he was Russian or Romanian, some sort of international spy. Well, today when I walked into the bathroom and bathed my soda bottle (the soda had exploded, boom, and now I have no eye and only three testicles) he said in some Eastern-European language:
"Yooodilthingdesodapop?"
And I said, "What?"
"The soda. You diluting the soda pop?"
"Oh," I said. "No, just washing it off."
And he looked so sad! I mean, fuck! When he asked if I was diluting the soda, such an expression of joy and connection on his mysterious spy's face! We were brothers, for just a few seconds!
"It is not too thick?"
"Nah," I said. "It just exploded."
. . .
Now, some links:
Giving those damn nazzies whatfor (I haven't read all this yet, but it looks interesting)(also, you may need to register, but i'm not sure)
An ant's agonizing death
Sunday, July 24, 2005
The Badlands: Not as bad as you think...
Mau: Plans are okeys for that weekend. However, you interested in a masquerade party? I have been asked to be knightly and block a bayonette from faire lass, if you catch my drift.
Anywho, whole world of hurtin is on me. I was introduced to some Petsmart working girl... yeah. Interesting enough, she likes birds just as much as $4 liked horses and native americans (for you unknowing folks, it was a lot) so theres another one to chalk up on my Blackboard of Ill Repute. My friend Ali, who had her brother die, is gettin sued by the passenger of the fatal car accident. well more specifically, her family is. The suing ones are suing because Alis bro's car killed their kid, however it was this kid who was driving. So stupid. Lynn also got angry at me because I didnt like a meal she cooked today.
Oh and did I mention Im broke? Yeah. THat always helps.
Anywho, whole world of hurtin is on me. I was introduced to some Petsmart working girl... yeah. Interesting enough, she likes birds just as much as $4 liked horses and native americans (for you unknowing folks, it was a lot) so theres another one to chalk up on my Blackboard of Ill Repute. My friend Ali, who had her brother die, is gettin sued by the passenger of the fatal car accident. well more specifically, her family is. The suing ones are suing because Alis bro's car killed their kid, however it was this kid who was driving. So stupid. Lynn also got angry at me because I didnt like a meal she cooked today.
Oh and did I mention Im broke? Yeah. THat always helps.
Saturday, July 23, 2005
You win for now...bastards...
Alright Monki, I'm going to have to stop defending Valve. They just went out and did something hellishly evil. Not only did they redesign their website with a link that makes you think that you can get DoD Source now but they have settled on a new distributor after climbing out from under Vivendi. They went to freaking EA. Bastards. Glad I already own the product cause that makes me sick.
Oh for any that are concerned I retrieved Bil. He looked a little peeked but once he feasted on a passing child he perked up at once. I guess that Austrailian zombification leaves you a bit hungry. So anyhow.
Hmm new query ,fire off a characters you feel sorry for based on things they witness but can't effect.
Mines Horatio from Hamlet. He watches the whole thing go down and maybe one of a tiny handful of people left standing in the room full of bodies when Fortinbras stomps in to say hah I'm taking the place, wtf are all these dead people doing here. Yeah that'll be fun to explain. Second place to Benvolio in Romeo and Juliet or was it Mercutio...damn I'm getting rusty on Shakespeare which ever one that doesn't get run through in the early bits. Bah I'm out.
Oh for any that are concerned I retrieved Bil. He looked a little peeked but once he feasted on a passing child he perked up at once. I guess that Austrailian zombification leaves you a bit hungry. So anyhow.
Hmm new query ,fire off a characters you feel sorry for based on things they witness but can't effect.
Mines Horatio from Hamlet. He watches the whole thing go down and maybe one of a tiny handful of people left standing in the room full of bodies when Fortinbras stomps in to say hah I'm taking the place, wtf are all these dead people doing here. Yeah that'll be fun to explain. Second place to Benvolio in Romeo and Juliet or was it Mercutio...damn I'm getting rusty on Shakespeare which ever one that doesn't get run through in the early bits. Bah I'm out.
Friday, July 22, 2005
What the deuce?
So. My car hath overheated. Again. I should have figured it to, seeing as how it got to be 103 on the newly asphalt (teehee...ass fault) Its one of several things:
1) The radiator fan
2) The Thermo..STAT
3) Energon Crystal (Pfffft...how gay is that)
4) Rubicant the Fire Fiend is pissed at me
So it sits in the Target parking lot for another hour until I get it and drive it away. How lucky am I?
PS: NEED FOLLIES SCRIPT BY WEDNESDAY..ish.
1) The radiator fan
2) The Thermo..STAT
3) Energon Crystal (Pfffft...how gay is that)
4) Rubicant the Fire Fiend is pissed at me
So it sits in the Target parking lot for another hour until I get it and drive it away. How lucky am I?
PS: NEED FOLLIES SCRIPT BY WEDNESDAY..ish.
My Thoughts Are Not My Own
During student elections in middle school and high school I remember signs that said "SEX" in big huge letters and underneath it said "Now that I've got your attention, vote for Randy."
That word really does catch your attention. I'll be scrolling through news headlines, looking for something to read and suddenly all other brain function stops as I quickly scroll back to where I saw the word 'sex'.
It catches your eye.
I suppose the argument could be made that it's a very simple word with an interesting arrangement of letters and a curious design.
No.
We know why that word catches peoples' eyes. Because, for whatever reason the word 'sex' is being used, it's probably for something interesting and we're curious what it might be. We're interested in sex.
Well, I've noticed that there are other words that have this affect on me. The most notable is God (capitol or lower-case 'g'). Whenever I see the word 'god' I can't help but stop and investigate. If I see some bumper sticker from a distance and I can't really read what it says but I know it says 'god' somewhere in there, I have to go out of my way to pull closer to the car so that I can read what it says. I'm usually disappointed when this happens because most bumper stickers that include the word 'god' are moronic.
A lot of the other words that have this affect are from, or are related to, religion.
So I recently came to the unsettling conclusion: I am just as obcessed about religion as most people are about sex.
And it isn't my fault! I swear I was hard-wired from my conception to be obcessed with religion. It's just one of those things that I can't seem to shake out of me. I love to eat fish, I love to water ski, I love the feeling of a girls lips against mine, I love banana-flavored ice cream, I love to have orgasms and I love to read about religion. Or watch television shows about religion. Or engage in any (well, not really ANY, but you get the idea) activity that is religion-related.
It kind of freaks me out occasionally. I look at myself in the mirror and wonder, "Why me? I don't strike myself as the kind of person who would really be THAT into religion." But I am.
And I'm also very embarrassed by it. I very rarely admit it publicly. Of course, it does tend to cause controversy as I have painfully been reminded over and over throughout my life. But that isn't the only reason I avoid mentioning it. Another reason is that I don't want to be looked at as someone who is 'into religion'.
People have certain expectations and preconceptions about what a person who is 'into religion' is like, and I don't really fit into many of them. I don't want to fit into them and I really don't want to ruin it for all of those nice people who do fit into them. Those people who set the sterotype. Like Carrie Ogle, for instance.
My question to the audience is: Can someone be this passionate about something naturally? Can I make the decision to not be into religion anymore, or is it possible that it really is, as I said, 'hard-wired' into me? Are my thoughts not really my own?
That word really does catch your attention. I'll be scrolling through news headlines, looking for something to read and suddenly all other brain function stops as I quickly scroll back to where I saw the word 'sex'.
It catches your eye.
I suppose the argument could be made that it's a very simple word with an interesting arrangement of letters and a curious design.
No.
We know why that word catches peoples' eyes. Because, for whatever reason the word 'sex' is being used, it's probably for something interesting and we're curious what it might be. We're interested in sex.
Well, I've noticed that there are other words that have this affect on me. The most notable is God (capitol or lower-case 'g'). Whenever I see the word 'god' I can't help but stop and investigate. If I see some bumper sticker from a distance and I can't really read what it says but I know it says 'god' somewhere in there, I have to go out of my way to pull closer to the car so that I can read what it says. I'm usually disappointed when this happens because most bumper stickers that include the word 'god' are moronic.
A lot of the other words that have this affect are from, or are related to, religion.
So I recently came to the unsettling conclusion: I am just as obcessed about religion as most people are about sex.
And it isn't my fault! I swear I was hard-wired from my conception to be obcessed with religion. It's just one of those things that I can't seem to shake out of me. I love to eat fish, I love to water ski, I love the feeling of a girls lips against mine, I love banana-flavored ice cream, I love to have orgasms and I love to read about religion. Or watch television shows about religion. Or engage in any (well, not really ANY, but you get the idea) activity that is religion-related.
It kind of freaks me out occasionally. I look at myself in the mirror and wonder, "Why me? I don't strike myself as the kind of person who would really be THAT into religion." But I am.
