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Communique 9241

2006-07-15T05:51:00.000-07:00

Comrades.

Having slipped in during darkness and amidst some confusion caused by two smoke grenades shaped like tiny pheasants, and a carefully placed maelstrom on rye -- I arrived unnoticed and without comment from either the authorities or my neighbors. Neither the smoke grenades or the maelstrom were mine. As you know, our organization has no funds for such fripperies, but man oh man was that maelstrom nifty; I would thouroughly endorse getting a case or two of those babies.

For a pocket sized diversion -- one I am almost certain resided in the coat pocket of the demure nondescript man who for some reason carried a packaged Target three foot bookshelf and a motorcycle helmet as his carry-ons -- it proved immensly powerful in disrupting the security and general running of the airport in general. A Cinnabon was completely ravaged by a tiny monsoon of rain and lightning. Passengers were deluged, security forces tossed asunder, and pockets of rain and mist mixed with the clouds of pheasant smoke. It was awesome. The usually timid wildlife of the airport paniced -- proving there were far more jackrabbits, tree frogs, carribou, and screamer monkeys living secret lives in hidden away airport recesses than was previously considered. The airport filled with an enticing melange of rain, wind, the chirping of tiny frogs flying air currents, and the high keen of bemoaning Cinnabonsters being trampled by befuddled carribou. Pushing against the rain and the occassional frog blown against my head, I made my escape.

My driver of course was late. He also proved exceedingly chatty for someone who was going to drive an anonymous someone else to an anonymous secret cave in exchange for currency covered in complex scribblage and anti-counterfeiting measures. I tried to dose him with mescaline hidden in a tiny vial of scotch -- but he refused the delectable airline treat, as well as the honey peanuts like they were rabid pirranah (for which they are such indeed) -- leaving me no course of action but to blather unceasingly for five minutes on my personal theories about the invention of bumpercars and their imminent salvation on society, godliness, and high culture. Never letting him get a word in edgewise, I finished my tirade with a gulp out of the tiny bottle and pushed a tiny rag of cloth down the bottle neck. We didn't talk much after that, but I left him the miniscule molotov on top of his dashboard as a tip when he dropped me off.

Everything possible had gone wrong with the cave in my absence, which is to say that it all looked perfectly fine. It may have moved slightly to the right because I keep walking into the walls -- but that may be my failing eyesight. The cat says hello. I've received a few packages, including the large box I sent myself from the Massachewsettsian Wilderness, and a lovely birthday gift from Aunt Silvie. She sent me a nice new teacup from Japan and a pair of slightly bent assault missiles. They are cheap there, but you pay the price in shipping. I misdoubt they would explode something awful if actually fired, so I painted them light blue with adorable little children scampering around the sides. From far away the children make patterns of screaming skulls. I've put them out on the veranda for conversation starters, but none has done yet stopped by.

Hence, y'all can see that things have settled down here in Tree Vestibules. Had our big barbeque last weekend and all agreed I am the new very best barbequer -- so's I am as to take on now said role so long as we all breath non irradiated air and camper above the verdant green of our comely lawns. I've resumed my quiet contemplation of my toes as ordered -- though they have yet to do anything exceptional. The wait continues.

Wahiki Kylez an his Hummin Wombatz are a comin' to your town!

2006-05-28T15:11:00.000-07:00

Exciting News for all you fans!!
Wahiki Kylez and all 17 of his Hummin Wombatz have added 6 extra cities to their upcoming summer tour schedule!

Buy your tickets now!!!**,

**cause Wahiki Kyle, Tom Petty, and Suzanne Vega are all planning to release a virus they discovered which discombobulates all the stupid fucks in the world and renders them into inert dust. We will be releasing this virus worldwide sometime around when we damn well feel like it. If you can knowlcdgeably discuss Italio Calvino, Nabokov, Douglas Adams, Literature, Visual or Classical Arts, Theatre, Cinema, Anthropology, Sociology, and both the sciences and humanities -- that kind of stuff, you probably have nothing to worry about. Unless you are a stupid fuck. We vehemently support those of you who are intelligent fucks -- you are the ones who keep things interesting and actually try to IMPROVE our lives. What a concept. It's just that all those stupid fucks have to go.

New Tour Dates:

March 29 - June 3, Pittsburgh, PA

June 3 - June 14, Cary, NC

June 14 - June 21, Northampton, MA

June 21 - June 24, Bumfuck, KA

June 24 - June 27, Emerald City, OZ

June 27 - June 30, Ahkalahkatuki, HA

Getting One's Collective Asses in Gear

2006-05-08T14:48:00.000-07:00

Right-

Now many of you have already read Messr. Drivler's tale of how he has come up with about 3 or four stories, novels, novelas, and finally a Jaysus Vampire story -- all to avoid finishing a sleavy quick and dirty sci-fi story to send off and perhaps get published.

And he has written a very long blog indeed -- while carefully leaving out some of the good bits. So I thought I would provide some of my juicy bits and leave out stuff he can later complain about. Fair is fair.

First, both of us have been in sort of a quagmire. We both had "novels in progress" that we really weren't working on much at all. Basically we were doing a bunch of THINKING and then calling eachother to talk about what we had done thunk. Neither of us were sitting down at the computer except to maybe post a blog out of guilt.

So Messr. Drivler and I made a blood pact. We both acknowledged that we needed some kind of set "assignment due date" to get us off our asses. So we would set dates for both of us and hence, goad eachother into writing by gore and by golly. I was bleeding a little bit from the back of my right eye anyway, and Drivler tried to cut off his toe at work when he kicked a stuck rolling door roller that was giving him sass about his crappy shoes.

We both agreed to pick something we had already written or were writing and the publication we would be sending it to by April 15th or so. These works would then be exchanged for comment and edited for two weeks, then sent out for submission on May 5th.

Drivler announced he would be submitting his Prayer For Judgement Blog. I waited until the last minutes befor the 15th was officially over to select my prose poem "Blend."

I felt bad because I felt "Blend" was already done. I had finished it for my MFA, read it at my sad MFA reading, and felt it was good enough to just send off to some poetry mag as is. Drivler was the one who had a longer piece to work with. Poetry over prose sometimes wins that way.

But once we exchanged works we both found they needed more work. Drivler immediately gave me excellent feedback on the first 5 lines of my poem, plus a few pages more on the poem overall. I mentioned a few things about tone and voice while reading his over the phone and this seemed enough to daunt him as to how much work he still had left.

So a few days later Drivler suggested we do something "else" if we wanted to. I said I might try writing a short detective story and he pronounced he would pick a book at random from his shelves and turn it into Sci-Fi. You'll notice some of the titles listed are ones Mr. Drivler neglected to include. Including my favorites which I have asterisked:

- The Giving Tree (in Latin) **which I had given him.
- The Writer's Way by Jack Rawlins **I think Jay would have loved it.
- The Sun Also Rises by Hemmingway ** My favorite sci-fi novel ever!
- Thesaurus
- The Left Hand of Darkness by Ursula K. LeGuin
- Cause Celeb by Helen Fielding
and many other funny picks of philosophy, literary theory, trash literature, phonebooks and the like.

Obviously these did not work.

Then came Drivler's idea to look at some of the old Sci-Fi he had already written. Thus came two stories: The Brain in a Vat story, and his Jesus is a Vampire story.

I had ultimately decided on trying out for a short flash competition that a "What IF" magazine was running. So I hit on the idea of submitting my Walt Disney Story. What if Walt Disney had never invented Mickey Mouse after his Oswald the Rabbit cartoons and cartoonists were stolen from him? In my version he goes into advertising and invents the 1 minute advertising cartoon shown before feature movies. He makes himself and the companies who hire him millions. He ensures car companies like Moon, Cord, Duesenberg, Graham, and many others stay in business. After the war he promotes multiculturalism and showcases something very like Epcot in the 50's around the world. By the 60's monorails are in most cities, alternative fuel cars are everywhere, and the entire world has changed for the better politically. No Korean or Vietnam wars. Less smog, more popular embracing of youth culture, etc, etc, etc.

This story was promptly sent out on the morning of May 5th. Messr. Drivler purports that he always misses due dates but makes them up a few days later. So we shall see. As soon as I post this I will be giving Messr. Drivler a call.

Back in Black

2006-05-05T15:43:00.000-07:00

Howzah!

Masta M.C.A. in da bloggy blog to announce the resumption of soul, benificent mojo, and masterful mind work of the one and only. I am, due to an enforced mental rest and the calm soothing sculptural rythms of a couple pharmacuetical cuties, back to a frame of mind I haven't enjoyed since, well, since most of you hoopy froods left the sad shores of Chico and I just . . . hung around until the body and mind gave up.

But May hath burst forth and washed all that SHITE away! Lemmee hear an UH HUH!

Step one: The mind is sublime and back in action. Without that no amount of nothing external will keep you going. The mind still needs a little tuning here and there -- but I now done got sum mental mechanics to help me work that all out. The point now is that I feel good. Even HAPPY. About myself, life, and etc.

People still suck, but they always have and will; same with the vagaries of life. I have some serious stuff going on with the eyes. Other health is being watched, and so are the eyes. We done be doin what we can. In the meantime I am ready to LIVE, and enjoy living.

This return to self hath resulted in making things more positive. I miss my friends, I always wanted to travel, Fuck it -- I'm gonna travel to see yall on the East Coast. Travel plans are in the works.

Not thrilled with current apartment, but it really isn't that bad. I can live here for a few months, a year or so until I can move into something bigger. In the meantime I have an apartment close to my folks and family, close to the beach and Trip for the summer, AC that can be cranked as cool as I want, access to about three pools, and enough storage to keep all my stuff in boxes where I can get to it.

So I improved things in my abode to make it all it could be:

1. Set up the balcony to be an inviting place to just kick back and enjoy the breezes or the night air. Adding some nice cacti, hanging suculents, an all-weather carpet, and a cheap wood side table to be used as an automann make the whole balcony feel like a welcoming fresh air living room. This will distract visitors from the entire inside of the apartment that displays an obsessive compulsion to read and own most of the known printed works in the galaxy, as well as possess an entire video store of dvds, plus a hole extra warehouse of toys, antiques, fripperies, goo gaws, and cool shit.

2. Make the experience inside as exciting as possible. So get satellite TV. Now you will have 100's of channels of crap to watch 24 hrs a day. All the South Park and Family Guy and bad MTV shows you can stand. And as an added bonus -- premier movie stations that endlessly show the same damn fucking crappy movies you avoided in the movie theaters and have avoided renting the DVD as well. I'd say the adult channels were nice, bt those don't come with my basic basic poor boy sloppy second service plan.

3. Get a decent sized LCD Wide Flatscreen TV so you can actually see your widescreen movies in something other than regular 13" fourinchavision. Fourinchavision really really sucks, even if you have working eyeballs.

Now the apartment is much more livable. But it was essential I do two more things.

Get the cat some more of those sushi cat toys so she can run around the house like she is on crack.

AND

Submit a creative writing story to a magazine for the first time in two years. Brand new story written in a week, and sent off on the Cinco de Mayo. Boo Yah!

Holy Blogshite Batmench!

2006-04-23T00:27:00.000-07:00

O.K. Folks-

A number of weeks ago I wrote a little snarky blog about people not responding to my blog -- and got at least one suprised response from a reader who was justifiably upset because he had in fact just responded to a previous post. I know people read my blog, it just seems that they have no response, or can't think of a response to what I write.

Being in a MFA must have honed my ability to pull something out of me in response to another's written work. Much like a creative writing workshop, I try really hard to post at least one blog a week; and now two since I have a second blog where I just complain about stuff and say how I would do it better. At the same time I work hard to check all my friend's blogs and make a comment of some length to all of their blog postings. It's a two part contract; write something every week, and respond to other's work every week. They provide their own material every week for my commenting, and in turn, give feedback on my own work.

With my eyesight this has become more difficult, so I've taken to doing this all on Saturday night between ten P.M. or so until one or two in the A.M. of Sunday morning. So I check out my own webpages. No comments. I check out my friend's blogs and Monstro has posted SEVEN blogs since I last checked. Motormouth has posted SIX!!

This week you guys will just have to put up with a commercial break while I catch up with everyone else.

_____________________________________

Buy the new
jay sea andthe mcdowell trio cd
in stores this week!!

TVTastic!!: At Long Last, Lyrics to Lyric-Less TV Theme Songs.

Featuring: The A-Team, Magnum P.I., Barney Miller, Cosby, NightCourt, Law and Order, Simon and Simon, Get Smart, Airwolf, Night Rider, StarTrek Voyager, and The Rockford Files.

Available at Licorice Pizza Records, Groovy Frood Media, and Targe' stores for $14.99.

Treebeard Gets Some

2006-04-15T17:29:00.000-07:00

Gteetings Buckaroos --

In celebration of Monstro's great love of Brokeback Mountain I spent a little time avoiding the movie completely and instead worked on his Obliterator -- which I had originally planned as his Birthday Present, but that has now long gone. Even months later I am ashamed that "as yet unnamed" is only at a point where he is up on his legs, but really only 3/4 finished. I decided to let him stretch his legs for a bit amidst the beautiful scenery I "won" on EBay.
Besides, Treebeard was fogging up the glass in my display case.

Stick A Needle In My Eye

2006-04-09T15:47:00.000-07:00

Heyallunz-

Just thought I would give you an update on the eyes. This Saturday I had the dubious joy of undergoing an Avastin Intravitreal Injection – which is a fancy way of saying they stuck a syringe in my right eye and injected some medication to try and clear up some of the hemorrhaging that has been going on since December. They can’t laser the tear in one of the blood vessels until the blood has cleared up, so here’s hoping the medication works and I will have laser surgery # 6 on my right eye soon.

This time was not too particularly bad. I mean yeah, who wants to have a needle shoved in their eyeball, but the laser surgeries haven’t been what you would call fun. They set me up in a nice comfy chair, where I was lying flat with a little folded up towel pillow supporting my head. I brought along the iPod so I could listen to a little relaxing music – which ended up being “Take Five” by Dave Brubreck. So they dropped a lot of antibacterial and numbing drops in my eyes, and let me lie there for about 15 minutes while I kept my eyes closed and just listened to the music. Then they popped in and had me open both eyes and look to the left where the nurse was standing. Doc Literature/Computer games said I could check her out as much as I wanted. Then they clamped on one of those metal eye openers they used in “A Clockwork Orange” and shoved the needle in. Whole thing took less than a minute really.

And it wasn’t painful at all afterwards. The numbing drops did their stuff. Mom drove me home so I could lie on my back for two hours as suggested, and then there was just this big black spot floating in my right eye all of yesterday. As you can see (and I) the spot cleared up this morning and there seem to be no complications.

Which leaves me with a vast new vista of lying as much as I want to. I can eat a hot bananna pie, and have already shown I have little difficulty shoving a needle in my eye or thigh.

Ta Da!!

2006-04-05T14:14:00.000-07:00

Hola muchacharinos-

I am pleased to announce the latest addition to my homestead: Frank. Frank weighs approximately 200 pounds and enjoys sitting around waiting for someone to walk by so he can trip them with an outstretched foot. Sort of a pain, but then Frank is rather monochromatic. He/it/she has yet to decide on a gender, although its almost singleminded determination toward exercising does strike us all as rather male. Its not his fault that he/she/it only sees things in black and white -- that's how the company painted it. But I am very glad to have invited his recumbent exercise bicycleness into my life none the less. I was fortunate to have found him in the local goodwill store for a mere $175, instead of the $700+ I was saving up for to have essentially the same machine actually delivered, and setup for an additional $100 service charge. Frank only required one of the nice ladies working there to call up her two grandchildren to help move him for free, and another nice lady to let us shove it in her minivan to deliver it in about 3 minutes flat.

So not a bad deal at all, and all of you can stop bitching at me for bidding on stuff when I should be buying an exercycle. I mean it! Stop it! And stop leaving Playboy Centerfold images lying around for me to stumble over. We just read that maqazine for the article on Graphic Novels. Leave the Libido out of this. And stop wondering why men keep saying they only read magazines like Playboy for the articles and why women don't say the same thing about PlayGirl. Is it that the articles aren't as stimulating? Why are you beating yourself up for never having read a PlayGirl? Is there something wrong with you? Is there something wrong about not wanting to, or in the very notion that you should be reading PlayGirl?
Man you are fucked up. How the hell do I get out of my own head?

2006-04-01T23:03:00.000-08:00

Feelin Groovalicious

Heyallunz--

The past week has been an interesting, if not rather unproductive one. To begin with I started re-using my old insulin (Lantus and Novolog) rather than the old old insulin (70/30) that I had been using since high school. This was obviously no longer working for me, but the Diabetic RN had thrown up her hands in frustration and failure to get the "new" Lantus and Novolog to work. So for about a month and a half I went back to using my old 70/30 that didn't work because the new Lantus and Novolog didn't work.

So I found a new doctor. Who listened to my entire story, looked over my very complete records that list all dosages and blood sugars and carbs for going on 9 months now -- and then demanded that I start using the Lantus and Novolog again. Fuck. He did come up with a brand new dosage scale for me to try. The fact that it is making me sick and miserable doesn't bother him. I'd really like for the ability to force a doctor to live in my body until they get things right. Trying things out and seeing if they work doesn't affect them -- I'm the damn one who has to deal with the crap that ensues while they are unavailable for emergency calls on the 16th hole.

