Do You Feel Lucky?

(and feel free to comment! My older posts are certainly no less relevant to the burning concerns of the day.)

Monday, August 31, 2009

A Little Latin Never Fails to Put Things In Perspective

Any time you think you might be trying to sabotage yourself, ask yourself this question:

Cui bono?

Antonyms and Cleopatronyms

The opposite of lionized ought to be lambasted.

And it is! Sort of.

I've Never Quit Smoking, and I'm Never Going to Quit.

I have a good rule when it comes to burning-vegetable inhalants: I never buy my own.

This makes addiction pretty much impossible, but it also pretty much rules out anything more exotic than an American Spirit.

Ah, but who am I kidding! As if to say I'd be all over the "weed" otherwise. I don't really go in for that stuff, honestly. Beer! Is my drug of choice. But oddly, not my beverage of choice. That would be water. Sweet and clean, packed with essential hydrogen and oxygen in that sweet covalent bond they share.

Oop. Wait. I do need to come clean! I said, "I never buy my own," but in actual fact I have twice, two (2) times, purchased a single pack of cigarettes for myself, in widely-separate incidents, during the course of my life. One (pack of Vantages, please) was for a long walk home one night. I was smoking as I walked; chain-smoking. I held that glowing coal in front of me like a beacon, or a crucifix. It was during the period in my life where I would do such things. I rationed it perfectly, the very last dying cig was stubbed out on my own sweet driveway.

The second pack (pack of American Spirits) I bought to keep handy for emergency purposes. It's in my kitchen drawer, unopened. I've had it for years. I wonder if they're still good and smokeable? Those American Spirits, half their whole deal is no preservatives, right? Hm.

Anyway, apart from those two packs, I really never do buy my own. I do fine on loaners. Bummed cigs, from friends and fiends in driveways, on porches, in front of pool halls.

I get my pack a year in.

Warning: SFW!

WARNING: this post is SFW. It contains no provocative content whatsoever.

Nothing to see here. Move along.

I Believe In Everything

I believe in everything, by definition. I define everything as "all of that which is." So of course I'd believe in it!

It is.

I don't concern myself with determining what does or doesn't exist. That's its problem. If it does, I believe in it. If it doesn't I don't! That's the sweet peremptory blessing that I lay down: "Hey, all of that which might or might not be, whether you exist or not, that's your problem. If you exist, then I thereby believe in you. If you don't, then sorry: too bad. I refuse to believe in what doesn't exist."

It's good to have an easy rule to go by.

Open Dream Journal #45: Scrambled Eggs Gone Just Plain Wrong

Last night I had an awful dream! I was back East, over at my bro's house. I was fixing breakfast for my older brother and a couple of his kids, making my special scrambled eggs. I was all ready to be proud, graciously accepting the well-deserved inevitable accolades, except the eggs turned out AWFUL! The consistency was like a really thin porridge. Nobody would eat that crap. I was mortified!

I said, "yo dude - I think there's something the matter with your eggs."

He looked down at the result, at the eggs, and then back up at me with a pained look, and he said really seriously: "That's USER ERROR."

Sunday, August 30, 2009

Sunday Theology Post: the Second Coming

I used to have a theory that when Jesus returns, it will be as a ninja.

Because, they always kept saying that (as far as the second coming goes?) he would come "like a thief in the night." They stressed that point many times. A thief in the night. But they also said, he would come with a sword, and vengeance.

So I thought - something doesn't line up here. Here's what I think might have happened:
Prophet A: "Hey, bud, come here check out this vision I'm having."

Prophet B: "Hey man, that's a wild vision. Is that the Lord?"

Prophet A: "Clearly, it is the Lord."

Prophet B: "So he's coming back?"

Prophet A: "He is! Joyous news - but I need a little help describing what's going on here, in this vision. I'm not sure how to describe that."

Prophet B: "Well. Ok. Sure. Let's watch."

They watch the whole vision.

Prophet A: "OK. So, let's start from the start. He's dressed all in black."

Prophet B: "I didn't even see him at first!"

Prophet A: "Me either! It was a shock and a surprise when I did see him."

Prophet B: "Caught me unprepared."

Prophet A: "Clearly his coming will be stealthy."

Prophet B: "Like a 'thief in the night'!"

Prophet A: "Well, no, not really, I mean - that's not exactly the word for it. I wish we had a word in our culture for what we just saw! He crept in through the window..."

Prophet B: "Like a thief in the night!"

Prophet A: "...with a sword and with vengeance, and then - and then - "

Prophet B: "To be honest, I couldn't really take it all in. What were those sharp pieces of metal he kept throwing around?"

Prophet A: "Exactly! And that swinging roped-clubs arrangement - so fast! And he fought...dancing."

Prophet B: "It was like dancing. I don't know. I think we need to leave all of that out. That's not going to translate for people. Just go with 'like a thief in the night'!"

Prophet A: "Ahhh, you and your thief in the night."

But in the end, that was what they went with. They didn't have a better word.

Saturday, August 29, 2009

Please Forgive Me: The Anthology Reviews

Please Forgive Me: The Anthology Reviews is a track-by-track in-depth analysis of Bryan Adams's legacy in 36 installments.

OK! Before we start off properly with the review of Bryan Adams Anthology Disc 1 track #1: "Remember," I simply must ask just what the hell is going on in the album's cover art:

BryanAdamsAnthology

Yes, it's Bryan Adams, and he is jumping in the air with a guitar. But what else is going on there? Is it supposed to look like there might be a sniper involved?

OK! Next up: "Remember."

Or I should say! First up: "Remember."

Hm.

I've got to level with you here, on something.

Honestly, of all the tracks to lead off with! This one's just drawing a complete blank for me. But I'm not going to skip it! This series of reviews will treat all 36 tracks in-depth!

I'm just going to have to give a listen to this one first. Refresh the memory.

NO MORE SEXY Pt.2

I meant, from me.

Just so we're clear.

NO MORE SEXY

From this point on until further notice, there is to be NO MORE SEXY TALK ON THIS BLOG.

Is that understood? NONE!

NO MORE SEX TALK, SEXY TALK, no. Nope. Uh-uh. Sorry.

The previous post crossed the line. It was far too sexy for my shirt, Milan, New York, Japan, your party, my car (ironically), my hat, my cat, my love and this song put together, and unfortunately, no way can that sort of sexy thing be allowed to keep on happening on and on and 'til the break of dawn and you don't stop, and you don't quit. Well, you do now.

NO MORE SEXY!

Period.

That wasn't sexy.

The Single Word I Use The Most Too Much

"just"

C'mon I can do better than that. Let's try that again. Take 2: Hey, Ladies - - !

I just rotated my tires. Oh yes. And let me tell you: it was HOT.

Did it right out in the open. Right under that hot sun. No shade. It's 104.1 degrees out there! So you better believe the equipment was red hot when I pulled it out, and needless to say, it was hard. I was working that iron around and around, jimmy-jacking up the chassis, getting those nuts off, it was like a precision routine that was completely spontaneous and extemporized the way I did it. I kept switching positions, first cranking away up front, then rolling back around to the rear, sliding my jack up and under and cranking away. I made that back end dance! Aw, yeah.

And by the time I pulled that thing out from under the backside, and slid it under up front to crank away again for the final stretch, you better believe things had gotten sweaty. By that point, it was like my mind had checked out of the brain and was possessed by my body. I was in the zone - moving, hands slipping, working that iron around. Grinning like a dog! I bet my tongue lolled out, but I don't even know. I lost all self-consciousness in that moment of sweet torque and torsion. But that's cool. Dignity goes out the window in those situations, and one becomes all natural. I certainly don't mind getting right down to it, hoisting, cranking, loosening up and then tightening down - right there out in public! For anyone to see who happened by. I don't care, I kind of get a charge off that. And you better believe that breeze felt goood.

I did a damn job on this one, let me tell you. SOLID. It was hard, and I was spent and winded by the finish but I did it strong, did it thorough and well.

I finished really quick, too!

From the moment I first really got the nuts loosened up, to that last languid spin as we return to the ground and the pressure settles back down, and I pulled that slack jack out from under and slid it back in its sleeve, it was only 37 minutes.

Well. For me, that's quick.

Hey, Ladies - - !

Yeah, guess what I just did?

Rotated my tires.

Yeah. That's right.

Pretty hot stuff, huh? That's some sleek, greased excitement fo' ya.

I don't do that a lot, to be honest. I kind of had to. You see, I was inspecting my tires and the right front one - there were some signs of uneven wear. All the others are fine, just that one, so I changed it out for my mint full-size spare, and then I rotated the other ones around so now the absolute two best treads are twinned in the lead left and right positions, the two rear tires have good strong tread, and the unevenly-worn previous front-right is now demoted to spare (until I have a chance to get it re-treaded).

See...this is why I don't do the blogging autobiographically.

High-Heeled Thought of the Day

Just judging by our shoes, any aliens visiting our planet for a routine species inspection would be forced to conclude that there has been a significant divergence in the morphology of the foot between the male and the female of homo sapiens!

Looking Back and Wondering

I think that eyes in the back of the head would actually be a disadvantage. Any sensory gain would be all but negated by the practical necessity of keeping those posterior oculars concealed, in order to avoid falling under the crippling stigma society at large levies upon freaks. Not only that, any survival benefit in a danger situation - assuming one saw it coming far enough away to whip the cover off! - would be offset by the weakened structural integrity of the skull, what with those two extra holes punched in it right where it needs to be most solid.