And I'm also very embarrassed by it. I very rarely admit it publicly. Of course, it does tend to cause controversy as I have painfully been reminded over and over throughout my life. But that isn't the only reason I avoid mentioning it. Another reason is that I don't want to be looked at as someone who is 'into religion'.
People have certain expectations and preconceptions about what a person who is 'into religion' is like, and I don't really fit into many of them. I don't want to fit into them and I really don't want to ruin it for all of those nice people who do fit into them. Those people who set the sterotype. Like Carrie Ogle, for instance.
My question to the audience is: Can someone be this passionate about something naturally? Can I make the decision to not be into religion anymore, or is it possible that it really is, as I said, 'hard-wired' into me? Are my thoughts not really my own?
I have a very important announcement to make....
I JUST PEED IN THE POOL!!!!
WHOOOOOOOHHHHHHHHHHAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!
Some mornings, especially mornings when I come in to work fifteen minutes late and still drunk from the night before, I feel like I hang precariously between being a valuable, productive member of society and being a worthless drunken degenerate.
And that's okay. Because, you know, I really don't want to be either one of those things.
A great man, and my personal hero, once said, "If a man walks in the woods for love of them half of each day, he is in danger of being regarded as a loafer. But if he spends his days as a spectator, shearing off those woods and making the earth bald before her time, he is deemed an industrious and enterprising citizen."
What we do determines who we are. So if I want to be something beautiful and rare, then I need to do beautiful and rare things. Can I do beautiful and rare things? And if I am even capable of the beautiful and rare, am I still capable of them while working for Wells Fargo?
Am I willing to risk all of the personal comfort and security Wells Fargo (or any similar company) can offer me, for the opportunity to be beautiful and rare? Do I have the self-dicipline and scrotal fortitute to forsake the cheap thrills for the lasting peace? Am I ever going to figure out what is causing that rash on my arms? What do I want to be?
"Every man is the builder of a temple, called his body, to the god he worships, after a style purely his own, nor can he get off by hammering marble instead. We are all sculptors and painters, and our material is our own flesh and blood and bones." --Henry David Thoreau
What are we all so damn desperate to find anyway? You know what I'd like to find? My memories from last night, cause they are gone--bye-bye!
I saw a bumper sticker yesterday while I was stuck in traffic; it said something like, "We only get one world, let's treat it nice." or something gay like that. And I thought to myself, "Now where could someone put a sticker promoting care for the environment that would be more fucking IRONIC than a car!" A nuclear waste facility perhaps? On the side of a smokestack?
Another sticker concept that pisses me off is the whole "traffic sucks" vein of bumper stickers. These are the ones you see on the back of the SUV that cut you off to get into the exit lane and they say things like "Jesus would have used HIS blinker."
I can't really complain about traffic, though, because yesterday I realized, "Oh wait, I AM traffic."
WHOOOOOOOHHHHHHHHHHAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!
Some mornings, especially mornings when I come in to work fifteen minutes late and still drunk from the night before, I feel like I hang precariously between being a valuable, productive member of society and being a worthless drunken degenerate.
And that's okay. Because, you know, I really don't want to be either one of those things.
A great man, and my personal hero, once said, "If a man walks in the woods for love of them half of each day, he is in danger of being regarded as a loafer. But if he spends his days as a spectator, shearing off those woods and making the earth bald before her time, he is deemed an industrious and enterprising citizen."
What we do determines who we are. So if I want to be something beautiful and rare, then I need to do beautiful and rare things. Can I do beautiful and rare things? And if I am even capable of the beautiful and rare, am I still capable of them while working for Wells Fargo?
Am I willing to risk all of the personal comfort and security Wells Fargo (or any similar company) can offer me, for the opportunity to be beautiful and rare? Do I have the self-dicipline and scrotal fortitute to forsake the cheap thrills for the lasting peace? Am I ever going to figure out what is causing that rash on my arms? What do I want to be?
"Every man is the builder of a temple, called his body, to the god he worships, after a style purely his own, nor can he get off by hammering marble instead. We are all sculptors and painters, and our material is our own flesh and blood and bones." --Henry David Thoreau
What are we all so damn desperate to find anyway? You know what I'd like to find? My memories from last night, cause they are gone--bye-bye!
I saw a bumper sticker yesterday while I was stuck in traffic; it said something like, "We only get one world, let's treat it nice." or something gay like that. And I thought to myself, "Now where could someone put a sticker promoting care for the environment that would be more fucking IRONIC than a car!" A nuclear waste facility perhaps? On the side of a smokestack?
Another sticker concept that pisses me off is the whole "traffic sucks" vein of bumper stickers. These are the ones you see on the back of the SUV that cut you off to get into the exit lane and they say things like "Jesus would have used HIS blinker."
I can't really complain about traffic, though, because yesterday I realized, "Oh wait, I AM traffic."
Pronuciation Rant
I'm watching the news, they just showed the map for ragbrai. It's going through Guttenburg this year! (I remember it going through garny one year, and walking through a number of people's pictures).
Then the news lady says: Gootenburg, like the original printer, or Steve from the police academy movies. But that's Gutenburg! I've been told we say it wrong, even though I've lived near it my entire life and no one (not even the old people) pronounce it that way. Not even my grandma, who grew up in a purely german speaking household as a child says it that way!!!
I suppose this is the same arguement the people of Neveda have with their town's name. Neh-vade-a, not Na-Vad-a like the state...
*Note* This does not mean I understand the pronunciation plight of a small town up north call Festina. That is all.
Then the news lady says: Gootenburg, like the original printer, or Steve from the police academy movies. But that's Gutenburg! I've been told we say it wrong, even though I've lived near it my entire life and no one (not even the old people) pronounce it that way. Not even my grandma, who grew up in a purely german speaking household as a child says it that way!!!
I suppose this is the same arguement the people of Neveda have with their town's name. Neh-vade-a, not Na-Vad-a like the state...
*Note* This does not mean I understand the pronunciation plight of a small town up north call Festina. That is all.
Turtles All The Way Down
This is a really great essay by Gordon Atkinson, also known as Real Live Preacher.
Alyssa was not really hit by a bus.
Saturday night I was harrassed by the Cedar Falls PD. These are the same bastards who, when I returned a wallet found on the street during Homecoming, snatched it away and asked if I'd been drinking (and of course I had. Garrett and Amish and . . . Dave? were there and I had a Dew bottle filled with blueberry liquor, which I shared with some random drunk and then threw away, afraid of his filthy mouth diseases).
Anyway, Saturday night they crossed my path again! Main Street in Cedar Falls has exploded, by the way, if you haven't been there in the past year, is now busy, full of bars, full of police. Sarah and I were dropped off outside some bar—the driver just slowed the car and said "later" and we, confused, stepped out. Thankfully others with cars joined us after a while, and I found my way outside, and thought I'd walk the street a bit and pretend that I was still a student. Sarah's party was costume themed and I was a Hot Topic kid, meaning I had Megaman and Invader Zim wristbands and all black clothes and eyeliner and spikey hair (it was pointed out to me mid-party that Megaman wristbands are not very gothic). And maybe this, mixed with the stumbling, was part of the reason I was asked if I was drunk, if I was vandalizing property.
Damn those police!
Last summer Alyssa and four religiously fanatical girls sublet this mansion of a house just off Main Street in CF. The walls were red and yellow, the godforsaken condiment combination, but there were also some blues and beiges. I had this daydream, before last weekend's party, of knocking on the door of that old house. Strange new girsl would open the door and Goathead and I would smile, grin, look idiotic.
"Hi," I'd say. "Do you mind if we just sort of . . . peek in?"
"Uh…" she'd say, and dial 9 on the cellphone in her pocket, and then 1.
"My girlfriend used to live here," I'd explain. "And I spent a lot of time here last summer."
"You know—" she'd say.
"She's dead," I'd say.
"What?" she'd say.
"Hit by a bus. Greyhound out of nowhere."
"80 miles an hour," Goathead would add. "Through downtown Des Moines."
"Oh my God," the girl would say. "Was she that blonde girl with the Viatnamese friends?"
"No, she was the brunette. Who babysat your cat over the summer."
"No!" the girl would say.
"Yes," I'd say, and would shake my head. "We had to fish her Gir necklace off the roof of a three story building."
Anyway, Saturday night they crossed my path again! Main Street in Cedar Falls has exploded, by the way, if you haven't been there in the past year, is now busy, full of bars, full of police. Sarah and I were dropped off outside some bar—the driver just slowed the car and said "later" and we, confused, stepped out. Thankfully others with cars joined us after a while, and I found my way outside, and thought I'd walk the street a bit and pretend that I was still a student. Sarah's party was costume themed and I was a Hot Topic kid, meaning I had Megaman and Invader Zim wristbands and all black clothes and eyeliner and spikey hair (it was pointed out to me mid-party that Megaman wristbands are not very gothic). And maybe this, mixed with the stumbling, was part of the reason I was asked if I was drunk, if I was vandalizing property.