This time they distracted baby with a shiny new toy. My new Novopen holds a little vial of insulin inside it that doesn't need to be refridgerated. You just screw on a little syringe cap with the needle and inject on the fly. Sort of a junkie's "syringe kit" for Diabetics. So I've been having fun with that.

Saw my Grandparents and my visiting Aunt and Uncle on Monday when we all went out for some excellent Mexican lunch. Then we all went back to the house to talk for a couple hours and enjoy some sinful Lemon Jello Cake. It was wonderful to see everyone and my Uncle promised to send me a "MonkeyMail" when they got back home. Apparently it is a realistic chimpanzee that is animated in various costumes and will say whatever you type in a preselected voice, or whatever you record yourself. Will let you know how that works out. My uncle also promised me a few selections from his vast hawaiian shirt collection -- including the much sought after official "Magnum PI" shirt. Aparently the shirt will not be coming with the Ferrari, nor a personal Higgens. Still; too too cool.

I've also had some delightful calls from all of my friends including the mysterious and difficult to track down Trip. Quite a few of my conversations with Monstro centered around the auction of some trees on Ebay. An auction which I was quite delighted to win this Friday. Not only did I get some phenomenal pieces for my wargames, but I ended up getting them for quite a deal. It's quite a bonus that I ended up insulting/angering/perplexing the artist himself -- who seems bent on trying to give his work and hard labor away. We've talked it out and basically agree to disagree. We both understand the other's point of view but refuse to accept it. So now I have a forest about to be shipped to me and am forbidden to ever bid on any of Monstro's terrain again.

Friday and today were also phenomenal in that I finally finished taking all the pieces of my dresser out of its box that has been occupying the back seat of my car for two weeks. Not only that, but I put both the dresser and the bookcase together. So I'm feeling very cocky and full of pride at my manly workmanship.

That may be from the leaking gas fumes though. Once again the cheapo stove that has broken twice before is acting up. It broke a few weeks after I moved in and I had to go two weeks without it right during Thanksgiving. They replaced it with the same exact model of stove. Then that stove started leaking gas in February. They replaced it again with supposedly a "good" stove. Apparently the second stove was a factory reject. I was assured this new third stove was good and guaranteed. Now it is broke too.

I told the apartment manager on Wednesday that the stove was broken. She sent out maintinence guy to check it out. He found nothing he could fix so he said he would tell the manager and she would get back to me. I wait until Friday with no word, and go in to pay my upcoming rent and to ask what's going on.

"Oh, yeah. I talked with my supervisor about it and she says we can replace the stove with the next higher model at our cost. But you have to call the Gas Company for them to check out the lines and then write a note for us that says the stove is to blame and what we might be able to fix or try doing before we can order a new stove for you."

Fuck. And you couldn't call me and let me know I had to do this so I had a snowball's chance in hell of actually getting someone to come out and write said note in time for me to give it to you before you close early on Friday afternoon? So I had the Gas Company come out and look at all the lines and the stove as well. Then they wrote me a nice little note that says the stove is to blame and it might be the regulator. Of course this wasn't until 6 P.M. And the rental office is closed on the weekend. So on Monday I have to go by the office and give them the note and find out how many days its gonna be before they actually order the damn thing and it gets delivered. In the meantime the cat and I are breathing gas.

Oh yeah, and some fuckin yutz got ahold of my credit card number off the internet early this week (although I haven't bought anything for weeks). My bank caught it and cancelled the card; then sent a very nice letter explaining what had happened, and that a new card and pin number would be sent to me. Well the card came, but the pin number hasn't. So I can't activate the card. It's moot anyway because you can only activate the card during Monday thru Friday from 8 A.M. to 5 P.M.

And the Gas Company is charging me twice for last month's gas bill. So I have to print up a copy of the signed check and prove their records suck.

And I have this terrible pain in all the diodes down my left side.

And there's a yippeeyuck stuck to my big toe.

And I dreamed that G.W. Bush was willing to give me 5 million dollars tax free -- but I would have to allow my picture taken shaking his hand.

For Your Additional Edification and Delight

2006-03-25T23:03:00.000-08:00

Greetings yall-

Thought I would invite you all to check out my secondary blog of profundity at:

If I Only Had The Power.

Chicken Little

2006-03-25T21:34:00.000-08:00

Bonjour mon amis-

Miz Lynn has requested that I turn my consideral profundity and wisdom towards a review of the latest Disney movie to hit the DVD scene -- i.e. the movie Chicken Little.

Now I can say with no equivocation attall that this is a quite excellent animated movie. By all means you should watch it, as well as the credits and various added features. There is the consideral hoo rah about the use of 3-D animation in Pixar-like, or Dreamworks fashion rather than traditional Disney cell animation. Unfortunately those days are gone. But the 3-D really allowed these animators to do some phenomenal cinematic work. There are some intensely well done night scenes with beautiful "lighting," and 3/4 views that are just exceptionally done. It is a beautifully visual movie.

The basic thing comes down to heart. And this director and team have it in spades. It is a lot of fun to watch them joking and rushing around in the extra stuff. Plot: very well done. There are some expected moments of predictability, but the action is fast and tight. Sight gags and little funny bits in the background are well worth rewatching and using out your pause button. I think the movie really combines the best aspects of a fast paced "Who Framed Roger Rabbit" with the very best of the old Friz Freleng Wily E. Coyote/Roadrunner cartoons.

Characterization is exceptionally well done. An excellent cast of characters, and the voicework is a kick. Have a good time checking out the voices.

They also learned from Dreamworks and used the element of popular songs interwoven into the movie -- a.k.a. "Shrekstyle." Hence, the "musical numbers" mixed throughout the movie are on the whole quite enjoyable and delightful. Enjoy rocking out during the credits and watching the little Pixar bits that go on along the sides. Bare Naked Ladies do an excellent job with the movie's title song and sequence. One or two songs are a bit over the top -- but it is acceptable for a Disney Film. Cute but not too overdone.

I am also a big fan of the introduction sequence the producers and director eventually decided on. I really advise yall to check out the extra stuff and see the THREE different rejected sequences though.

I say three because there are the two excellent ones, which include a very nice nostalgic Don Knotts voice-over, but also a variant of Chicken Little as a girl. Finding this intro takes some work, but you can find it in the Extras for Kids section if you look hard enough. I find the idea of a female lead character very appealing. Damn it we needd more strong female heros. I mean the movie is good with a male protagonist, but one must wonder what we lost when they finally decided to nix a female as lead. When they said Michael Eisner was the one to blame I cursed his foul hide once again.

Ner'theless the whole DVD rocks. I was somewhat apprehensive about the music videos but the Cheetah Girls video was actually better than watching the Barenaked Ladies. Studio sessions are sometimes fun to watch, but dammit, I wanna see the actual guitar solo whilst it is being played. I know, I know, gotta "save" your guit box skills from being stolen, but it still pisses me off.

I even found the previews watchable for one single bit. The preview for "Cars" actually had the one single funny bit from the movie I have seen so far. We'll see if prolonging it's release until the summer is worth it.

So this is me signing off until the next premier. Leave the hottub and naked lady section of the theatre open for me.

Working Out and Feline Fine

2006-03-18T21:39:00.000-08:00

Hiya Folks-

Now I take my little bloggy blog quite serious since it is the ONLY creative writing outlet I have these days. I'm really not writing stories or much of anything due to my lack of sight. Hard to see the words when they are overlaid with a floating multi tentacled waving and drifting red octopus. So I save up my writing ability and not incidently, my READING ability for those few times a week I go online to see what my bloggy friends have posted on their own sites and that one time around the weekend when I summon up the strength to post some long well-considered bit of profundity. This keeps me mentally alive you see.

Yes, many of you contact me on an almost daily basis to discuss your lives and to share your brilliance -- that and to check up on my own struggles against the mighty evil that is So Cal Kaiser Permanente. And I love those calls. I really look forward to them and exhult in them whilst they last. I'm still giggling over the concept of choosing the top ten Maytag Appliances you would want with you on a desert island. But these blogs of ours are a wonderful, TANGIBLE, weekly delight for me. I peruse from one friend's site to another, reading each blog slowly and carefully, savoring each word by word through the octopus.

And then I comment -- almost always on each blog posting -- whether there be one or five in that week. I type word by word through the octopus on everyone's blog at least a little paragrah or so to show my true full appreciation. And then I go to my own blog, as rapturous and excited as a goyem child on Candle-Maus, to see what these wonderous people have written in reponse to my own blog posting last week.

And I find ... well, I believe I shall be kind and not comment on the non commentation that does not happen. After all, my friends have busy busy lives to live whilst I do my best to exist day-to-day as best I can. The bountiful comments that are on my blog serve to keep me going.

Miz Lynn is always the most gracious of commentors, being as she is so very busy with the grub and his son. There is the ever-exhausting world of cat rassling; her ongoing charity work for extremely confused and underdressed Hawaiian tourists who wander completely beffuddled through the snowy woods of Massachusetts, flapping their arms, ruffling their colorful plumage, and calling out to each other in their beautiful, hauntingly poetic cries of "WHY IS IT SO COLD?!!!!" "WHY IS IT SO COLD?!!" This as well as her dynamic web publishing skills, expert culinary annaversarial cabonacation technique, and taking care of the grub and his father. But she still summons forth the most enthusiastic responses to my blog posts. It is so very much appreciated. Like little presents just waiting for my return.

So too are the wonderful responses of Monstro, who daily struggles against the vapid untaught souls who have wandered somehow into the classroom of an excellent, dedicated teacher for the first, and mayhap, only time in their sad little scientific CSI lives. It's continually a wonder that he successfully lives the ultimate heady life of a grad student: teaching, surviving the PhD grist mill, raising the family, and embarking on a future in 200 accurately strange, but incredibly cool, Twisted Sister model miniature bits, I understand how rare it is to even have a moment of time to post multiple blogs, let alone responses from him that actually get typed.

We all hail Drivler, who to his credit, calls me on the phone most frequently to my great delight. After all, who can blame the man when he can rarely slog his way to the computer after an exhausting day shipping huge packages of illicit whale sputum aphrodisiac to an unnameable third world Dictator. And then to drive the North Carolinian roads with Mountain Dew and Bluegrass addled mountain hicks trying to juggle the complex mathmatics of controlling both their chaw of tobacco and a three ton pickup with a "Love Jesus. He likes it on top!" bumpersticker on its behind. He too, then does his expert best in the fatherly realm. Musician, Novelist, Blogger, and Expert Napper. I know for a fact that he has piles of written work ready to post on his own blog, and responses to others if only he could make it to the sad, unhappy computer that he must use instead of his beloved laptop. . It is inconceivable that commenting on my own blog with even a word, much less a decent pararagraph is feasable once a week from such a diety.

And finally there is Weight Loss Expert who felt it was absolutely neccessary to respond to my last blog with the news that he knew about, "The best gift you can give your dog!" Moreover, he even gave me a link so that I may, "Get the #1 selling K9 Training Manuals!"

Now I don't have a dog, but surely such an august company would also have a Weight Training program for cats as well, so I went off to see what I could find. The Koshkat, as do I, could certainly do with some help in this manner. So I called up my local dealer and they sent a delux kit to my humble abode right away.

What arrived five days later, $499.99 paid on delivery, was a very heavy and large box. I unpacked it to find a number of brightly painted kitty dumbells; a gallon tub of emu-flavored "Felicitous Feline FabulizerTM" which I was supposed to sprinkle into her food; a complicated series of pullys, elasto cords, and weights attached to a large leather collar and two leather cuffs on one end, and a tiny set of four leather cuffs and a leather collar on the other; and an illustrated instruction manual that explained the ten exercises I and my cat were expected to do to "maximize the stretching power within our conjoined and combined limbs."

The instructions stress that it is vitally important to get into the "Katilyzer 2000TM" first so that the cat can see me within its embrace and feel comfortable and free to join me on the other side. Unfortunately I have yet to successfully negotiate my long narrow hall and the doorway of my bedroom to see if she will come out from under the bed.

Eyve Got It

2006-03-11T18:14:00.000-08:00

Hey’allunz—

A medical blog this week I’m afraid. That tends to happen when every day of the week you are scheduled for multiple meetings with doctors about various ailments beflicting oneself. So the mind does tend to focus on ze medical woes. But I am in good spirits and feeling better, so it is all to the good. Most of you know I am recuperating from the latest eye surgery -- Number six in fact, but this one was the first on my left eye. All went well, and as you can see I am up and about and able to type and read and see.

Most of my time has been spent in waiting rooms watching a vast stream of other beflicted patients wander by in a sort of parade of ailments. I've been presented with rather a large assortment of handicapped accessories – wheelchairs, walkers, canes, casts, and the odd eyepatch. So few of them are more than utilitarian stainless steel or the de facto black in the hopes that no one will notice this extra steel appendage one is affixed to. At all costs we must look normal you know. Acceptable for the public eye.

Which is why I rather rejoice when I see those too too few who have gone to the trouble to personalize their accessory – to make it a fashionable extra to their personalities and attire. It reminds me of that old Bloom County cartoon where the good crew of the starship Interpoop are off to buy their captain Cutter John a new wheelchair. The plaid-cast salesperson proudly shows them the newest model which has the extra option of mauve armrests. The crew are justifiably horrified that this is the limit of personalization allowed by the corporate shills and are told that “a wheelchair is not a vehicle for personal expression!” The crew responds by building their own wheelchair out of a huge comfy Lazy-Boy recliner on racing slicks with Mag wheels. Opus points out that the missile launcher is under the refridgerator.

If I ever have to use a wheelchair this is the one I would want. Although it would never get through doorways and would be utterly useless in the real world. Damn real world.
However at least in the real world there are a few options for those who are forced to wheel around. My friend Alan, who was afflicted with bone marrow cancer, was awarded a “Quickee II” wheelchair in any color of his choice. Alan, being the sick twisted wonder that he was, chose the most god awful lime green puke color he could find just to weird out the norms.

The new design run of walkers, chairs, and canes is for those nice brilliant metallic colors. Bright burgundy seems to be the norm, but I have seen the occasional metallic green or orange, and even blue. Very festive. Like choosing the color of your new car. Which is really what it is all about. A form of converyance.

Canes have long been customizeable with various exotic woods or the classic walking stick with a black shaft topped by some lovely silver or ivory carved animal. You can get just about any cane top you wish, and even trick it out further with a nice sword or hidden flask. They have compasses and clocks and cigarette lighters. Tres cool. And the big ass pimp cane explosion has made wonders of what you can get in a big ass white cane or even a clear Lucite cane. There is even a line of ultra décor cloissonet canes that are painted with beautiful flowers or vines twirling all around the shaft.

But what of the eyepatch? Here we seem to be stuck with basic black. I had hoped that when my own eye was patched after my recent operation that I would at least be able to ask for a pirate eyepatch, but no go. They didn’t even give me a white patch with the little medical red cross in the middle. Just a standard white guaze deal that was masking taped to my face. How is that supposed to make me feel better?

So I've been pondering what possiblilities there may be to aright this neglected fashion trend.

- First off I thought that with the vast array of fabric colors and designs why can’t you personalize your patch to match your shirt or clothes? The patch is essentially a face bra. Something in a beautiful satin or lace could make you feel much better. A patch to match your bathing suit or underwear seems a natural. And for the more exotic you could go to extremes. Who wouldn’t want to wear a Whitesnake Leopard Print once in awhile? Just to kick loose.

There are all sorts of tie fabrics, silk, tye dye, stripes and splotches you could have. A Jerry Garcia design, Dali prints with floating eyes, even a Rorschact cloth like the character in Watchmen.

- There immediately came the idea of printing on the eypatch. Sort of a facial bumpersticker that proclaims you’d rather be seeing dead people or fishing. Cute sayings, biblical quotes, song lyrics. Eventually there would be Nike symbols and other advertising ephemera proclaimed proudly. You could rent your face space to the highest bidder.

- A facial tattoo with clip art in brilliant colors. Japanese Kanji or intricate butterflys.

- How about making the patch a tiny electric TV screen? You could just have standard TV or a music video playing. I think I would want to have Max Headroom screaming from my face.

- Your favorite sports team logo like the Oakland raiders could be emblazoned. I mean why not a patch with a player wearing a patch?

- The ubiquitous yellow smily face.

- A red spiral – hypnocoin that slowly revolves and hypnotizes anyone who looks at you.

- A small clock.

- A pinwheel could also spin around festively.

- A gold coin.

- Bottle cap.

- The gag eyepatch that has a three dimensional bolt or nail sticking out through it.

- Or an arrow shaft for the gamer or Tolkein afficionado.

- You could even have an actual eye printed on it. One that matches your own or you could do the goth thing and have one in silver or red. The peace symbol. Yin and yang. Why not a cats eye, or a snake eye?

- The Borg scifi eye that moves and whines.

- The Harry Potter Moody character one that allows you telescope vision.

- Leather spike version.

- Dazzling rhinestones.

- A Fly or insect eye.

- A constantly shifting kaleidoscope.

- An optical illusion eye that keeps looking at you no matter where you move.

- Picasso/Marty Feldman version that is slightly larger and looking off in the wrong direction wildly.

- Holograms.

- Prosthetic nose or mouth instead of an eye.

- And finally the coup de gras. A tiny cuckoo that pops out of the eyesocket every few hours or minutes.

That’s all I felt up to coming up with, but feel free to offer suggestions.