Admittedly, the convenient situation of the occipital lobe and primary visual cortex, towards the back of the brain and right there ready for some hindsight-style visual input, might provide some unforeseen benefit. But it seems doubtful that any such benefit would be greater than negligible - certainly it would not be significant enough to overcome the negatives.

Sun and Moon Data for One Day

U.S. Naval Observatory
Astronomical Applications Department

Sun and Moon Data for One Day

The following information is provided for Santa Cruz, Santa Cruz County, California (longitude W122.0, latitude N37.0):

Saturday
29 August 2009 Pacific Daylight Time

SUN
Begin civil twilight 6:10 a.m.
Sunrise 6:37 a.m.
Sun transit 1:09 p.m.
Sunset 7:40 p.m.
End civil twilight 8:07 p.m.

MOON
Moonrise 3:31 p.m. on preceding day
Moonset 12:55 a.m.
Moonrise 4:19 p.m.
Moon transit 9:03 p.m.
Moonset 1:50 a.m. on following day

Phase of the Moon on 29 August: waxing gibbous with 72% of the Moon's visible disk illuminated.

First quarter Moon on 27 August 2009 at 4:42 a.m. Pacific Daylight Time.

Retrieved from: Link

Friday, August 28, 2009

9am meeting #1

Become a Doctor By Following 1 Easy Rule: OBEY

RULE #!: OBEY

Obey this 1 rule and you too will become a Doctor. The one easy rule is this: go to medical school, take a combination of vinpocetine and pomegranate-acai supplements, watch this $79.99 exercise video every day, graduate, become accredited, go through your internship and then practice medicine.

It's that easy.

OBEY.

I Never Said It More Succinct #1: Feminism

A feminist is anyone who advocates for the political, social, and economic equality of women to men.

Any man who is not a feminist is a pusstard.

Catch-22 Revisited Pt.2

I found it!

It was in my carry-on bag. Which explains why I stopped reading it - I was mid-way through, and clipping along, when suddenly my vacation intervened! And I slept on the flight out, and on the flight back my mind was too full to read.

And while I was there, there was no question of reading a book. But I'm glad I found it, and I hereby rescind certain speculations in the previous post to the effect that it might have been the book's fault that I stopped. As it turns out: naw.

Cool, I'm only half-way through! Sweet.

Can't wait to see how it ends. I bet I remember the ending, like, twenty pages out!

That happens to me a lot, actually. Even for books I haven't read.

If Only My Place Were In The Kitchen!

Sometimes I kind of wish I lived in a restaurant, so that there would always, always be fresh vegetables on hand. I would never have to go buying them, and monitoring them and planning out my menu according to what I needed to use up, and they would always be plentiful, fresh and delicious. Because the crack team of kitchen wizards that kept the tables turning in the busy restaurant where I live would just churn through so much delicious fresh produce in the course of the preparations of all those meals, it would never become a question of "oh, we better use up the rest of that onion pretty soon."

I'd just saunter in yawning in the morning and start puttering around back behind the grill, cutting stuff up, fixing myself something indeterminate. Just putting it all together as I go. Man, I always wanted a big restaurant-style grill! Oh, the luxury of that. And people would be like "'scuze," "whoops - hey, can you...?" or "hey man I can make you whatever you want, you want to just tell me what to make and wait over there?" And I'd be like, "thanks, I'm good! I'm just deciding what I want as I cook it." "C'mon man - it's the breakfast rush." "Too bad pal, I live here! What's your excuse?"

I'm not sure under this scenario, what my whole detailed situation might be. I know I don't own the place. I don't work there, either, in a managerial capacity or otherwise. I just live there for some reason, and so the staff pretty much recognizes and respects the "man's home is his castle" exemption. But I'm not sure exactly why it is that I live there.

Oh yeah! DUH. It was for the vegetables.

Thursday, August 27, 2009

Catch-22 Revisited

So suddenly I realized, "Where is my copy of Catch-22?"

Catch-22 is one of those books I've read, that I know I've read, and I further know that as I read it I enjoyed it; I thought it was a damn good job of writing a book on Heller's part. It's pretty well-revered as a classic. A good solid book, a bulwark in the modern (possibly even, modernist) canon of literature that matters, or ought to matter. I liked it a lot when I read it; I read it in school. It was assigned reading, and therefore, quite an accomplishment on its part, for it to have been enjoyed. A capfeather of sorts. But I could not remember how it ended.

So when I saw it in a bookstore and it caught my eye, I thought: this is a book I should own anyway. And I can read it again, and remember how it ends. How many wins does this situation need? So I plunked down my money right there and then and I bought that book. I bought the FUCK out of it. I took it with me, slipped into a dry white crinkly paper sack with a bookmark from the book shop slip-sliced nice into the thickest part of its center pages.

And I took it home, slid it out of the bag, and began reading it.

And it was doing a good job there, at the git-go! You gotta love Yossarian, even if - what the hell, dude? Some of that stuff! He does seem to make certain things a bit harder on himself than they needed to be, albeit, he cuts so straight to the quick of it in other respects that it's probably a wash. Besides, what if you had his job? Yeah, I thought so!

And the plot as it unspools is so bleakly hilarious, the characters so sharp, each so well-introduced and sparely delineated with spareness to spare, the dialogue is just so damn deathly mordant that the tragic side keeps rising like a tide threatening to swamp that jaunty little boat of black humor, but that boat just keeps on bobbing higher like a rubber duck made out of pure spite, 'til you can't help but feel depressed as hell over the cumulative effect of man's inhumanity to man amongst other sundry themes.

And I'm pretty much clipping along. Pick it up, put it down an hour later as life intrudes, pick it back up again next chance. I am actively reading it.

Then suddenly it's two months later and I can't remember where I left off! Or where I even left the book, last. What the hell? What kind of a letdown is that? That's a pretty disappointing performance, on the part of a big-name classic in the canon of ostensibly thrilling war stories. Right? And I have literally no idea where it is. I can't find it. And I have literally no idea where I left off! I didn't finish it, did I? That could explain why I stopped reading it. But I swore I didn't finish it.

And now I still don't know the end.

Talk about Catch-22!

Top H Albums I Least Expected!

These are the albums that for me, basically came out of nowhere, un- or insufficiently-heralded, and became top albums for me. Love these. Didn't really expect to. Got some of 'em on larks, had others inflicted.

GREAT stuff:

H. Rubber Factory - Black Keys
H. Comfort Eagle - CAKE
H. Bleed American - Jimmy Eat World
H. Roll On - The Living End
H. Myths of the Near Future - Klaxons
H. Songs from the Sparkle Lounge - Def Leppard
H. The Jarvis Cocker Record - Jarvis Cocker
H. Some People Have Real Problems - Sia Furler

I can't really rank these within. It's an H-way tie for Hth place!

Hm. I notice...all of these are pretty much Rock. I don't know if that means I have a low expectation for Rock or what? But these all excel, expectation or not.

Aw no you didn't question that. Sia Furler's album, that album there, is ROCK. It may indeed be a slow cookin' soul groove over most of it, but that funk sister rocks my whole tugboat in a cocksure style that I can only say rolls me, rockwise. Therefore: what the f else can one call it? Rock. It is at least Rock.

At the VERY least.

A few specific caveats: The Living End, maybe check a YouTube vid or two first (hey here's one!), see if you like the guy's voice. I do. It's kind of a Johnny Rottenish take on Bret Michaels. Def Leppard - obviously, I shouldn't even have to say this. But okay: if you don't like Def Leppard, then there's no waaaaaaay you're going to like thiiiiiiiis.

A few general caveats: there are several albums, new-to-me, that are in the process of blowing away ALL expectation, as I sink ever deeper into their respective grooves. Time will only grudgingly tell, whether they'll soon crack through to Top-H status.

Another good point: the malleability of expectations within the scope of a given artist over time, for example: Further Complications is better than The Jarvis Cocker Record. I consider that all but inarguable at this point. But it won't be on THIS list! Because Jarvis done shot his expectation sky-high for the followup.

And then, he nailed it. Kudos of an increasingly rare sort there, Jarv.

More Actual Comments from Actual You-Tube Videos!

"I still get a woody when i see the 'babe' in this video, my god she was stunning. Great song, damn good group, and what a babe!! She alone could solve the middle east issue! God Bless her!"

"Ace video. I like it because she looks in a shop window. That is something with which I can very well identify having once done that myself. Good work"

"Mine was a reasoned response. Your comment was just diarrhea flowing like water from your typing."

"fuck you. youre just a little pussy whos got no game. and you cant compete with other guys. this songs tight."

"lol :) idk y im a sicko i love acdc theyre badass but there aint mothin wrong with standin up 4 what u believe"

"I think that you're amking a mistake about Truman. He was right when desegregated the Army, but wrong about the atom bomb on Japan. He already know,and very well, that Japan was defeated many months before drop the bombs. There was no need to do that and he knew it. About MacArthur another mistake: with him leading the american troops, if USA had won that war there were no Vietnam War surely. Truman did make a huge mistake."
(this was on a video for "I Can Dream About You" from St. Elmo's Fire)

"batman is a poor choice of screen name for you. Batman would not do that. jerk. I hate you"

"Wow this video is made of fail. You define douche bag"

Fucking Women? Yeah, I Guess

You know what? I'm just not that interested in fucking women. I mean in general. I am very much so specifically! But in general? It's just not that big a priority to me - in comparison with all the baggage that most women put on it? Like it's a big deal? Flesh prong D into Flesh pocket C, big whoop. Most aliens, I think, would be a little fucking puzzled over the baggage we attach to a routine fluid transfer and protein-coded information exchange.