Damn those police!
Last summer Alyssa and four religiously fanatical girls sublet this mansion of a house just off Main Street in CF. The walls were red and yellow, the godforsaken condiment combination, but there were also some blues and beiges. I had this daydream, before last weekend's party, of knocking on the door of that old house. Strange new girsl would open the door and Goathead and I would smile, grin, look idiotic.
"Hi," I'd say. "Do you mind if we just sort of . . . peek in?"
"Uh…" she'd say, and dial 9 on the cellphone in her pocket, and then 1.
"My girlfriend used to live here," I'd explain. "And I spent a lot of time here last summer."
"You know—" she'd say.
"She's dead," I'd say.
"What?" she'd say.
"Hit by a bus. Greyhound out of nowhere."
"80 miles an hour," Goathead would add. "Through downtown Des Moines."
"Oh my God," the girl would say. "Was she that blonde girl with the Viatnamese friends?"
"No, she was the brunette. Who babysat your cat over the summer."
"No!" the girl would say.
"Yes," I'd say, and would shake my head. "We had to fish her Gir necklace off the roof of a three story building."
Thursday, July 21, 2005
dave
Thinking of going to Larkspur for the weekend of the reunion we prolly won't be attending.
Care to join / meet thee and hang out?
Care to join / meet thee and hang out?
That happened when I was knee-high to a grasshopper mutated by atomic radiation and hell-bent on human genocide
Its the Albia Restoration Day Follies! I take the train on that Wednesday. We should prolly convene on an irishman skit.
If you need to get ahold of me, text my phone. im out of minutes till next friday. Im a broke ass bitch with a broke ass phone.
If you need to get ahold of me, text my phone. im out of minutes till next friday. Im a broke ass bitch with a broke ass phone.
A Cryptic Response to Tim's Spiritual Discomfiture
“Spiritual path” is the hilarious popular term for those night-blind mesas and flayed hills in which people grope, for decades on end, with the goal of knowing the absolute. They discover others spread under the stars and encamped here and there by watch fires, in groups or alone, in the open landscape; they stop for a sleep, or for several years, and move along without knowing toward what or why. They leave whatever they find, picking up each stone, carrying it for awhile, and dropping it gratefully and without regret, for it is not the absolute, though they cannot say what is. Their life’s fine, impossible goal justifies the term “spiritual.” Nothing, however, can justify the term “path” for this bewildered and empty stumbling, this blackened vagabondage – except one thing: They don’t quit. They stick with it. Year after year they put one foot in front of the other, though they fare nowhere. Year after year they find themselves still feeling with their fingers for lumps in the dark.
The planet turns under their steps like a water wheel rolling; constellations shift without anyone’s gaining ground. They are presenting themselves to the unseen gaze of emptiness. Why do they want to do this? They hope to learn how to be useful.
Their feet catch in nets; they untangle them when they notice, and keep moving. They hope to learn where they came from. “The soul teaches incessantly,” said Rabbi Pinhas, “but it never repeats.” Decade after decade they see no progress. But they do notice, if they look, that they have left doubt behind. Decades ago, they left behind doubt about this or that doctrine, abandoning the issues as unimportant. Now, I mean, they have left behind the early doubt that this feckless prospecting in the dark for the unseen is a reasonable way to pass one’s life.
Annie Dillard - For The Time Being (169-171)
The planet turns under their steps like a water wheel rolling; constellations shift without anyone’s gaining ground. They are presenting themselves to the unseen gaze of emptiness. Why do they want to do this? They hope to learn how to be useful.
Their feet catch in nets; they untangle them when they notice, and keep moving. They hope to learn where they came from. “The soul teaches incessantly,” said Rabbi Pinhas, “but it never repeats.” Decade after decade they see no progress. But they do notice, if they look, that they have left doubt behind. Decades ago, they left behind doubt about this or that doctrine, abandoning the issues as unimportant. Now, I mean, they have left behind the early doubt that this feckless prospecting in the dark for the unseen is a reasonable way to pass one’s life.
Annie Dillard - For The Time Being (169-171)
WTF Humanity?
Well I'll try to follow the clever and wordy Tim but I'm not feeling that intellegent any more. I think its the 4 years of being in the mines of Target. Anyhow back to what I was starting with.
I start to page across Yahoo and I'll grumblingly admit I was on the way to glance at the Personals page and I see a bobby in the news window. It appears the poor folk of London got hit again today. Four more stations were attacked but apparently these bombers weren't as skilled as the last four and failed to do much. It sounds like the public is starting to think these bombings are because they are backing our sorry asses in Iraq. I think they are most likely right in that thinking. Now the rub is how do they extracate themselves without looking like they've bowed to the terrorist demands.
Hmm the last couple nights I had thought about trying to start a discussion of favored fictional villains. Though now I'm thinking there are just a few too many real villains running about for this excercise to be all that fun. My faith in the better qualities of humanity is reaching an all time low. I'm getting disconnected, feeling too much like a Morlock, once a part of the machinery now just going through the motions and not knowing for what. I don't know what much else to enter. Ah well, lets see what you come up with.
Favorite fictional villain. I'll only limit it a little here...nothing that ends in "-tron" looking at you know who here.
When I think of villainy, I tend to think of Iago. Not because he had any great power or ability but simply for the fact that there seems to be no reason for his evil other than he wishes it. He brings about the death of Desdemona and Othello and at least one other officer through his own actions before being assisted in his own suicide by one of his former fellow officers to spare the embarrassment of public execution. What about you lot, got a good villian in mind?
I start to page across Yahoo and I'll grumblingly admit I was on the way to glance at the Personals page and I see a bobby in the news window. It appears the poor folk of London got hit again today. Four more stations were attacked but apparently these bombers weren't as skilled as the last four and failed to do much. It sounds like the public is starting to think these bombings are because they are backing our sorry asses in Iraq. I think they are most likely right in that thinking. Now the rub is how do they extracate themselves without looking like they've bowed to the terrorist demands.
Hmm the last couple nights I had thought about trying to start a discussion of favored fictional villains. Though now I'm thinking there are just a few too many real villains running about for this excercise to be all that fun. My faith in the better qualities of humanity is reaching an all time low. I'm getting disconnected, feeling too much like a Morlock, once a part of the machinery now just going through the motions and not knowing for what. I don't know what much else to enter. Ah well, lets see what you come up with.
Favorite fictional villain. I'll only limit it a little here...nothing that ends in "-tron" looking at you know who here.
When I think of villainy, I tend to think of Iago. Not because he had any great power or ability but simply for the fact that there seems to be no reason for his evil other than he wishes it. He brings about the death of Desdemona and Othello and at least one other officer through his own actions before being assisted in his own suicide by one of his former fellow officers to spare the embarrassment of public execution. What about you lot, got a good villian in mind?
Galvanize!
Lyuuucas. Lyuuuuuucas.
This post is an attempt to keep the blog momentum going—as the Blog itself told us yesterday, we've been posting like hell, producing new posts like newlywed preachers produce G-Dog-fearing babies. Boy, they sure do produce them babies. So produce, produce. For I am bored at work, and Alyssa, who is usually a constant source of emails—sometimes we number in the 60s of replies—has the day off, and surely will find better things to do than send three-line messages back and forth with her ex.
Someone asked recently if I am an atheist and the answer is no, I am not exactly an atheist. But I am not exactly…bursting with faith either. I wouldn't even say I'm agnostic. I'm more . . . I have difficulty believing in any single religion, and difficulty believing in a spiritual plane. But I want to believe—just like that X-Files poster—and so I choose to hope that there is some sort of order, and hope, and am willing to consider—in fact, would like to consider—that there might, might be.
I used to wonder how atheists could live—in the long run, barring the existence of a higher, powerful intelligence, the destruction of the planet and (probably earlier) destruction of hu-mans will eradicate evidence of our existence, of culture. And that . . . well, that's a pisser. And if it's all going to fuck someday, why even try now? But I think you just . . . have to not think about it, just worry day to day, make out with a girl, drink some really strong coffee, and then bounce around.
Still, I would like to believe that there is more to all this, and that it counts for more, will last somehow.
I had no intention of going there with this post.
Hmm.
Last weekend was undoubtedly the most bizarre of my entire life to this point.
Finally, after being a writer basically since I was 5, and producing two shitty novels and one less-shitty novel and one okay-but-lame novel and one good novel and lots of bad shorts and finally one good short and another pretty-good short I'm to the point where I have all kinds of paper to mail out to people, all kinds of submissions that I actually have a little confidence in, and all of it comes back, sorry, next time, but it's still fun to mail all this shit out, and have it in circulation, and think that maybe, maybe something will go right. If nothing else, I get some curious looks from people who walk by my cubicle and see all those manila envelopes popping out of my bag.