Mispent days on two wheels

2006-03-04T22:03:00.000-08:00

Hey’allunz-

At the urging of Messr. Drivler I have been asked to enliven our writerly spirits and keep the educationally writerly flow going amongst our little blogy clan. Apparently he feels this rather heady extreme will be accomplished by my writing down my “Hells Angels” story. Now I usually keep this story an oral one. Just a little personal anecdote I pull out in conversation at a party, or reveal at a perceived key moment in my life to impress someone. After all, not everyone wants to know, or perhaps read of how I became an honorary “unofficial” official member of a certain Hells Angels chapter somewhere near Oakland, CA. They may at worst just not care. It may alarm some, or cause some to question the veracity of my story and thus my very nature; there may even be some who take outright offense and call me an unprintably vile liar – perhaps try to hunt me down and make me pay for the audacious presumption that I would dare call myself one of these wondrous few. So I usually am somewhat cautious about relating this story, or my experiences with motorcycles in general. Best to choose the right audience for some of one’s tales. But heck, Driveler is a hoopy frood who would never willingly cause me harm. I’m sure it will be O.K. just this once. It’s a good yarn and hopefully will engender many a comment, discussion, and further writing from all of us. Plus it can be good to look back and be nostalgic.

***Note. Use of the word “nostalgia” automatically means all written material may be deemed suspect as it has been resignified through a person’s fictive memory. It is truth, really. But it is my truth and may not be your truth. RE calling one’s own memory is automatically a fictive act and therefore and henceforth may only be considered a realistic, and possibly historically inaccurate personal rememberance. Basically that means we are all just fiction anyway. All body parts should be mailed to Drivler in the event of their being fictively removed from my person. That way he can safely put them away for times when he is feeling nostalgic – to pull out, stroke, and give a little chortle now and then to himself for horribly fictive personal reasons.

First off, it is absolutely true that a Hells Angels chapter formally accepted me as one of their honorary number. True, I did not go through the obligatory hazing as a recruit – hence the “honorary,” but I was awarded a personal chapter patch, which I still have sewn to my vest safely stowed away as I am not currently riding, nor do I own a motorcycle. This makes me a Hells Angel. At some point my chapter could request, demand, or forcibly make me relinquish said patch – at which juncture I would no longer be accepted nor could I call myself a Hells Angel. This has not happened. Even though I don’t own a motorcycle presently. However, I take my membership seriously and would never profane their honor by tossing on my vest and just driving around in a plebian car, or on any regular day-to-day mundanity or business not related to my clan. The vest is only worn when I am representing my Chapter, riding with them to meets or on my way to chapter business. I don’t just pull it out to show people.

I was awarded this honor during the summer of 1996, when I was spending the summer working for a company called the Berkeley Reading Institute – teaching classes in learning how to read and enjoy reading to preschool through second grade students. The classes were held throughout California, so I had to travel from city to city on a daily basis. One day I would be teaching up to seven or eight single hour-long classes on one day in Santa Monica. Then the next day I would be teaching over in Compton, then San Diego, then Northridge, and up to Oakland. The Oakland series of classes was on the weekend, so I would have to teach in Northridge on Friday, then zoom up to Oakland Friday night to a pre-reserved crappy hotel room so I could teach classes at an Oakland elementary school on both Saturday and Sunday. Sunday evening I would then zoom down to my apartment in Santa Monica in order to teach classes at Santa Monica Community College on Monday. The job was exhausting, and while I made excellent money I had no time at all to spend any of it. I was teaching 8 hours a day and then two or more hours of driving seven days a week. I had a “day off” but that was usually spent driving down to San Diego. Not really all that fun so I only did that one summer. But at least that one summer of work basically paid for much of my M.A.

The classes consisted of getting children excited about reading by lots of reading books aloud and then acting them out. Parents were strongly encouraged to participate in the program as the phonics lessons and a home reading packet had to be supplemented by the parents actively working with me and their sons and daughters. The classes only lasted four weeks, and they were only an hour long once a week – so the intent was to get the parents and children all fired up about reading aloud on their own outside of class; to make a habit of sounding out letters, building harder and harder vocabulary, and making it all fun so the child would have a lifetime of reading enjoyment far after the mere four weeks were over. Not a bad program in theory but it required a lot of work from the instructor and the parents. Most of my fellow instructors sucked and just passed out the reading packets and read aloud in front of the class for three weeks. The packets went home and were ignored, and it became an expensive 3 week babysitting time. This was actually what many of the parents wanted. Get them out of the house for awhile. Many parents became angry because they felt their students weren’t learning how to read – but these were always the ones who never came to class, never worked with their child reading, and expected the instructor to magically get their student to learn by waving the phonics wand. Hooked on Phonics was the big word then.

The books we used were standards: Where the Wild Things Are, Cat in the Hat, Frog and Toad, Little Bear, etc. Books that had lots of characters that we could do funny voices and move around pretending to be the characters. My dramatic background and training made me a natural for this – as I had previously directed the same age in performing Children’s Shakespeare in the Park summer programs. My fun was pretty much in picking out the perfect fairy princess {always male from the tradition of Renaissance theatre}, so the biggest Dad always got to be the fairy princess. Shyest boy got to be Max, most antsy kids got to be Wild Things or trees. The best “performances” were the ones with lots of parents who got dragged willingly into all the fun. This part of the job was really a blast and it was really what everyone was paying for. I was always hardest pressed in Santa Monica or San Diego where we didn’t have a single parent who stuck around to attend class with their own child. Their kids had some fun because I was certainly enthusiastic, but it was clear my students were pretty sad not to have their father or mother there as an audience.

Oakland classes were particularly memorable because all the parents were friends in the same Hells Angels chapter and they all came to the classes and got involved. Almost as a rule both parents came and filled the classroom. This was the 90’s Hells Angels by the way. Lots of accountants and ex-hippie lawyers with tons of money. These were the usual class and income who had the money to pay for this kind of reading program. Most parents wore Brooks Brothers suits and Talbot’s or Liz Claiborne fitted attire during the week; this Oakland group just liked to grunge out on the weekend with official Harley Davidson leather, crisp new jeans, custom-designed lingerie and pearls. Noveau-Rich pretending to go for the Iron-Horse centerfold look. The anti-establishment sector of thems with the good life. So the men had long groomed hair pulled back in ponytails, distinguished grey at the sideburns, maybe a bald head covered with a bandanna or leather cap. There were relatively few intricate tribal tattoos here and there on upper forearms, and no exotic piercings. I’m not sure if it was a regular thing but all the moms put on a show with their most outrageous and revealing costumes and the dads all good-naturedly eyed each others wives. I discreetly felt it wise I ignore the fashion show and made a point of watching the children playing during breaks. The show was clearly not for my benefit. They used these classes as an excuse to show off their finery, their tans and physiques. A safe place to parade a bit and then go outside for cigarettes and gossip. Some of the guys would cluster around someone’s hog to fiddle with it and discuss stocks, or the upcoming barbeque.

The big show was when they all arrived or left -- as they would ride in together on brand new shiny chromed custom choppers. Each one washed and tricked out with fresh metallic flake paint and graphics. Everyone came in full costume, where even careful attention had been spent on the beautiful leathers and tiny helmets adorning their children. Most of the kids had at least a little leather jacket, vest, or tiny fringed chaps over ripped jeans and a halter top that matched mommy’s.

Besides the visual dynamic, the classes were always the most actively dynamic of any I taught. The children were excited and eager, the parents joking and ready to have fun. The two mothers I chose to act as Thing One and Thing Two so enjoyed their roles that they went a little overboard and demolished the classroom so thoroughly I got a complaint from the head office. I had to carefully arrange for a chalkboard and two wooden chairs to be replaced. Everyone finished their packets with attention and gusto outside of class – the only students and parents who did so of any of my other classes – so I got in trouble for sneaking all three Oakland classes the next level {second grade} packet for free on the day of the last class. BRI encouraged us to reward one or two students with the next packet but thought I was a little extreme in giving every student one. I pointed out that I hadn’t given any extra packets to any of my other students and they dropped the matter. Perhaps they were afraid I would set the two mothers on them.

The award of the patch was a complete surprise. I pretty much just watched their children play during break and had fun teaching a dynamic class. My enthusiasm and primary energy was reserved for the classroom. BRI wanted us to be nonentities really – so they frowned on outside fraternization and had a very specific demeanor and dress code. I barely passed the “audition” for the company dressed in my best retro swing-era suit and wingtip shoes. The most color I felt comfortable getting away with was the bright colored ties the conservative BRI didn’t know I was wearing to class. My long hair stayed religiously pulled back in a ponytail and I was always carefully clean shaven.

After the awarding of the patch – which came after I had passed out the frowned upon reading packets, and I had made what I thought was my final goodbyes to my students and their parents – I was able to spend some time in discussion with everyone and reveal they hadn’t accepted a complete novice or native to their culture. I actually had an appropriate leather vest on which to sew their patch. I knew what the patch meant, having hung around riders and read a vast amount of material on everything from motorcycle mags, Hunter S. Thompson’s Hells Angels, the saga of Phaedra in Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance, various other motorcycle books, manuals, and reference texts. The coup de gras was my telling them of the three months I actually rode a motorcycle in High School. How I had partially restored a 1941 Indian Scout and rode it on the deserted roads running through the orange groves of Redlands. How I had ruined a full set of leathers jumping into a pool to rescue some bimbo’s drowning daughter – yet another story.

So they hopefully felt I deserved the award. I’ve never met them again. Haven’t rode with them, or had much contact other than a few Christmas cards. Honestly I really wouldn’t feel comfortable getting in touch with any of them unless I actually had a running motorcycle. If you aren’t wheeled you really aren’t part of the life. I haven’t ridden a motorcycle since high school. I’m not sure I would ever get a motorcycle now – or feel safe riding one on roads choked with assholes these days. I still have some nostalgia for when I rode that Indian, but not enough to try and recreate it. I know that time and that incarnation of me is impossible now. If I had millions of dollars I would probably buy a huge collection of old motorcycles and cars. And I vow to drive all those imagined cars and ride all those cycles – but that is a promise safely in the muddle of the great big if. Same as me actually playing that huge collection of electric and acoustic guitars should I ever become worthy of playing them. I rarely play the Lotus or Hohner I have now. I dust off the large collection of miniature motorcycles I’ve got in one of my packed up boxes, change the page on my antique Motorcycle calendar, and only rarely reveal I am a Hells Angel – and then in a very quiet voice in fear someone may demand I fly my colors, jump on a hog, and roar off into the moonlight on a slick windy road.

What Heady Dreams

2006-02-24T10:50:00.000-08:00

Ah it's good to be alive.

Drivler and Monstro are writing such lovely blogs again. The dry spell has lifted and so too my spirits. I can even get my computer to recognize the existence of Mrs. Monstro's own blog so that I might exhult in the diminished joys of breastfeeding. All is well.

You see I need as much contact with all of you as possible these days. The ultimate of being needy I know -- and yes I am high maintainence -- but dammit this is what is keeping me going. Phone calls and blog posts from my friends. I so desperately need all this contact and solace. When you are up at 4 A.M. and you can't sleep it is nice to be able to log onto the Internet and see Monstro's latest rant against national politics or the insanity of being in a PhD program. I delight in the profundity of Drivler's drivlosity about his ongoing stapler woes. And the ups and downs of being Alexander's caretaker. You are all living and engaging and doing stuff. I am most certainly not. I go to various doctors on an almost daily basis and they do nothing to help me. The rest of the time I lie in bed occasionally rising to answer the phone or pet the cat.

It is not helping that this has been a bad year for me and appliances. There was the two month wait for my parent's old refridgerator whilst my mom finally decided which new one she was going to get. Then the heady joy of having no working stove for Thanksgiving week. They finally delivered one, but the pilot lights apparantly go out for no reason if you cook a lot. Well, it's funny, but even in my weakened state I tend to use my stove at least once a day. So the pilot lights -- one for each bank of burners and one for the oven -- go out. Usually at nighttime. So when I finally do get to sleep, or maybe pass out from the gas fumes, it makes for some interesting dreams.

The best was when I drempt I won millions of dollars from suing both my apartment complex and Kaiser Permanente for prolonging my failing health. For some reason I had to spend a year away from California for tax reasons so I settled in Mass. and bought a giant multistory building that used to hold a Macys or Gimbels department store. Then I made it into the largest complete hobby complex I could dream up. On one floor was a huge amazing toy store of new toys, and then an area that sold original antique collectable toys. There was a well stocked baseball and collectible card store. A games shop and then a seperate Warhammer/Gaming store. Comic book and graphic novel level. Complete railroad store. And on and on and on.

Monstro and I bought out Armorcast with all their resin molds and the two of us re-released all their cool stuff as well as everything Monstro building every resin bit the two of us ever dreamed up. Eventually we were so successful we ended up buying Games Workshop and ran it the way it should be run. In between we wrote best selling novels and vied with Drivler for awards and honors. Pynchon made prank lewd phone calls to us in the middle of the night and we responded back with such a profound torrent of inventive smut that he became speechless. Heady stuff.

Happy President's Day!

2006-02-19T15:31:00.000-08:00

Well folks,

That day we have all been long awaiting and fearing is about to loom its ugly head once again. Just what the hell are we supposed to do on President’s Day anyway? According to the commercials you are supposed to buy a mattress. Assuming you even have the day off anymore. For most of us it is just another made up holiday that isn’t a holiday for anyone except people who work at banks and the government. I.e. the bastards who control all the money who get to have a holiday when we don’t. It makes as much sense or meaning to us as Corregated Cardboard Appreciation Day. Not that we knew what to do with ourselves when these were observable holidays.

Remember what you did for Lincoln’s Birthday to celebrate? Mnnn. Lincoln Birthday pancakes served in an authentic log cabin. Then we took boat rides down estuaries and told stories about little girls writing letters to honest Abe telling him that he would look better with a beard. There was the Mary Todd best insanity contest and then the festivities ended with a round of derringer bullets into the giant Lincoln Pinata.

My own confusion started way back in grade school when they actually had a Lincoln’s Birthday or Washington’s Birthday as a holiday. At least I could put on a fake beard and stovepipe hat in rememberance of old Abe. Redlands had the Lincoln Shrine that we could march to unwillingly to look at a real plaster death mask or a bloodstained sheet that was supposed to be from his deathbed. All very grim. We were never sure what to do for Washington. Chop down cherry trees? Make wooden teeth out of pipe cleaners and modeling clay? That’s probably why they combined the two holidays. No one knew what the hell to do with themselves.

The same goes with the rest of our past presidents. How much do we remember about these guys? Check out the list of names in the almanac or pull out that old school folder with all their little pictures. Do you really know who the hell was Taft? Harding? I know more about President Polk from They Might Be Giants than anything I learned in school. So how are we supposed to celebrate these guys? Do they really expect us to sing praises of Teddy Roosevelt to the flag at 6 A.M.? Dress up like your favorite president? Do you have a favorite president?

It’s sort of the job description that we don’t really have a favorite. They are all bad in their own way. Basically we vote, or pretend to vote for the biggest loser to wear the giant target for four to eight years. They really don’t do that much – just divert attention from the ones who are actually doing the work of running our country and messing with the lives of those with no power. Hence the President is a big media symbol. Basically a Zaphod Beeblebrox. They make a few public choices that fuck with the lives of a lot of us, but no more so than their predecessor did or the jerk who comes after them will. They sign in laws that were going to get passed anyway in one form or another. They make promises that in no way will ever come true, and will forever be blamed for crap that was going to happen anyway. The perks seem to be that they get to be driven or flown around to meetings no one wants to go to, where nothing really gets done or decided, and they live in the great big symbol and enjoy the monogrammed stuff they buy at our expense. It’s a nice job I suppose, but hardly worth getting put out to pasture afterwards. It's pretty much the end of the road for these guys. They seem to be allotted one war to run where they kill off a certain portion of our armed services, muck with the economy a bit, and make a mess that the next moron gets blamed for. Then they sail off into the sunset to speak at glorified Kiwanis Club fundraisers, write a book or two, and work on their presidential library until a freeway gets named after them.

That’s their footnote in history. Some little factoid that sums up their presidency for the fourth graders. It’s sort of nice to think that G. Bush Jr. will be just as much of a footnote as his dad in ten to twenty years. Maybe they’ll compare him to the corrupt regimes of Andrew Jackson and Ulysses S. Grant. All the important crimes and murder and lies GW stands for us today will get whitewashed in time. Maybe he’ll reinvent himself as a carpenter who builds homes for the homeless.

The Drivler Challenge

2006-02-07T01:22:00.000-08:00

I'm going to come right out and say it. Drivler's blog pretends to take itself far too seriously -- that is it would if Drivler consistently wrote it anymore. Long have Monstro and I bemoaned the lack of humourous writing or in fact much of any writing from Drivler of late. We know -- the great laptop computer crash took a lot out of him. If you are going to look up internet porn don't rest the laptop down there. And yes, we recognize he works a horrible job at a shitting shipping job to come home beaten down and tired. All that truck stop country music hooplah. But he is a creature of too infrequent jest to keep this crappitude from prevaricatiion and entertaining the rest and best of us. He has such infrequent moments of brilliance these days that it is crucial he put his liar skills -- i.e. those god given skills in academia -- to some use in these troubled times. Drivler we beg of you -- please, please drivel again.