You know what I am interested in, though? Love. Big ol' sloppy romantic love. Yeah, there's some sex involved there, in fact, a whole lot of it if you're not being unconscionably derelict - but that's only natural. Believe it or not, a nigh-unconquerable amount of zing zoom is natural, between two people. Chemistry is very heavily selected for, natural-selectionwise. So in the scheme of life and love, it's a cheat and a betrayal to be with and commit to someone with whom you've got no chemistry. Sex is and can be righteous, and rule! And a gift like that, an amazing gift like that from big ol' What'sHisName upstairs? To forsake that from out of your love equation, it's like getting spit on, basically. You are (or should be) the greatest gift of all time, that you give to your mate. And to just leave that whole part out and say it's okay? Well shit.

You just got spit on.

By yourself. I'm sure it's fine for you, I guess. But fucking selfish to drag someone else down with you, when you know your priorities are that lax. If you are not lovers, then it is not love.

So yeah. In the context of its proper role, it's super-important and indeed, indispensable! Let no supposed couple dispense with it except at their mutually agreed-upon up front woe. It is an indefeasible part of the bargain: to be one flesh. That's what it means to mate.

So sure: sex is important - again, as I said, in its proper role. But to just go around fucking women?

I'll pass. I'm not that kind of girl.*

My Headache Is Terrific!

I've got such a terrific headache. Really!

It never lets me down. It's always there, whether I need it or not! Dependable and everlasting.

I think sometimes, I may be a little guilty of taking it for granted.

But you know what? I think it knows how I feel.

If I Ever Need to Show Up Anywhere In Drag, You Know, for a Themed Party or Similar Reason,


I just found the perfect Little Black Dress.

"Another pleasant day in the countryside..."


"get fooled by the lightning every time
see the afterimage of my outline
and you turn the wrong way round
but don't stop now"


- "Don't Stop Now" (the lead single from their previous album, Sank Without Trace, I mean, Time On Earth)

Apparently!!! They are done the principle recording for the new album. Now mixing, polishing up, winnowing down. Soon we'll know if my favorite song of theirs makes the cut for their sixth (or is it seventh, depending on whether Afterglow counted?) seventh album!

Projected to hit in January of oh-10.

Don't Stop Now.

Damn yes, Afterglow counted.

Probably Not a Good Idea to Update Your Resume While You're Furious

"I'm an excellent multi-tasker, which means that people constantly come to me to do their work for them."

"I believe in stepping up and being accountable, especially since these backstabbing bastards always blame me for everything anyway."

"My track record of producing outstanding results with minimum resources is attested by my years of outstanding production at a bullshit wage."

"I've made the effort to familiarize myself with the systems interface in five major departments of the company, so naturally any shit job that comes down the pike that everybody else pretends they don't know how to do, guess who gets handed it."

"I get along great with co-workers, especially that bitch Tina who reported me to HR as being possibly sexually harassive because I'd softly, absentmindedly, sung along to a couple borderline suggestive lines in an INXS song that was playing on HER RADIO."

"I am unfailingly diligent in implementing the dictates of my superiors, in fact, if they bend over I'll be happy to show them where they can stick their dictates."

"My attendance is exemplary. I'm there every soul sucking mother fucking god damn day."

Wednesday, August 26, 2009

INGROWN TOENAIL!!!!!

Not yet! Not quite! I'm just being careful. Vigilant.

It's just...encroaching a little, maybe. It's getting all up in the pointy corner of that nail's face, a bit.

Watch it there, toe. That's a confrontation you don't want to force.

Hey Hi Ho There Out In Blog-Land! Why Do You Do It?

Hi, everybody! I just wanted to welcome everybody who might stop by and read, and to say feel free to comment on whatever floats your boat, new posts or old. Everybody's welcome. Make yourselves comfortable, as les francais might say. Or, perhaps, dit.

But I have to level with any and all, as well: pull up a chair and spread your ears, because I've got a confession. I honestly don't do this for you. The reader. It's more for me.

Is that alright? Is that considered acceptable?

I don't mean it to be off-putting. If that makes me selfish, well plunk my magic twanger and call me froggy, I guess! It's just who I am: I write for myself. Who else is there to write for? Write for yourself, says I - if other people like it, that's their problem! I've been writing hundreds of songs for dozens of years and they're all pretty much for me, too (with a few groovy exceptions). Anything I write tends to be for myself, and not really for an audience.

In fact, I think that might come across. In fact, I think it ought to be probably pretty obvious. I mean. Look at some of these posts. Who the hell else would appreciate some of this crap? But just in case, I thought I'd better level with you (the indefinite you): yeah, it's more for me.

This is a fun outlet! It's good writing practice. It's a nice way to let off a little creative steam, to twist a few characterizations into corkscrews, to waft some skewed views across the horizon on a crooked breeze, to put some notes out there in post-bottles on the electric tide for whoever to find - whoever, or no one. It's not that anyone would find one and find me. The notes all basically say random jive stuff anyhow! I don't even bother describing the island.

I've met some pretty cool people online, which has been a wonderful surprise and no mistake! But for the most part, my friends - practically nobody I know reads my blog. Again, there are a few groovy exceptions, but for the most part, my friends don't go in for this sort of thing. My friends who live near me get the real thing (me). They're not interested in this. My friends and family who live far away, some of them do check in on the ol' blog from time to time - and rib me when they see me, on some of the more ridiculous entries! At least, since they found out about it (I sure didn't tell them. Kind of a funny story how it got sniffed out actually, well perhaps not funny, perhaps more "you had to be there").

But yeah. That's kind of me, being up front about the ulterior purpose of my blog. It's for me, mostly.

But you're all welcome to it! I sincerely do mean that. It's there for that, even if that's not why it's there.

Yeah. Anyway. I kind of enjoy blogging. It's pretty cool. And some other people have some pretty cool blogs, too! With a lot more focused and invested approach then I have. It took me a long time to start checking out what's out there, but I've gotten into it a bit over the past 12, 18 months or so. Still, barely a toe-tip dip into the vast deeps of what is.

So. How about you folks? Anybody enjoy blogging? Why do other people blog? Is it the enjoyment? Or some other reason.

There seems to be a lot of angst about pumping up one's readership. Somebody needs to explain that one to me some time.

Talkin' Sweet #6: Some Serious S.

I just realized why I trust you so much. It's because I would forgive you for anything.

I make a big noise about how it would crush me to be cheated upon and yeah, of course it would. What a sore point! Of course it would. It's the one thing I don't think I could ever forgive anyone, except...well, that's what I always said about it. But for you. For you I would. I would have to.

And admitting that, suddenly I realize how silly and unserious my fears really are! Because, you would never do that to me. Only when I realize I'd forgive you if you did, did I suddenly let go of the worry. That's as dumb as hell, inasmuch as it'd never have happened either way! But I'm dumb as hell, I guess. I can laugh at it now.

You're honest, but lots of people are honest. I'm honest. A dog is honest. Probably.

You're beautiful, too. Oh my Lord, your beauty. There is no more spectacular view than you. Best angle: less than a yard apart, going in for a kiss. Well. Maybe, that's the second-best angle.

You are beautiful. But your beauty, even together with your essential goodness of character, cannot be the whole story. How were you born so good for me? How do you take pieces of me that never fit together before, and suddenly with you in my life, everything fits?

I don't believe in guardian angels incarnate in flesh, who took pity on a dude before he was born and made a pact with the heavenly powers to forsake their haloes and come down to walk beside me, love me and carry us both through together. I don't believe in that, or I'd possibly accuse you of it. But still.

Why did I never realize how thoroughly certain parts of my life did not work? Until you. I'm either unobservant on a scale I'd never have previously believed, or...maybe it's just that you brought the revelation in with you. Maybe there were things in my life that could never have worked without you, and so there was no way I'd be able to see how they could work, without you. My eyes had not yet been opened.

It all works.

Open Dream Journal #0: Fly, Fly, Fly, Super Bird

When I was a kid, in dreams I could fly whenever I wanted to, or whenever it occurred to me that I was dreaming). I could fly beautifully and effortlessly.

Then came the Greatest American Hero. And don't get me wrong, I love that show. But after I started watching that, suddenly I couldn't fly for shit!

More Cool Things to Do

More Cool Things to do:

1. Write a novel. It's okay if it's a short one.

2. Write five songs. Not one song. Five. There's a good reason, but it's hard to explain.

3. Lace up your mintest high-top tennies, go down to the nearest friendly neighborhood asphalt b-ball court, talk a WHOLE lot of trash and then spend the entire day getting all sweaty, thumping bodies, driving to the hoop, swishing that sweet 'J', draining 3-pointers and dunking right in people's FACE. Or alternately, do as I do: spend the entire day getting demolished by superior players, yet maintaining a fiercely competitive demeanor and laughing a lot. It's true that I me personally don't laugh. But laughing can help one deal, sometimes.