I tried to learn the guitar once. All those strings, though—how the hell do you do it? There are these chords that require you to press four strings and then two other strings and your hand ends up bent up like a croissant roll that's been smashed beneath a pile of glassware and you get this buzzing sound and it's terrible, terrible. But I'm thinking about trying again, and may hunt around for some cheapass poo-sounding instrument, and poke at it.
Krispy has my keyboard, and hopefully is doing wonderful things with it.
When I was a kid I thought whoa, for sure when I am old I will put that pencil behind my ear like the journalists in old movies do. But I don't really do that. At least not very often. I have a red pen there now.
The frontpage of McSweeney's is really great today, better than it's been in a while.
Goathead and I had a conversation the other day: if our high school selves could see us now, what would they kick our asses about? Mine would kick my ass for being such a lush. What about everyone else? Tell us in the comments!
Really, do it.
Do it!
This post is an attempt to keep the blog momentum going—as the Blog itself told us yesterday, we've been posting like hell, producing new posts like newlywed preachers produce G-Dog-fearing babies. Boy, they sure do produce them babies. So produce, produce. For I am bored at work, and Alyssa, who is usually a constant source of emails—sometimes we number in the 60s of replies—has the day off, and surely will find better things to do than send three-line messages back and forth with her ex.
Someone asked recently if I am an atheist and the answer is no, I am not exactly an atheist. But I am not exactly…bursting with faith either. I wouldn't even say I'm agnostic. I'm more . . . I have difficulty believing in any single religion, and difficulty believing in a spiritual plane. But I want to believe—just like that X-Files poster—and so I choose to hope that there is some sort of order, and hope, and am willing to consider—in fact, would like to consider—that there might, might be.
I used to wonder how atheists could live—in the long run, barring the existence of a higher, powerful intelligence, the destruction of the planet and (probably earlier) destruction of hu-mans will eradicate evidence of our existence, of culture. And that . . . well, that's a pisser. And if it's all going to fuck someday, why even try now? But I think you just . . . have to not think about it, just worry day to day, make out with a girl, drink some really strong coffee, and then bounce around.
Still, I would like to believe that there is more to all this, and that it counts for more, will last somehow.
I had no intention of going there with this post.
Hmm.
Last weekend was undoubtedly the most bizarre of my entire life to this point.
Finally, after being a writer basically since I was 5, and producing two shitty novels and one less-shitty novel and one okay-but-lame novel and one good novel and lots of bad shorts and finally one good short and another pretty-good short I'm to the point where I have all kinds of paper to mail out to people, all kinds of submissions that I actually have a little confidence in, and all of it comes back, sorry, next time, but it's still fun to mail all this shit out, and have it in circulation, and think that maybe, maybe something will go right. If nothing else, I get some curious looks from people who walk by my cubicle and see all those manila envelopes popping out of my bag.
I tried to learn the guitar once. All those strings, though—how the hell do you do it? There are these chords that require you to press four strings and then two other strings and your hand ends up bent up like a croissant roll that's been smashed beneath a pile of glassware and you get this buzzing sound and it's terrible, terrible. But I'm thinking about trying again, and may hunt around for some cheapass poo-sounding instrument, and poke at it.
Krispy has my keyboard, and hopefully is doing wonderful things with it.
When I was a kid I thought whoa, for sure when I am old I will put that pencil behind my ear like the journalists in old movies do. But I don't really do that. At least not very often. I have a red pen there now.
The frontpage of McSweeney's is really great today, better than it's been in a while.
Goathead and I had a conversation the other day: if our high school selves could see us now, what would they kick our asses about? Mine would kick my ass for being such a lush. What about everyone else? Tell us in the comments!
Really, do it.
Do it!
For Wes or any other computer-savvy chaps who would like to work in my department.
Job Title
OPERATIONS ANALYST 2
Annual Salary
$31,400.00
Job Description
The Operations Analyst 2 position supports the Corporate Manuals department, and reports to the department supervisor. Primary duties are highlighted here. Manage current document repository function (Rochade), including daily publishing, quality control, and trouble shooting. Interface and work with WFF web services to assure repository is accurate and that publishing requests have been implemented. Respond to client requests and information requests from department managers as needed. Develop, enhance, and maintain scheduling database and other departmental systems and processes. Participate in defining user requirements, perform user acceptance testing for Manuals' transition from Rochade to web-based content management system. Assist in developing training standards and documentation for Corporate Manuals systems and processes, including repository and future web applications. May assist with ongoing production and workflow improvement efforts and manage projects.
Minimum Qualifications
Relevant experience and/or education required.
Preferred Skills
Knowledge of general and technical computer hardware/software required. Experience in document repository maintenance and web-based content management systems a plus. Experience working in HTLM and database development and implementation (Access, etc.). Good written and verbal communication skills a must.
(The job should be posted for another two or three weeks. Get ahold of me if you're interested.)
OPERATIONS ANALYST 2
Annual Salary
$31,400.00
Job Description
The Operations Analyst 2 position supports the Corporate Manuals department, and reports to the department supervisor. Primary duties are highlighted here. Manage current document repository function (Rochade), including daily publishing, quality control, and trouble shooting. Interface and work with WFF web services to assure repository is accurate and that publishing requests have been implemented. Respond to client requests and information requests from department managers as needed. Develop, enhance, and maintain scheduling database and other departmental systems and processes. Participate in defining user requirements, perform user acceptance testing for Manuals' transition from Rochade to web-based content management system. Assist in developing training standards and documentation for Corporate Manuals systems and processes, including repository and future web applications. May assist with ongoing production and workflow improvement efforts and manage projects.
Minimum Qualifications
Relevant experience and/or education required.
Preferred Skills
Knowledge of general and technical computer hardware/software required. Experience in document repository maintenance and web-based content management systems a plus. Experience working in HTLM and database development and implementation (Access, etc.). Good written and verbal communication skills a must.
(The job should be posted for another two or three weeks. Get ahold of me if you're interested.)
...It's dark, and we're wearing sunglasses. Hit it.
My dream last night was pretty odd. That's saying something for me.
I was at a party in the country. Back home, so I knew were I was. I meet a girl during the course of the night, and we get to talking. We decided to leave and talk a walk along the gravel road.
We don't get very far when we see cops heading towards the place we'd been at. We weren't far, and people were now fleeing the place on foot and in car. So the two of us are now running to beat this situation. We're running down a hill, there's another girl halfway behind us back up the incline and a car just cresting the hill. I look back forward and I can just barely see a small car with it's headlamps off. I dodge over to the side of the road, pulling/coaxing the girl I'm with behind me, still escaping, but taking up as little of the road as possible.
The little car passes and I manage to see Santa Claus driving. Even in the dream I couldn't believe it. Keep running though, find another farmhouse up the opposite hill. We figure we can hide out there, but as we're getting there we hear a scream and cars skidding on gravel.
We go to the farmhouse, I know the people who live there. I could show you where this is in RL. The people there let us in, we catch our breath. Someone else frantically gets to the place asking to use the phone. Call 911. He was just in an accident with Santa. (Though all the raiding cops have already called for it.) Soon the farm is a hive of people from the party, cops, and paramedics, all huddled around this bloody form. They had the girl on a plastic stretcher, impromtu neck brace and tracheal tube. The girl I was with couldn't watch. I stared as the paramedics hauled her to the ambulance. They weren't in any rush.
The cops afterwards wanted to know what happened. I offered what I knew, the girl or the car coming behind her had seen Santa's car, in the crash she had gotten crushed by both cars... They dismissed what I said since I hadn't actually seen it, only heard from the driver.
Not sure what happened to the driver after that, or the girl I was with...
Oh, but they did arrested Santa.
I was at a party in the country. Back home, so I knew were I was. I meet a girl during the course of the night, and we get to talking. We decided to leave and talk a walk along the gravel road.
We don't get very far when we see cops heading towards the place we'd been at. We weren't far, and people were now fleeing the place on foot and in car. So the two of us are now running to beat this situation. We're running down a hill, there's another girl halfway behind us back up the incline and a car just cresting the hill. I look back forward and I can just barely see a small car with it's headlamps off. I dodge over to the side of the road, pulling/coaxing the girl I'm with behind me, still escaping, but taking up as little of the road as possible.
The little car passes and I manage to see Santa Claus driving. Even in the dream I couldn't believe it. Keep running though, find another farmhouse up the opposite hill. We figure we can hide out there, but as we're getting there we hear a scream and cars skidding on gravel.
We go to the farmhouse, I know the people who live there. I could show you where this is in RL. The people there let us in, we catch our breath. Someone else frantically gets to the place asking to use the phone. Call 911. He was just in an accident with Santa. (Though all the raiding cops have already called for it.) Soon the farm is a hive of people from the party, cops, and paramedics, all huddled around this bloody form. They had the girl on a plastic stretcher, impromtu neck brace and tracheal tube. The girl I was with couldn't watch. I stared as the paramedics hauled her to the ambulance. They weren't in any rush.
