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, May 31, 2010

Remembering Memorial Day Pt.3: A Remembrance

Memorial Day is a sad holiday. A solemn one. All those people dead. Dead Because Of War. That's an occasion for solemnity. They made the sacrifice that we didn't make - how does that make us feel? Grateful, I should hope. But probably also, just a little bit conflicted.

After all, those people are dead. Dead! Dead! Dead! And we go on living. They're shot, stabbed, blown to pieces, gassed, torn by shrapnel, crushed under by engines of war, and meanwhile we're like "man, I stormed the beach on Memorial Day - I got such a bad sunburn, it was an atrocity."

Our priorities are pretty screwed up, if that's our attitude.

Memorial Day is a day to look at all the horrors of war and the costs they levy upon us all, just as a humanity. A lot of peace activists would look at all those horrors and costs and say, "Hey! We have a point." A point about how bad war is, perhaps...and how peace could be used as a substitute.

But then your "war hawks" as they style themselves, those baying hounds of bristling military puissance, those advocates of peace through war by means of might, they will look at it and respond saying: "Hey. You need war to stop that other guy, because he's all over the place. He's really crossing the line. Peace won't make him stop, so war it is."

They have a point too.

Yet on Memorial Day, even these two implacable enemies can stand together on the green grass of innumerable backyard cookouts and enjoy a burger, a dog (or indeed, a burg-dog), a beer - or I guess some tofu item in place of the burger/dog option if the peace guy's serious about his convictions - and they can honor the fallen in whatever way seems most appropriate to them, like talking about hockey playoffs.

Memorial Day Pt.2: A Solemn Reminder

I hope to God's sake you aren't just enjoying the day off without meditating a bit on what it all means. For fuck's sake, I heard someone call it a "bank holiday"! As if that could begin to cover it. Why, I went to the bank to use the ATM on Saturday, and the doors were wide open! To my shock. I thought, "what is this, a break-in?" But there were bunches of people inside, lined up for the tellers and such. I looked at my watch - it was 5:02PM! I looked at the glass next to the doors - this bank was open 'til 6 PM on Saturday. EVERY Saturday! For dick's sake, WHY??

But even the brave young men and women of this bank, who make the ultimate sacrifice of their Saturday for the sake of whoever these freaks are with their Saturday-evening banking fetish - even these folks get today off.

I just hope they take a moment to meditate a bit on what it all means. It's Memorial Day people. For gosh sake, that means something.

Remembering Memorial Day

I remembered it was Memorial Day. Having the day off helped. I've moved the "Monday Work Post" that would normally be scheduled for today to tomorrow - as this week, Tuesday's my Monday.

Sunday, May 30, 2010

But It's My Only Joke!

Did you know the fastest animal on earth is actually the antelope?

He only lost the race because the other guy was a cheetah.

Dissociative Identity Bombshell! Pt. 2

Keen-eyed readers will note the slight change in title between the previous post and this. Put that one down to increased sensitivity, as I learn about this sensitive topic. It's been a real eye-opener for me.

So, how do I reach this guy? I have a lot of questions. We need to get in touch.

I need to let him know it's OK not to smoke. He doesn't have to take drastic steps to differentiate his personality and mine. I respect him without the grandstanding and posturing.

I'd like him to know it's not necessary for him to hide his presence. Always leaving everything precisely as it is.

(i.e. I'd be delighted if he started doing his share of the fucking housework.)

Maybe I could set him up a login on my computer. I'm pretty sure he doesn't know my password, but I could set him up with his own. I'd leave him a note, Hey Smokey, here is your login and password to the computer, and I've set you up an e-mail account as well at

Then we could e-mail each other! Perfect way to get in touch.

I'm a trailblazer of using modern tools, techniques and attitudes (including "acceptance") to deal with dissociative identity condition. I know, I know technically it's "dissociative identity disorder," but that really seems needlessly derogatory. After all, there's nothing "disorder" about it if all your personalities are working together!

Psychosis Bombshell!

I've just made a pretty shocking and disturbing discovery. I've just discovered I have an alternate personality who smokes!

I found a cigarette butt out in the back garden. It couldn't have been me. It must have been him.

What do we call this guy, huh? My vote's "Smokey." Not sure how I can go about polling him for his OK on that one. It kind of has to be unanimous, I mean - if anything, arguably, his vote ought to count for more. I could leave him a note - with the question on the inside of a folded-over slip of paper - but how is he going to know it's for him? Writing "Smokey" on the front would be kind of "begging the question."

I picture Smokey out back there, wearing a pair of mirrored sunglasses like an aviator or a prison guard. Smoking his cigarette. Lip curled in disdain. He has the upper hand and he knows it! At least he knows what to call me. My mail is all over the place.

Where the hell does he stash those cool-ass shades when I'm around and he isn't? I'd love to try those on. Have a smoke in the back garden, maybe sneer a bit.

See what it's like to be "Smokey."

Friday, May 28, 2010

Once Again, It's Time for Fiction Friday!

She took her hair down and kept walking towards the cliff. The pine needles felt soft in the dirt beneath her bare feet. The tree trunks were black against a blinding white-blue ocean. They looked like vertical black bars, like the bars of a cell. The bars widened and thinned out as she walked forward calmly. Her black cotton dress was striped in white.

The softness underfoot thinned and hardened as her path sloped upward. She left the trees behind and walked out onto the ridge, and was suddenly in the light and wind. She stood on worn, dark rock flecked with green and white mosses and lichens. The expression on her face became stupid as she looked out over the water.

The horizon was a knife against the sky. The sun held the entire ocean in writhing flame. There were no waves, only a vast sea of white, shifting, fiery tongues. The foam and spray were sparks and white smoke, drifting in a wind that was absolutely steady with no variation in force or direction. She breathed in and looked out. Her dazzled eyes could not adjust, so her mind went out and met the light on its own terms. Within a minute or two, there was no longer a single thought in her head. Her head was the ocean. The cliff and the trees had dropped away. The sun was nowhere. The sun was the surface of the sea.

Her reverie broke as a bird drifted across her mind's eye, slid backwards by the wind across the dull blue cloudless curtain of sky. As she watched the bird, a burning thought grew in her mind until she could think of nothing else. She felt certain she and the bird had locked eyes, and that the bird had put the thought there - though at such a distance, it was impossible to really see the bird's eye, not with the glare of the ocean washing out such dark details.

The thought held her in a tightening grip that was swiftly escalating to panic. To break the spell, she voiced the thought out loud, loud, calling it out into the wind, singing it out over the crashing of the surf against the rocks far below: "What" she cried, "will this week's installment of Fiction Friday be about, right here on Consider Your Ass Kicked!?"

No reply came. The bird turned, caught the wind and sped off with it.

Thursday, May 27, 2010

Another Personal Life Update

I'm trying to lose some weight. I bought like three pairs of jeans on sale, and I accidentally got the wrong size. I figure all I need to do is lose some weight, because they're fucking uncomfortable let me tell you.

Wednesday, May 26, 2010

Name That Tune #17!

"A little bit after afternoon, close to time for a meal of some kind
close to halls of justice, they have begun to become unravelled.
A quartet of youths on an angle - they're trying to elevate you!
Bill selects a ditty and he breathes it forcefully, across his stereotypically angelic instrument.

Below on the angle. Outside on the pavement. Bill and the Sandwiches make music for change, for you to groove to.

Foghorn Leghorn smacks the frottoir, bringing grins.
Clyde's cohort whacks and improvises on the low-pitched rhythm instrument.
Sandwich blings the tempo out on his pump-action two-man railroad cart.
Bill tangos and blows on his musical tube simultaneously.

Below on the angle. Outside on the pavement. Bill and the Sandwiches make music for change, for you to groove to.

There's no mandatory admission fee.
But if you have a 5-cent piece, why don't you give it up for the boys?
Over on the angle, dig that joyful din.
That mystical youth draws a crowd of folks, who have come far just to see him."

Tuesday, May 25, 2010

Why Things Are Stupid

A wine glass is stupid because it falls over.

A tire is stupid because it's gone flat.

A door is stupid because the key won't work.

A key is stupid because the door won't open.

A jacket is stupid because the zipper.

A refrigerator is stupid because there's no milk.