And so I suggest you change the title and intent of your blog once again. No longer should you exhort the reader to lift with thine knees but instead to lift with the muscle least likely for manual blue collar labours. It should be called:

LIFT WITH YOUR NECK: A BLOG OF OUTRAGEOUS MISERIES

Just think how much fun we could have reading how you have fucked up your daily excuse for a job this time. Sending all the deliveries of a particular day to one address. Say, thousands of refridgerators and washers and dryers sent simultaneously to the Vulcan statue in Birmingham. Or pick a third world country and send them nothing but unpluggable and useless Zero Aide side by side deluxe refridgerators. Tell how by a simple chain of events G.W. Bush has to resign in ignomy because of your inability to master conference calling with the head DHL office. The misadventures of Darvy the itinerate bootleg DVD peddler, your efforts to reintroduce the concept of WHITE POWER to simple office politics like who makes the coffee each morning, an ongoing and complete devil's dictionary of corporatespeech:

def, to pinch a load - the willfull mishandling of any appliance delivery to Slim Neighbors.

def, Slim Neighbors - the singular most evil appliance juggler and lounge act singer in the Raleigh area and our protagonist's avowed nemesis.

What about a step by step description of how you ended up trapped under four stacked refridgerators when you made a quick unsupervised or escorted trip across the warehouse floor? A rogue fork lift haplessly and drunkenly shanghied by Davey the itinerate bootleg DVD peddler careened out of control leaving you trapped, and you couldn't send an exact picture of where you were to rescuers because the damn company didn't give you the picture cell phone they promised.

This is what we need to hear man. If you do this I promise to write an ongoing musical entitled The Viagra Monologues on the horrors of flaccid overweight ex-hippies who are more worried about their flagging libidos and retirements than getting rid of the bastards middle america voted into office.

Good days and bad days

2006-02-05T18:20:00.000-08:00

Heyall-

Hanging in there as best I can with all this crap the body seems to throw at me. Things are currently looking up and I am at least positive today. Comes down to having bad days and good days. The good days are when I am living and doing stuff. The bad ones are when I just exist as some kind of lump that takes medication and then just goes back to bed.

Yesterday was a particularly good day however. Trip came out from LA to finally see the apartment and see me for the first time since I moved back down south. I know he is busy with his job but it was kind of irking me that he just lives about and hour and a half away {2 hours with traffic that is the mainstay of LA life} and he had yet to show. It's self centered and greedy I know, but dammit, my friends are what keep me going these days. Anyway he said he might be able to show more often. We'll have to see.

We had a lovely walk around downtown Redlands and a pricy but delicious lunch at a little sidewalk bistro. You know you are going to have to dig deep in your pockets when they serve anything with goat cheese on the menu and the iced tea costs three bucks. But I paid for it because I thought the calamari appetizer sounded appealing. I am a sucker for fried tentacles. The lunch and conversation were excellent and really made for a lovely time.

Then we headed back to my cave where we watched THE CORPSE BRIDE and some Pink Panther cartoons. I was going absolutely stir crazy after three weeks of not driving because of my vision so my video addiction suffered. Friday night I finally exploded and decided my vision was good enough for a quick trip to Target to get some entertainment. Also picked up a couple cheapo computer games to occupy my time. Damn XP for not supporting all my old games. Bastards.

So things are good for me right now. The vision has cleared enough for short trips out into the world, I have stocked up on entertainment for a week or so, and an absolutely fabulous visit from old Trip. Amazing how the little things can enliven a crappy life.

same o'shi

2006-02-01T00:49:00.000-08:00

Well folks-

Not much to tell. Same things happenning, or not happening that have been happening or not happening before. Did have fun in an emergency room last week. The hemmorrage got so bad that it had to be looked at by a retinal specialist -- and since no one has yet bothered to arrange for me to see such a specialist I had to go to extremes. If you show up in an emergency room they gotta send a specialist in to look at you.

Problem is that an "ocular disturbance" is marked as O.D. on the admitting chart so they stuck me on an IV and pestered me with questions about what I was taking. It was not particularly fun. Four fours later they sent in the specialist who basically said there was nothing he could do and sent me on my way. Big waste of time. But I did get to make an appointment to see him again in four weeks, which is better than the nothing I had when I went in.

Yestereday they took some kind of pictures of my digestive tract. Forced me to fast for six hours and then fed me an irradiated egg sandwich so they could take pictures of my glowing insides every 1/2 hour. Will see if they can figure out why I'm nauseaus all the time. In the meantime I am not sleeping and the ant depression medication is having some unwelcome side effects. I look like I am chewing gum all the time from a nervous tick I've got where my teeth chatter and I am pacing the apartment out of nervous tension as well. Wearing tracks in my carpet is not doing my demeanor any good.

Chapter 4 - In which the crapitude learns to ride a bicycle.

2006-01-27T16:11:00.000-08:00

Hi folks--

Not feeling as well as I ought -- which is unfortunately the usual in my life these days. Sorry I haven't been too upbeat these days but ya know. Do the best we can. Anyway the sensor that was monitoring my blood sugars every 5 minutes is finally torn asunder off my bod. So I can take showers again in magnetic storms and lick computers again without bringing down the entire network. You'd be surprised how connected these things are. One wrong step and whammo!

So the senseor is off and I am now feeling as well as I have for many many days. So all I need worry about is the whole vision thing. Currently my whole world looks like this:

Or actually a transparency of this overlayed on everything I see. Most festive. And it floats and moves around too to make you dizzy and nauseaous to boot. So to read or see anything you have to look between the "branches" to see anything. Hard if not impossible to read or watch TV or movies. So I have listened to some truly odd music on my iPod thanks to Messr. Drivler and am starting to listen to books on tape/cd. But at least the $$%%#$%#ing sensor is out. At least that's good. Yeah and happy frippage.

Training ones perceptions

2006-01-17T23:43:00.000-08:00

Gritens Peoples-

As you may know, I have long been searching for the ultimate Avram store. An amazing Wonkalike assemblage of the best of all worlds Avram. This means it would need large sections devoted to my many many interests including, but not limited to, a fairly substantial grocery store with gourmet and more base food selections, a humongeous bookstore, and lots and lots of toys. Now such a store is probably impossible. But most dreams need to be a little impossible or they aren't worth dreaming. You wouldn't want to have to search for the everyday now would you?

Well recently I found a store that may have come close to the running. First, a little backstory. Adam and Eve had some sons named Cain and Able. Before Cain killed off the more amiable Abel they had some kids somehow too. Biblical scholars seem to have conveniently failed to answer where some likely women came along for this to happen -- other than maybe some unannounced incest with sisters conveniently left out of certain versions of the great text. But these sons and daughters all begat like crazy. A begat B and B begat C and so on. And eventually begat this whole thing called Warhammer 40 K -- which Games Workshop begat to charge their many many players to have cool looking scenery.

Now I have posted before that a likely and cheap way to come up with some really really cool scenery is to go to model railroad supply houses. You see, model railroaders wrote the books on little trees, streams, and buildings. They figured out how to weather things convincingly and how to paint just about any effect you care to mention. But where can you go to buy said books and raw materials you ask? Where can you find a cheap supply of different lichen or bare metal foil or computer printable decal sheets? Where is such a perfect store?

Well the answer may surprise you -- Longs Drugs in Perris, CA. Because of the historical railroad museum in this little town in the inland empire the local pharmacy was looking for a way to make themselves really unique. So they made a regular Longs Drugs, and then attached a giant railroad modeling supply store to the back. Odd bedfellows it would seem, but it does make for an almost perfect store. They have a huge model store and hobby store, plus the general pharmacy cum general store mentalisty of a local Longs. Not a bad combo.

Responding to Monstro

2006-01-15T07:11:00.000-08:00

Heyall-

Thought I would use my own blog to respond to the latest three or so blogs on buddy Monstro's site, i.e. his profound diatribes on the general joys of Republican rhetoric, doctors, and dentists. These are not strange bedfellows. They go rather nicely together -- like the flavors lime, coca cola, and pink lemonaide on a three flavor snowcone. But the snowcone is a truly heavenly dessert -- whilst the other three combine to form some kind of axis of evil. Well maybe not the dentist because they actually do what they set out to do. The other two are pure evil however.

Republicans are evil because they are political beasts. This is true of Democrats and Libertarians and Green Partyers too. The problem is that the system meant to make things better for everyone does not work. Only a very very few, very very rich -- who do well for themselves no matter what anyway -- actually enjoy life to the fullest. The rest of us exist as best we can with other people pretty much allowing us to do what little we can do. At any moment by some unknown whim they can take all or some away. A few get let into the private lounge to let the rest of us think it might happen for us. This keeps peace in the streets. So our situation is analogous of any citizenry -- whether it be lowly serf, merchant, polis, comrade, or electorate. The only way to change things is a revolution. Which only changes things for the ones in power. Old regime is replaced by a new one and the rest of the people end up living by the whims of the new bunch. Meet the new boss -- same as the old boss. So Monstro will continually complain no matter who is coming up with snappy crap to explain what isn't really happening. Just enjoy the show man. That's all it is. The likelyhood of any of us regular schmoes knowing whats going on, actually deciding any of it, or having an effect on these bozos is nil.

The same of doctors. You all know how frustrated I am with them. Basically this system too ignores those it should be helping. Supposedly doctors go through tons of education and then use that education to help us. Well it helps some of us. The ones with money and the luck of having something that goes away on its own. My uncle's cancer is in remission. We are all extremely glad for him -- but did medicine really help him? Not really. Put him through hell and he might go into remission. My grandmother is dying slowly and painfully. I feel like I am dying slowly and painfully. The best medicine seems to be doing for any of us is a glorified bandaid that you may or may not have applied correctly. Most of my medications are a guess. I can see them trying one and then seeing me two weeks later to see if it did anything. Smoking rats in labs have better health care. At least they are watched more often for the effects of their "medication." I have to suffer with the same symptoms or worse. Been going on seven months now and counting. Again, complaining about it just makes me feel worse about it and nothing really is going to change. I'm still waiting for a "magic doctor" to come along and rescue me. Medical lottery.

So we come to dentists. At least here I can say that some good came. Yall might remember the evil of my teeth a few years back. I know how horrible they were to behold. The big black ones with no enamel and broken off molars were a particular sore point of my life. All because I had no money to fix them. Here's why dentists are evil. They are a neccessary ill, but it costs thousands of dollars to fix them if they go wrong. Now if you have those thousands then you get fixed -- and at least with dentistry I agree with Monstro. They know their stuff. Five thousand dollars of orthapedic surgery, some nasty full extractions, four seperate root canals, and some expensive caps on the remaining nubs on my front teeth and I can chew again. Not that I don't like calamari and rice. But at least they effin fixed them.

So thanks Monstro. Of all your latest posts at least one was positive and made me feel better. I gots some good teeth in a crappy body living in a crappy world. Just keep smiling.

A new Turkadillo Rises

2006-01-12T00:15:00.000-08:00

Time for a change I thought. Some new
footed fangled shoes of hue,
a spot of color change for the dollar fifty
they decide to leave you these days

Something new to liven things up for the other
livestock. The other why meat.

Wednesday Afternoon - So I'm gluing my claws shut

2006-01-11T16:04:00.000-08:00

Hi y'allz!

Feeling good for some reason today so I am taking maximum advantage of the fact. Hit the bookstore to replenish this weeks reading of comic books, picked up the third "golden" collection of Looney Tunes cartoons on DVD, and even got around to finally finishing my model Warhammer 40 Landraider. Which entailed me supergluing one tiny last bit on the side and also pouring a couple grams worth of glue down my fingers and wrist. So I am attempting to type this like the Maxx with my claws glued shut. Most distressing. Just hope some shark headed assassin doesn;t show up for a throw down.

Anyway, here are the long awaited pictures of next year's ultimate SUV.

No wait. This is a rather good digital photo I took of a praying mantis that was kicking it on my patio door. I haven't seen a mantis in awhile, so it was nice to see him. I was pleased with the way the photo came out too. Must be getting better as a photographer. Think I could actually photoshop the word "Chevrolet" on the side and trick people into thinking this was the next year's model? Yeah, I guess not.

Now here's the real photos of my Landraider.

I'm rather proud of how it all came out. I hinged both side hatches so they open and close, as well as reinforcing the front hatch with working eyeglass hinges so it is stronger and operational. I also glued tiny handles on the sliding doors on the right side, so that it too can be opened and closed from outside. The turrets all work -- and I added special "pintle" attach points for things like searchlights and a the optional heavy bolter. The twin sponsons have also been altered so I can swap out either the twin lascannons or hurricane bolters. This way I can go with a regular Landraider of a Crusader model.

The ruined street scene diorama is something I've been working on as well. The walls are part of some ruined building elements I found packaged with some "Forces of Valor" 1:43 scale tanks I picked up cheap. The rest is clay, putty, rocks, paint, and lots of work.

I also went with a Japanese "Kabuki" theme with the decorations and paint. A nice sea blue with gold accents and burnt brass on guns and smokestacks. Kabuki warrior "noseart" adorns both flanks, and other Kanji writings, scrolls, and banners are affixed to other parts of the tank.

Before and After

2006-01-03T22:12:00.000-08:00

Hi folks-

Still not feeling well despite the new year, so I thought I would post something that didn't have to do with my crappy health.

Here we have the bookends of my holidays. On one side a very comfortable chanukah chat near her chanukah bush and new ceramic owl. As you can see, all is well.

And on the other side, the horrors of my 1st day of the New Year when 2 of the 8 bookcases lined up on my living room wall just decided to collapse completely under the weight of a rather extensive library of art books and books on various collectibles. Thankfull all important members of the household: i.e. the cat, myself, and both guitars were all safely away from the bookshelves when they gave way. I have yet to excavate into the resulting debris to discover the extent of the wounded, and to triage the many victimized tomes within the wreckage. The remaining 6 bookshelves are also dangerously close to giving way as well. Efforts are midway towards the purchase of some sturdier metal shelving. In the meantime I have cleared paths to the front door of the apartment, and must leave the books where they lay until such time as I actually have somewhere to put them -- a task near impossible in the already overstuffed apartment.

Finding Serenity

2005-12-24T11:43:00.000-08:00

Hey Folks-

Figured I would make a post just as the holidays start to show y’all that I am alive, functioning as well as possible, and to wish you all the very best. Not sure anyone reads this anymore though. You all have lives, and I just sort of exist – hence your all zooming around doing lively things that leave me far far behind, and I don’t hear much about them. I really hope your holidays and your gifted children allow you a few moments of pause so you can do nothing for a bit, have a nice nap, and then even relax long enough to turn on your computers and check out all of our simple bloggy presents (presence/pretense). It would be nice if y’all even had the chance to post something to your own, long dormant bloggy sights so I knows y’all’s equally O.K. Phone calls work well too – as they are incalculably wonderful to have when feeling as I do.

My crappy existence is holding true even during the pre-holidays. I’m on the complete wrong pain medication, which doesn’t really work, and which also makes me nauseous. Oh what a delight. I am also now a member of the Prozac gang – since the last doctor I saw decided they were going to ignore the pain I came in for and just deal with the depression. Which is fine – I guess it is one important thing addressed. Prozac takes about 2 weeks to have any discernable effect, including a whole book of side effects. So nothing has actually changed for me. I keep waiting to find a doctor who actually does something to cure me.

My sister is in town, having made the single jaunt of a flight from Pittsburgh to LA she makes every year when she is in the states, She only visits one short week because she teaches at one of those evil schools that has no winter break. Or at least that is what she has decided she can afford. I gathered enough strength to drive into LA and then in turn, to negotiate the horrors of LAX to pick her up successfully. We had some lunch and then I drove back. This simple act of driving for approximately 5 hours exhausted me so I simply dropped her off at the folks where she immediately made them a delectable pot pie, started making the exquisite chocolate truffles she gives away as presents each year, and is apparently re-cleaning their entire house – I went back to my own abode to throw up and huddle in bed. Anyone suppose the TV networks are considering an Apprentice show where Trump’s or Martha Stewart’s less successful sibling chooses an intern?

As I write this, it is a beautiful sunny warm day here in So Cal. Sorry to the rest of you who have more picturesque and traditional white Christmas’. I am getting ready to snatch what brief moments of holiday cheer I can grab this weekend over at my grandparents, where all seven children and their families celebrate both the Eve and Day in a vast chaos of food and presents. About 25 people or so. I’m rather looking forward to it as the food and company is always phenomenal. There is the added bonus of seeing joyous faces as they open my many many presents this year. Mom has saddled me with ALL gift giving chores for both myself and my parents this particular holiday – so all those packages are hopefully up to my usual spectacular genius. I will probably wear out at some point and may go lie down in one of the back bedrooms when things get a little much. I’ll have good company there as well, since just about every male in the family usually goes to sleep on various couches, bedrooms, and in chairs right after meals anyways – so I won’t stick out too much.

There is most probably a Trip out to Trip in L.A. planned for Jen and I, where there will be a day packed of Jen hitting all of her favorite haunts. That will be nice. Haven’t seen much of Trip at all since I moved down here. I’m too ill to really drive out there, and he has been too busy with working a new job at some Student Loan Consolidation firm. But they just hired him full time with health benefits, retirement, and slightly higher pay – so that is all to the good. He keeps talking about the two of us surfing again this summer, but we’ll just have to see.