The cops afterwards wanted to know what happened. I offered what I knew, the girl or the car coming behind her had seen Santa's car, in the crash she had gotten crushed by both cars... They dismissed what I said since I hadn't actually seen it, only heard from the driver.
Not sure what happened to the driver after that, or the girl I was with...
Oh, but they did arrested Santa.
fill in the blank, bitches
Des Moines "International" Airport.
~9:07pm.
Friday, July 22.
Novo strides out of the terminal, walking somewhat stiffly after security has had it's loving way with his lower intestines.
Outside, a car awaits, _____________ has helpfully arrived to take him home.
And there was much rejoicing.
~9:07pm.
Friday, July 22.
Novo strides out of the terminal, walking somewhat stiffly after security has had it's loving way with his lower intestines.
Outside, a car awaits, _____________ has helpfully arrived to take him home.
And there was much rejoicing.
Whos goin to call Mamma Joe to tell her that her little baby boy Joe isnt coming home because SOMEONE fell asleep on Guard Duty!?
Tim: This will cure your insomnia. Try to get this good, and I may possibly sleep with you. Not really. I wont do that....but mayhaps.
Those damn Romanians.
So remember the game night we had at Java Joe's? And that weird Eastern European band? They were called Java Jews. Did we find that out? I don't remember.
AND:
Remember that girl I saw and thought I recognized? And who blew me off? She says tonight:
"oh oh! i did not shun you on purpose! i apparently am not the most observent of people when there is jewish music taking up all my attention."
Ha!
AND:
Remember that girl I saw and thought I recognized? And who blew me off? She says tonight:
"oh oh! i did not shun you on purpose! i apparently am not the most observent of people when there is jewish music taking up all my attention."
Ha!
Wednesday, July 20, 2005
Did he just call me a shit head? No one calls me a shit head. . . Damn, I am a shit head aint I
Streets of Fire is a movie Ryan would like. We were forced to watch that movie in Camera Techniques. Hooboy. I forgot how utterly retarded the 80s were.
Oh boy. I had to break it to Abbey that I wasnt goin to make it to the reunion. I still think one of y'all should bring the laptops you possess and play that DVD (and the puppet with your fist firmly planted deep within its rectum). I would ask Amish to bring his laptop, but most dvds dont run off of plywood. And besides, he only wants Abbey to be on top his lap.
I believe Kellynn slips in and out of our realm of existence. You can call this slipping "Upward Bound" or "Downward Spiral", whichever end your on.
Also: Cat in the Hat is a FUCKED up movie. I mean its badassly fucked up.
This was a useless post.
Oh boy. I had to break it to Abbey that I wasnt goin to make it to the reunion. I still think one of y'all should bring the laptops you possess and play that DVD (and the puppet with your fist firmly planted deep within its rectum). I would ask Amish to bring his laptop, but most dvds dont run off of plywood. And besides, he only wants Abbey to be on top his lap.
I believe Kellynn slips in and out of our realm of existence. You can call this slipping "Upward Bound" or "Downward Spiral", whichever end your on.
Also: Cat in the Hat is a FUCKED up movie. I mean its badassly fucked up.
This was a useless post.
My upcoming trip to Federal Pound Me in the Ass Prison
A pair of state troopers just stalked by my cubicle. Usually when this happens—with any employee—there's this casual turn of the head to stare at me. I'm starting to accept this, although it still pisses me off, because with many of them there's this look like "oh, so that's what you're doing on that computer" even when I'm reading about urinary tract infections or educational programs for prosthetists (impossible to find). But this damn trooper like..almost stopped, turned his head almost completely around like a fuckdamn owl, and held my eyes for a second. What the hell!
There was a break-in here over the weekend, which probably explains their presence. Some laptops were swiped, and someone's gold coin was taken out of a desk drawer. Now, what does this mean? The laptop stealing=okay, normal. But the thief allegedly got through several doors, and then either went through 2 or 3 hundred workstations or specifically popped open a few and found someone's gold coin.
It feels perverted, but I really want those troopers to come back for me and drag me off to the interrogation chamber. Because then I could get out of work for a while, maybe even the whole afternoon! They just need to let me go by 4:30.
There was a break-in here over the weekend, which probably explains their presence. Some laptops were swiped, and someone's gold coin was taken out of a desk drawer. Now, what does this mean? The laptop stealing=okay, normal. But the thief allegedly got through several doors, and then either went through 2 or 3 hundred workstations or specifically popped open a few and found someone's gold coin.
It feels perverted, but I really want those troopers to come back for me and drag me off to the interrogation chamber. Because then I could get out of work for a while, maybe even the whole afternoon! They just need to let me go by 4:30.
Meet our new Supreme Court Justice: The Honorable Miss America
It makes me feel unnaturally good to know that Ann Coulter is pissed about a decision that Bush made.
Someone needs to perform an exorcism on Ann Coulter, cause that bitch has a demon fo-sho!
Someone needs to perform an exorcism on Ann Coulter, cause that bitch has a demon fo-sho!
Halo machinima and falling buildings
First thing is first: Gravity Rocks
Now to the machinima. Something simple. Something on Elongation.
Fade in: Haven't figured that out yet. Need hook. Though I have an idea of something with running and a grenade going off.
-panning shot of one of the corridors, we can hear shooting, but can't see it. Shot changes to an over head of two opponents shooting at each other-
-behind P1, low, watching the firefight.-
P1: *reloading, crouching* dammit. empty... *stands, yells to P2* HEY! STOP!
*shooting continues*
P1: Dammit, I said STOP! *throws grenade at P2, launches P2 into the air.*
P2: *standing, no weapon optional* What already? I need to get back to killing you...
More after class.
Now to the machinima. Something simple. Something on Elongation.
Fade in: Haven't figured that out yet. Need hook. Though I have an idea of something with running and a grenade going off.
-panning shot of one of the corridors, we can hear shooting, but can't see it. Shot changes to an over head of two opponents shooting at each other-
-behind P1, low, watching the firefight.-
P1: *reloading, crouching* dammit. empty... *stands, yells to P2* HEY! STOP!
*shooting continues*
P1: Dammit, I said STOP! *throws grenade at P2, launches P2 into the air.*
P2: *standing, no weapon optional* What already? I need to get back to killing you...
More after class.
Who is swearing? Bear is swearing? Oh, how can this be?
Last night--greatest Halo comeback I've ever witnessed. Tim and I were playing our first game of Team Slayer and it turned out to be the swords version of slayer, which I hate. Apparently the other two guys on our team felt the same way I did about it because they both quit out within the first five seconds of gameplay.
So it's two against four. Tim and I are outnumbered. As one might guess, we started losing our asses. We were something like fourteen down at one point. Then one of the guys on their team quits.
Two against three. The other team still seems confident that they have the advantage. But they overlooked one vital piece of information: They were playing the two baddest motherfuckers in the world.
It was close, but we pulled off a win within the last two minutes of the game. It involved a lot of swearing and then a lot of cheering. When it was over I really wished that I had a microphone so that I could taunt the other team with, "You guys look pretty funny with my sword stuck in your asses!"
____________________
Yesterday I was in a meeting with some of the translators and we started talking about different translation jobs they'd had. One of the new guys used to translate at a hospital here in Des Moines. He said that he was instructed to translate everything the patient said, and even the noises they made, so that the doctor or nurse could get the best idea possible as to what they're saying.
He was very faithful to the patients; repeating every nuance of their speech. Then one day one of the nurses went to the translator's boss with a request.
"Could you please tell the translator to stop swearing?"
"He has a problem with swearing?"
"Yes, he swears all the time."
"When is he swearing? I've never heard him."
"He swears when he's translating for the patients."
"Well, is he swearing, or is the patient swearing?"
So it's two against four. Tim and I are outnumbered. As one might guess, we started losing our asses. We were something like fourteen down at one point. Then one of the guys on their team quits.
Two against three. The other team still seems confident that they have the advantage. But they overlooked one vital piece of information: They were playing the two baddest motherfuckers in the world.
It was close, but we pulled off a win within the last two minutes of the game. It involved a lot of swearing and then a lot of cheering. When it was over I really wished that I had a microphone so that I could taunt the other team with, "You guys look pretty funny with my sword stuck in your asses!"
____________________
Yesterday I was in a meeting with some of the translators and we started talking about different translation jobs they'd had. One of the new guys used to translate at a hospital here in Des Moines. He said that he was instructed to translate everything the patient said, and even the noises they made, so that the doctor or nurse could get the best idea possible as to what they're saying.
He was very faithful to the patients; repeating every nuance of their speech. Then one day one of the nurses went to the translator's boss with a request.
"Could you please tell the translator to stop swearing?"