A CD is stupid because that song wasn't on there.

This is not an exhaustive list. It could go on and on.

A computer is stupid because the password is dumb.

A pen is stupid because it's out of ink.

Cigarettes are stupid because it's raining outside.

Glibness and Depths

Just calling someone "glib" - that's a cop-out. It's a cop-out because glibness entails some pretty concrete lacks. There are flaws involved, without which there can be no glib. Glibness lacks: depth, sincerity, something along those lines.

So if somebody comes along and you think they might be glib, well, which is it? What do they lack? Depth or sincerity? Either you can spot the lack or you can not. If you can spot it, then you can call them on it and specify why. If you cannot, then - well. What business do you have calling them glib, when you can't even say whether they're being insincere or merely shallow? But if you can spot the lack and you don't call them on it...well, now who's demonstrating a lack of sincerity, convictions, commitment to truth? Someone who calls another glib only to capitulate - to what, "superior glibness"? - that takes a rather high-toned sort of coward, now doesn't it?

Personally, I don't let the glib get away with it. If I can call them glib, that means I've spotted what it is they lack, and I will knock them sprawling with that. If I can't spot the flaw, then I'd have to admit, well...maybe, they're not glib. They could just be cocky and RIGHT. They could just have an easy way of coming out with the truth they mean. Because it takes a concrete flaw - a lack of truth, or depth, or sincerity - to reduce what they say in their cocky certainty to mere glibness.

It would be hard to say what's worse: the presumption to claim glibness where one can't actually see it? Or the cowardice to see it, resent it, and be able to show it up, but then not actually do it.

In any case, if I were ever called "glib" - I'd be DELIGHTED to have anybody show me where I'm not sincere, or where I lack depth! That's a big help to me. I'm always after the more sincere truths, the more sublime depths.

When it comes to the philosophical deeps, I'm a real bottom-feeder.

Sunday, May 23, 2010

Sunday God Theology Post Again

So I'm trying this again. I haven't done one of these in a little while. Sometimes I feel like people don't think I mean it, you know? And that makes it kind of depressing, like it's a joke.

I mean, who the fuck is anybody else, to tell me whether they think I mean it about GOD??! Right? That's for me and God to know! The rest of y'all can find out later. You know. On Judgment Day. By the way speaking of Judgment Day, me and God have a little surprise planned for you. Are you ready for this?


Oh shit. I wasn't supposed to say that. Kind of spoils the surprise. But really though, that would've been an awesome surprise, right? Because you wouldn't really expect balloons.

Anyway, I'll check with God, but I bet we can consider that little sneak-preview there to be more or less still "unspoilt." I have a relatively small readership after all. You folks can consider yourselves the lucky recipient of a sweet sneak-peek!

At least I hope so. If it turns out God's pissed off and/or petulant over me letting the cat out of the bag early, then I guess probably the balloons are out. And we'd have to think of something else instead. A different surprise.

Shit. I hope we don't have to do that. I don't think we'll be able to come up with anything else that's as good as balloons.



Saturday, May 22, 2010

Poor Mr. Glass! This Is About The Worst Thing

Have you seen the movie? Have you seen this scene? He plays a dude with a brittle-bone disease, mortally cautious of falls, drives a padded car, sucking beers through straws dropping down their...wait. Sorry. Wrong song.

Point is, this scene was pretty damn intense...

...and that's just wrong.

Friday, May 21, 2010

Get Out Of There!

Thanks to Alice at SkyBluePink!

British Sandwich Week: Apparently I May Have Misunderstood

So May 16th-22nd is British Sandwich Week, but apparently I misinterpreted the significance of that. It isn't a week dedicated to the celebration of the sandwich that is observed only in Britain. What it is, is: a week for any people in any nation anywhere to celebrate British Sandwiches.

i.e, sandwiches that are specifically British.

Which is, I guess - what, those tea sandwiches? Cucumber, with the crusts cut off? Stuff like that?

BLEAH! I'll stick to my American sandwiches, thank you very much!

What a bust this whole thing turned into. Consider Sandwich Week officially over.

The Best Sandwiches Come From Home, and Are Made With Love

'Nuff said on that point.

Sandwiches: The Origin Story

So we've all heard the tale of the invention of the sandwich. How the Duke of Sandwich, big cards player, couldn't be bothered to leave the table, so he's all "MEAT! Between two hunks of bread" and his cohorts were all like, "yeahhh-h-h! I'll have what Sandwich is having" to the point where they all just started calling the damn thing "a Sandwich."

Well, we've all heard that story, but the question is: is it true?

As far as I know, it is true. I mean, I wasn't there, and how could anyone really say at this point? But the story itself has got a lot of mileage on it, and it just keeps rolling, so. I guess you can say it doesn't hurt to suspend our disbelief a bit on this one. Does it? Come on, I mean. Is it really so far-fetched? Must today's "revisionist" skeptical historians debunk EVERY damn myth we cherish?


Thursday, May 20, 2010

I'm Not Fluffing My Meat Anymore!

Yeah, for a while there, I'd tuck and fold over the ham or whatever lunchmeat it was. So it would make a pile, with a lot of air pockets and springyness.

I have no idea why I was doing that. I feel like I was seeing it done that way for sandwiches in tv ads. Total waste of time and effort with zero flavor/texture payoff, at least as far as this sandwich aficionado's palate goes!

But I'm willing to hear other viewpoints. Anybody out there still fluffing their lunchmeat?

Thought of the Day: Sandwich Week Edition

...and it better involve SANDWICHES!

Well shoot. I guess it does now.

Wednesday, May 19, 2010

Quote of the Day

"When life gives you a shit sandwich...make lemonade."

Doodeloo #51: Sandwich Edition #2: PB&J EDITION!


Talkin' Sweet #9, Special Sandwich-Week Edition: "I Sure Do Love Sandwiches."

Love for a sandwich is not like the love between a man and a woman. Although it can be. You know what, it's a complicated issue! I am a sandwich. My love, I want to be utterly consumed by you; I wish you to consume me utterly. I have a fresh, firm bread surface to provide a grease-free purchase for your clean fingers. The smooth golden-brown sheen of my baked roll's crust is the skin that thrills to your two-handed touch. You bring me to your mouth.

Your mouth stretches wide, to accommodate my substantial girth, big with meaty goodness, fat tomato and crisp shredded lettuce and onion, doused with an herbed vinaigrette. You put your lips around me and slide a big bite in, then your teeth shear down in a clean cut right through; and you chew. And you chew. Delicious. The meaty meatiness of the meat. The sublime, fruity mouthfeel of good olive oil; the vivid punch of fresh tomato flavor - none of your supermarket mealy-mush 'maters, here! This is the real garden-grown, vine ripe stuff - and BOY does it make a difference!

As you go in for another bite, I tremble in anticipation. Little bits of me fall out from either side, onto the plate. You bite in again - a surge of bliss! For both of us. Oh, what sweet joy to be food, and to be consumed by you! As I was being assembled from the many parts it took to put me together, all the time I was alive in the consciousness of one goal and one goal alone: my one drive was to be your food. Now, the bliss of that consummation enthralls my senses! I am a sandwich in the process of fulfilling its purpose. I am ecstatic; with every bite I am riven with fresh waves of ecstasy that roll out from me, to crash in your satisfied mouth.

Consume me, darling. Consume me whole. Bite by bite. Or maybe, if I'm a bit too much to take in one sitting...

...we can save a little, for later on.

An Announcement:

I would like to take this opportunity to announce that notwithstanding the previous post, this week, we will be running a special feature on sandwich-related posts.

Whether it's grilled cheese, a reuben, or one of the many other varieties of sandwich, you can bet that I'm going to end this sentence with some kind of generalization that encompasses them all.

And if anything, that holds even more true for the exceptions to the rule!


The meal you eat with your hands.

Name That Tune #16!

"By what means are we able to move rhythmically to the music
- while the planet beneath our feet is revolving?
By what right can we allow ourselves to slumber
- while fire has claimed the cots, bunks and futons of those people?
It is overdue for us to speak plainly of what is right, what is just.
Our board and lodging charges are in arrears, we must pay what we owe."