4. Take down your fattest "general-purpose" cookbook from the shelf and do the blind-open it to a random page, put-your-finger-down-without-looking trick. Then make it. Whatever it is, go get the ingredients and make that recipe. Don't do it as a goof, give it your sincere best attempt to master that dish in one shot!

5. Write a sincere, heartfelt 2-page letter to the government, telling it all the things you wish you had said to it but never got around to. IMPORTANT: do not mail it. That's not what these sorts of exercises are for.

Anyway. There's a bunch more where that came from I'm sure (wherever that was)! But those should do ya for a start. I'm sure you can come up with even better ones along similar lines!

I'm going to go sit around watching tv for a few hours myself.

Commenting For This Post Is Disabled

This post has basically been shut down and the original text moved here.

Apologies for the inconvenience. Couldn't be helped. Stalker took over the whole comment thread, nothing to do with the post topic!

Tuesday, August 25, 2009

Argumentative, Problematic, Unthinkable Thought of the Day

People say I'm too argumentative. That I keep trying to convince the other person, long after it should have become clear that it's not going to happen. They're right. You know what my problem is?

I believe way too much in the power of truth and reason to persuade.

Problematic, Unthinkable Thought of the Day

You know what my problem is?

I believe way too much in the power of truth and reason to persuade.

Dearest McDonalds Corporation,

Hello there dear readers! Some of you can't have helped but notice the many references to McDonald's, the McDonald's Corporation, and McDonald's products on this fine blog - extolatory, for the most part.

Extolatory is not a word.

Others of you may have suspected from the overly, arguably excessively laudatory tone that the whole thing was a bit of a put-on. Well hopefully, this post will lay some of the confusion to rest on both sides.

Dear McDonald's Corporation:

I have some free advice from me to you. Take it for free. It's my advice, from someone who knows what the opinion of a loyal McDonald's customer is worth. My McDonald's consumption is double-digits up, compared to previous year same quarter (in pounds, adjusted for inflation). I eat at your restaurant as frequently as five times per annum, and that's not even counting breakfast! Practically every time I have to work on a Saturday or Sunday, I'm showing up that morning with a bag stuffed chock with hot McMuffin, or McGriddle, or McBiscuit or some similar such. Plus of course: the HashPuck McCrisp! My McBrek is the trick (and the treat!) that makes weekend work bearable.

So take it from me, McDonald's Corporation. Because I know where you're coming from. I am acquainted with the fearsome capabilities of your Product Development Division. I have had the Arch Deluxe. I've corralled the wild McRib. I've rustled up that big, beefy slab known only as the McAngus. I have thrilled to the McDLT, tried to tame the Big McNasty, and I do believe that along the way I have sampled every other premium specialty sandwich you've ever rolled on out down the ol' product pipeline. But there's one specialty sandwich that you haven't tried!

The McMelty.

You have to create a premium menu item to be called The McMelty. I swear, I would eat the hell out of that all the time. I don't even care what it's made out of! If you wanted a non-binding suggestion, I'd say go with the meltiness of hot cheese, rather than that of warm ice cream, but that's an entirely non-binding suggestion. From me, there are no restrictions on this gift I give you, of free strategic marketing advice. You have a free hand and my full blessing to make full use of it to the extent the law allows!

With Most Businesslike Love,

We Here At Consider Your Ass Kicked!

Hm. I like that. I think from now on I'll start a general policy of giving people my blessing to do various things "to the extent the law allows." Not willy-nilly or anything. I'm talking case-by-case basis.

Man, I'd love a McMelty right now. They could even just jump the gun on the whole thing, foregone legacy-wise, and call it The McMelty Classic. As far as I'm concerned, they could definitely do that.

But it's up to them.

Unthinkable Thought of the Day

I believe way too much in the power of truth and reason to persuade.

Score One For You!

You should be able to carry some kind of little portable miniaturized sound system so that when you enter a room unexpectedly you could play that Psycho shower music: RE!!-RE!!-RE!! Or depending on your mood, different buttons could produce different musical cues. You could sweep into a room to the romantic strains of something from Dr. Zhivago and leave the room to Gone With The Wind.

I'm not saying we don't have the technology, or that somebody needs to invent something. We definitely already have the technology. A tiny cell-phone can play a slammin' tune at quite a loud volume with amazing fidelity. Maybe they have cell phones that can be programmed to broadcast a selection of apropos snippets, each at the touch of its button...?

Every life should have a score. And a laugh-track.

Open Dream Journal #21: The Charge Of Boughy

In the time between one hit of the snooze button and the next, your dream-mind is prepared to accept just about anything as prefectly normal and plausible.

I was just in a dream reading an article in (I guess) Sports Illustrated, a small piece on Steve Young, a retrospective, looking back, where the writer dredges up a piece of Steve's ancient past and gets some enlightening feedback from Mr. Young. Apparently, during the early part of Steve's NFL career, he was briefly given the nickname "Boughy" by the sportswriting community. I have no idea how this nickname was supposed to be pronounced, since I was only reading it. Steve's version of events was that the name came about after the first game he played against the Washington Redskins, and that he guessed they gave him that name "to access my joy of charging."

At the time, to me, in the dream, it seemed quite reasonable that there either already was such a word as "Boughy," or that if someone coined such a word, it would adequately convey (or access) "joy of charging."

Generally when you wake up from a dream like that, the most disturbing thing is how plausible it all seemed to you. Our vast government conspirators (and those guys are vast, don't kid yourself) really need to drop whatever else they're doing and isolate the chemical secreted during sleep that so utterly suppresses the "What the fuck!?" reflex. If they can do that, and get it into the food supply somehow, we'll accept anything.

But upon reflection, what's most disturbing to me is that I have now dreamed about Steve Young, but to my recollection I have never yet dreamed of Troy Aikman.

I feel so disloyal.

Monday, August 24, 2009

Where I Stand On Food Pt.2

Hey, that post title makes me think of how I always wanted to do that foot-squishy grape dance!

And at some point...I will.

Where I Stand On Food

I won't buy anything unless the grocery store clerk is willing to assure me that it is substance-free.

Yeah, sometimes I hold up the checkout line a bit. One time they called the manager!

She ended up respecting my principled stance.

A Most Ambitious Sandwich

I have a new quest.

I wish to design and construct the most ambitious sandwich ever conceived by a man: me. On a foot-long, wide, floppy roll of oven fresh crusty italian bread - NOT sourdough! NOT french! Start with that. It all starts with the bread. And what fillings, what toppings, what condiments, you ask? Ah! That is where the tale to tell comes in! For from one end to the other of this marvel, from one bite to the next, the tastes and combinations would segue smoothly all the way down this epic masterpiece of sandwitchery, through so many different permutations of ingredients and combinations of tastes that the very idea that all could work together in one sandwich would be mind-boggling!

Yet the execution would be such that it work.

The sandwich itself would keep changing with every bite. And while from one part to the other of the sandwich, the tastes might clash revoltingly if you skipped around biting here and there! - but as long as you ate it straight down the line from one end to the other, neighboring bites would be blend alarmingly harmoniously into each other in a kaleidoscopic cornucopia of dizzyingly gustatory noun to be determined later.

I'm not channeling so much of my inspiration into my writing right now. Nor my songwriting, right now. My painting, too, will have to wait. I have a higher task in mind for my creative juice. I'm funneling it all into this sandwich.

Oh, my lordy-yum.

My Sweet Trick

Would you like me to share my trick? Here's my trick. This is how I GET AWAY WITH EVERYTHING! This is how I always frustrate people who want to cut me down or expose me for what I really am. It's such a sweet trick, and so easy.

I'll share it with you! Here it is:

Are you ready? Prepare yourself for one sweet little trick that you'll want to keep handy!

Here it is:

#1. When someone questions me on something, I tell the fucking truth.

Last thing they'd expect! And impossible to pick holes in! It's my unbeatable trick!

The only problem is, it does make me look a little suspicious to people for whom "having an answer for everything" looks suspicious. Because I tell you, when you answer everything truthfully, you always have an answer for everything. Even if occasionally the answer is:

"...wow...I have no idea what the fuck you're talking about."

And of course, occasionally the answer is:

"...wow...that is really none of your fucking business."

But those are some good, strong answers, when true.

SORRY, DAD

My dad had a saying, a bit of a stock response of his. He used to run it out whenever one of us kids said "sorry" for something. Dad would fix us with that particular meaningful look and say: "SORRY IS A SORRY WORD."

I took that to heart. Eventually, I would simply say "I apologize" instead of "I'm sorry." He didn't have such a glib response ready for that one!

Of course, it doesn't quite mean the same thing, either.

And now I think I realize what Dad might have meant. Because "sorry" doesn't mean a damn thing, except that you feel bad. Well whoop de do. You feel bad about something! How big of you, to feel bad about something.

An apology, on the other hand, is an admission of culpability as well as regret. It's an admission of having done wrong. An apology takes guts.

And Dad, if the meaning I've retrospectively put to that pithy little quip of yours doesn't fit well with what you were trying to get across, then what can I say.

I apologize.

Open Dream Journal #30: Dawn of the Night Gourmet!