"He has a problem with swearing?"
"Yes, he swears all the time."
"When is he swearing? I've never heard him."
"He swears when he's translating for the patients."
"Well, is he swearing, or is the patient swearing?"
my brain is broken
I'm fucking insomniacal the past couple nights for godknowswhy. Tonight it's because of a recurring dream: I go to the library for a copy of Chuck Palahniuk's Haunted but amazing amazing, CP is there and the library has been turned into a sort of "Haunted" museum, complete with little vidscreens. CP looks more like Marilyn Manson, and is dressed in spookyass garb. The weather outside is cloudy/zombie.
Anyway, the structure of the recurring dream tonight is that each time I fall asleep I go back to this museum where CP/Manson will helpfully immerse me in one of the stories from Haunted (I haven't read it yet, but I hear it's more gross-out than scaryspooky). And he'll sort of be along while I get the shit scared out of me. First "story" was basically about this creature named the Hef or the Hf who sort of...exists on the boundaries of existence. And he's there to check your pride, so that if you say something about how good you are at halo and someone (CP in this case) says something about the Hef and you're like..."what the fuck are you talking about. of course i am superior to whatever that is" then this Chupon-looking blob of ectoplasm will hunt you down.
The last dream/story I was subjected to was ... I show up at the museum and instead of looking like Manson CP looks like a woman, very dark hair and eyes, alluring. And we're leaving--she's sick of fucking with me and I've had enough of her shit. So we're driving down the highway together and enter a town. This cop on the side of the road is idly waving us over, telling us to pull up against the curb, but he's obviously busy himself--there are cars everywhere on the side of the road. We finally pull over in the next town into a little patch of cars and stare up where all the other people are staring...and this middle-aged couple, holding hands, jumps off a cliffface and splatters very graphically into the ground. Thankfully I miss the impact but see the result afterward. I wander off to search for the cop, seeing like...stacks of roasting people with heads intact, and zombie-type creatures crawling/stumbling/pulling themselves toward me in various states of decomp, and then it hits me: this place is zombiefied.
I just want to go to sleep! Fuck. Fuckfuck.
Anyway, the structure of the recurring dream tonight is that each time I fall asleep I go back to this museum where CP/Manson will helpfully immerse me in one of the stories from Haunted (I haven't read it yet, but I hear it's more gross-out than scaryspooky). And he'll sort of be along while I get the shit scared out of me. First "story" was basically about this creature named the Hef or the Hf who sort of...exists on the boundaries of existence. And he's there to check your pride, so that if you say something about how good you are at halo and someone (CP in this case) says something about the Hef and you're like..."what the fuck are you talking about. of course i am superior to whatever that is" then this Chupon-looking blob of ectoplasm will hunt you down.
The last dream/story I was subjected to was ... I show up at the museum and instead of looking like Manson CP looks like a woman, very dark hair and eyes, alluring. And we're leaving--she's sick of fucking with me and I've had enough of her shit. So we're driving down the highway together and enter a town. This cop on the side of the road is idly waving us over, telling us to pull up against the curb, but he's obviously busy himself--there are cars everywhere on the side of the road. We finally pull over in the next town into a little patch of cars and stare up where all the other people are staring...and this middle-aged couple, holding hands, jumps off a cliffface and splatters very graphically into the ground. Thankfully I miss the impact but see the result afterward. I wander off to search for the cop, seeing like...stacks of roasting people with heads intact, and zombie-type creatures crawling/stumbling/pulling themselves toward me in various states of decomp, and then it hits me: this place is zombiefied.
I just want to go to sleep! Fuck. Fuckfuck.
Tuesday, July 19, 2005
You better not pee on my sheets. I'll just throw the pee sheets back on you...no one pees on me, Peepants...
So. I wont be goin to the Reunion. HOWEVER: I am goin to make a DVD and send it with one of you attendees. That way, you got a laBtop with DVD playin qualities and then you can friggin show everyone how sexy I am. Good idea? Great.
...so who can I send it to?
...so who can I send it to?
Why 3d Max is a headache
Imagine this: a menu that exists in a menu that is accessed thru another menu, which has a key press shortcut but is easily mistaken for another. Now, try to use this deeply archived menu when you have no clue on what the numbers it has are for.
You english major people have all the luck. You had to screw off and write bs papers and "read" stuff. You dont have to live up to the fact that one wrong number can fuck you out of 28 hours of work. And you didnt have a book crash on you 4 or 5 times when you were reading about the exploits of Uther Pendragen, but Im sure your minds did.
You english major people have all the luck. You had to screw off and write bs papers and "read" stuff. You dont have to live up to the fact that one wrong number can fuck you out of 28 hours of work. And you didnt have a book crash on you 4 or 5 times when you were reading about the exploits of Uther Pendragen, but Im sure your minds did.
Zen Koans
The Most Valuable Thing in the World
Sozan, a Chinese Zen master, was asked by a student: "What is the most valuable thing in the world?"
The master replied: "The head of a dead cat."
"Why is the head of a dead cat the most valuable thing in the world?" inquired the student.
Sozan replied: "Because no one can name its price."
The Stone Mind
Hogen, a Chinese Zen teacher, lived alone in a small temple in the country. One day four traveling monks appeared and asked if they might make a fire in his yard to warm themselves.
While they were building the fire, Hogen heard them arguing about subjectivity and objectivity.
He joined them and said: "There is a big stone. Do you consider it to be inside or outside your mind?"
One of the monks replied: "From the Buddhist viewpoint everything is an objectification of mind, so I would say that the stone is inside my mind."
"Your head must feel very heavy," observed Hogen, "if you are carrying around a stone like that in your mind."
The Taste of Banzo's Sword
Matajuro Yagyu was the son of a famous swordsman. His father, believing that his son's work was too mediocre to anticipate mastership, disowned him.
So Matajuro went to Mount Futara and there found the famous swordsman Banzo. But Banzo confirmed the father's judgment. "You wish to learn swordsmanship under my guidance?" asked Banzo. "You cannot fulfill the requirements."
"But if I work hard, how many years will it take me to become a master?" persisted the youth.
"The rest of your life," replied Banzo.
"I cannot wait that long," explained Matajuro. "I am willing to pass through any hardship if only you will teach me. If I become your devoted servant, how long might it be?"
"Oh, maybe ten years," Banzo relented.
"My father is getting old, and soon I must take care of him," continued Matajuro. "If I work far more intensively, how long would it take me?"
"Oh, maybe thirty years," said Banzo.
"Why is that?" asked Matajuro. "First you say ten and now thirty years. I will undergo any hardship to master this art in the shortest time!"
"Well," said Banzo, "in that case you will have to remain with me for seventy years. A man in such a hurry as you are to get results seldom learns quickly."
"Very well," declared the youth, understanding at last that he was being rebuked for impatience, "I agree."
Matajuro was told never to speak of fencing and never to touch a sword. He cooked for his master, washed the dishes, made his bed, cleaned the yard, cared for the garden, all without a word of swordsmanship.
Three years passed. Still Matajuro labored on. Thinking of his future, he was sad. He had not even begun to learn the art to which he had devoted his life.
But one day Banzo crept up behind him and gave him a terrific blow with a wooden sword.
The following day, when Matajuro was cooking rice, Banzo again sprang upon him unexpectedly.
After that, day and night, Matajuro had to defend himself from unexpected thrusts. Not a moment passed in any day that he did not have to think of the taste of Banzo's sword.
He learned so rapidly he brought smiles to the face of his master.
Matajuro became the greatest swordsman in the land.
Learning to Be Silent
The pupils of the Tendai school used to study meditation before Zen entered Japan. Four of them who were intimate friends promised one another to observe seven days of silence.
On the first day all were silent. Their meditation had begun auspiciously, but when night came and the oil lamps were growing dim one of the pupils could not help exclaiming to a servant: "Fix those lamps."
The second pupil was surprised to hear the first one talk. "We are not supposed to say a word," he remarked.
"You two are stupid. Why did you talk?" asked the third.
"I am the only one who has not talked," concluded the fourth pupil.
A Parable
Buddha told a parable in sutra:
A man traveling across a field encountered a tiger. He fled, the tiger after him. Coming to a precipice, he caught hold of the root of a wild vine and swung himself down over the edge. The tiger sniffed at him from above. Trembling, the man looked down to where, far below, another tiger was waiting to eat him. Only the vine sustained him.
Two mice, one white and one black, little by little started to gnaw away the vine. The man saw a luscious strawberry near him. Grasping the vine with one hand, he plucked the strawberry with the other. How sweet it tasted!
Muddy Road
Tanzan and Ekido were once traveling together down a muddy road. A heavy rain was still falling.
Coming around a bend, they met a lovely girl in a silk kimono and sash, unable to cross the intersection.