Questions will be posted each Wednesday at noon Pacific Time, 12pm. Submit your comments NAMING THE SONG that is being paraphrased. Answers will be posted at some point after 5pm. THE QUESTION REMAINS OPEN until a correct answer is posted! Once a correct answer is posted, scoring is closed.

Scoring is as follows:

First correct answerer gets: 1 point!
Tardy correct answerer gets: 0.3 point!

Is A Hot Dog A Sandwich? Is A Hamburger A Sandwich?

Fuck off with that question! You keep your dirty semantics off my damned sandwich you son of a bitch!!

And if that doesn't clear it up for you, leave a comment and I'll give it to you some more!

Tuesday, May 18, 2010


Friday always feels a little like Halloween to me. So what better time to take a trip into the larder of HORROR???

Unfortunately today is Tuesday. Still, the thought applies.

Sandwiches Are Kind of This Thing With Me Pt.2

Man, I got all sidetracked with the self-righteous defensiveness and forgot to mention the whole point of that last post!

I had intended to use the last post to announce a forthcoming smorgasbord of sandwich posts. For this whole week: nothing post sandwich-related posts.

Bon appetit.

Sandwiches Are Kind of This Thing With Me

Those of you who know me, know I'm into sandwiches. Just click the label 'sandwiches' if you don't believe me - you'll find ample evidence of my sandwich penchant. Me and sandwiches, that's just something about me that people who know me know. The people who really know me, I mean.

People who don't know that about me, well...I hate to say it, but those people don't really know me at all. Maybe they thought they did. Turns out: they didn't. No one's more disappointed than me to hear it, but I guess I should have known.

If you're in that latter category, hey, don't feel too bad. There have been people who have been close to me for years - dear friends, lovers. Even members of my own family! Yet they didn't know that, about me and sandwiches. They never really knew me at all, I guess. Oh, some of them may have suspected something, from the sheer gusto with which I consumed those sandwiches - it would have been impossible to hide, entirely! But though they may have suspected, I don't think some of them ever really knew. I did play it pretty close to the vest. I guess if I'm honest with myself, I was a little insecure about it.

Well no longer. I'm blowing it wide open to the whole wide world, right here on the blog! I don't give a damn who knows: I have kind of a thing for sandwiches.

And now that you know...well. The chips will fall where they may.

Monday, May 17, 2010



That's one great-looking sandwich.

sandwich ham cheese

That's gotta be what - ham and cheese? Aw yeah. You KNOW it is. And some lettuce, and I suspect a tomato in there as well. It's just not shoved to the side. Really, you don't need to shove all your fillings to the side so people can see them, just because you're going to draw the damn thing!

Art, even great art like this here, is not worth ruining a sandwich over.

16th-22nd May 2010 is British Sandwich Week!

Even if you are British, you may not have realized that. Well, as far as I can tell, we here in the States do not honor sandwich week! To protest this particular BULL SHIT, I am going to post NOTHING BUT SANDWICH-RELATED POSTS for the remainder of the week!

Except for the Wednesday "Name That Tune" installment, of course.

Other than that, for the rest of the week - or to be fair, let's say, from this moment thru Friday, inclusive. For the rest of the work week: nothing but sandwich-themed and sandwich-related posts, excepting that one post on Wednesday, which we've already discussed.

The U.S. should definitely have a sandwich week. But since the powers that be don't seem to see it that way, I'm going to have to force the issue - at least, hear on the blog.

Sandwiches, man. They need a week of their own.

What I'm Wearing: UPDATE Pt.3

Got home. Took my shirt off.

100% polyester. It's printed on the inside back panel. Along with what must be the best corporate motto I've seen all day:
"Our Heritage Is Innovation."
- The Eighty Eight Clothing Company

Nice. Well they sure did innovate the hell out of that polyester! Who knew that the justly much-maligned leisure-suit staple textile of a thousand seventies bad-fashion horror stories would eventually evolve into the supple, breathable, beautiful cloth of today's casually versatile work shirt? Also definitely suitable for an evening out! Snazzy as fuck, looks-wise, and a delight to wear.

Polyester, I never knew ya so well.

What I'm Wearing: UPDATE Pt.2

Found the tag! It's right at the bottom side seam - I didn't have to take off the shirt at all. But here's the crazed part! The ingredients are not listed on the tag. Just care instructions and made in Vietnam. Maybe there's another tag someplace.

Maybe it's made out of classified, space age materials.

Maybe there's another tag someplace. I consider that more likely. I'm pretty sure when you sell a shirt the ingredients have to be listed on there someplace.

What I'm Wearing: UPDATE

My shirt is so supple, today. So smooth, soft, and comfy. What the hell is it made of?

I can't see the tag.

It's a dull black color, with vertical stripes stitched in glossy black thread, with two rows of white dots inlaid in an offset pattern.

I wish I could see what it was made of! It's so comfy.

I'm not sure I'm comfortable taking my shirt off in the office, or whether wanting to check the shirt's ingredients would be an acceptable excuse for having done so, in the event that someone should walk in while I was standing there in all my glory.

(technically I guess, in only half my glory)

Whatever it's made of, I sure do love this shirt.

Sunday, May 16, 2010

Deep Down

Do you sometimes doubt that deep down, you're a good person?

You know why? Because deep down, you're a bad person. Deep down, I think everybody is. The people we see are good people, it isn't because of their deep down. It is because they guide themselves with their way up. Their higher view of what they feel they can be. What they want to be, what they have a drive to be.

A good person. A good person in their own eyes.

And that belief - which is their belief in their own self-worth - that guiding faith in the self they are creating every day, is what enables them to create something good. Your self: is it what you "just are"? What you are intrinsically, when not making an effort? Just what you "are," laying back on your ass? No. It is not. Unless, of course, that is in fact what you aspire to be! It didn't have to be, but you choosing the path of to lie on your ass makes it so.

Your self is in fact what your self is in practice: what you are in action. Every day, actively, everyone is creating a self from the raw material they were born into, and from the roads they've chosen since. The raw material of physical form, with its biological surges and imperatives. The raw material of location and circumstance, that provide the setting, the experiential context - the frame, if you will. For good or ill, it is this self-creation, conscious or unconscious - the choices we make to act, the choices we make in how we see ourselves - this is what channels and directs and ultimately, overrides or wallows in what we are deep down. Because deep down, we are: drives, lusts, hungers. The need to lash out, to hurt what threatens. The need to flee from what looks like trouble. At any cost, the deep-seated reflex to save ourselves (from death, or maybe just from discomfort or inconvenience). Deep down, that's what we are. Deep down, we're all of that. Not good people. Not really. Deep down: animals.

If you are a good person, it is not because of what you are deep down. It is because you believe in yourself from way high up - in the best part there is of you. The part that sees what you are every day, the part that sees the worst and accepts it is there, but does not allow it to rule. The part that sees and chooses to believe in the best of what you are every day, of what you can be every day.

If you are a good person, it is because you act on that.

Edward G. Robinson was a pretty serious art collector, did you know that?

This dialogue is so loopy, it could have independently proved quantum superstring theory if they'd kept it up another couple of minutes.

Thought of the Day: Mawwiage

Marriage is the new dinner and a movie. But pick carefully and read a few reviews folks, because that movie lasts for fucking EVER.

Saturday, May 15, 2010

The Previous Post Was a Joke Pt.2

I guess I could always just do this.

That would pretty much cover it.

The Previous Post Was a Joke.



I guess I'm going to have to do one of these after every post now.




So Here's How I'm Going to "Pop The Question"

Here's how I'm going to do it! I mean, when the fullness of that time comes, I mean. Don't worry, she doesn't read my blog!

(Anymore.) So it's not going to be any kind of a spoiler for me to post this. But it's awesome! I can't keep this idea to myself! And maybe it could help others, too, who may be scraping the ol' barrel-bottom of their idea bin for a sweet, unique way to get that ever so hopefully eternal question across.

Besides, I heavily doubt anybody could read too much of this blog and also want to, you know, be involved in that sort of a question and answer session. With me. Because, well. The blog may give people the wrong idea about me, I think. In general. It's a little intimidating. It perpetuates a myth of freakish perfection, one that I am constantly (in my off-line life) at pains to undermine.