I dreamt that it was morning after a night of rain, and that (as usual after a night of rain) the sidewalk was liberally dotted with crushed snails, trod-upon by the unwary the night before. Only this time, some person had taken the trouble to garnish each crushed snail with a little chopped olive and green onion.

Très bizarre.

Sunday, August 23, 2009

Wait a Minute - What the Heck's a "Chicano"?

"Chicano"? Why are people using that again? I thought that was '70s. Does it mean something different now? I thought the current word was "Latino."

Isn't it a rule that as soon as there's a switch to a new word, the previous word becomes racist? I thought that was the rule.

Mida, muchachos! You got to get with the program, here. You can't keep all these different terms in good standing! Not at the same time, anyhow. You've got to keep switching them out: "That one is good - no wait, now that one's BAD, this one is good! - no, that one is bad too now, this new one is the only one you can use." That's the proven strategy. That's what works to keep whitey and/or gringo hoppin', on his toes, ever-eager to humor you on the semantics.

Which, really, when you get right down to it...what could possibly matter more, when it comes to redressing race- or ethnicity-based societal inequities?

I suppose instead of throwing the question out there into the internet, I could just look it up on the internet. I'm sure I'd get myself a reasonably satisfactory answer. But then, there would probably be no point to me posting this if I did that. And I bet a lot of people might ask the same question!

So I gotta ask. I won't be silenced.

Brett Favre: Attention Whore Or Drama Queen?

I'd call him more a drama whore and an ego queen. But yeah, "attention" has to be in there someplace, too. Attention slut?

Note my subversively feminist tactic of repurposing traditionally female-skewing pejoratives to be used against that bastion of sacrosanct male privilege: the highly-paid, professional superstar NFL athlete!

It's hard to beat me when it comes to inventive, cutting-edge feminism.

I'm a Terrible Murdrah!

I'm a terrible murdrah! And anyone of you bobbies or chief inspectors trying to make a name for you, yourself, to track down the well-laid tracks of the would-be infamous perpetratah whose left clues strewn all over scenes not technically crimes due to the missed or messed-up commission of whatever acts I may have had planned, may've intended but maybe I stopped by at the wrong times, so that it was inconvenient, and, well, if that's what you're trying to do if that's who you're trying to sniff out or track down then, look no further than this suspicious person right here! I'm a terrible murdrah!

That was an if / then statement, if this, then that - and it just follows that my spree of nearly horrible crimes cannot be stopped, not yet, not now, before it's truly well begun and while the evidence falls far short of the standard for conviction. And my convictions won't let me stop, until I've given them all something to catch me with, but at the same time I'd far better rather, it'd be far better for the families of the victims and for the victims as well if they could somehow all step in and put two and two together before I get any better, and let's hope they do because I'd hate to see that happen. I'm a terrible murdrah!

You might not even know it to see it, to see me, to witness the rather competent ways in which I appear to go about my daily routine business as if no big deal, as if I got all this all wrapped up in the style of life and all nothing out of the ordinary, and yea-ah, the general impression you get there is quite right-on as far as it goes, I'm indeed quite well-capable of life, and the dealing with of it in general, but that's where the dealing of death comes in, though...! You'd never know of it or even think of it, but so I have to admit: I'm a terrible murdrah.

Somebody stop me please. Somebody stop me. No, I mean it. I suck at this. I can't murdah for shit. I'm a terrible murdrah.

Sin. What Is It? A Sunday Theology Post.

Sin is a deliberate choice against God. That's all it is. Sin is a choice to make something - anything - mean more than God, and to choose that thing. A deliberate choice to put something between you and God. That something can be anything.

And according to many leading theologians, God for some reason gives a shit!

But that's their problem. I mean, seriously.

Possibilities Are Endless, Indeterminate

When you know something is true, seek all the more boldly for the proof that it is not.

Saturday, August 22, 2009

Commenting For This Post Is Disabled

This post has basically been shut down and the original text moved here

Apologies for the inconvenience. Couldn't be helped. Stalker took over the whole comment thread, nothing to do with the post topic!

EDIT: taken from the comments, here's a recap of the respective complaints:
... here's the tally, for those scoring at home:

She blatantly admits to doing/has done right here in this comments queue:
* Threatening me with posting private information and embarrassing photos of me which she claims she paid for with her luxurious surplus of funds
* claiming that her relations are in the process of using my data and e-mails as the basis for a thesis on abnormal psychology
* monitoring every post on my blog and obsessively ferreting out whatever coincidences she can find between her blog and mine
* scouring the blogs of any commenter of mine in order to find any other "damning" instances of "mirrored" posts
* repeatedly throwing out half-understood aspects of my private life with accusations of lie or inconsistency, in a really rather transparent attempt to get me to divulge further personal details to her while "clarifying" the ostensible inconsistency
* vividly remarking on her repulsive fascination with me
* accused me of lining up other commenters to "fuck over" (presumably via my usual vicious method of alluding to their blog posts)
She has also done, privately:
* sent me many, many unwanted messages of love, unswerving commitment to "our future", and some blatantly sexual material

All of this while I have been for the past several months begging her to stop contacting me entirely.

MEANWHILE, according to Her, here is what Joe's done. Her entire accusation against me now boils down to:
* Joe has allegedly read Her blog
* Joe has allegedly posted on his blog, posts that were very tenuously, very tangentially "inspired by" posts on Her blog.

That's it. That's what Joe has been doing. And it's not as if She has ever told Joe to keep away from her blog. She has made it clear she'd LOVE Joe to read her blog. That's what this is all about: She needs to PROVE Joe is and has been all along, incredibly interested in her and her blog.

And meanwhile Joe's not interested. Joe is not reading Her blog. Joe just wants Her to go away and stay the hell away. Joe continually tells her so.

So. That's why She says Joe is obsessed with Her.

Which of these two persons is the stalker? Let's just let the facts kind of sit there.

Hm.

I'm not sure. It seems pretty close.

Sh! Confessions: This is a Little Embarrassing...

For years, I have been thinking that Ayn Rand and Anais Nin were the same person. I guess any time I heard or read something about the one or the other, I just filed that information in that box: "my, what an interesting woman she was." But I was putting it all in the same box!

It isn't as if the names are so similar. What possible excuse can I have had? I don't know how I was able to reconcile the apparent differences. I guess I just thought she was a more-than-ordinarily complex person. Which is true! She was. She was an emotional being, she had this very striking confessional side, which could also be very erotic. But her more emotional side was tempered by an intellectualism that - while ruled by rationality - was deeply engaged, rather than cooly disinterested.

I'm kind of sad to have to separate all that out, now. She was such a fascinating figure! In literature, in the world of the arts, and in political, intellectual and philosophical circles. She was kind of influential to me personally, in an admittedly vague way (I guess I have to say that now). And I can't help but feel that this revelation makes her just that much less complex. I can't help but feel that she is somehow, diminished.

This does make it a bit more understandable how she was able to put up with Henry Miller, though. I never could figure that one out.

Friday, August 21, 2009

STICK THIS! #21

Stick21

STICK THIS! #20

Stick20

STICK THIS! #19

Stick19

STICK THIS! #18

Stick18

STICK THIS! #17

Stick17

STICK THIS! #16

Stick16

STICK THIS! #15

Stick15

STICK THIS! #14

Stick14

STICK THIS! #13

Stick13
That third panel should really have them both still there. For a beat, while the implication sinks.

Too late to fix it now.

STICK THIS! #12

Stick12

STICK THIS! #11

Stick11

STICK THIS! #10

Stick10

STICK THIS! #9

Stick9
He should have said, "Amen, brother." But I can't go back and change it now.

STICK THIS! #8

Stick8

STICK THIS! #7

Stick7

STICK THIS! #6

Stick6
Experimenting with form here, it seems.

STICK THIS! #5

Stick5
It's a hard call to make, but I think this one is the worst.

STICK THIS! #4

Stick4

STICK THIS! #3

Stick3

STICK THIS! #2

Stick2

STICK THIS! #1

Stick1

Consider Your Ass Kicked 2: Legacy Pt.1: My Webcomic Pt.3

Okay, this is real stupid. I have to get them in by photographic means. Then I have to crop them up into individual installments. The hand-drawn originals are three to a page. I've got to turn 7 pages into 21 of these individual files to post!

This might take a while. And since I didn't bother to put the "title" of the strip on there, I'm going to have to figure that out, too.

The title of the strip is "Stick This!" 21 installments, as I've said. I guess I thought I might come back to it again someday, but work was never again as quite as slow as that fateful night when inspiration struck, and now the trail's gone cold. There's some controversy in there, some satire. Maybe a little of that might seem a bit dated, now, some references to then-current issues. But I think it holds up pretty strong. A strong "Calvin & Hobbes" influence, to be sure. I may betray a bit of a pro-issues bias. Ah, the fiery crusader I used to be!

This might take a while for me to get them all loaded in and divvyed up right. Maybe instead of all at once I'll do an "update schedule" like some other webcomicteurs do. As much as I abhor such regimented methods.

Hm.

Consider Your Ass Kicked 2: Legacy Pt.1: My Webcomic Pt.2

Okay, how am I supposed to get these into the computer?

Consider Your Ass Kicked 2: Legacy Pt.1: My Webcomic

Now that I've finished a blog, I will have time to devote over to some of my other more creative endeavors, for instance. My Webcomic.