So there are many good things to look forward to these holidays. I’m just not enjoying as much time with Jen as I wished. She has yet to check out the new apartment or be rejected by the Koshka cat.

My one accomplishment these days – other than surviving LAX – was watching the DVD release of “Serenity,” which is Josh Whedon’s cinematic version of his TV series “Firefly.” Miz Lynn suggested this might be something I’d want to see a couple months back, so I went out and watched the series first, then waited to see the film. This worked out best, I’d say. The movie is excellent, but you really want to know the characters first, as there is no real setup of backstory for those who are not already familiar with the show and the storyline. The film basically just picks up from where the TV show ended – so everyone has been on the ship for a year now.

“Serenity” is particularly dark – much darker than the TV show. Visuals are extremely well done, and it is a beautiful Sci-Fi film. Some martial arts stuff, but nothing to get excited about. It is all good, but then everything in most movies now is good. I’d say at this point most movies have good special effects, and tolerable martial arts. CGI and Lucas have made sure of that. So the effects in this movie are up to the usual high standards these days, with the exception being the final space battle. This part of the movie seemed a little better, perhaps in testament of the old Lucas esthetic without overuse of CGI. So overall it is a good movie. Thanks again Lynn.

Putting some kind of face forward

2005-12-15T03:09:00.000-08:00

This is an older photo folks, but it was the best one on the computer when I was looking for some kind of representation of my mug. So here's a shot of the good times -- such as they were. Way back in like 2003 when we had a pub olympics. We competed teams of grad students versus the English Dept. faculty. We kicked their asses. Here's me in the process of demolishing Lynn Elliott -- the department chair.

A Holiday Gift Idea to Make your holidays brighter

2005-12-15T02:45:00.000-08:00

Heyall-

Well it is now mid-December, and that means all our thoughts immediately turn to golden Latkas with applesauce or guacamole, lots of tiny candles lit by my pyromaniac sister, and getting a bunch of gifts days and days ahead of all the rest of you. Actually, this year bites a little because Chanukah is starting on Christmas {Damn lunar non-Gregorian calendar. I’ll get you yet Pope Gregor!} This means I have to wait as long as you for all that shiny gelt, but my mind is turning toward gifts and the general joys of the holidays anyway. For example, one of my favorite gifts ever was a rather complicated Swiss Army knife I got from my Aunt Margaret when she was stationed in Germany. There’s nothing more seasonal than getting a big red knife with all sorts of pointy bits as a ten year old. But I learned an essential rule that day – only swivel one blade or tool out at a time on a Swiss Army knife – and since I have enjoyed that knife and lived by that rule for many years I am where I am today. Bugger.

No matter, for the holidays are intricately linked with tools: putting up the lights with a staple gun, putting together gifts that come unassembled, sawing down or trimming the Yule tree or Chanukah bush, and duct-taping the giant illuminated Santa, Menorah, or Kwanza candles to the roof. I find tools are sort of a little personal peeve of mine that often vexes me, and perhaps you other intelligent few at times, so I thought I would write this blog as a possible solution that will delight and instruct you all. Plus I hope it gives you a reason to run out with that new shiny multitool with all the little tools all fanned out at once like they show in the ads and bring goy to the world. If you do not (yet) own a multitool (or Leatherman if you need the trademarked name) Swiss Army Knife, or any jeweler’s screwdrivers then perhaps you should join all of us as we read this passage from the Tooluser’s Torah:

“Multitools are postmodern technology. They offer chances to reframe the issue, to think outside the box, to redefine context, and to do a rapid, crappy job of patching a makeshift hack. It may not be the ultimate truth, but it just might last long enough for the user to cash in quick and run away! Multitools lack purpose. They’re all about repurposing other stuff that has lost or misplaced its purpose, or that has the wrong purpose at some critical time.” Sterling, Make, v.4, 27.

Doesn’t that excite and inspire you! Um, O.K. then this may not for you. Just feel the ultimate joy of supporting many many millions of other people who keep the world lurching along while you keep being a good consumer. Happy Holdiays, and just keep following the yellow line that goes off in that direction. There will be some cookies and punch at the end. Now for the rest of you, follow me.

Now as we go skipping, hopping, galloping or any other choice of pedimotion or walk this other way, I want you to note that I am not the type to wear a SwissArmy knife, or great big Leatherman on my belt in a handy holster ready for anything that might occur, I don’t carry a three inch handy knife with me at all times, and I will never be in the news for coming to someone’s aid in the nick of time by cutting some big rope or unscrewing the broken subway doors with his handy all-in-one lifesaver. I’m screwed in the woods anyway, as they have yet to make a Diabetic model swiss army with tiny refridgerator for insulin and a syringe attachment, so there is no need for a compass on my knife. The tiny little swiss army knife I do carry on my keyring does just fine cutting the damn plastic off of CD cases and maybe pulling a splinter out of my finger. I never use the damn little toothpick.

I am just not that kinda advernturer/security/he-man guy. Nor am I an expert inventor, scientist, or electrician. I know very little basics about circuit boards, bandwidths, or even how to use a soldering iron as anything other than a fast way to melt wires and make that funny plastic smell. But I have three (among many) little flaws in me.

One: I was trained by generations of “fixers” or old age tinkerers who fixed and maintained what they bought for years. Everyone in my family is a “backyard” mechanic, maybe because we have all had to because our cars kept falling apart. My Grandfather was a professional mechanic for awhile, then a butcher – which makes an odd sort of sense. My Dad restores old cars. I know the joys of lying underneath my own car on a slanty dirt driveway and dropping that one irreplaceable greasy nut somewhere just past my right ear to land somewhere amongst the pebbles. And the transcendent joy of finding the bastard finally after an hour of searching. Oh, The horror. Even my sister Jen just attacked her boyfriend’s car with duct tape to fix a broken heater hose under the hood. This may be a sign here. She also just successfully disassembled her laptop completely in order to find and replace some tiny internal battery that even the manual, and head guru/serviceperson on their helpline didn’t know about. Major kudos there.

Anyway, for us the act of taking a broken machine back to a serviceperson, or calling a repairman is close to the ultimate failure. Throwing it away and buying a new one is the ultimate. Hence our long family history engaged in the “restoration” of old cars, computers, appliances, and stereo components. This is the legacy that hath been passed down to us. Also passed on is the suspicion that at the end there will actually be no cookies and punch for most any of us, but there could be for the people at the reception for your memorial. This is from a number of occasions in my childhood when I heard the words, “Have a macaroon Avram. I made them and I know that while no one knows why your Great Uncle Mark used that backyard tree for an engine hoist, he would be hurt if you didn’t eat one of my macaroons. They were his favorite.”

Therefore, Two: I have many, many tools that are designed to open up things that various warranties, warnings, and international law really really really would prefer I not open up. Like those wrappers around CD’s. I own many many Leathermans, and tiny knockoffs, and sundry cool tools as well. I just moved to my new abode with something like 6 socket sets. I also know where to get an engine hoist instead of using a tree. Come to think of it, I can’t use the durn thing because Dad is currently using it as a secondary overhead support on the 8000 pound 1939 Buick engine that is bolted to his 5000 pound max engine stand. Oh well, Hand me that rope.

This is just how I, and many like I are wired. Instead of calling the 1-800 HaHaelp Line in India, or shipping something off to the repair depot in Sengala, I try to figure out WHY something is not working. So I have become the checker of plugs being plugged in, clicker of switches, learner of how to reboot, and ultimately – opener of that forbidden back panel. This is in spite of my not knowing much about engineering, voltage, electronics, etc. Also in spite of me eating cookies while I am doing so. Professionals work for actual payment. Most of my repair stuff is done in exchange for bake goods or a meal. Even if I fail, and that darn printer still don’t work right, at least can we use it as an airfreshener now, Now when we plug it in it smells just like baking chocolate-chip cookies. It is in this way I know just enough to know when I should probably stop, and have messed up enough times over the years to actually stop and do so most of the time. But I refuse to not at least outwit the basic golden monkey rule.

EVEN A MONKEY CAN …

So even I can recognize if some little wired connector is just is dangling there, and like a good primate search out a possible female receptor who may be lonely and receptive. I know that most phonograph players {yes I am an OLD monkey, but I refuse to date myself. I’m not that desperate.} twirl because of a relatively tiny motor that runs a great big rubber band around the actual weighted turntable the record spins on. Hence my going in with tweezers and resnapping the rubber band on my mother’s, grandmother’s, various dates, and my own phonograph many many times. The same with my old tape Walkman. My very heritage would disown me if I didn’t open up my Walkman and prowl around inside instead of just tossing it and buying a new one. Especially since my first Walkman bought for me when I was 12 slipped its damn rubber band every time I played a tape after two years. I didn’t get a new one until I finally had enough money of my own three years later, making my crappy Walkman a pretty good deal from 7 years of pretty constant use. I did have to duct tape new buttons on it though {which I whittled from chunks of small wood with my Swiss Army Knife.}

And so we have now finally come to Three: Times have changed. Technology has become designed so that it cannot be repaired easily. Since I have poked around the innards of many electronic gizmos and done fixed them but good with various patches, replacement parts, and a couple flocks of duct tape; and since I am usually an intelligent, educated primate: I know something about what goes into designing these little wonders. I know designers make a choice about how a thing is put together. They decide how one can access the inside – or, as is the case now, how to totally seal something so no one, perhaps not even their totally licensed service representative can get in, That is if they want to get inside and fix it. Most times they don’t, and you just get sent a new one if it was still under warranty. If it’s not then you are forced to go buy a new one.

Oh yeah, and I’ve even read some primary books on design and taken a class or two. I have also become a staunch and devout proponent of the science of ergonomics. So this means I know WHY the controls of something that has been designed for an intended consumer does not work, and why a repair to that simple broken little button will be impossible. I know companies actually have decided to frustrate said consumer so much he starts ranting in the air and gesticulating wildly – usually whilst holding a jeweler’s screwdriver.. I.e.me. Incidently, I’ve heard that when they make the remake of the movie 2001 {since they are remaking everything else anyway} they will have a primitive human trying to open the gleaming seamless monolith {now glossy white with an apple logo) with a thighbone, then twirl it away up into the air where it will become a jeweler’s screwdriver spinning in space.

I have the soul if not the ability of an fixer, improver, even an inventor. A wild haired eccentric who picks up the latest gizmo and immediately comprehends how it works and it’s flaws in design, and can then immediately point out 15 immediate improvements. Ofterner and ofterner I berate the “supposed designers” who did not intelligently call me up and conference with me before they make buttons too small or put them in stupid places on their latest boondoggle so it is impossible to use them without something going wrong. I bitch and moan if they don’t keep the GOOD features of my old radio, as well as adding new ones onto my new radio. Shouldn’t the new model be better because it works better? You know, Progress? And yes I know; bad consumerism. If they designed things well, they would work for a long long time, and thus lose my automatic business 2 years later when I stubbornly refuse to keep using my primitive TH iBONE 2000 and it stops working from “planned obsolescence.” They already know I am in that hopeless marketing segment that won’t abandon my toy in 1.5 months when the NEW one comes out with new features and a new theme song.

Hence I am grumpy about the designer out there who has yet to design a simple travel case to carry my new PSP safely, with extra compartments for 6 games or movies, the headphones, and an extra battery. Or why has no one realized that an iPOD screen should not be looked at while driving? How am I supposed to be safe if I know that there are other yahoos out there who are scrolling through their 15,000 song database to find a particular song, when I am coming the other way peering at the little screen one inch from my face because of my vision, trying to scroll through my entire library wondering who the hell is Ugawambo Boogafootu, why is he, it, or she, listed as an artist in my Jazz section? Rest assured that I absolutely positively do not drive while doing this. I pick an album and stick with it until I decide to pull over somewhere safe to change it -- like a good antique primate used to continuous play. Hence I have often selected something that sounded odd but interesting, hitting play, and only finding out after I am already in motion that I am going to be listening to some weird Peruvian jazz/ska artist Drivler “gifted” me with.

Here’s an invention for you. How about a simple device with controls and a readable screen that wirelessly controls your iPod, and remains safely strapped to the hub of your steering wheel? That way you can control the thing without looking too far away from the road. I’ve already figured out that you can’t just put the iPod on your steering wheel because it has too many wires going to the damn charger and tape deck so it will play through your radio. I don’t have the funds to get a brand new radio for my car – thus losing the cool steering controls I have now that wouldn’t work with a new radio – and then hardwiring an iPod Port into my audio system. That is just a partial solution. I would still have to look at the radio in the middle of the dash to control the thing.

So here's an idea for a new invention – start putting the screen and all radio controls, and the climate controls either on the damn steering wheel, or within a simple fingers reach so you don’t have to take your hands off the wheel. Yeah, I know. It will come and I won’t get a dime, and they’ll still mess it up and do it wrong.

My frustrations on all of this finally leads to what I am really writing the blog about. Hey, I’m feeling better and this is currently my only form of writing these days so I am going to be prolific and very unbrief. You can’t say I don’t write enough.

I was absolutely thrilled to find that there are others out there who feel the same way about “fixing” technology and who actually open the unopenable, fix the “beyond our sister company’s ability to repair,” add features of new technology to old technology, and by gorry actually invent ways for stuff to work better. These are actual “Makers.” So I hereby refer you to an amazing publication called Make: technology in your time that is on newsstands and on the internet. I have had an absolute blast reading articles {and understanding some of what they are actually doing} on such projects and ideas as:

One for Matt Brown and Lynn. A step by step guide to making your own playable cigar - box electric guitar with low-cost hardware and simple electronics.

Something for Drivler. A project wherein a man took an antique broken stereo cabinet – a 1950’s Mahogany Wood Filco console with a primitive turntable and radio with one speaker – and transformed the beautiful cabinet into a fully modern stereo system with an iPod dock. It’s all configured so that he may not only play, but record as well, phonographs, CD’s, tapes, or songs and programs on the radio, and save those recordings into the inboard installed computer running iTunes. All of his MP3’s may be played through the speakers, or stored on the iPod, and vice versa. Not exactly portable, but neither is Drivler’s system these days.

A way to make your own inexpensive sound trigger, flash, and modify a disposable camera so you can capture “strobe photography” – like catching a shot of a balloon mid-pop, or that famous shot of a bullet fired through an apple.

How to connect your coffeemaker to the internet so it can be controlled online. I guess so you can turn it on if it is in another room from your computer, or if you need to use your Bluetooth out on the patio, or if you live in a really goddamn big house with a lot of stairs. Or two cabins separated.

A way to make a bottomless portafilter for your espresso machine that actually makes your addiction taste better. And so you don’t have to change it as often. Thinking about abandoning the filter part and seeing if I can apply the technology to cat litter pans.

How to add a precise temperature control and readout to your espresson maker. It is a science you know.

And for the more serene of us, a “toaster tea popper” that automatically pulls the teabag up from the cup after it has steeped for a preset amount of time.

A homemade megaphone that allows you throw your voice anonymously. The revolution begins soon! We can hide where they won’t see us and call them bad names until they all go home!

An incredibly tiny homemade guitar amplifier that fits inside one of those hoity toity coffeehouse mint tins. Like those caffeinated Penguin Minds. I have a tiny one that is inside a pack of cigarettes, but I can’t use it anywhere in California.

How to use your webcam to turn motions into music. Theramin dancers finally have a second career choice.

Using an old GameBoy to play and compose music. Apparently there are three different programs out there to do this, and the music it creates can be pretty sophisticated.

Making a small cart that can be pulled by a team of small dogs/ No words on an adaptation into a baby stroller that works with two cats – or how to harness two black cats and get them to go in the same direction.

And lots of other cool zany stuff that can be made or altered. Everything the budding MaGuyver needs! Just remember the magazine’s mantra: “If you can’t open it, you don’t own it.”

AND FROM ON HIGH HE SPEAKS (written from 3 A.M. to 6 A.M. on Saturday, December 10 and not actually posted until now.

2005-12-12T06:24:00.000-08:00

Hey’all-

This, right here, at this very moment, is the best goddammned moment of goodness and feeling like me me ME! I’ve fucking had since --- Fuckwhomba H. Magillicuddy don’t even rightly know when. So before I analyze why, or go back to think about when it wasn’t this golden, or they lock me up I’m going to fucking enjoy this moment as best I ever can and get it down in words so it can last.

I feel good. GOOD!!!! Not just the absence of pain, but the will to create and enjoy and skip and wave my arms around like a crazy goon for no damn good reason but that it feels good. I want to buy new amazingly bright shoes that barely touch the ground from my boundless badass movement. I want to run down beaches and set off pockets of confused activity from flocks of seagulls and the elderly. I want to perplex and scatter the tight clusters of penguinish-nuns out for a nice day in the park, then bounce down busy thoroughfares singing perplexing blatherskite to the norms. And once I have a legion of whitecoated mental health officials with butterfly nets, legions of guit-box heros, rapturous nuns, wild freespirited youth, merry pranksters, and every other misbenighted being feeling the rush and dancing feverishly in this wake, I plan to grab the balls of the world and pause all this day-to-day crap long enough so we can all be together in the most wonderfully warm golden beach imaginable -- just so’s when I jump up on a handy high rock or makeshift pedestal, point my finger up to the sky, and babble out the last of my thin golden thread; my meager wordly means of capturing how momentous this little snippet of inner personal nirvana is – there are plenty of fingers there to point back and laugh along.