But anyway, enough of this fool full disclosure! I was being all romantic. Without further ado, then! Here's my sweet romantic plan to ask for that sweet "hand in marriage" that all men crave! Step-by-step. Ooh, baby:

1. Get a shitload of roses.
2. Peel all of the petals off, gently.
3. Make a trail of the petals, for her to follow. Be sumptuous about it. Strew them.
4. At the end of the trail, for when she rounds the corner, spell out WILL YOU MARRY ME? using the long, thorny, petal-less stems.


FLYERS ADVANCE!! Historic Comeback Vaults Flyers Into The 12th Round of the Playoffs! Only 3 More Rounds To Go To Get To The STANLEY CUP CHAMPIONSHIP!! Pt.2

The other thing I always wonder about hockey is... come they're so weak on the celebration dances? Compared to other sports, I mean. You'd think they'd be the BEST at it! They're wearing ice skates.

I would love to see some big bruising dude score an incredible goal, and then put on the EXCLAMATION POINT by ripping a wicked triple sow-cow and a lutz! Come on. People would go ape on that. You'd be in the hall of fame for taunting.

The CIA is not telling the truth about what its initials stand for.

Particularly the middle one.

FLYERS ADVANCE!! Historic Comeback Vaults Flyers Into The 12th Round of the Playoffs! Only 3 More Rounds To Go To Get To The STANLEY CUP CHAMPIONSHIP!!

The thing I always wonder about with hockey is: honestly, what is the deal with hockey?

Still, it's hard to deny it's a very exciting game. I mean, look at those fans agitate and yell!

Feeling Secure and Reassured, that At Least Something Is Being Done

People like impractical "security measures" that inconvenience everyone and would not provide the slightest hindrance to a serious threat. They like to see those measures in place. It reassures them to see control being visibly exerted. Oh, they will complain a bit - but listen to how they put it! People will say "Well, this is a pain in the ass, but at least something is being done." Then everyone will kind of think about that, and you can see them visibly relax and resign themselves to the wait.

People don't generally say: "Well, this is a pain in the ass, but at least we know these measures wouldn't stop anybody half-competent or determined." That's not a fun thing to say. Nobody wants to hear that, and especially nobody wants to start running down the examples in detail! People don't care, or even consider, that our token high-visibility inconveniences would not stop a real threat. Especially in cases where security measures are enacted "in response to" a spectacular attack, it is usually quite easy to see that the measures enacted could not have thwarted those same attackers, if they had been in place at the time. The measures are insufficient for security - the attackers could still have pulled off the same result, with a few tweaks to the plan.

But no matter how obvious that conclusion might be if you think about it - it doesn't matter in practice, because people don't want to think about it. Stopping a real threat is not the point of these measures. The point is to create a greater appearance of control.

Highly-visible "security measures" - even if they are not really obstacles to a determined threat - do create the impression of a more secure environment. That's a good thing. That impression may even deter a few nuisance-level threats from attempting anything, since they see token measures are in place. Token measures are sometimes enough to deter low-level operators (the classic example is a bike lock). But again, that's not the real benefit or the real purpose. For most security measures, the main purpose isn't security. It's reassurance.

Reassurance is important. Sheep must be reassured that no matter how helpless we all truly are, in the face of a determined threat: at least something is being done. I say that speaking as a sheep!

Who doesn't like being reassured? I like long lines in airports. It's nice to see them make an effort, even if people can kind of see, "yeah...that's probably kind of pointless." But we can still feel good about it, because at least they're doing something. And not only "they" are - so are we! We're all sort of one team on behalf of security. We're organized and we hit our marks, we all go through the screens and controls and we're all on board with the program - we're part of the security team! We're all making that effort.

That's how I see it. I get enthused and I try to participate any way I can. I always try to pitch in to reinforce that secure mood. Anytime anyone grouses, I'm like "hey man, I feel more secure. Something is being done." If they start to object, naming off the various terrorist attacks and events that could swim right through these measures with no problem, I kind of lay back and offer minor responses and prompts, trying to maneuver the conversation so that he (and it's always a guy, too - what is it with testosterone?) accidentally says the word "bomb."

Once he says that, I can totally get him thrown out of there! Arm rigid straight in the air, wave a frantic hand, "Excuse me! Excuse me! Security! This guy just said the 'b' word!" Get that guy out of there, he's a security risk.

Grousers are the biggest security threat, because they destroy the illusion of safety for the rest of us.

Friday, May 14, 2010

Acting Reel Master Database: Episode 1

If Parker Lewis Really Can't Lose, He Should Have Gone Out For Sports


Fiction Friday Pt. 17: Oh, We're Counting Now?

Fiction Friday again, but guess what! This time, "Fiction" takes a walk on the "FACT" side!! On the backside of the fact-side. Oh yeah, I'm feeling it. Docu-style. Allow me to set the scene.

The time: RIGHT NOW. Actually, by the time this posts for you to read, RIGHT YESTERDAY.

The scene: Thursday afternoon/early evening. An office. Me. Typing at the keyboard.

"Aw, damn it!" he said. That would be me.

"Nothing's happening," he said very low, under his breath. "This Fiction Friday is going to SUCK, unless something happens!"

"A lot of the time, something pretty exciting does happen." He observed, hopefully. "Imagine the drama, if I can capture one of those moments 'on the fly'!"

Wait a second. He thought, in ternally. I don't need to audibilize everything. I can just think. But isn't that kind of stagey? Like narration? No, because it's literary. This is just kind of an "author omniscient" setup. I know what's going on inside the characters' heads, because I'm omniscient. I'm the author!

Man...I'd love it if someone would come into my office for a minute - I'd love to try that out. Omniscience. Sweet! I could know what's in their head.

I guess I could just sort of "write it that way." Make it happen how it would happen, in that scenario. But that would kind of breach the factual mode I've got going. What I really need is for something to actually happen.


oh shit gotta go sorry!


Thursday, May 13, 2010

Doodeloo #49:


Ew! Pt.2


There's one.

Got it.

Vigilance, folks.

Ew! Everything Is Covered By Germs.

Except me! No germs on me.

More Free Advice to Millionaires Who Don't Need It

Here's what should happen. All those bands with these interconnecting, incestuous lineups should tour together as their own festival. One stage, no set breaks, people just keep wandering on and off, and then as if by magic: change one or two people - it's a different band!

Start off with Soundgarden, play a few slammin' tunes, then some guys wander off and others wander on, "It's Audioslave people! Give it up for Audioslave!" Then one guy leaves and another guy walks on: "Rage Against the Machine, people! Give it up for Rage!" Next thing you know Cornell's coming back on stage with some other familiar faces, people are handing instruments around, "It's Temple of the Dog, y'all!" Then "Now it's Pearl Jam!"

And you could keep cycling through, just because you start with Soundgarden doesn't mean you can't have Soundgarden later on too! You just keep shuffling personnel, see what band results, play three or four songs and shuffle again. If you can work in the Velvet Revolver guys, that might get you STP and G'N'R as well. Well maybe not G'n'R. They're kind of off-theme, plus Axl's too big a prima donna to play a walk-on part.

I guess you could call it the Six Degrees Of Chris Cornell tour. Or something.

Wednesday, May 12, 2010

Never be embarrassed for somebody else.

Never be embarrassed for somebody else. They're probably not acting as they are to prove the point you think they're trying to prove, and they probably don't share the hang-up you have.

Name That Tune #15!

"The totality of my existence, I have awaited
this night, action will not be postponed
Hey wow, when we are together
Hey wow, the entire planet shall bear witness to the fact
that I am the one for whom you were intended
The totality of my passion, the totality of my making out
you can't properly appreciate these things you have not been having the experience of
Hey wow, when we are together
Hey wow, the entire planet shall bear witness to the fact
that I am the one for whom you were intended
Inarticulate mumbling, Hey Wow!
Inarticulate mumbling, Hey Wow!"

Questions will be posted each Wednesday at noon Pacific Time, 12pm. Submit your comments NAMING THE SONG that is being paraphrased. Answers will be posted at some point after 5pm. THE QUESTION REMAINS OPEN until a correct answer is posted! Once a correct answer is posted, scoring is closed.