A couple of things about My Webcomic. My Webcomic is almost 20 years old now, which might lead the observant to observe that it pretty much predates the web and webcomics. Making it in effect, the very first webcomic. But I demur in the face of all such well-meant laurels. These little humble cartoons of mine are my babies, and I'm proud of them, but the fact has to be recognized: they have been keeping quiet for a while, and in the intervening time, other practitioners of the form have stepped forward to well and truly secure pride of place in the whole chronology of the annals of things, while my own Webcomic, through fault of mine and not its own, languished and passed up its chance at its rightful place. All that is well and good, and I don't dispute it. I'm not going to come in at this late date and try to reorder people's historical perceptions. I forego that.

But by the exact same token, some other creators may have even beaten me to the punch vis-a-vis a few of its tactics and aspects. And that, I do not forego. But what the hell anyhow. I'm putting it up. I'm just putting all this context in front of it, by way of preamble. I don't need anybody out there drawing comparisons about this or that haute or defunct web comic that utilizes or utilized a similar aesthetic or device. They "got there first." I'm not disputing or disparaging that. "They win."

But once I've finished putting these up, well we'll ALL see who got there best.

Finishing A Blog.

A lot of people start a blog. But how many people FINISH a blog? Ofttimes you'll see one just trail off, sure. But what about a proper, satisfactory conclusion? What about a sense of closure?

Well, here you go, folks! Once again it falls to me to set the tone where others fail to so much as even see the need.

I declare this blog: FINISHED.

Up next: Consider Your Ass Kicked! 2: Legacy.

A Shift In The Wind...

It's so hot out today, and the air is just about thick with smoke. I bet if I'd left my window open this morning, the smoke alarm would be going off inside the house. The air smells.

The wind must have shifted since yesterday. That fire has been burning a week, and it's still only 50% contained. But the air was clear, before - they had all the smoke in Davenport, leagues north of here in a wide arc around the circumference of ash-blackened inferno that used to be some of the coolest woods around. But the wind has shifted since yesterday, and now I live downwind of the fire. I guess that means it's coming for ME next.

I should mention at this point that I'm in no real peril, or I shouldn't be. The 50% contain is pretty much blocking its path back this way.

A wind blows across and around and over me. The smoke of it sticks, settling in my hair and clothes. The haze that fills this wooded valley is so uniform that it seems to hang motionless against the hills, despite the hot, steady wind that carries with it the acrid stink of approaching catastrophe. The stink of scorched earth, torched lives and blackened dreams. The stink of HOT DEATH.

FIRE! EVERYONE! FIRE! RUN FOR YOUR LIVES!!!

Now would be a good time to catch a movie in a crowded theater.

Robot Hell Winery

Actually, it was Robert Hall. Another misread hand-lettered wine sign at my local supplier.

I tell you, I was already screeching to a halt on my way to the register, though! I was about to double back and over an aisle to pick that UP. Had that actually been what it was, they had a customer PRE-SOLD.

Dang it, I really wanted to see that label.

Thursday, August 20, 2009

Thought of the Day: Graphic Lyrics

I was typing "M.C. Escher" and suddenly wished he was a rapper. MC Escher. I bet his rhymes would be elliptical and befuddling.

Ladies and gentlemen, big hand for MC Escher and DJ Perspective.

Note to Self, Re: Prosciutto

I keep getting prosciutto, as something to put on a sandwich. And it keeps tasting like dog's breath.

Next time, I'll get something else.

I swore that ol' #8 sub at Enzo's had prosciutto on it. Capicola, salami, prosciutto. Provolone and etc. So why did that not taste like getting licked by a dog? That's like, the best sandwich in the world. Or at the very least, in Somers Point.

Maybe it's a question of only using a little, next time.

People resent you for no reason.

People resent you for no reason. You do your best to be positive, and you try hard to be fair to everybody - even though sometimes it seems to you that other people don't even particularly try at all - you think hard about anything that strikes you as potentially fucked-up, about situations coming down the pike and how to deal with them. Anything that someone confronts you with, you try to see their side and figure out why. You concern yourself deeply with how to deal with life. How to deal with it all, the best way you can.

You try to be warm and funny and positive with people, you try to be friendly and fun - shit, no, you don't TRY. You don't try. That's just part of who you are. It's how you want to be. It's how you hope to stay. How you hope to keep yourself, for your whole life if you can: somebody who does their best to be good to people. Not some paragon. Just basically a good person, who tries to engage with others as best you can, who is honest and true, who tries to not be an asshole.

But people don't care. They turn you into something you aren't, and blame you for not being that. They come in building resentments and federal cases on shit you never even did do, never said. Never thought, never felt! Just a load of bullshit motives they assign to you and accuse you of, or assign to you and accuse you of falling short.

HA!! Actually, not really! I was just kidding ya. Nobody does that to you. But I had you for a second, huh? Pretty depressing and scary if that were the case!

But really, why would anybody do all that shit, what's it gonna get 'em? Some life for a loser!

Midnight Oil: "Kosciusko"

What a powerful damn world-class band. This is their best song, there is no contest.

Well, OK. There was a pretty stiff contest, but this one won. Red sails in the sunset, brother.

Check out those tugboats at the end moving that big ship through!

Tugboats rule. If I was a boat (which sadly, I am not), I would be a tugboat.

Who Knows What Evil Lurks in the Hearts of Men?


"Remember, Margot - cry out at the psychological moment! Hundreds of lives depend on it!"

EDIT: WARNING. This ends before we get to hear how it all turns out. But if I may hazard a ***SPOILER***:

The Shadow wins.

I don't often cry out loud, but

So I don't often cry out loud, but man. When I do, I make some fucking weird noises!

Not just the muffled gulps and gasps of bawling, either. A lot of weird wet stuffy globby snot noises involved, too. Very gross and wusstastic.

Wednesday, August 19, 2009

Monday, August 17, 2009

Galactic Thought of the Day

I try to think galactically, but confine my actions to within the solar system.

Ready and Waiting to Prove the World Wrong

I have to confess something. In my roughly 47-odd years on this planet, I've done some pretty questionable things.

I came up hard on the streets. I made some mistakes - there were times when I thought that was all I made. All I was ever going to make.

Then I met her.

She took me out of all that. Just to chuck me back into it when she spruced off into the distance with that fucking government arts council dude.

After that I was on my own. I worked seven jobs to go to three different colleges full-time, but somehow it still never seemed like it was enough. Never enough to please my whip-cracking inner demon, driving me on to bigger and greater things as if to somehow, prove everyone wrong about me.

Then I won the fucking lottery.

After that I was buying mansions, buying mansions. I thought that would prove everyone wrong, everyone who had ever questioned my intelligence, my ability.

Unfortunately right after that, the mansion market went South in a hurry. And I'd built all my mansions in Alaska.

I was flat broke within the year. Soon I was busking on street corners, learning guitar as I went to earn my bread and water money. Unfortunately the more I learned and the better I got at it, the less people gave me. That's when I realized the fat daily rake I'd been taking in was nothing but pity money. Well screw those people - I didn't need their pity. I'd prove them and their pity wrong. I quit guitar - for good.

After that I stopped playing the lottery. I figured, there was no point revisiting my past mistakes.

Within a year from then, I was on the streets, selling my body for sex. Unfortunately, nobody wanted it for sex. I did pick up a deal on my kidney, but there was precious little to build on, there.

Soon I was staring myself and the world in the face, with one grim reality in mind: how was I going to prove all of these people wrong?

Then it hit me.

I should have looked before crossing.

Superpower Wishlist #2!

Self-Telepathy.

That would be so awesome. I'd be able to know exactly what I was thinking at any point! So that any time anybody asked me, "what are you thinking?" I'd be johnny-on-the-spot with a quick answer.

Sunday, August 16, 2009

New Feature: Review Your Own Blog!

I just put this up yesterday. Review Your Own Blog.

Link to: ReviewYourOwnBlog

Kind of a lark. Nothing in the dedicated mailbox so far. I'll it check again in about a month or two. See if there are any takers!

I Can See Now, I've Miscalculated Somewhere

I think I've made a mistake somewhere, with this ham sandwich. I've miscalculated somehow. It's...just a ham sandwich. It doesn't whelm the palate with a sense of its necessity. It seems merely, nutritionally, lunchily adequate.

Perhaps the Tillamook cheddar. It's medium cheddar. It has a full enough sense of itself, and a good pleasing cheesy medium mildness, but hang it all, maybe I should have gone sharp?

The ham is good ham. I went with two slices, because the cheese is sliced a little thick. I think that was a good call, I don't think a lot more would have helped. I don't think piling on is the solution.

I pull my usual so-thin-it-melts coat of mayonnaise across one slice of the bread. I'm still not entirely comfortable with mayonnaise. I apply my mayonnaise with a fork. This pulls the excess up through the prongs, away from the bread.

The bread itself is good. It calls itself a country whole-grain white, and that's a good description. It's firm, hearty, but somewhat neutral. It doesn't have that pronounced wheat flavor (which is fine on many things, but it whittles down your versatile).

I'm not sure where I went wrong. I'm the master of ham sandwich. My ham sandwiches don't taste like this. They don't fall flat like this. What did I do? I don't know what I'm going to do now. I need to know what I did wrong. What am I going to do?

It's just a ham sandwich.