"Come on, girl" said Tanzan at once. Lifting her in his arms, he carried her over the mud.
Ekido did not speak again until that night when they reached a lodging temple. Then he no longer could restrain himself. "We monks don't go near females," he told Tanzan, "especially not young and lovely ones. It is dangerous. Why did you do that?"
"I left the girl there," said Tanzan. "Are you still carrying her?"
Sozan, a Chinese Zen master, was asked by a student: "What is the most valuable thing in the world?"
The master replied: "The head of a dead cat."
"Why is the head of a dead cat the most valuable thing in the world?" inquired the student.
Sozan replied: "Because no one can name its price."
The Stone Mind
Hogen, a Chinese Zen teacher, lived alone in a small temple in the country. One day four traveling monks appeared and asked if they might make a fire in his yard to warm themselves.
While they were building the fire, Hogen heard them arguing about subjectivity and objectivity.
He joined them and said: "There is a big stone. Do you consider it to be inside or outside your mind?"
One of the monks replied: "From the Buddhist viewpoint everything is an objectification of mind, so I would say that the stone is inside my mind."
"Your head must feel very heavy," observed Hogen, "if you are carrying around a stone like that in your mind."
The Taste of Banzo's Sword
Matajuro Yagyu was the son of a famous swordsman. His father, believing that his son's work was too mediocre to anticipate mastership, disowned him.
So Matajuro went to Mount Futara and there found the famous swordsman Banzo. But Banzo confirmed the father's judgment. "You wish to learn swordsmanship under my guidance?" asked Banzo. "You cannot fulfill the requirements."
"But if I work hard, how many years will it take me to become a master?" persisted the youth.
"The rest of your life," replied Banzo.
"I cannot wait that long," explained Matajuro. "I am willing to pass through any hardship if only you will teach me. If I become your devoted servant, how long might it be?"
"Oh, maybe ten years," Banzo relented.
"My father is getting old, and soon I must take care of him," continued Matajuro. "If I work far more intensively, how long would it take me?"
"Oh, maybe thirty years," said Banzo.
"Why is that?" asked Matajuro. "First you say ten and now thirty years. I will undergo any hardship to master this art in the shortest time!"
"Well," said Banzo, "in that case you will have to remain with me for seventy years. A man in such a hurry as you are to get results seldom learns quickly."
"Very well," declared the youth, understanding at last that he was being rebuked for impatience, "I agree."
Matajuro was told never to speak of fencing and never to touch a sword. He cooked for his master, washed the dishes, made his bed, cleaned the yard, cared for the garden, all without a word of swordsmanship.
Three years passed. Still Matajuro labored on. Thinking of his future, he was sad. He had not even begun to learn the art to which he had devoted his life.
But one day Banzo crept up behind him and gave him a terrific blow with a wooden sword.
The following day, when Matajuro was cooking rice, Banzo again sprang upon him unexpectedly.
After that, day and night, Matajuro had to defend himself from unexpected thrusts. Not a moment passed in any day that he did not have to think of the taste of Banzo's sword.
He learned so rapidly he brought smiles to the face of his master.
Matajuro became the greatest swordsman in the land.
Learning to Be Silent
The pupils of the Tendai school used to study meditation before Zen entered Japan. Four of them who were intimate friends promised one another to observe seven days of silence.
On the first day all were silent. Their meditation had begun auspiciously, but when night came and the oil lamps were growing dim one of the pupils could not help exclaiming to a servant: "Fix those lamps."
The second pupil was surprised to hear the first one talk. "We are not supposed to say a word," he remarked.
"You two are stupid. Why did you talk?" asked the third.
"I am the only one who has not talked," concluded the fourth pupil.
A Parable
Buddha told a parable in sutra:
A man traveling across a field encountered a tiger. He fled, the tiger after him. Coming to a precipice, he caught hold of the root of a wild vine and swung himself down over the edge. The tiger sniffed at him from above. Trembling, the man looked down to where, far below, another tiger was waiting to eat him. Only the vine sustained him.
Two mice, one white and one black, little by little started to gnaw away the vine. The man saw a luscious strawberry near him. Grasping the vine with one hand, he plucked the strawberry with the other. How sweet it tasted!
Muddy Road
Tanzan and Ekido were once traveling together down a muddy road. A heavy rain was still falling.
Coming around a bend, they met a lovely girl in a silk kimono and sash, unable to cross the intersection.
"Come on, girl" said Tanzan at once. Lifting her in his arms, he carried her over the mud.
Ekido did not speak again until that night when they reached a lodging temple. Then he no longer could restrain himself. "We monks don't go near females," he told Tanzan, "especially not young and lovely ones. It is dangerous. Why did you do that?"
"I left the girl there," said Tanzan. "Are you still carrying her?"
Fall down go boom!
I just got back from my two hour long lunch (implosion) break. Absolutly amazing.
Air horns blasting the final warning, followed by a staccato of high pitched booms. You could see the puffs of smoke from the first set of charges. Then a second set that sounded like artillery exploding. Little flashes. Then a third and a cloud of dust started to rise from the base of the buildings. The foundation was gone and both buildings just dropped into the ground like some freakish mole had burrowed under them. The one closest to us started to lean at the very end.
Funny thing was, is that the explosives were louder than the actual building collapsing.
I have a little video I'll try to have up later today. Give you a different view than the tv will have.
Air horns blasting the final warning, followed by a staccato of high pitched booms. You could see the puffs of smoke from the first set of charges. Then a second set that sounded like artillery exploding. Little flashes. Then a third and a cloud of dust started to rise from the base of the buildings. The foundation was gone and both buildings just dropped into the ground like some freakish mole had burrowed under them. The one closest to us started to lean at the very end.
Funny thing was, is that the explosives were louder than the actual building collapsing.
I have a little video I'll try to have up later today. Give you a different view than the tv will have.
More...weight...
From Suzanne Yeagley's Interviews with People Who Have Interesting or Unusual Jobs:
Q: Any other interesting things about the job?
A: We were open on Christmas Eve and, depending on the manager, alcohol was allowed.
So there was a lot of drunkenness. At one point, a guy lay down in the back and wanted to find out how many 50-pound bags of sugar we could pile on him until he couldn't take it.
Q: So how many could he take?
A: Four? It was a long time ago.
Q: Any other interesting things about the job?
A: We were open on Christmas Eve and, depending on the manager, alcohol was allowed.
So there was a lot of drunkenness. At one point, a guy lay down in the back and wanted to find out how many 50-pound bags of sugar we could pile on him until he couldn't take it.
Q: So how many could he take?
A: Four? It was a long time ago.
Sooo Tasty
Why do Skull Pandas like Kittens? I think it's because of their texture. The world may never know...
Monday, July 18, 2005
That damn Mariachi Band of Doom could take on Slick Valdez ANY day!!!
Follies: We're a bunch of monkeys. We have computers. Can we just type irish Jibberish, polish it with some outrageous outfits, and perform it? Im sure people dont go to the follies to watch political satire or to... God forbid Albians to do this...think? So lets just have a loosely based plot (Taming of the Shrew has been done a thousand times in the last 10 years, so we should irishly sodomize it) and just put as many references to potatoes, guinness, green, erin go baugh, and the Green White & Orange as we can. And better so, lets NOT do this the night before the follies. Mayhaps the irishmen build a robot to make boiled potatoes 'n cabbage and irish toast.
And, as we all know very well, toast goes in here.
And, as we all know very well, toast goes in here.
A Grief Shared
I wasn’t going to post anything about this. I felt like it wasn’t something I should burden anyone else with, but I also can’t keep it to myself. I’ve tried, on a couple occasions, to share this with someone in person. It just won’t come out though. Or if it did, I’m afraid tears would come with it, and I’m too old and male to cry. Too cold and pale to fly.
I can’t remember his face without looking at a picture. It’s been too long. Fuck man, I’ve tried. I try to memorize every line of his photos. I try to burn it behind my eyes. It won’t burn. And if we can’t remember someone, does that mean they never were?
Nine years ago my cousin, my best friend, was taken from me. Pulled from the world like a flower being plucked from a garden. And right in front of my eyes. Right in front of my fucking eyes. And now these eyes have forgotten what his face looked like.
Every year for the past eight years I’ve remembered June 26th and 27th. Passionately I’ve remembered them. June 26th was the day he was born. June 27th was the day he died. They are dates that are written on my heart. Tattooed on my soul.
Tim and Nick know. We cheated death on those days. We drank A&W cream soda and ran across a busy highway and we poured a little out for him. Every year I’ve drank A&W cream soda on those days and tried to feel his presence. And sometimes I did. (A&W cream soda was the last thing he ever drank. I still have the can.)
But the years take their toll. This year I forgot. The days just dripped by like they have been most of this year. Probably passed with a drink and a smile. I didn’t mean to forget, I just forgot. It just happened. Isn’t that forgivable? They were just days. They’re only dates on a calendar meant to represent the number of times the earth has revolved in this trip around the sun. Why the fuck should that be important?