Scoring is as follows:

First correct answerer gets: 1 point!
Tardy correct answerer gets: 0.3 point!

Tuesday, May 11, 2010

The Warning Signs of OCD

1. You begin to wonder whether you washed your hands already.

Don't do it! Don't wonder that - that's the first step down the road!

2. You're pretty sure you did wash your hands, but just to be safe you'll give 'em a real quick rinse off in the sink - you won't even use soap!

Who do you think you're kidding. That soapless rinse will torture your mind, and you'll be back at that sink within ten minutes, lathering up.

3. You start washing your hands for longer and longer periods of time, in hopes that the heavy-duty hand-washing will then impress itself better upon your memory, and you won't wonder about it.

See, you THINK you are combatting the onset of OCD here, by trying to shortcut the inevitable, recurring "hey, wait - did I wash my hands?" impulse. But really, by washing so extra-long and -thoroughly, you are just playing into OCD's scrupulously-clean hands. That's what OCD wants.

4. You find yourself making really detailed lists about your hand-washing.

Um. Let's pass over that one. That's self-explanatory.

5. You're washing your hands right now.

Hopeless. Helpless. I tried my best to help, but you're going to have to fend for yourself on this one, friend.

Sunday, May 09, 2010

That dude's just unpleasant.

Is it just me, or is the dude in the previous post really unpleasant? I feel bad for the guy, he looks like he's got problems or something, but I don't really want him right at the top of the front page like that either, so I'm going to type a bit.

Typey, typey, typey.

Or that might be more effective as,




Yeah, sometimes I'll draw something, and it'll turn out OK enough to post, but the more I look at it, it's kind of disturbing. But I can't take it down! That would be mean, I mean - I'm the one who created this poor dude. I can't just nix him out of existence because I find him unpleasant to look at!

I bet God has a lot of these kinds of moments.


He seems pretty happy! I like his cloud a lot. And his big, strangle-y hands!

Doodeloo #48: ...No Idea Who This Is...

...he looks really familiar, though.

Saturday, May 08, 2010

We Break Easy

I was just loving the video for New Order's "Crystal", and was about to post it on my blog, but I was suddenly gripped by the irrational fear of doing so.

I get these ridiculously-specific 1-time phobias, what the hell.

If I ever get over it, I'll post it up.

Meanwhile, here's their video for "Regret." The audio is disabled, so it's just a bit of silent-era dadaesque Hasselhoffian MTV Beach Party surrealism!


Quote of the Day: Cool!

"When I was young, I never thought young people were cool. I thought people who threw themselves into joy with abandon were cool."

Tough-Topics #18: WAR

Here's what I was thinking about, though, guys: war is kind of a waste of resources, isn't it? Bear me out! Hear me out on this one.

You always hear the cynic say how war is good for the economy. But is it really? Have these cynics really thought this through, what they are advocating, here?

I mean, let's look at how that works. You've got all these workers making weapons, and they get paid salaries and that's good. Point conceded. There's value in that. Then, you have your weapons themselves, and that's good. Those are valuable, right? Except no! They're only valuable if you don't use them! If you've got a bunch of them, weapons, ammo, tanks etc, then you have a bunch of valuable items. Good deal. They're valuable to keep, those are in your "assets" column. That's a valuable possession. Or if you sell them: that's a valuable transaction, and then you don't have to worry about it anymore.

But in an actual war, once you put all your material in the field it's just going to get all busted up, used up - it's going to really diminish the value of your holdings! A used tank, I mean - a brand-new tank, the second you drive it off the lot onto a real becomes worth much less. MUCH less. Financial analysts will back me up on this, never you mind the intricacies.

And half the time, you throw all this expensive hardware out there into the field, and it just gets trashed. So really war is like, in the final analysis it's just this really elaborate, expensive junk-carcass delivery system. A way to strew smashed-up junk all over some foreign zone. And then the locals have to clean it up and haul it all away. Which - OK, admittedly, that's good for the local economy. They may even be able to realize some profits from the scavenged steel and components.

See, it's a complex issue. Not every issue is so easy and clear-cut.

That's why these are the Tough Topics. That's my guarantee, I don't shirk from that.


Man, I have never been so psyched to go into work on a Saturday.


See previous post.

I Tell You, This Is Like, One Of My Favorite Songs!

I know; I know. I'm dating myself.

But hey, it turns out this is just the "U.S./Rock Mix". Ever hear the "Original U.K. Mix"? It SUCKS!!

It doesn't rock at all. Not one bit. It's so weird.

EDIT: Mel, thank you for giving me the link to this:

That's a clip of them playing it live, and the version they play is the ROCK version. WITH the guitar riff!

In my mind, this proves conclusively that the rock version is the real version of the song in the band's eyes, and the "original" version is nothing but a damn dirty remix that jumped the gun somehow. Probably a record company snafu. Some roomful of suits screwed up the release order. Hey, remember when there were record companies? Bands used to complain about them so much. You don't hear that so much now. I guess it's better without them!

Friday, May 07, 2010

Have You Always Wanted To Write?

Have you always wanted to write?

Then why the hell aren't you? It's not hard.

Maybe you're confused about the basics. "Writing" and "typing"? It's the same thing. People use the terms interchangeably. Nobody is going to hold you to some weird standard if you say you are writing, but really you're just typing. These days, it's just considered the same thing. It isn't one of those situations like where certain people will insist on "correcting" you when you use the term "album" to refer to a collection of songs not stored on a grooved vinyl disc. Those people are smart, but completely wrong on that point.

And it's the same with writing: except nobody's even going to correct you. Just go ahead and type! You don't need to worry about gripping that pen, and your hand cramping up. Just pound away at the keys, freely! Clump letters into words. String together words, in an order that approximates your thoughts. You're writing!

Ok? So just keep doing it. Serious. It's not that hard.

Have you always wanted to write? GET OUT OF HERE!! QUIT READING AND GO TYPE SOME WORDS, BUD!!!

A Fiction Friday Exclusive: Avast! The Dungeoneers!

"Why must you always be a pirate?" Ytnmal the Barbarian rumbled. Surly as usual.

"Arrrrh! It's me charactarrrr!" I replied. "Now I kick the dead body of the kobold guardian aside, and I open the rusted gate!"

The dim path continues past the gate, into the shadows of the Haunted Wood.

"Arrrh! Haunted means ghosts! Shiver me hearty timbers, ye scurvy bastards! Forward the Dungeoneers!"

"Maybe we should talk about this a minute. Strategize." Gwen was a powerful sorceress. Always trying to talk sense into the rest of us, in her alarmingly deep voice.

"I concur." Ytnmal took her side as usual.

"Arrrrh, 'I concur!'" I grumbled. "Fine talk for a barbarian!"

The gate clangs shut without being touched. The reverberations of the clang echo down the path, into the deeps of the woods.

"Arrrrh! The forest echoes! Bedamned spooky acoustics for a woods!"

"You should have held the gate," accused Father Pelwort. A holy man. Normally I don't truck with such as he, but his were the skilled hands of a healer - and he was damn handy in an emergency.

"Sorrrrhy, Fatharrh. Arrrh," I said, low and contrite.

"Someone - or some thing - heard that." Observed Nygynygnyg, the half-orc Elfish bowman.

"Get ready for an encounter!" said Ytnmal. "I pull my ringing bastard sword from its scabbard and brandish it two-handed!"

"Arrrh, and a fine sword for you it is!" I replied. "I sheath my cutlass. I'll wait and see whether what comes is friendly, arrrh."

The gate remains shut. Beyond the gate, the path is as still and silent as a tomb, strewn with motionless mist. Nothing approaches.

"Arrrh..." I began. The others all looked to me for elaboration.

"Just 'Arrrh.'" I concluded.

"I call a vote," said Ytnmal.

"Arrrh, democracy!" I enthused. "Hallmark of barbarism!"

"Quit it with the snide, Geoffrey! Always criticizing my character! Your pirate accent is a joke!"

"Arrrh, be not calling me 'Geoffrey', 'Ytnmal.'" My accent was ringingly accurate, my tone unconcerned by his baseless criticism.

"I'm sorry. It would help if you picked a less-stupid name!" rejoined the surly and uncouth barbarian.