Society's Disapprobation of Clowns

It's not that there's anything wrong with them being clowns, we just need to keep the stigma attached. Or else what's to stop our kids from wanting to become clowns?

Where Do The Real Clowns Live?

Now wait. I just realized, real human clowns are creepy...but I think cartoon clowns can be adorable! I think it's because in a cartoon clown situation, it seems like clowns are a different species, like elves. And elves aren't creepy! But when you see a bunch of human beings made up as elves, walking around, well, that's kind of creepy.

And the same thing with clowns! Human beings, putting on all this gear to pretend to be clowns. It's kind of creepy. Why are they pretending to be clowns?

Hey, Wow! Life, You Know? What Did We Do to Deserve It?

Sometimes, it's just so hard to believe that life isn't some kind of reward for something. You know? I mean, not that my life specifically is so great or anything, but just - LOOK at this place! Doesn't it seem sometimes like you're being rewarded, just to be here? Just to be able to be alive, and be in this place, where there's all this stuff going on, and we can sense it with our senses, and there's all these facts smacking at us and implications hinting around, and we can think about them all with our thoughts, and there are all these people around, and we can rub up against them with our bodies. I mean, if we live in a crowded metropolis and take public transit.

Otherwise, ask first.

Saturday, August 15, 2009

"All Behind Me"

I've been going through a terrible time
it's called the past
and I'm pulling out all these terrible
things, at last
and it's long overdue to be sorted through
but I could never have looked at all this before
you
you have put it all behind me
put it all behind me
put it all behind me
now
And I'm melting to think, that you'll never need to see
see me as I was, from before, that me
I was changing already even before I met you
but I'm gasping from the altitude you've taken me to
and you've put it all behind me
put it all behind me
put it all behind me
now
and there's nothing much left but the look in my eyes
that you sometimes see, making you ask
what's wrong?
and I laugh with relief, knowing it's all gone
all but the look in my eyes
you have put it all behind me
put it all behind me
put it all behind me
now

Oh!! Those Casual Lovers Pt. 3

Warning! This is the third installment!


She: ....oh.

He: ...oh.

Both: Oh.

She: After all of those many sex acts, performed so thoroughly and enjoyably without love...

He: ...and I thought, and we both thought...

She: ...we both thought that was all there needed to be to it!

He: ...and now...

She: ...so empty. So bereft.

He: So hollow.

She: Yes, hollow.

Both: What have we done?

Both: What will we do?

Narrarator: That's right. They should have known, as I did, that sex without love may fly so majestically high and frequent the loftiest peaks, but it is doomed to eventually crash into an abyss of emptiness and then wallow in a sick feeling of having been USED, mutually used, used with impunity and callous delight! Once the hot thrust of lust's thirst has been slaked, there will be nothing more to do but let the sting of bitter, unspoken recriminations sink in! Oh, woe betide our intrepid pair, so lithe, so athletic and energetic in their couplings, so pleasing to see as they leap each into the boundless appetites of each and feast their full, until ...

She: You know, he's right. We were pretty awesome. Let's just keep going.

He: Yeah, you're right. Fuck it. Let's.

Narrarator: ... but I wasn't finished.

...

Narrarator: You're learning the wrong lesson.

...

Narrarator: Fuck it. Can I help in any way?

He: No thanks. I got it.

She: It's not that kind of party.

BEEF! The New Chicken!

The beef you thought you knew is no more. That's the unexpected news. Now, here's the great news!

A completely harmless experimental strain of chicken DNA, introduced to a few test herds to increase shelf life, lean muscle-fiber count and egg-laying capacity, unexpectedly went viral and beneficially augmented the entire global population of cattle! Even science was surprised at the amazing and beneficial results! Such as!:

No more worrying about all this "rare," "medium rare," "medium," "medium well," "well," business! To minimize risk of salmonella, and/or dryness/toughness, all savvy beef-lovers everywhere order it medium every time.

ALL BEEF. Nothing but 100% PURE BEEF: Some white meat! Some dark meat. NO RED MEAT! And we've all been talking about how bad that red meat was. Well, we can forget all about that.

A whole new world of recipe options! Beef McNuggets, anyone?

Leather has feathers.

And Now, An E-Mail From London

An E-Mail To Berlin.

I can't explain what strange chain of trying to find something else led me to view this. But almost every aspect of this video is almost awesome to try to behold. The brief 'cribs' intro. That Penn or Teller looking teutonic dude's introduction, with his native gobbletygüch so heavily spiked with English techie loan-words. And then...the song. The Performance.

"Can anybody tell me what goes on in Jerusalem?"

Why, yes. This guy can!

I don't see how it's possible this thing has only 3,178 views. This must be a redundant post, somewhere else there's the main same video racking up hits into the middle-digit millions while this one sulks. "Aren't I just as good?"

Sure you are, video.

Oh! Those Casual Lovers! Pt.2

Warning: first, go back and read the previous installment! This is a serial dialogue, in which the true chilling nature of a dangerous situation is laid bare. We now continue.


Narrarator: In our last installment, our casual lovers made a shocking discovery.

Ed: It's "narrator."

Narrarator: I prefer "Narrarator" - "narrator" is stupid! I don't narrate, I narrarate!

Ed: There's no such word as "narrarate" - it's "narrate."

Narrarator: That's just stupid. That's not how people say it. Go out and listen to how people really talk if you want to get a real ear for the language.

Ed: Suit yourself, but why are you even in this? This is supposed to be a dialogue, isn't narration kind of intrusive and superfluous?

Narrarator: It's philistines like you who killed film noir.

Ed: Guilty, your honor. But it was all over a no-good dame...

Narrarator: Shut it, smartass. Fact is, this is a very long and involved scene, picking up from where we left off in the last scene, and there isn't a stitch of dialogue in it.

Ed: Ah. Oh. Okay. Nor a stitch of costuming, I see.

Narrarator: Well, yeah.

Ed: Well okay then. Let's just watch.

Narrarator: That's the way I like it. Narrarator omniscient!

Ed: Keep it down, though OK?

Narrarator: Sure. Sure.

Ed: ...

Narrarator: ...

Ed: So, what's the deal here - the premise with these two - sex but no love?

Narrarator: Indeed. So far it's working out great for them!

Ed: Well I'm happy for them! I love to see two people making it work in a situation such as we have here, in a world like this.

Narrarator: Oh yeah. Make it work.

Ed: Wow! Look at that.

Narrarator: But yet...I can't help but feel...that there could be trouble brewing for our intrepid two...

~ CONTINUED IN PART 3!!! ~

Oh, Those Casual Lovers!

Warning: This post contains dialogue of a nature that I simply can't endorse! References to the sex act, or in fact, to multifarious arrays and multitudinous instances of each of them, in a context that seems pretty damn near lacking in the emotional aspect and the committed, exclusive context that - for me - makes monogamy so compelling.


She: I love that. Wow.

He: Yeah. That was nice.

She: Never have I performed such multitudinous instances of each of a multifarious array of sex acts, in a context so lacking in the emotional aspect and committed, exclusive character that so typify my usual penchant for monogamy.

He: Yeah. You said it. Beautiful.

She: I have to confess, I never even gave anyone oral sex before!

He: Well, you sure made up for it! Impressive. A born expert! I almost got my wallet out.

She: Tee hee!

He: Yeah, me too.

She: Who knew sex without love could be this way?

He: I know I didn't know it! It's a policy of mine to make love only. None of this vulgar, clinical "having sex," none of this crass "fucking."

She: Oh, me too! More than "me too." And yet, great as it was and as much as I enjoyed everything so much, my feelings toward you are the same. They haven't changed.

He: I enjoyed everything. Particularly your breasts, a very enjoyable and engaging pair.

She: Thank you! You like them?

He: Oh, very much.

She: But it's so weird, isn't it? As much as I enjoyed doing everything, and as revelatory as the experience was ...

He: ... epiphianic ...

She: Yes! Or, "epiphanic," really, but I love what you mean!

He: "Epiphanic"? Really? Not "epiphianic"?

She: Yup. Sorry. Yours is quite lovely, but wrong.

He: But it's like "messianic," or it should be...?

She: I agree it should be. But nope.

He: I'll stick with "epiphianic," even if it is wrong.

She: Well, I'll stick with this - even if it is wrong!

He: Mm!

She: Mmf!

He: ...

He: ...wow...

She: Mmmmn.

He: You know what else is weird?

She: Mmmmn?

He: Never mind. That's fine. Talk later.

She: Mmmmn!

Than The Sum of Its Parts

My heart wants love. Also, to pump blood.

My to-put-it-delicately wants to make you pregnant. Except if you're a guy. It doesn't know why, it just does.

My brain wants to think interesting things. This is easy, given where it sets the bar.

My left hand wants to fret.

My right hand wants to pick.

My lips want to kiss.

Except if you're a guy.

Not sure why my lips even care, on that score. Weird.

My fingers want what my hands want, and also to drum. Also, to feel surfaces and their textures. And to do things, and to undo them.

My nose, sinuses, bronchi and lungs just want to BREATHE IT IN. And the nose, to smell. Depending.

My mouth wants to pronounce. Also, to eat delicious food.

My throat wants to guzzle beer. Also, to chug ICE COLD WATER. Well, technically not quite that cold.

My ears want to rock.