But I didn’t just forget two days. I forgot someone. I forgot a person. I forgot Matt.
And Christ, I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry.
I know it’s kind of an emo-teenager thing to do, but I’m going to break one of my cardinal blogging rules, just this once, and post song lyrics.
"Return" Ok go
Now its years since your body went flat and even memories of that
are all think and dull, all gravel and glass. But who needs them now -- displaced they're easily more safe --the worst of it now: I can't remember your face.
Return.
For a while, with the vertigo cured, we were alive -- we were pure. The void took the shape of all that you were, but years take their toll,and things get bent into shape...Antiseptic and tired, I can't remember your face.
Return.
You were supposed to grow old. Reckless, unfrightened, and old, you were supposed to grow old.
Return. You were supposed to return.
I can’t remember his face without looking at a picture. It’s been too long. Fuck man, I’ve tried. I try to memorize every line of his photos. I try to burn it behind my eyes. It won’t burn. And if we can’t remember someone, does that mean they never were?
Nine years ago my cousin, my best friend, was taken from me. Pulled from the world like a flower being plucked from a garden. And right in front of my eyes. Right in front of my fucking eyes. And now these eyes have forgotten what his face looked like.
Every year for the past eight years I’ve remembered June 26th and 27th. Passionately I’ve remembered them. June 26th was the day he was born. June 27th was the day he died. They are dates that are written on my heart. Tattooed on my soul.
Tim and Nick know. We cheated death on those days. We drank A&W cream soda and ran across a busy highway and we poured a little out for him. Every year I’ve drank A&W cream soda on those days and tried to feel his presence. And sometimes I did. (A&W cream soda was the last thing he ever drank. I still have the can.)
But the years take their toll. This year I forgot. The days just dripped by like they have been most of this year. Probably passed with a drink and a smile. I didn’t mean to forget, I just forgot. It just happened. Isn’t that forgivable? They were just days. They’re only dates on a calendar meant to represent the number of times the earth has revolved in this trip around the sun. Why the fuck should that be important?
But I didn’t just forget two days. I forgot someone. I forgot a person. I forgot Matt.
And Christ, I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry.
I know it’s kind of an emo-teenager thing to do, but I’m going to break one of my cardinal blogging rules, just this once, and post song lyrics.
"Return" Ok go
Now its years since your body went flat and even memories of that
are all think and dull, all gravel and glass. But who needs them now -- displaced they're easily more safe --the worst of it now: I can't remember your face.
Return.
For a while, with the vertigo cured, we were alive -- we were pure. The void took the shape of all that you were, but years take their toll,and things get bent into shape...Antiseptic and tired, I can't remember your face.
Return.
You were supposed to grow old. Reckless, unfrightened, and old, you were supposed to grow old.
Return. You were supposed to return.
Sunday, July 17, 2005
Saturday, July 16, 2005
Friday, July 15, 2005
And then all her skin sloughed off.
Last night I drove the 25 minutes to Goathead’s on a very low tank of gas. The plan was to buy some more in the morning, but then I drove home on the same low tank of gas. Now, this morning, I just drove to work on the same empty tank. I have come to the conclusion that my car runs on stupidity.
Coming from Ankeny on 235, there’s a new AE billboard. Like other billboards the company owns, this one features a creepy ass guy in an AE hat. He’s reclining on a hammock while the distant sun bathes him in light. And what’s he drinking? It’s lemonade. Yes, it is a relaxing scene. But why, if it’s so relaxing, is he still wearing his fucking AE hat? And his weird axe murdering poncho? And why is he smiling like that? He’s got this creepy smile that bunches up his neckflesh and pretty much screams “I came in the milk!”
Coming from Ankeny on 235, there’s a new AE billboard. Like other billboards the company owns, this one features a creepy ass guy in an AE hat. He’s reclining on a hammock while the distant sun bathes him in light. And what’s he drinking? It’s lemonade. Yes, it is a relaxing scene. But why, if it’s so relaxing, is he still wearing his fucking AE hat? And his weird axe murdering poncho? And why is he smiling like that? He’s got this creepy smile that bunches up his neckflesh and pretty much screams “I came in the milk!”
Thursday, July 14, 2005
And it goes like this:
I had a dream last night. A wierd one. There was a lot of it. From wandering through my old (now abandoned) elementary school, watching kids avoid a certain part of it after some "incident" to killing covenant in a mall. After the mall, I took a drive into the hills.
The road was winding, and I seemed to know the area and I got to a sharp curve in the road and thought to myself, "that dog that got hit is finally off the road" then I looked harder and realized it was still there, pasted into the gravel road. You know the kind, so diven the rocks work down, and the dirt hardens into a nice pavement. The dog is now an integral part of this system. Removing it would definitly make a rough spot.
Driving on, I pass more dogs, these not stupid enough to play in the road.
I get to this house in a valley not far from the river, nearly butted up against the hillside. Heavily wooded. I pull into the driveway to see two bears wandering around. I stay the hell in my car till they leave, but other people joining me pull in. They trap one of the bears in the garage (great idea, trap a bear in an attached garage. Hope the ajoining door is strong). The other runs off by the sounds of car horns.
I guess the bear was contained, so we decided to travel to the cabin by the river. I got in a car with one of the others at the house. The rest decided to hike down. The hikers leave first and we wait a bit. We leave down a narrow road that follows the hill/bluff closely. We catch up to the hikers and ask why they're moving along the bluff they way they are. (Moving up it and away from the cabin) One of the guys says they are going to camp on the bluffside and will meet us tomorrow.
Not paying attention this whole time, the driver guns it and is plowing us into a rock outcropping. At this point I stop the dream. Frozen. Realize I'm not wearing a seatbelt, and start up a conversation with the driver. I should have been yelling at him, but it was a calm deal.
"You know this is going to hurt right? You know you're and idiot for not watching where you're going?"
"Yeah yeah... I know."
I play out the accident in a kinda alternate dreamspace and watch myself go through the windshield. So, I put my seatbelt on, played it out again. Still didn't like the results so moved the car I was in over away from the rock back on the road. So there were two cars, one that crashed and the one that I was in... Hit play, and onward down the road.
we get to the water, there is the wierdest bridge. It was in bits. Tire sized ones. As the car hit the edge of the water, the wheels started walking their way across this stepping stones. (Think the Gadget Car).
The bridge does a semi-circle into the rive back to the cabin. As we get there, I see a pair of shadows in the water. Then I hear singing. The shadows break the water. Out jump two singing Killer whales.
...
Things had gotten too wierd even for me. I woke the hell up.
The road was winding, and I seemed to know the area and I got to a sharp curve in the road and thought to myself, "that dog that got hit is finally off the road" then I looked harder and realized it was still there, pasted into the gravel road. You know the kind, so diven the rocks work down, and the dirt hardens into a nice pavement. The dog is now an integral part of this system. Removing it would definitly make a rough spot.
Driving on, I pass more dogs, these not stupid enough to play in the road.
I get to this house in a valley not far from the river, nearly butted up against the hillside. Heavily wooded. I pull into the driveway to see two bears wandering around. I stay the hell in my car till they leave, but other people joining me pull in. They trap one of the bears in the garage (great idea, trap a bear in an attached garage. Hope the ajoining door is strong). The other runs off by the sounds of car horns.
I guess the bear was contained, so we decided to travel to the cabin by the river. I got in a car with one of the others at the house. The rest decided to hike down. The hikers leave first and we wait a bit. We leave down a narrow road that follows the hill/bluff closely. We catch up to the hikers and ask why they're moving along the bluff they way they are. (Moving up it and away from the cabin) One of the guys says they are going to camp on the bluffside and will meet us tomorrow.
Not paying attention this whole time, the driver guns it and is plowing us into a rock outcropping. At this point I stop the dream. Frozen. Realize I'm not wearing a seatbelt, and start up a conversation with the driver. I should have been yelling at him, but it was a calm deal.
"You know this is going to hurt right? You know you're and idiot for not watching where you're going?"
"Yeah yeah... I know."
I play out the accident in a kinda alternate dreamspace and watch myself go through the windshield. So, I put my seatbelt on, played it out again. Still didn't like the results so moved the car I was in over away from the rock back on the road. So there were two cars, one that crashed and the one that I was in... Hit play, and onward down the road.
we get to the water, there is the wierdest bridge. It was in bits. Tire sized ones. As the car hit the edge of the water, the wheels started walking their way across this stepping stones. (Think the Gadget Car).
The bridge does a semi-circle into the rive back to the cabin. As we get there, I see a pair of shadows in the water. Then I hear singing. The shadows break the water. Out jump two singing Killer whales.
...
Things had gotten too wierd even for me. I woke the hell up.