"Arrrh, that shivers it! I draw forth me cutlass, ringing from me scabbard! Roll for surprise!"

"No fighting, guys!" interposed Father Pelwort. "We need teamwork if we're going to survive this adventure."

"Quit it you two, or I'll turn you both into shambling mounds!" Gwen the Powerful Sorceress raised her hand in a cramped, arcane gesture.

"Why would you turn them into something that could kill us?" queried Nygynygynyg.

"Arrrh, I'll stand down. I lower my cutlass."

"Wise move, pirate," Ytnmal glowered.

"Arrrh, your rippling thews persuaded me," I confessed. Ytnmal seemed unreasonably pleased by this admission.

A booming crack echoes up the path, from deep within the haunted woods. Then another, closer and with audible splintering. Something is coming up the path. Something too big to get through without violence to the trees on either side.

"Arrrh, defensive positions! I conceal myself behind the large, overhanging rock."

"I spring nimbly to the top of the rock and fit an arrow to my bowstring. Do my keen half-orcish Elfish eyes see the creature?"

Not yet. Obscured by foliage. From your vantage point atop the rock, you can see treetops thrashing in the forest's low canopy - the disturbance moving forward as the rumbling, cracking booms advance!

"I back up to the mouth of the glen and rummage my satchel, drawing forth the material components for the 'Hold Monster' spell!"

"I take a wide stance, brandishing my holy cudgel while muttering a quick benediction on us all."

The benediction is successful. +1 to everyone's saves.

"Arrrh, +1! +2 would be better."

Father Pelwort shot me a reproachful look.

"Sorrrrhy, Fatharrrh."

The booming and splintering draws nearer - less than a hundred yards off. There is a metallic shriek. Nygynygnyg, you can see branches and small limbs flung upwards from the canopy by the furious progress of the unknown entity!

"That thing sounds big. I sheath my bastard sword and ready my long, sturdy pike." Ytnmal was a versatile barbarian, always switching up his weapons.

You can all see it now, dimly glimpsed between the trees - not on the path at all, but a bit to the side - it's way too big for the path!

"What's it look like?" Nygynygnyg asked. To no one in particular.

It's too much to take in. Manlike in form - smooth, metal limbs, bolted and hinged. A single eye glowing like a furnace! Pipes jutting from its torso, whistling steam as it sunders and flings trees aside with jointed, clawed hands...

"A robot?" spat Ytnmal.

"Arrrh, it's a locomotive-man."

"I'm so sick of this steam-punk fixation, Garry! It's totally not appropriate to the setting!" Ytnmal protested.

He gets to be a PIRATE...!

"Arrrh, steady there Garry, piracy has been with us in all places and times!"

"Guys, it's an iron golem, okay?" Gwen the Sorceress interjected, exasperatedly. "This thing's going to kill us while we argue over whether it should exist."

"Oh," said Ytnmal. "Iron golem, sure. Okay."

"Ready yer weapons, me hearties!" I cried from my defensive position, behind the large, overhanging rock. "Charge the big, clumsy bugger!"

The rusted gate crashed aside with one swipe of the thing's spiked fist. With a grim battle shout, the five stout adventurers sprung into combat like a well-oiled machine.

"Forward the Dungeoneers!" I cried.

Thursday, May 06, 2010

Tough-Topics #17: Neo-Nazis?

Is that really a "Tough Topic"? Seems kind of clear-cut.

Really, I just don't understand neo-nazis. All this emphasis on ethnic distinctions that only build walls between equally-dispossessed groups of people - people who OUGHT to be banding together as allies, in the war against the real enemy!

Bad guys. The real enemy is: bad guys.

Tough Topics #16: A Prenuptial Agreement?

Everyone wants that lasting true love, right? That made-for-each-other, together-forever-and-never-to-part jazz. Sho nuff everybody does! Well, maybe not everybody, that's cool, I don't judge.

Anyway, when I get to that marriage stage here's how I envision it. First, get a prenup, and then if we divorced, it'd be like, (later on) "oh man, that was dumb - what'd we do that for, we're meant for each other! Let's get married again!"

And that's when I bring out the RE-NUP.

Tough Topics #15: Terrorism

Terrorists are fucking scumbags! Fuck them!

I hate those guys. FUCK YOU, TERRORISTS!!

Shit! Grow up, okay? You plant a bomb? Shit, man. Fuck.

Terrosists, their balls are defective. Cut off their balls, see if the problem persists. It's a medical procedure.

I mean, there are some women terrorists I am sure! So there may be other underlying causes as well. But I bet 90% of the time, we see that it's the balls. Not all balls, clearly - just some people's balls. They're defective, and the defect expresses itself in signals or chemicals or hormones or something to make the person think, "hey, I need to prove how tough a religion or ethnic subgroup or minority political faction I belong to! I need to prove this by killing actual people who I don't know!"

Shit man! No you don't! That doesn't prove anything, except that your balls are malfunctioning, and we need to cut them off for you. As responsible citizens of the world, there is our course of action. PERIOD.

End of discussion.

Tough Topics #14: Superstition

There is no Tough Topics #13.

Inspirational Business Quote of the Day

"Good management can take an intrinsically-flawed system that has been proven to fail in other settings, and make it work tolerably in yours."

Doodeloo #47: The Eye Of Love

The Eye Of Love

Wednesday, May 05, 2010

Venture Capital Cattle Call #1: Graveyard Aquarium Zoo

Okay, act now because I don't do this often. I just had a great idea, and now I'm throwing open bids for someone to come in and "load in" the front-end money, do all the work to make it happen, and give me a big, fat, commanding cut of the profits on the back end.

The pitch? Hold onto your hats for a whole new kind of attraction. You're sitting down, right? Here it is.

Graveyard Aquarium Zoo.

That's the name. That's what it's called. Great sound to it, right? "Hey, blue for the lack of something to do? Come on down to Graveyard Aquarium Zoo!"

I'll explain the concept. It's a winner. You build this whole complex, right? It's all laid out. Ample parking in three radiating lots. The aquarium and the zoo are situated orthogonally, with a big central building a bit behind and between them, to serve as a combination funeral home and deck of reception halls - suitable for weddings, bar mitzvahs, any event! Wakes. Even prom! And the whole grounds themselves would be a very spacious, well-designed, picturesque graveyard. Totally landscaped, divided up into large, gently "themed" areas. All the monuments would be well-integrated into the whole, and designed to be "of a piece" with the architecture of the zoo and the aquarium as well. With visual variety, of course! But artistic harmony. The graveyard would be what links the whole thing together. You'd have to walk through the graveyard to get to anywhere.

I stress: this whole complex would be built to spec. No cut corners. First-class all the way. It wouldn't be a case of finding a suitable graveyard to build an aquarium and zoo on top of! So hauntings would be absolutely not a problem. Also, all the people buried there would be happy to be buried there, so that double-nixes the unquiet-spirit angle. Who wouldn't love to be buried there? What a fun-loving place to be buried!

It's true, since it would open brand-new to the public, it would be some time before the graveyard really started "filling in." So that angle is a bit of a long-term investment, for the three integral aspects of the concept to really start firing on all cylinders, in unison. But something done right is worth the wait! And as people really fall in love with the whole Aquarium-Zoo angle (both of which, I stress: top-notch), as people get hooked and begin to go there many times loyally, what could be more natural than to want to be buried there? Right at the site of so many good times.

You can just about imagine the tv commercials!

And think about it. It would be perfect for funeralgoers. You book an on-site wake, and included in the package are free passes to both the zoo and the aquarium! Sometimes you need to take a breather, take your mind off it. Look at the pretty fishes. Or go see the caged lions! Meditate on the circle of life. There, it's not so bad is it? Death isn't so bad - if you can be buried at Graveyard Aquarium Zoo.

I guess if you're just there for the Aquarium, it might be kind of a bummer to be in the middle of whole throngs of grieving people. But even that, I think, would give you a pretty big jolt of zen perspective! Right?

How could it not?

Name That Tune #14!

"I'm the progeny and the inheritor of a meek nature that is commonplace to the point of illegality
I'm the progeny and the inheritor of nothing to speak of
Be silent! How dare you tell me that I'm doing things improperly?
I'm a person and I need to be the recipient of devoted affection,
Same as everybody else!"