My eyes want nothing better than to gaze lovingly into THEMSELVES. Or yours.

My belly just wants to be happy.

Friday, August 14, 2009

I Just Got 3 More Followers!

And they're all ME! I'm following my main blog, my poem blog, and my other poem blog which is basically a big rip-off.

But anyway, I'm pretty excited about the new followers! I expect this to be a real boon, when it comes to being able to keep up with what I'm posting.

I tell you, this is like the dream come true that I never had. When I was a kid, I don't think I ever believed that one day I would have three blogs. Let alone that someone as awesome as me would be following all of them!

Holy cats and bananas, people. Some life!

The Internet Is Having Sex with Innocent Girls!

Click here to watch.

BUCKLER! Product of Holland

I'm having some BUCKLER! Product of Holland. My sister turned me on to this! It's a little lighter than what I might normally drink (and less than 0.5% alcohol by volume), but perfect of a summer evening as the stinking heat streams airward from every exposed radiant surface. BUCKLER. Product of Holland.

This shit's delicious.

My sister knows her beer.

How Many People Are There Out There, Perfect For You?

Maybe "perfect for you" will strike some as reaching. Nobody's perfect, there's always going to be work involved in a relationship and anybody who isn't a fucking wuss is up to the task of digging in and working through. RIGHT? So I'll try it this way instead: How many people are there out there, with whom you could fall in love?

A lot of people seem to think this is a question of standards. Of "high standards," primarily. As in: I could only fall in love with a very few or perhaps only one person, because my standards are so high.

Let's examine that idea.

First Question: what are you, some kind of prick?

Some related questions.

How much better that the majority of the population are you? Gauged according to whatever standards you mean, when you claim yours are high. Put yourself in a percentile. Are you better than 98% of the population? 99%? You're still talking something like seventy-to-one-hundred-fifty millions of people who would be "up to snuff," that is, potentially as good or better than you are. Do you consider that "few"?

Or maybe you admit that you're only better than at best, 45-68% of the population, but you feel you deserve someone who is better than you yourself are. If so, return to First Question; answer yes.

It's got nothing to do with standards, high or otherwise. And leave aside all these purely circumstantial concerns - how many people are "taken" versus "available." I'm getting at something deeper here: I don't mean how many people are left out there, who you can still snag! I'm talking about how many people live and exist, with whom you are basically personally compatible. With whom it would be or would have been possible for you to form a beautiful and successful love relationship, just based on your idea of love, and their idea of love, and who they are and who you are.

Still say one? Still say few?

What are the limiting factors in your mind? Shared interests? Sexual chemistry? Just being a good person?

Big tits?

I think who we do actually end up with involves a great deal of circumstance or coincidence. Obviously a person who "could have been perfect" for us could also have been perfect for many, many other people besides. Is it threatening, to admit that? Isn't that what we mean by saying someone is "a catch"? Well, why can't we admit that maybe we too are "a catch"? Why can't we admit that we could also have been perfect for many, many other people besides? But the real catch is: there's not enough of you to go around. Fidelity is more than kind of important. If they hook up with one of those many, many people first, and then you come along, and they ditch their existing commitment for you - well shit, doesn't that void whatever good they might have been for you? That's a bad sign. That's a warning sign innit? It better be.

It would be for me. If it isn't for you, if you're fine with that, please do realize you are explicitly endorsing that behavior. You are telling them: "When you have made your commitment to a relationship, you are free to ditch it if someone new comes along." Phrase it honestly. It isn't someone better; it's someone new.

So what is important, in narrowing your idea down to those however many people might be compatible for you? Might be a good match?

To me, chemistry is hugely important. And a shared idea / understanding of what love is: hugely important. A basic compatibility in personality - the way each of you is, the way each of you communicates, that your basic styles of being aren't GRATINGLY incompatible to each others' sensibilities - that's hugely important. And big tits are hugely important, of course. But some of these more superficial aspects - well, shared interests definitely give you something fun to build on. But the most important shared interest is: you love the person. They interest you. If that's there, then each of you will expand each others' interests in a natual way! - not to a 100% overlap, but who cares? Couples needn't do every little thing together. Ew.

But you people out there who still want to believe that there are only maybe one or a few people out there who could be compatible with you - what the heck do you mean? Don't you think the world is teeming with basically good-hearted people who mostly want to find someone who will be good to them, and love that person? And within that huge population sample, don't you think there would be at least a significant number of people where the chemistry works? Chemistry is hard to predict, and it's true that sometimes, something's just...off. But that's glaringly easy to spot, isn't it? We humans are mostly wired to dig each other, as long as the basic equipment fits with what we basically tend to dig.

Personal compatibility is only a start, of course. From there on in, it depends on the two people involved, the choices they make, and how they choose to react to adversity. But if the compatibility is good, and the will is good, shouldn't there be a very large number of people with whom love could potentially be a good bet?

If you really think there's only one person, or only a few, who you could find love with - well, what is it you think is wrong with most people?

Or what is it that's wrong with you?

How Long Does It Take to Fall In Love?

How long does it take to fall in love? Well, a lot depends on whether you're a fucking moron or not. If you're a fucking moron, maybe it might take years, or even decades for you to fall in love, at least to the point to where you feel confident finally saying "Well, I guess that sure is [ was? ] love, right there!"

On the other hand, if you're not a fucking moron, you can probably tell pretty quick. If you can see what's right in front of your fucking eyes, and you have some thought in your head what it is you want in a person, and if there is a certain chemistry that you can detect (which let's face it, isn't the single most important thing or anything but it's definitely up there! - and it's a pretty immediate thing, hard not to notice when it's there). If all that's in place, it should not take you very long to be able to say yeah, I have done fallen in love.

Of course, the specific conditions make a big difference! Especially the condition of whether or not you are a grade A fucking moron. But assuming you're not, and assuming you two are both free, and you both give in to the commitment and exclusivity and to giving it a go, to try to be a couple and to make it work - well, shit. How long does it take to fall in love?

Some Time, This Weekend...

I can sense it. I can sense its approach, I can sense the coming of the moment. Some time this weekend, I sense the time will be right for the appearance of my famous french toast breakfast. The breakfast to end all breakfasts.

The breakfast heard round the world.

Thursday, August 13, 2009

To Put It More Succinctly

Those who give weight to profanity, or who teach others to respect the concept, are guilty of perpetuating intellectual fucking cowardice.

Beating the Drum for Change

So there's always a large number of panhandlers downtown playing musical instruments or, in some cases, playing other implements in a way that could be described as meeting some of the definitive characteristics of music:
Music: n. Sound that has been deliberately created and shaped for an artistic purpose, such as to create emotion, please the senses, or communicate an idea or ideal. Music typically employs such devices as rhythm, melody, and harmony to produce an aesthetic effect.
That's a pretty good definition. I like that. I'm not usually good at coming with definitions, but I like that one.

So anyway, downtown Santa Cruz. They have people there right on the sidewalk, making music or some approximation thereof. Playing the guitar, singly or in groups, singing or not singing. Playing woodwinds, sometimes. One old dude even used to play the saw! He died, and they made a statue out of him. It sits where he used to sit and play, on Pacific, near Bookshop Santa Cruz. People put flowers in the nooks of the crooks of the statue's arms and lap.

There's another beloved figure who always appears in the guise of some neon technicolor ninja mime clown alien being, moving in an elegant yet herky jerky way and playing an accordion. You can't see so much as a square inch of this person - totally covered by costume! I keep meaning to do a roving photoessay of downtown, with photos illustrated by poems. I'd certainly want to include this dude. He rules!

Other folks are more low-key about it, appearing in more or less typical human clothes, playing more or less common musical instruments. Tooting a horn, maybe (hopefully, their own horn - I'd hate to think it's stolen! And tooting a borrowed horn seems dubiously sanitary). Drums, bongos and other percussion instruments are well-represented. I've seen some beautiful violin and fiddling. And of course, you'll see ensembles of any or all of the aforementioned, all mixed up together, making a merry or other noise, and generally with some cash-ready receptacle handy (a guitar case is a popular option). Sometimes, a sign as well.

One of the things they call all that is: "busking." Some of the other things they call it, I won't repeat.

So one day, anyway, the upshot is: I want to give it a crack. I think to do it up properly I might need to apply for a beggar's permit. There might even be a special subclass of that permit: a troubadour beggar's permit. But I want to do more than just satisfy the formalities. I have a whole picture in mind of how I want to go out. I want to get a pale off-white, light, breathy, impeccably clean but semi-rumpled linen summer suit (or maybe, seersucker), with an immaculate white linen shirt, open at the neck and displaying a smooth, carved wooden medallion on a teak-beaded string. I'd also want to get a hat. Something to shade the eyes, and maybe, make me seem just that much more mysterious. Plus maybe, shades.

And in my propped-open guitar case, I'd have a couple of large unmarked 2-lb plastic bags of talcum powder. I'd dip into those a bit, if my hands got sweaty. The top one would have a diagonal switchblade slit in its surface, so I wouldn't have to undo the whole thing to get at the stuff.

And I'd play. And I'd sing. And the money would just roll in, if coin, and probably sort of flutter or drop in - if bills, depending on whether they were crumpled. In fact, I'd probably want to have a square, neatly-lettered sign propped up in the case: "CRUMPLE YOUR LARGE BILLS."

I've got it all thought out!