I am going to wrest every shred of enjoyment I can out of this golden bit of pulsating life. So we should all Celebrate! Yell, scream, laugh, giggle. Let effervescent liquid words bubble up, trickle down, get us all up in a twirl of dance to shake whats needs shakin. Build up enough charged air and human energy so that when we finally punctuate this fission a’crackling about our mortal frames, our outstretched arms raised high, and in unrehearsed perfect unison yalp, “Please Please Oh Goodness Goddess let this last forevermore,” it will actually happen.

Then we can all hit the barbeque for every imaginable rib and steak, burger and dog, Country Faire Corndog, tofu and gluten, fresh leafy greens and crunchy vegetables, Lotus Cream, Three flavor snowcones, and all the other culinary perfection available to satisfy the yen humanity hath conjured up to feed our appetites. In NewBaccus-style the revels transcend units of measurement beyond mere days or weeks. If the party can go on for so long they lock us all in a building and blow it sky high so it just floats around until it hits Arthur Dent in the back -- so much the better. Wine and roses give way to this new age of sex and fireworks.

Why the general lack of creativity these days can be good.

2005-12-01T01:08:00.000-08:00

Hiya peeps!

As many of us have complained, and I foremost among you, there is a huge lack of original thinking these days. Dem guvmint boys want that because a blissed out populace is a satisfyingly idiotic thing that will just drool in the corner watching crap while you go and do whatever you want. And Hollywood panders to this lowest common denomonator. They are, after all the head-bobbing idiots who tacitly approve of what few events actually get reported in the news. So entertainment conglomorates go for what has already sold: musicians do covers of other artists songs which then show up in commercials to sell the latest SUV that is showcased in repetetive ads in between sameo sameo TV sitcoms or reality shows that rerun the same events over and over and over again. This same SUV has a cameo, along with the singer, in the latest movie that rewrites an old TV sitcom, or an old movie, or comic book, or if they can't absolutely avoid it -- a book. Then they release the movie on DVD with a copy of the video of the song sung by that artist who is covering another singer's song which shows her or him half naked on the hood of that same SUV.

Dukes of Hazzard, Charlies Angels, Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, The Producers, Resident Evil, The Grinch, Grand Theft Auto The Movie, and Where's The Beef? -- a new singing trio named Bun, Meat, and Bunn who star in a series of singing videos along with the fast talking Fed Ex guy and Joe Isuzu. In the movie version of the movie they star along with the Pillsbury Dough Boy and Chocula.

Such crapitude is not all bad however. Some bright egg decided to take an MTV animated cult classic and make a movie. And because they have now invested a shitload of mullah in the new Aeon Flux movie, they have to remind us all what the original was like; hence we are now able to enjoy the entire Aeon Flux animated features on a new DVD collection. HUZZAH!!
I am even ecstatic to relate that the DVD contains all the shows, plus the original shorts of Aeon from her Liquid Television days, and a whole bunch of other stuff, images, interviews, and sundry added features to pad the three disk set out right. Such a wonderful age we live in. Now I'm waiting for them to do the same with The Maxx.

Day Ate

2005-11-24T01:04:00.000-08:00

The zip disks have finally found me. I tried desperately to save my files and hide behind the massive single gig of a Syquest, but between the larger USB mass storage sticks and the even larger USB removeable hard drives I am doomed. I had hoped to make a break for the wastelands where the hardiest of souls make do on the slim pickings of 3 1/2 floppies or the even rarer breeds of actual 5" floppies, but a small cadre of SmartMedia and Flash Disks made off with my supplies and revealed my position. Legend tells of clans who can still hunt the wild reels of tape, or the mysterious punch cards but I have gone too far for anything so BASIC. Now I can only hope my partitions will hold as I store my last thoughts on the actual machine. I will hide my CPU as best I can before running as fast as I can for open ground. I know I will be picked off, but I can only hope they are too busy randomizing my actual bits to investigate from whence I came. Goodbye Shelia. Thanks for that extra little scoop of laundry detergent. The bell is ringing now. Which can only mean the spin cycle is done and I should unload before the scurvy warthog woman in the corner pulls my linens out and piles them on the floor with the dust and lint before loading my dryer with her own lime scented Napoleonic sea uniforms. She knows it's mine because I rammed her repeatedly with the one good cart with three functioning wheels and the fourth that doesn't but slides alright since I stuck a peanut shell in it. Yeah I know the code and I already had three loads of colors sitting wet in the other washing machines when she tried to muscle in on my dryer before. The signs plainly say first come first serve and I waited to come here at three in the morning and had to wait until the man who was already here got done. I've done my time and it sucks that there is only one dryer but the machines are plainly broken and there is only one Maytag for the taking. How can she dry something if I already am using all the washing machines? It doesn't matter if she keeps sticking quarters on top of the machine, I still have my free game and a million points to spare. The bell is ringing now and that means I get a free soda brought to me by the manager himself since I just beat the best high score on this game and I'm not walking away to tell him what flavor. He has to come to me and ask because I know she will just swoop in and it's not worth it for five hours straight pushing that little white button and rolling away at the giant ball to kill off them caterpillars and giant spiders just for some super small mostly ice soda that they condescend to give to the high score winners. I only hope that I have not made myself too big of a target that someone feels they have to take out. The big fish, or the game that has finally reached the pinacle of their existence and immediately goes into a decline. A living trophy that is holding onto their last accomplishment as long as they can until the final bell rings and someone takes them out with a final punch, a last round, and then I am only some stuffed head on a wall. Something that looks good for a few years but then begins to deteriorate and look kind of tatty. Besides, it really doesn't go with the decor anymore, and in all honesty it is in kind of bad taste to have something like that hanging on your wall. Really, I mean get with the times. This is the last time I am telling you to get rid of that thing or I am gone for good. I'm leaving. Last clue. Last call. What do I have to do in order to get it through your thick skull?

May All Your Turkeys Be Bright

2005-11-24T00:05:00.000-08:00

Gritin's Y'allunz-

It being the very early morn of this year's Thanksgiving, I thought I would send out my best wishes to all of you who read this blog and whom I would not consider actually calling on the phone and wishing you well in person when you are/were/will all probably more interested in other things like eating or sleeping than talking to me at that particular time.

I'm going to have a crappy actual Thanksgiving because my huge ass family have all decided to put off our actual Thanksgiving celebrations and meal onto Sunday -- which makes sense considering traffic, logistics of taking off work, and the juggling of about 30 actual people -- but this means I'm on my own on the actual day. Plus my oven decided to break this week. Repair guy couldn't fix it so a new one will arrive at my abode in "a week." Whenever that actually means. One must factor in that he said it on Monday, and no one is going to do diddly on Thursday or Friday, and certainly not on the weekend. I'm betting it will come on Tuesday or Wednesday next week. So I ain't got no damn oven or stove to cook. Looks like a nice traditional microwave burrito for me. I will eat it with images of Honeybaked Ham, Turkey, Stuffing, Yams, etc, etc, etc which I will finally be able to pay homage to on Sunday.

But I'm sure your own meals will be fabulous on the actual day. There will be too much family stuffed into too few rooms, numerous holiday specific incidents, and the usual fare for sit-com writers. For example the traditional prayer before the meal. In my family I usually get picked on to do this honor -- being Jewish, the eldest male grandchild in attendance, trained classicly in theatre with a lovely speaking voice, and apparantly the most creative in coming up with non-schmaltzy things to say. Otherwise we get the traditional: "Rub a dub dub, thanks for the grub, Yea Lord!"

We, like many familes, are avoiding any mention of dubs in our prayers. Here's hoping the chefs in the White House mistake him for the bird and he ends up being the centerpeice. We can but dream. I had another musing just this second about a scenario where they tested both the Turkey and GeeWubyah on basic Thanksgiving lore. The loser ended up being cooked and eaten. You can finish that one however you like.

Should you need some things to be thankful for, here are a few of mine these days.

First off the chosen one has finally been born, and we can thankfully rest now that we know he will indoubitably fix everything wrong with the world in thirty years or so. Finding Kryptonite to defeat his archnemesis will be a crucial first step, so if you are at a loss for upcoming presents for little L there's a hint. No doubt his mother is resting comfortably with plenty of familial slave labor to help around the house, and is very very thankful he has finally been born.

I am thankful that despite every single one of their movies, the two pinheads of South Park wrote two of the best Thanksgiving specials of any animated series. The one with the Braveheart Turkeys, and the one with the little crippled turkey Timmy befreinds are priceless entertainment.

Moreover, I am thankful that I will probably be spending all of Thanksgiving, including the time after I write this blog, playing Dawn of War on the computer. Thank you, oh thank you Monstro for "suggesting" I try this delightful romp. You bastard. And if it weren't bad enough there is even the expansion "Winter Assault" pack to make things even more fun.

But don't think Drivler is missing out on my thanks. When I am finally "done" with the Warhammer 40K computer games, or if I want a break, then I can look forward to his own lovely suggestion for computer game enhancement of my existence. Not only will I indoubitably become addicted to Morrowind, but I have the fun of the Tribunal and Bloodmoon expansions for that game as well.

The list could be endless. I haven't even touched on the thankfullness of our crappy medical systems that allow me to remain in pain for six months, the joy of percoden after same, not being locked in a room with Rob Schneider, or my ongoing thanks that in an incredibly badly designed world where our virulent forms found an ideal breeding ground there still exsists something as magical and wonderous as the duck-billed platypus.

Day 7 of my wonderful vacation

2005-11-18T07:45:00.000-08:00

This trip just keeps getting better and better. I know 10 day cruises to Aruba are supposed to suck, but I cannot get over just how much fun I am having. The food is absolutely wonderful. I have never tasted such interesting and mouth savory dishes. I swear they can make the fanciest lobster dinner in the same time they can make a simple hamburger. Watch Mr. Krok beat that! What they really excell at is combining the mundane foodstuff into ambrosia delight. I have no idea how the head chef combined liver paste and chicken giblets into such a delightful concoction but I just had to get another bowl last night. I don’t remember how long I purred about his cooking and rubbed against his ego – but after all that attention and stroking I can tell you he finally relented in the end!

My cabin is extremely small, but I understand that is standard on these package deals. I admit I have not taken much advantage of the various pools and other water sports available to guests. Getting wet just does not seem to appeal to me these days. But I have been doing a lot of climbing and jumping up on those high rock faces they have and then just sunning myself all afternoon, or peering down with haughty grandeur on all those below. Some of the guests called to me for hours to come down for dinner, but I just stayed up there until they finally got one of the stevedores to come get me down with his ladder. I didn’t really want to come down and made a lot of noise and thrashed around a lot. Once I was finally down I hid under a table until they all went away.

Another vexing time was when I went to the indoor tennis courts one day, and was asked to leave after I kept batting around balls that were not mine. Everyone keeps shooing me away from their tables when I jump up to investigate what they are eating or talking about. Minor annoyances compared to the one really bad experience I had when some crazy manicurist grabbed me in the hall, flipped me on my back, and trimmed all my nails. Apparently I was making clicking noises when I walked across the parquet floors, and someone complained that I scratched them. I really don’t recall if I did or didn’t. Maybe I got that stevedore; in which case I’m glad. The help should really know their place. I’ve rather grown to assume that all the other people around are to be ignored until I want one for some kind of amusement.

Those bad moments aside, this really is the most restful time I can recall in many years. I lounge around all day doing absolutely nothing but sleep or occasionally eat, and I don’t have to do anything at all. Someone else takes care of everything.

I can’t remember being this happy since I was seven. Specifically during those precious few weeks between when I complained to my mother about daddy’s strange midnight dress-up parties so the police came to take daddy away for criminal sexual deviancy, and before mommy stopped Uncle Fredrick from coming over and feeding me funny tasting tea and brownies until I would spin around naked in the kitchen as he took pictures.

I had a dream about me during that happy time, sitting at the monthly town meeting with mommy, wearing my brand new OP brown corduroy shorts and dark blue shirt drinking a pink lemonaide slurpee. It was a hot summer day, and the air conditioning was on full blast. In my dream the fat mayor who had sleepovers with mommy was sitting next to Uncle Fredrick, but the mayor was holding up a large purple fuzzy bunny who spit out giant gumdrops every time the mayor opened his mouth. They piled up on the floor beneath the raised table and rolled down the long blue carpet between the audience’s chairs. I wanted to get up and eat just one giant gumdrop, but the backs of my knees were stuck to the nagahyde on the folding chair.

I kept trying to pull them up, but suddenly there was a huge noise and I realized I had ripped my legs off just below the edge of my shorts. The rest of my legs were still attached to the nagahyde on the chair, but some of my legs were still inside the shorts. I pulled the bottoms of my shorts down to try and hide what I had done, but people started getting up after the mayor stopped opening his mouth. Everyone started asking why I wasn’t getting up too, and finally my mom pulled me off the chair by my arm and everyone could see my legs were still attached to the chair. I dropped my pink lemonaide slurpee and it spilled all over the floor and covered everyone’s shoes. I just swung from one arm as everyone pointed at my new shorts and laughed. They started chanting, “O.P! O.P! Over Priced Ostrich Poo!”

I cried and cried, but my mom just let me hang there as they made fun of my shorts. Then the spiders inside me started to drop out of the holes in my legs and out the bottoms of my shorts. More and more of them kept falling with little plops until the floor was covered with them and they began to crawl all over everyone. People tried to brush them off, but they started with their feet and their hands got all sticky from the pink lemonaide slurpee. The spiders stuck to them and they couldn’t get them off. Then the people all began to scream as the spiders gorged on their sweet flesh. Mom just stood in shock as the now engorged spiders returned to my legs on the chair, and then dragged them over to me as they marched back inside. The last spider in each leg used web to reattach them from the inside. Although my legs felt really heavy and were a lot thicker, I walked away with my mom holding my hand very tightly.

Frankly, the dream really creeped me out. I spent the next six days hiding under my covers in bed. This morning I woke up when a little bell rang.

Day 6???

2005-11-13T23:55:00.000-08:00

I must apologize for the last message I sent out, if indeed I sent out a message, and if anyone actually read it. Inexplicably I decided to take a nap this “afternoon” if indeed it was such a time and instead of resting in my quite comfy basket of sheets decided to sleep on the hard grey floor. But did I pick just anywhere in the totally devoid expanse before me? No. I decided to flop on the one item in the entire floor – my electronic whatzipple. It wasn’t even that comfortable, but I flopped on it and was immediately out like a bubblegum. This sort of behavior is really starting to tock me off. I find that I am not myself. I blank out in my captivity, and find myself acting evenly.

I fear that I am completely losing it, and in case this is my last cohabitant message I will once again state the facts. I am The Walrus. I have forgotten my own first name, just to show you how lost I have become. Six days ago, or as close to six days as I can make out without any out or with I found myself in a grey cell by myself. It could just as well be seven days or a welk, or fourteen, or a well. I was still dressed in my immaculate spandex Lab Coat, rur lipstick, and platnium 9 inch platforms which have now completely fallen apart from lack of photosynthesis, and lacking all my possessions except my good friend Lollipop were missing as well as totally gone. The Lollipop, which is a good ship, is not functioning correctly. I don’t even know if its battery is working. But I have attempted to type messages to the outside whirlled and send them out in hopes that someone will get them.

I don’t know if they are actually being sent. The screen goes blank, but that could mean anything. I really really hope that my messages are indeed going out, and that they are going somewhere that people could actually read them, and not just showing up on some sad bastard’s pathetic blog that no one reads. I really hope that someone is reading my little bottles in a pancreas and will contact the authorities so that I will be rescued. Oh goddess how I want to be rescued!!

I really hope my messages aren’t simply being dismissed by some concerned onlooker who keeps reading my messages and hoping one day to read that the happy fluffy bumpkins have come and all is going to be A-OK. Anything but that. I’d even put up with some git looking for a karmic tax write-off as long as they actually contact someone, anyone, even if they are a lunatic with a penchant for prying and his own prybar named Susan, as long as they get me out of here. I fear I am going quite insane in my captivity.

I know, six, possibly even fourteen days is not long. Tomb Raiding agnostics lost in the desert alone came out after much more time alone in the desert and they were just as slightly loco, but coherent as they were when they went in. So too Russian Dressings. Cosmonaughts. But my mind was never strong to begin with. It made me the perfect Geletin Pudding Desert. No wait. Scientologist. Yes, that’s right. But such a mind goes to pudding if captivated all alone.

Lost in myself, or at least some grey room of myself, I have begun to question why I am acting and thinging as I have done dooby dun do done. I fear that I would no longer fit in with the rest of the Punctahilly Weekly Tea and Bowling Duzzins Group anymore. Yesterday I almost confided to the litterbox in the corner that I had eaten a bunch of feathers wrapped in string before I ate my hamburger. Sheer audacity. To eat dessert before widduns. And the feathers tasted better. The burgers have become dull. I have begun to sing the jingle of a very very old Del Taco commercial that went, "Went to lunch the other day, can't recall the name, I say over man, over man, over again, this lunch is gonna be the same."

I tried thinking of what I would prefer to eat, but after running dry on a million Mars Bars I could only draw a blank. There was some long forgotten rememberance of something I may have eaten on the tip of my tongue. But I could not name it. Just a minute ago I realized I have been longing for the taste of liver and salmon combined. I think I think this should disgust me. But it doesn't. Yum.