Questions will be posted each Wednesday at noon Pacific Time, 12pm. Submit your comments NAMING THE SONG that is being paraphrased. Answers will be posted at some point after 5pm. THE QUESTION REMAINS OPEN until a correct answer is posted! Once a correct answer is posted, scoring is closed.

Scoring is as follows:

First correct answerer gets: 1 point!
Tardy correct answerer gets: 0.3 point!

This Post Is Liable To Suck

I'm kind of in a frustrated mode of mind right now and some damn hourglass is running forever and ever on my PC. And nothing I can do will speed it up or slow it down. So I'm going to type a stream of consciousness epic.

Blobba wobba dobba woo poo. Deepa doop dop. Reep dop a lop bop pop pkop.

Nah, too free-form.

How about this, I will write in another character. From within the perspective of a human being who isn't me. Hyper-realism.

My name is Susan. I am a female human being. I wear feminine clothes, such as a dress. It is surprisingly similar to being a male except less flap and dangle. The lesson learned: humans have more in common then the much-bruited gender divide would suggest!

That was a fruitful exercise. I will try another along the same lines.

My name is Daphne. My friends call me Daff! I am a female human being. I tend to wear jeans and shorts more than skirts and girly things. My breasts are a GOOD SIZE. I am not preoccupied with my breasts, because to me they are just part of the general and expected setup. It's perfectly natural I have breasts. I don't give it a thought. And let me tell you something, it doesn't occur to me to envy anyone's penis, either! Freud was just a weirdo as far as I'm concerned. The lesson learned: none. No lesson learned. Too busy living in the natural moment to set up questions and examine thought processes for some "answer." Lesson learned: sometimes its okay to just "be."

This is a good writing exercise. I'll try another.

My name is Kurk. I am a gay male. My identity is not overly wrapped up in such concerns as "straight-acting" or "gay-acting." My sexuality is simply a part of who I am. I am the ideal gay male.

This writing exercise is pretty awesome! I should figure out how it works and patent it. I'm developing well-rounded, complex characters off the top of my head! Maybe I can even use some of these for Fiction Friday. Down the line, I mean. This week's installment ("Avast! The Dungeoneers!") has already been written. Minor pre- and post-publication tweaks aside.

OK, now it's time to get a bit more creative with the exercise. I'm going to go a bit deeper this time.

My name is Stasholstus Vaer. I am a Wizard in the Harry Potter Universe, with all that muggle-struggle and backstory you're familiar with. I didn't go to Hogwart's. I went to one of the less-prestigious Wizard schools - like a Vo Tech, or the wizarding equivalent. However, despite that handicap I applied myself to the best of my ability, and graduated top of my class. I am a medium-powerful wizard. I'm considered a bit of a nerd in wizard circles, because of my enthusiasm for muggle culture. Particularly, my interest in the ways muggle culture sees and depicts magic. My wand is one of those stage-magician jobs, a slim black cylinder with a white tip. I dress in a top hat and tails, with a cape. I don't perform on stage! I don't do card tricks. No, I'm a full-on wizard, I just have this interest in the camp trappings of how the non-magical public sees magic. I'm part of a subculture that most wizards are embarrassed about. I am marginalized. I don't come into the story at all.

See?! Wow, that one was like the biggest one of all of them. Many more sentences.

This is a great writing exercise. Next time I'm stuck for something I'll try something like this.

Damn that hourglass. Still running.

Tuesday, May 04, 2010

Doodeloo #46: Spy Spy Spy Spy Spy Spy Spy Spy!!

what it's like

Ice cream is the last thing I need!

I do need it, though.

Maxwell Edison: A Study In Psychosis

It wasn't the indignity of being ordered to stay after class writing "I must not be so" fifty times, despite being a med student for Christ's sakes, that sent him over the edge. That's no justification for what he did. There is no justification for what Maxwell Edison did.

In the courtroom, the silver hammer was in evidence. Maxwell was a stealthy lad, as shown by his many crimes. He may even have been the sort or person who people just don't take much notice of - but however he managed it, he chose his moment and he acted. Were Rose and Valerie screaming from the gallery at some pre-arranged signal? Whatever their motive for the timing of their outburst, they created just the distraction Maxwell needed. He saw his chance, he simply grabbed exhibit "A", stepped nimbly to the side and crept around behind the judge.

Certainly in Maxwell's mind, the judge was his enemy. A delusion on the order of that which kept Maxwell Edison prisoner admits no shades of gray. No possibility that the person who inconveniences us may simply be a good person doing their job. No, as far as Maxwell Edison was concerned, the world was a drama that revolved around him and him alone. Everyone he came across either threw in with him, or was an enemy - to be dispatched. The bold self-assurance exhibited by an unbalanced personality of this type can exert a magnetic hold over those who lack a strong direction of their own. To Rose and Valerie, Maxwell was a bolt of certainty in a world of equivocation, of hem and haw. To Maxwell, his was the stature and power of a god; the silver hammer was his Mjöllnir.

But why Joan, Maxwell? Why did you kill Joan? She agreed to go out with you to the movies! What did she do to deserve to be senslessly murdered?

She did nothing. None of Edison's victims did anything to deserve to be murdered. Let's get this straight right straightaway.

Maxwell Edison was a psychopath.

Forcing Good Fortune

Tip: all you have to do is get the font right, and a few smiley icons, and a pair of scissors (or a paper cutter) and you can make your own fortunes.

The cookies, I have no idea. They don't look that hard, though. Ask someone who bakes.

Quote of the Morning, On the Brink of the Fray

"Fight the good fight, even if badly."


A lot of people have a problem with tits, or even with the word "tits." As a feminist, what I say overrules what they say, on the topic of tits. Unless of course we're talking women! A male feminist can't overrule a female on tits. Unless she's a non-feminist female, of course! But even there, maybe not. It's tricky. The heirarchy probably goes something like this:

Male non-feminist. I put this guy at the top as a nod to the hegemony of the dominant paradigm. This guy is the one who we like to call "The Man", oppressing us all with his damn patriarchy all the time. Still, potentially a good catch, and decent "husband material" if you can get him to bend his benighted ways. His views on tits pretty much set the tone for the male-dominated culture that he superintends.

Female non-feminist. The female non-feminist outranks the male feminist because even though it is her support and complicity that perpetuates the very patriarchy that keeps her under the heel of The Man, she cannot entirely be blamed for this. She's a woman!

Male feminist. Self-explanatory. Nobody cares what he thinks about tits.

Female feminist. Oppressed by all, reviled by all except the male feminist, whom she suspects just wants to "hit that." She is listed at the bottom, to signify the weight of oppression she labors under - both past historical oppression, and the everyday oppression that permeates the sociocultural matrix. You can ask her what she thinks of tits, but don't blame me for what happens.

So as you can see, really, it doesn't matter in the scheme of things what I think about tits.

I do think they're pretty great, though!

Monday, May 03, 2010

Facebook My Ass!!

There should be one called Assbook where everybody just posts their butts.

EDIT: OK, yes, there is already. And no: you shouldn't look.

Everything #4

Less-Than-Impressive Boasts #7

"Better watch yourself - one day last week, I wrote close to twenty poems. In a day. Mess with me, I might just stick you in a poem."

My Inventions Could Quite Easily Change The World

I was thinking how cool would it be to have a phone that could call back in time. That would be awesome! I bet you could figure out all sorts of uses for something like that. Of course, you couldn't call anybody earlier than Alexander Graham Bell. But you could sure give him a shock!

It would be pretty easy, in theory: you would have one button on the phone that would be the "time" button. It would have the time symbol on it (or the "time sign" - like the "pound sign," you know?). Press the time sign, then enter in the four-digit year, then a 2-digit month and 2-digit date, then four digits for time of day. It could be exactly that precise! Then you press the time sign again, and dial your area code and number as normal.

The only real practical difficulty would be: what symbol do you use for the time sign? I say just pick something graphic and arbitrary. The "power button" symbol of a partial circle cut from below by a vertical line, that doesn't look like anything at all! And look how quick it caught on. Now everybody knows what it means. So for the time sign, how about a triangle, with the infinity symbol inside? That says "time" to me.

So we've pretty much worked out all the practical details. All that remains is to figure out what revolutionary uses to put it to! An invention like this could change everything. Who would I call first?

I don't think I would call any girls. I mean like, previous girl-friends? I don't think that's going to translate into any advantage for me, really. What am I going to say?

I wouldn't want to call my past self, either. Too risky! I mean...I like my life. Whatever I say to my past self could change everything! Could throw the whole thing into jeopardy. I'm not about to risk my own personal space-time continuum satisfaction on some get-rich-retroactively stunt! No sale.

Hm. I need to think harder about this. An invention like this could revolutionize all sorts of things! It just takes a mind creative enough to see the applications.

I could totally prank-call some people! Total prank-call impunity, when you think about it. What are they going to do - trace the call to the future?!? Ha! Fat chance!

Yeah. That'll do for a start. I'm sure more stuff will occur to me later. If it does, I can call myself in the past and tell me now!

Phone's not ringing, though. Hm. Not sure how to interpret that.

Sunday, May 02, 2010

Less-Than-Impressive Boasts #6

"Anybody messes with me gets the BALLS. ...Right in their damn kneecap!"

Less-Than-Impressive Boasts #5

"I eat lightning and crap batteries."


So. Last month was Poetry Month, as you know. And I made a special effort. But I think I need to start taking an extra step throughout the year, as well. To put the spotlight on poetry. Because just like the Spirit of Christmas, the true Spirit of Poetry Month is something that needs to live in our hearts year round, or else really it doesn't mean shit. Right? Come on, that's the truth there.

So every month, I think I'm going to start doing a week-by-week critique of the previous month's poems (on my Poem-A-Day-On-Average Poetry Blog). Just to kind of give some highlights, track the overall progress, maybe call bullshit on a substandard effort, here or there. Sometimes it's not apparent right when you write a poem, whether it's good or bad.

Actually, I doubt enough time has passed to give me that kind of perspective on last month's poems - especially the ones I only wrote last week. But what the hell, I'll just pass over the ones that still leave me dumbfounded, and remark on the ones for which some definite opinion has formed. Enough preamble.


April 2nd's "prop" seems overly mannered. Perhaps this serves the theatricality of the poem's enclosing metaphor.

April 3rd's "the breakfast dishes" is just fun! I love it. There's a sense there of something else going on or wrong in the relationship, but you know, we'll deal with that after breakfast. Or not!

"if I fell from stars" from April 5 is a love poem. I really like it. It reminds me of this one, although very different things are going on.

"holding ten bouquets," from April 15, is a true story. I feel like the poem itself could be better. Possibly a candidate for a re-do, down the road.

"Ode to F'ing Spring" is just a fun little romp! I enjoyed this one very much. But somebody hated it! They clicked 'hurt', and they gave it a 1-star "I hate it" rating. Isn't that funny? Because - who could hate this? Who could be hurt? So now I feel this poem conceals deep and moving depths, perhaps elements of the hateful, the hurtful - of which I'd been previously unaware. It makes the poem that much more.

All of which makes me very glad that I put those ratings and reactions in!

"a shadow of wings" - I really thought this was going to be really good. Halfway through it, I could taste how good it was going to be. The overall effect of the finished poem is kind of a pale shadow of what I thought it would be. It kind of sucks!

"nine times the shine": what the hell does the title (which is also the first line) have to do with the rest of the poem?

I'm a harsh critic, I know. That's one reason I refuse to ever, ever comment right there on the poems themselves.

Shoot. I just realized, I'm not really breaking this up "Week-By-Week". Well, at any rate, I'm doing them in chronological order.

Anyway, I've reached the last mad rush to catch up to my poem-a-day-pace in April. I did close to 20 poems on Wednesday the 28th alone.

"trampoline" - I like how this one makes me sound a little like a dirty old perv! Hey old man, whatchoo writing poems about them girls on the trampoline for?

Hm. Just so you know, some of these poems I'm passing over without comment I really like a lot, I just don't know what to say. There are some tucked-in gems in there.

"another thing I never" - actually, I do want to find out what the hell they do at that installation up there.

"cake and eat it (a haiku)" - something that's always bothered me about that saying. And probably a lot of other people too, I'm sure!

"Der Murderer" - I love this one! He lives in a children's book German Existentialist world narrated by Werner Herzog. The people are ruled by their fear of this grim outsider; though he is one of them, he is not of their world. It is through their fear of him that he remakes their world in his image.

"I like" - this poem is an absolute mess. But it's almost completely redeemed by the part about helping old ladies!

"you'll use that dirty talk" - puerile.

"profile" - now THIS one is creepy. Stalkeriffic. It was originally titled, "There's Crazy People Out There On The Internet, People!" As a warning, too true, but as a title...that sucked.

"summer as usual" - I can't put my finger on what I like so much about this one. Is it the sense that beneath the surface, something has been bled dry? Or maybe everything's fine, and the summer sun just saps you out. Maybe that's it: the creeping sense that under it all, maybe everything's just fine.

But perhaps it should be better than just fine.

"the sky" - I thought this was clever at the time, but now it seems needlessly didactic.

"unpracticed art" - another true story. "Whoops!" The original title for this was "the mechanism's easy."

"mighty explorer, immortal, unknown" - there are WAY too many poems already about this same thing. This was right about the end of my "poem push." Everything after this was not to catch up, anymore - I'd already caught up.

"that kiss better be sincere" - the ending's a bit too neat, but I like the poem.

"frogs, myopia" - this poem kicks ass. This is the best poem I have ever done! It's about getting frogs to wear corrective eyewear. Awesome!

Of course, here's one where maybe perspective hasn't yet kicked in. I did only write it a few days ago. Still: "It would take...a Godlike Optometrist..."

The whole thing's poetry gold.

That's as good a place to stop as any!

Saturday, May 01, 2010

The Story of Passover

Normally I do my Sunday Theology God Post on Sunday. This week, I'm bringing it to the Jewish Sabbath. That's right: Saturday. Why? Because I want to focus on the Story of Passover. It's a beautiful story.

Why Passover? Why now? Well, I was getting some cream cheese from the fridge and I noticed on the box that it said: "See inside for Passover cheesecake recipe." So my first thought was pretty indignant. I'm not Jewish! What the FUCK do I care about PASSOVER? But then my second thought was to think back to my own Catholic heritage, and how we Catholics kind of regard the Jews as soul brothers (or sisters), owing to the similar emphasis on guilt as a spiritual motivator. We call Abraham our "father in faith." I remembered how we were taught all of those beautiful old Jewish stories, including the story of Passover, which as I recall, was quite beautiful - and so I wanted to share it (and its lesson) with you today. My third thought was: When exactly was Passover? How old is this cream cheese?

Hm. So in preparation for sharing with you the Story of Passover, I thought I'd better bone up on it a bit, using my handy dandy Readin' Bible. And you know what? I just skimmed through it a bit, just now, and I don't know what to tell you, but the story isn't really as beautiful as I recalled. Fuck it. Onward.

So apparently, the angel of God went to Egypt City to massacre a bunch of kids, but the Jews there massacred a bunch of sheep and put the sheep's blood on their door lintel. To this day, every door has a lintel - just in case that shit happens again.

I guess the sheep's blood was the pre-arranged signal: "no Egyptian kids here! Try the next house! Slaughter on, o angel of God!" Or maybe the angel saw the blood and just said "oh, this house is all bloody. I must have been here already."

I don't get it, though - aren't angels psychic? At the very least? Why do they need a bloody door lintel to tell them who the Jews are? I mean, not to put it overly delicately, but the hit list was composed only of first-born sons. Just check the kid's wee-wee, come on.

Anyhow, the Jews wisely put aside such questions and complied with the bloody lintel trick, and the angel of God "passed over" their houses while smiting the houses of the neighboring Egyptrialites with the Plague of the Death of the First-Born Sons.

The lesson to be learned is probably: don't fuck with God. As far as God's concerned, you're pretty much dead in the long run already - and let me tell you, those angels don't sweat the rough stuff one bit.

That's really the same lesson as much of the Old Testament! They really pound that one home.

This has been your Sunday Theology Post, a day early in honor of Passover. Now I better go check that cream cheese.