My dreams are even worse. Last night a badger wearing a Metallica shirt and an orange taffeta kimono kept asking me questions as Cheap Trick elevator music played in the background. Apparently it was some kind of game show, but instead of trying to win or at least act in a way that wouldn’t embarrass myself and make myself a laughingstock to anyone who watched, all I wanted to do was make references to the penis.

First he asked, “If you could be any vegetable, what vegetable would you be?” To which I went into graphic description of how my cucumber body could best be used to gratify various women and farm animals in a porno. The applause meter went way way up, for which I won a bunch of money and advanced to the next round.

The Taffeta Badger then asked if I would keep the $1500 or pick what’s behind door #2? To which I began to interpretive dance to the White Dove music from “Showgirls” and recited that I would keep the $1500 because door number two is always the chumps choice. A wise man once said “D, E, A, B, C!” and I live by those words. If I can’t pick door number one I ain’t puking. Most idiots today are right handed, so they automatically pick door number 3, or the middle (2) as the easiest choice. I didn’t win as many points this time because my competitior anally raped the Taffetta Badger in perfect sync to “The Dream Police” playing in the background to thunderous applause.

To recoup points and face, in round three I answered that the most popular "Albert" as surveyed by a thousand toiled plungers, to be a “Prince Albert” and unpantsed the entire front row to show off theirs. This got me to the lightning round where I won with my answer to “what is the strangest place you’ve ever “made whoopee?” as on the set of Sister Act II.

I was really quite relieved by the bell, which rouses me and elicits my Pavlovian response to food. I cannot recall how many times it has rung, or when I began to associate my beloved food that arrives by unseen hand. I only know that I am ravenous; even if it is for the "Gibblet Delight" that was this time's offering. I hate myself for being duped so, for giving into this cruel experiment upon me like those animals, those animals . . . Damn!! I can no longer remember what animals were involved with Pavolov’s experiments. I recall the rest of the trio – Mendel and his amazing peas would come on first, followed by B.F. Skinner and His Trained Rodentia, and finally the show stopping Pavlov. But I can no longer recall who his animal cohorts were. Strange that I should forget this simple fact. Perhaps it was cats, yes, warm purring cats, who rang bells and summoned Pavlov to eat. Yes that must be it.

2)&)((()((((*!!!!

2005-11-13T22:33:00.000-08:00

Nurgle. Whoaliouik jiuouil kaojkj jsldjdjk> kskjkkljklkj hoobie joobie joobbie jklsjkdji
fucked the sheriff but he did not use a deputy sja;lk;lkk pairpk;kk kskldkf;k was the best of times, it was the blurst of times. Low Battery Low Battery Low Batter

Five is the Day

2005-11-12T00:12:00.000-08:00

Why is it that I cannot rest easily anymore? My dreams are a torrent of fevered and Lewis Carroll Shelby inspired lunacy. First the ground erupts in sprays of dirt and clasping rotten zombie arms as I am dragged beneath the ground and down a long tunnel. A sudden light blinds me and I find myself with Zoos and Apallo who force me on all fours and begin gluing horrific orange fur and silver bits to me as Klaxons blare and some brat screams behind me about his lost pet. I'm guessing they are doing all this because they want to score, but what am I in their diabolical plans? Are they after the same girl? The kid? Or am I their main course and my new coatings just an elaborate costume needed as the only way to get them both sexually excited at the same time?

Before I can find out a little bell rings and a hundred badgers wisk me away to a tiny movie theater in Los Angeles where they are showing a version of Blade Runner I have never seen. The fat sickly man next to me keeps saying something about his dick, which apparently he has named Phillip, and which he believes has written the novel version of the movie we are watching. Apparently they completely changed things, but he still likes it. He wants to know why the heck they changed the title though. He doesn't know what the heck a Blade Runner is. I say it probably has to do with walking the thin line between two opposites, like a sheep who dreams of being more than an automaton. The comment seems to really weird him out.

Then the bell rings again and my shoes start to squeak. And I come to that really weird part of my dream where I begin to tap dance, but I can only do it while wearing golf cleats. And a giant glass pitcher over my head pours out a torrent of badgers, all dressed in silver Berk Buxlex tuxes with tails, who in a hundred squeaky badger voices sing in unison "There's No Business Like Show Business," before they all morph into penguins singing "Welcome To The Jungle." On the line "I'm gonna make you bleed," they all pull out rubber truncheons and begin beating me until a million swimmy black things swim toward me like they would toward something a million black swimmy black things really really like.

The bell rings and the big badger in the waistcoat is back slapping me over and over in the face yelling at me to take the wheel or we are going to crash. I clutch the wood rimmed wheel of a speeding 427 Cobra instinctively and try to avoid the hurtling cars and pedestrians as best I can. Unfortunately the wheel appears far too sensetive and I cannot center the car. I careen all over the road and up on the sidewalks frequently, hitting cars and mowing down pedestrians in gruesome fashion. In no time at all I have racked up three stars and the police are in hot pursuit and ramming me. I cut through a grassy park but the follow me and one squad car rams me just as I am attempting to make a left to avoid the water that suddenly appears in front of us. We go over the embankment and into the blue, badly rendered and pixilated water.

The bell rings again and I am finally awake. Another hamburger awaits in the food bowl. Next to it is a collection of feathers tied up with a string, which I inexplicably shred and eat before demolishing the burger.

Day 4

2005-11-08T22:04:00.000-08:00

Life has become very boring for me. There is little to do in my prison but wait around until I am sleepy enough to nap for long periods in my basket of fresh laundry. I have no idea how long I am sleeping now without any reference to the sun or a clock. My best guess is a good 18 to 20 full hours a day. This would normally distress me as I am a bit of a workaholic, but now I just turn over on my pile of fresh smelling sheets and just go back to sleep. I crawl out of my nest occasionally to check and see if there is a new delivery of food, but even then I am thinking of my next bit of sleep. How I long to curl up in a warm spot of sunlight and just bask.

I hope no one can blame me for thinking so. All I can otherwise do is bat the rolled up bit of tinfoil around. It's hardly a stirring occupation, but I have to do something, so I run around the confines of my little cell batting it around like mad until I wear myself out enough to have another nap. Naps are pretty much all I think about, other than my intense need for a bath, and possibly when my captors will decide to feed me again.

In actuallity, I find my dreams are really the most interesting I have ever had. Last night a hundred california general contractors chanted to me in unison as if I were some kind of god, asking me for information on the holyness of georgia highway construction. I told them I knew nothing of highway construction, let alone construction of any kind. I've never been to Georgia, and it has never been on my mind. Then they all turned into purple badgers, or some other kind of berate fuzzy thing with teeth, since I wouldn't know a badger if it ran up and bit me in the ass, which is what these things looked like they wanted to do, so I assumed they were badgers. One got up and seemed to be their leader, dressed as he was in a huge gold waistcoat with a lime green pocketwatch hanging from a chain attached to one pocket, and a gold monocole screwed into one eyesocket.

He said...

"We found great info on your blog Day 3 and were really looking for information in more detail on being the next california state contractor. However, your read was still found to be quite informative and interesting. Thanks for the useful info. Could you really tell us all how we could find out how to buy and sell anything, like things related to quality assurance highway construction?" Then he unscrewed the monocole from his eye, pulled a small jeweled case from the other pocket of his vest, and snorted a pinch of some glitery powder from the case.

Apparently it was damn good stuff because his pupils got really big and he didn't see the fur trapper, who was strictly from commercial, coming up from behind. He ran right up to the badger and grabbed his lime pocketwatch. The little jeweld case and monocole came spinning toward me and I picked them up as the trapper gave a couple of quick shines from some kind of quick acting polish he just happened to have along to the watch, and then proceeded to whack that ol badger upside the head and the nose and any old place he could get at. Round and round he swung that now shiny watch in great circles on it's chain, still attached to the waistcoat of the now trapped and victimized badger, until he would let it go with a WHACK! to the nose or a WHACK!! to the top of that poor ol badger's head until he began to go into great convulsions upon the floor of the grandiose ballroom in which I had been accosted.

When I awoke I was rather disheartened to find that there was no jeweled case with mysterious glittering powder for me to sample. Nor was there any food. Rather grumpily I chewed on the new catnip mouse my captors had switched my beloved rolled up ball of tinfoil for and thought about why no one had ever invented a gas-powered turtleneck sweater for really cold days.

Day 3

2005-11-06T00:43:00.000-08:00

Am not sure how much longer I can stand this. The boredom finally got to me and I began screaming obsceneties and whatever came to mind at the walls for hours on end. After I had used up my rather limited repetoir of expletives and suppositions about the parentage, sexual preferences, and most lascivious and uncivilized supositions about their possible sexual habits it got very strange. I only recall bits of what I screamed. Random recipes for turkey pot pie. Beatles Lyrics sung in a high falsetto punctuated by the dull thudding percussion of my own rythmic beats of the head against the floor. At some point I decided to end it all and slammed my Razzberry agains the floor until I could dislodge its cadmium battery. Anything would be better than this, so I stuck my tongue against the terminals.

I dreamed of pink fairys with ludicrous spandex cheerleader uniforms chanting in unison amazingly complex rhymes about how much of a dumbass I was. They all had the face of Bubba Ignatiums -- a fearsome bully in my grade school who tormented me for years.

When I awoke I was curled up in the most immense pile of warm clean soft sheets. They all smelled of wonderful fabric softener, and were wonderfully warm as if just plucked from the dryer. The pile of rather fetid yarn I had been sleeping in was gone. In its place was a giant wicker basket holding the piles of fresh giant bathtowels and sheets. The corner in which I had been relieving myself had been cleaned and in its place was now a rectangular plastic tray of sand.

Wonder of wonders was a small bowl of fresh cold water and a steaming hot hamburger from the greasy joint I used to frequent a mile down the road from my lab. I had devoured the whole thing before I realized my captors must have been watching me. The hamburger was exactly as I ordered it every day for the past month -- two patties, with swiss, grilled onions, pastrami, and extra mustard. These bastards know me. They've been watching me, waiting for me to crack. I can only guess at their motives or what it is they want of me. They still refuse to show themselves.

But they want me to keep sending my message out to the world for some reason. My Razzberry had been fixed, although it still will only allow me to type and then send messages. The battery must have been recharged. I can only guess why it was placed on the floor next to the wadded up tinfoil wrapper for my burger.

Day 2 of my captivity.

2005-11-04T00:12:00.000-08:00

I have held on as long as I could without sending another message with my Razzberry, hoping that my one message actually got out, actually made it to someone, anyone who would summon the proper authorities. I figured, heck, with all the modern techniques and technology they have right now for sure any second someone is going to come and get me. And then I figured it was taking them some time to triangulate in on me or something. Or maybe there was a really good game on TV and they would come after that was done. Then I just started cursing you crab ramming bastiches. And then I yelled at the walls alot. And then I fell asleep on that big pile of yarn in the corner.

Hello. Yes. I am still here. Been sort of like that for as far as I can tell for the last few days. Pretty boring in this same boring damn grey room with the one flourescent light way up out of reach up in the ceiling. No, still no door. No visitors. No nothing. The one fun part of the day, until I didn't have anything left to use in such fashion, was to urinate in the corner and maybe leave a log. But I stopped doing that yesterday, or what I think might have been yesterday because I haven't eaten since I found myself here.

By the way, I still have no idea how much power remains in this Razzberry. I have no idea if what I type is being sent or not. I'm just really really hoping that something is actually getting though. That someone is reading this.

So someone, to recap, I am in a cell, being held against my will, and would like out. Send help you bastard. Am going to hit send and then have a nap on the yarn in the corner and hopefully not think about marshmallow peeps. I am really that hungry.

Day 1.

2005-10-30T00:00:00.000-07:00

I can only hope that when I press "send" on my Razzberry whatever I have typed on the small screen will actually be sent somewhere. For some reason I cannot confirm if I am actually connecting to the internet, or even where my messages are being sent. I hope they are going into the mainframe of the Technical Institute of Kitten Toy Studies, for as best I recall that is the last place I connected to before I noticed the fires raging in the building. I know I opened the cages and let the kittens out, but I must have passed out after that.

When I awoke, I found myself here in this small stone room. Someone had rifled my clothes and taken all keys, coins, wallet, and sundry pocket clutter. My shoelaces were also missing. The rest of my clothes appear intact, especially my long lab coat which I am most grateful for in these rather chilly environs. My Razzberry was on the floor next to a huge pile of multicolored yarn. I cannot explain why the yarn is there, or why they left me my Personal Razzberry PDA/Computer. Nor can I explain why the Razzberry only seems to be able to function as a primitive word processor. None of it's other myriad of functions appear to work, and only the default "Bilabial Fricative Idiot" sound can be heard if I attempt to access any other function than simple typing or pressing the send key. I cannot even save my words and can only hope they make it out to the world so someone can save me.

I have not been let out of my cell for what I assume has been many days. I have no watch, and the Razzberry's clock does not appear to function. There are no windows in my cell. Only a single covered light up in the ceiling. I cannot reach the ceiling as it is a good 15 feet high -- the same width and breadth of my cell as well. I can see no door to my cubical prison. No jailer has come at my ongoing cries. I can hear no sound but my own rantings and the rubbery click of these keys. I can only guess at how much battery power remains, so I will end this message. Again, should ANYONE see this do what you can to find me.

Yours,
Dr. Disheveled Fortranz

Pissped at the PSP and the DUM UMD

2005-10-25T04:39:00.000-07:00

Well folks, it looks like that day we knew was coming may well actually be coming sometime sooner than the not so soon we thought we knew would happen. This may be alarming news for some of you. Many of us are still reeling from the prognostications of that Parisian ex-patriot Tecumseh prognosticator who vowed I would “find my end with a multifaceted electronic daemon bibbletoe three fitty.” Small skirmishes pop up amidst you every few months between those who feel the fortelling speaks of my eventual demise or the equally devout followers of “he’ll just scratch his ass one day” brethren. It didn’t help matters when the holiest paper-cut Rabbi of Red Bluff said “get out of my tent.” But it has come time. I have spent too many hours wasted in doctor’s waiting rooms waiting to see them for twenty minutes worth of hundred dollar consultations. I am considering getting a Sony Playstation Personal.

We are not yet at the point where we can buy an all-in-one mini portable computer/phone/pda/digital camera/gaming device/whathaveyou that can do everything under the sun. But the Sony PSP comes pretty close. This little wonder basically plays a variety of games, can play full length movies, and can store saved games as well as media such as music videos, and pictures on removable media cards that can hold up to two gigabytes of stuff. The screen is a full color special widescreen that has excellent clarity. It has the ability to hook up to computers or a regular playstation via a USB cable, and can hook up to the internet for shared gaming. Sound is actually better than the iPod. I’ve had laptop computers that did less, and those wizzys at Sony are busy finding all sorts of extra added gizmos that will plug into it and expand its features.. The ubiquitous digital camera attachment is on its way. I’m guessing a TV attachment would make sense too. So a PSP seems tailored for waiting around in waiting rooms. Play a few mindless games or watch a flick; just listen to some music or even watch a music video. Then when you name gets called you turn it off or pause it and away you go.

The one problem with the PSP is that Sony is peopled by bastards who like to screw everyone as much as possible. These are the same people who invented the Sony MiniDisk and then made it impossible to find the music you really wanted to buy on it. These same geniuses made the PSP so it can only play PSP disks for games or movies. That means you have no choice but to buy a brand new format disk for every game and movie you want to play on this little electro turd. I know, you can’t play X-box games on a Playstation or vice versa either – which also annoys me and is why I finally ended up buying both in order to play certain games. But the PSP came up with a whole new type of disk called a UMD. You may have noticed smaller packaged UMD movies on the rack next to your regular DVD’s these days. But not for every movie. Oh no. That would be commercially nice. Instead the fine folks at Sony have decided to only release Sony owned movies, and only SOME of their movies onto this new format. So the choices are very limited, as well as odd.

You might expect them to only release Chuck Norris and David Kronenberg flicks. Or Jean Clod Von Dammed and Yahoo Serious epics. Some kind of ulterior or evil plan patently afoot in their choices would at least make some sense. At least a Gary Busse marathon would include “48 Hours.” Instead they seem to have randomly just picked from the vast possible cinematic library available.

Amazon currently shows 215 possible “PSP Movies” or “UMD format” choices. Many of them are due to be released “soon,” but have no date as to when they will actually arrive. And there are some great movies among the standard schlock. Many new releases like “Batman Begins” and “The Longest Yard” are available. You can go out of your way to subject yourself and everyone around you to “Van Helsing.” Or “XxX.” A number of big hits are understandable like all of Quentin Tarantino’s movies. Actually I don’t think “Reservoir Dogs” is there, but “From Dusk Till Dawn” is. “One Day in Mexico” is there but “Desperado” and “El Mariachi” are not. Hmmmmnnn. But what I wonder is why do they list “The Incredibles” and “Toy Story” and not any other Pixar titles? Why have “The Search For The Holy Grail” and “Time Bandits” but no other Gilliam/Monty Python extravaganzas?

I suppose it is a sort of “desert island disks” thing. What movies would you want with you when stranded in a doctor’s waiting room? They would have to be movies with great sections that you could enjoy for ten minutes to an hour {or more}. Movies you don’t mind pausing. “Kung Fu Hustle” is definitely one that I would plan to get. “Labyrinth” is a good one, as is “Time Bandits.” I wouldn’t mind a version of “Brazil” or “Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas” though. What I find a lack of is collections of music videos. I think this is a major untapped possibility. You have music and visuals – perfect for a waiting period. MTV old school on the go. The closest Sony has come is U2’s “Rattle and Hum” and the making of Pink Floyd’s “Dark Side of the Moon.” This is hardly the collection of odd Peter Gabriel or Bjork videos I might feel inclined to watch whilst my eyes are being dialated for the third time this week.

But Sony has also missed out on releasing cartoons. Wouldn’t short cartoons be perfect to watch in a waiting room? Where are the old Warner Bros cartoons? Instead they have full length anime movies like “Ghost In The Shell,” “Cowboy Bebop: The Movie,” and “Akira.” Which are cool titles to have but they don’t quite fit my bill. Sony does have a special “best of” collection of South Park episodes – but not a whole season. Same with Ren and Stimpy. Or the first Chapelle show. You get one disk with maybe five episodes on it. Which is pretty weak.

It comes down to buying maybe two or three movies at most that you would want to carry around with you. I don’t see building an entire library of UMD movies when most of the time I would rather watch them on my regular TV in the comfort of my home. UMD movies are just for a lark basically – and I ALREADY OWN THEM ON DVD ALREADY. Why pay another 15 bucks for “Labyrinth” (the cheapest I could find) or 22 bucks for “Honk Kong Hustle” (the most expensive). I’m gonna need all that money just to buy the forty dollar games.

Sad News For Kitten Toy Enthusiasts

2005-10-25T04:21:00.000-07:00

On Wednesday, October 207th this past Saturday, our newly finished and gleaming white with cool chrome accents top-of-the-line kitten toy lab mysteriously exploded. All materials, kitten toys, and ancillary research was irretrievably destroyed. As it was a Saturday, the facility was closed to personnell. All kitten test subjects were found in perfect health and spirits playing on the green grass lawn some 100 feet from the blast area with a single badly burned scrap of paper. Only the typewritten words " ... catnip ... positive ... dangly ... conspiracy revealed ... President Bush actually controlled by ... " could be made out on this sole remaining bit of research notes. A handwritten scrawl on the bottom was badly singed but handwriting forensic anthropologists used the latest technology to recover the cryptic message "Don't trust the fuzzy ones. They know."

The exact number for this particular experiment is unknown. We are unable to determine which kitten toy was being examined, or which kittens may have been involved. The handwriting seems to be that of Dr. Disheveled Fortranz, once Director of the Research Center. The good Doctor, who disappeared just before the explosion, is presumed to have perished in the explosion. We have no choice but to suspend all operations and research indefinately. We fear that with this tradgedy, we may never be able to resume this work again. While the potential benefits may well be considerable, the risks of research in this area appear beyond our current scope.

The Research Process Begins

2005-10-15T23:49:00.000-07:00

Greetings Science Lovers!

Much furor has been made in certain circles by the timely comments of the Brothers from Canada as I will call them and their subtle message about the mental health benefits of kitten toys. If you don't know what I'm talking about you must be in some kind of governmental capacity and no amount of kitten toy therapy will help you. Sorry. My next few blogs will very probably consternate you more than say, any other of my blogs. Damn you must have done something really really dumb to have pulled the duty of having to read the subersive blog of little ol me. Send me a comment and let me know just what you did to screw the pooch so bad. Do you have any pictures? C'mon. It will give us something to talk about at next month's interrogation under the bright lights.

But I digress.

I have decided with all this time on my hands to try and figure out what toy specifically seems to best help mental health. To delve into the intricate mysteries of Kitten Toy Medication will require some serious and organized thought. Which means I am the one least fit to oversee it. So I am the perfect supervisor of such research.

I shall not, as you might suspect given my perfect candidacy for such a position, going to actually undergo or test any of these theories myself or on my self, self, or any other of mes. That's why I have invented a huge fellowship, research grants, institution, laboratories, and cadre of test subjects. I think they can handle all the actual not working on this problem themselves with little actual supervision on my part.

I am essentially the idea guy. Hence my function is to brainstorm some ideas and then make others do the work. I base this methodology on watching the first season of "House."
Who knew we could find a use for Hugh Laurie? Anyway, as I see it we will have to determine the following:

1. What constitutes a kitten toy? Must it have "kitten toy" in large letters on the packaging? Will any cat toy work? Must it be a bought toy -- since kittens will play with just about anything. Must we conduct experiments with feet under the comforter, balled up aluminininumm foil, bubble wrap, Eldar Guardians who fell off the shelf, their own tails, bits of scrap paper, string, or Erik?

2. In what way should the mental patient interact with the kitten toy? Do they just play with it themselves or must the kitten toy be administered to the patient in some way? Oral, Anal, Topically {Rubbed on}, or by Injection seem the usual four. I suppose we could also insert the kitten toy via an operation. Sort of a kitten toy transplant.

3. Must the kitten be involved as well? We already know the theraputic value of pets -- especially playing with a kitten. Or even watching a kitten play. I am hoping this is as far as the research need go. It would be horrifically distressing to find that our canadian naybores are taking kittens and kitten toys orally, let alone any of the other four administration techniques mentioned above.

Let me know if I have overlooked any other possibilities.

The Latest Bloggy Scandal

2005-10-14T00:48:00.000-07:00

Now in my last post I wrote about my frustration with the new "security" feature of blogger that asks people who post comments to re-type a short bit of gibberish they see displayed on their screen as a security measure. No doubt this really helps keep automated systems from just spewing random spam comments onto your own blogs. And I see the need for this -- I really do. Spam sucks. It is an invasion of privacy and I too hate to see some random crap some suckmonkey somewhere programed his computer to just spew onto one of my or my friends carefully crafted perfection. You bastards.

It was not my intention to make any of my faithful readers guilty for implementing this feature onto their own blogs. I know it wasn't personal, and that my eyesight is problematic and when it comes down to it, out of sync with bettering humanity and the world at large. One must evolve or get trampled by the next thing in motivational digits. Did the darwinian mudskippers give a damn about the fish they stepped over? Did those who climbed up into the trees for safety bother to worry about those too dumb to seek elevated protection? When we came back down from the trees was there a movement to help the backward primates who were content to remain arboreal? Of course not.

No doubt the last few remaining dinosaurs were just as grumpy when early primates started using their oposable digits to spam eachother so many million years ago. You can't stand in the way of progress or someone will just have to colonize you against your will, send in some crusade to change your heathen ways, prostletize you for your own good, send some infected smallpox blanket spam, or just decide to bomb your ass back to the stone age for your own damn good. That's just the natural way of things.

But I had no idea what kind of a hotbed my little message would bring. Apparently it appealed to two Canadian brothers who sent me word of a conspiracy going on under our noses. Disguised as common spam so unseen censors would not twig to word leaking out, these two simple comments have torched off a multitude of discussions about what possible benefits kitten toys may have on canadian -- and should we finally get the secret, our own -- health practices. Spread the word sistren and brethren!! Kitten Toy therapy works!

Tired of extra crap.

2005-10-07T00:57:00.000-07:00

Hey folks-

As you may have already discovered, I am somewhat of a cynic when it comes to technology. It is certainly meant to be a great boon, and yes computers and new technology have the ability to make our lives better. But they rarely if ever fulfill their promise.

I have a brand new computer, but it takes me longer to actually type and print a simple paragraph now than it did on my old computer. Much of my time is spent turning off automatic update windows and background virus checks.

Every other day someone tells me they just read or saw something on the news about a miracle breakthrough for Diabetics. Yet such innovations are almost always for adult onset diabetes, not juvenile onset. And it is always some new pill that does the same thing the last pill did. No actual cure. The "new" insulin I am on was first marketed in the 1970's. The "new" glucometer I have is the smallest I have ever owned, but still uses the same technique for reading a drop of blood. It still hurts like hell and takes the same amount of time to take a test.

The Luddites have something. Technology basicly sucks. It sucks time. How much time are we "saving" with new software? Or new equipment? We spend more time updating our virus protection every month or week now than we did last year. It will be every day soon. Plus maintaining firewalls, and updating patches, and getting more powerful computers to run all the excess crap that we now have to have just to check our damn email. Every couple of weeks my Yahoo email decides to change its look or interface and I end up having to go through one more extra screen or special security password control in order to just open my inbox.

What started this little rant is the new feature of blogger that forces you to look at a short bit of garbled text that appears on the screen and then you have to type it in exactly as it appears on your screen in order to post a comment. I'm sure it was meant to cut down on automated spam showing up in our comments, or to keep someone from using our blog as a link to their porn site. I'm sure the bloggy dieties thought they were making all our lives easier -- but it is just pissing me off.

Yet another thing I have to do to just toss a quick paragraph off in response to something one of yall have said. I know, no big deal. But for me, with my vision as messed up as it is, asking me to actually see the who knows what they have displayed, in funky colors, all jumbled up and off kilter -- is a little hard. It's hard enough for me to read regular text. Now you're gonna test me on my ability to correctly read and then type garbage? And if I fail then you won't let me write or post what I have written? Gee, doesn't that seem a little prejudicial against the partially sighted? Doesn't that seem like censorship?

And then I wake up again in AmeriCo and realize it's just the status quo. Bend over consumer.

Not Much of a Nothingness

2005-10-01T23:17:00.000-07:00

Hiyall-

I am doing little much of anything really. Haven't found work, and it looks unlikely with my schedule of so many medical visits during each week. That is pretty much life at this point. Visits to the Retinal Specialist, the Diabetes Specialist, the Diabetic Clinic, the Podiatrist, etc, etc, etc. Mucho medications which all have to be watched carefully for side effects -- most of which have warning signs of pain in the muscles and weakness. These are the exact two things that I have been complaining about for the past four months. The cure actually gives you the problem. Medical amazment at its greatest.

On a positive note I feel that the five people I've seen so far for figuring out how to fine tune the Diabetes are doing as well as can be expected. Am now on two new types of insulin that require some delicate tuning, as they are injected at various times during the day, so I haven't really been up to much other than potsking around the new apartment testing my blood sugar levels every hour on the hour and injecting various clear insulins into my abdomen as required. Fun fun fun.

I have basically been fine tuning the apartment, getting Avramic tidbits out of various boxes and figuring out where to put all of them. The Living Room has most of the books out of boxes and is entering a sort of "almost ready to have people over if there were anyone I knew around here" phase now that art is starting to appear on the walls instead of stacked boxes, and chatzkies are being fiddled with on flat surfaces.

Am now fine tuning the bedroom as the next great canvas. My office is essentially a giant box room and probably will remain so since the apartment is far smaller than my last. I just have nowhere to put everything I own, so it will have to remain boxed up in storage, i.e. in a great pile wrapped around every wall of the office with just enough room for my desk and computer to be used. The vast toy collection will not displayed.

I have been looking around antique places for a dresser of some kind since I have much much less closet space now for storage of even things like socks. They are currently roaming the apartment in bands of fuzzy sock bandit collectives trying to capture the Koshka and rumple her fur until it crackles with static electricity. Socks are very dim. They have yet to figure that they are her natural prey. She delights in stocking the unwary white boomerangs so as to stick her head down their tubular gullets and gently nip out their juicy heels from the inside. The sinuous dancing of an unravelled sock is a silent, bewildering dance, hose true meaning is lost on me. Their final cries of "Aarrgh Kyle," haunt me at night.

Hoping I might amazingly find a Japanese or Pacific Island style stepped tansu cabinet -- but that is a pipe dream. Basically any furniture I want to own is already very desired by others of taste who apparently have tons more money than I.

Other than fruitless furniture searches I have gotten out at least once to sample a local sushi place which is rather good and affordable. Quite delicious and more selection than the old Raw Bar or Genkai, but no Salmon Slam for which I am feeling quite a yen. Also three seperate Thai places which all have excellent Lemon Grass Soup and sundry delectables. So at least that addiction can be satiated. Excellent Mexican tamales and enchilladas abound as well. There is a carneceria here that is known throughout the county. I hit them on my designated Friday religiously for a stack of fresh corn tortillas, gallon of salsa, tamales, and carne asada. That all gets me through the weekend.

Unfortunately there is no crunchy calamai in town, but a quick jaunt down the local freeway { it's just a mere two hours away you know} to LA and the coast can satisfy my need for fish and shellfish, as well as my long bemoaned and needed pastrami club on rye. And that seems to be enough to make my life complete for now.

Why Redlands?

2005-09-21T23:24:00.000-07:00

Now the question many of you may long have been asking is, “Out of all the possible places to move, why hath ol Avram settled on Redlands? What could possibly be the appeal of this place in comparison to, well, just about anywhere else for a new start?” And I am the first to admit it is not my first choice either. Frankly, it is going to have many down sides more than the down sides I immediately envisioned and have had to undergo since I “officially” moved here at the beginning of September. Wow, time doth fly. It's almost been a month. Wow.

To recap: as all of ye who have read of my plight over this last year, necessity demanded I return to Southern California for ze health you know. Secondly for better employment, but mainly health. Redlands immediately addresses these needs. The new abode is right next to Loma Linda – whose medical university is one of the best in the world. So immeasurably better health care is ensured. I already have posted about the doctors I am beginning to see. I now have a general practitioner as well as the Diabetes Specialist, plus a Retinal Specialist. Two new operations on the eyes are in the works, I begin on new insulin next week, and eventually will be scheduled to have an insulin pump.

Social life isn’t really picking up much, but being in the same town as my parents, and near my grandparents has been nice. I’ll also be able to jet in and see ol Trip far more often. So that will all be to the good. Getting away on weekends is essential. If I’m not careful I have the feeling my parents are more than willing for me to return to my former teenage live-in handyperson/helper status. I already got dragged into helping my Mom with her Friends of the Library Book Sale this last weekend. And I had a lovely afternoon helping Daddo cut wood for the kitchen cabinets he’s been working on for about three millennia now. Fun times.

But I am excited to be here. First off, I have successfully begun the long feng shui’ng of the new apartment, and most of the books are out of boxes and on actual bookshelves. The living room is ready to start entertaining guests and the cat is absolutely thrilled with her new domaine. Art is beginning to appear on walls, and the office has even been set up enough for continued computer use without having to take it down and reset the whole durn thing every time I needed to get to a box of books that was temporarily being used as a desk. Actual desk use has been obtained.

Spent this week hitting the streets in the new land whale pimpmobile looking for a new job, as all the semesters at all the local universities have begun now. None of them emailed, called, or gave in to my blandishments to be hired for any last minute classes so am now looking to see what flexible and possible work-at-home scenarios might be in the offing. Can't work a regular 9 to 5 because embarking on this new healthier body and life are going well too. This means at least two doctor visits of some kind a week and usual waiting around time for a 1/2 hour visit seems to equal an actual three full hours waiting around. So something I could do at my own schedule on weekends or odd hours would suit best.

The good news is that I officially have health coverage now. Well, not NOW now per say. Now as in "You have been accepted and your benefits will begin after the standard 90 day waiting period." So in December I will be set. In the meantime the family is helping out with stuff that really needs to be done now like the eyes and general checkups, insulin, and sundry.

So all in all, I feel well enough. But I cannot escape the fact that I am truly back in the southland – a vast quiltwork of far too many semi-sapiens occupying an unending sprawl of tract homes and cookie-cutter shopping complexes. I now drive with these stupified apes on clogged freeways, and breathe the thick muck they have decided to call air. While this denser population does provide more income and appetite for rarified tastes – such as food, bookstores, and Avram-type stores – it is also a depressing flat concrete billboard of the same Togos/Baskin Robbins/CostPlus/Pier One/BedBantha&Beyond/Walmart complex every other mile.

Redlands is slightly different in that it has only recently begun to sprout these despised growths amongst its boarders. They only got a Target this year. Walmart established its ugly presence the year I graduated high school, and before that there was only the Kmart. Not exactly a cultural mecca. There are still only two McDonald’s – the crappy one by the freeway and the better one by the high school. If you absolutely gotta yen, the food and service are always better by the high school. There is still a Main Street which has few chainstores and many little boutique stores with interesting stuff. I have found an Avram store that is devoted to Hot Wheels collectables and collectible action figures – so my addictions will have at least one outlet. There is an excellent children’s bookstore, and many used bookstores of differing quality. A largish Barnes & Noble is really the only “decent” big bookstore in town though. But LaLa land is a mere two hours away with some really excellent bookstores, music, video, toy, and just about everything else.

Foodwise Redlands has basically the same resteraunts they had when I left 15 years ago. They still have the indifferent Thai place, and a so-so sushi restauraunt. My favorite Cajun place closed, as did the family owned fried fish place. But there are plenty of excellent Mexican places, and even the crappiest grocery store has an entire bounty of various types of tortilla displayed in their bread aisle. Ha ha to you folks on the east coast.

Progress has also forced two other old favorite places to go. The old Hardware store finally went, and the giant ornate movie palace has been closed for twenty years now. A new multiplex means it is but a matter of time before someone guts the supposedly intact historic interior and makes it an office building of some kind. I’ll miss those two old buildings. I remember looking up at the ornate gold filigree and playing on the worn velvet seats before the lights dimmed and we saw a double feature of 101 Dalmations and Superman II. I spent far too much time sorting through giant bins of screws and nails in the cavernous dark back room of that hardware store; its smooth worn wood floor that I had to wear shoes on because of the spilled nails. Most of my youth was spent barefoot, even on trips downtown for shopping. I remember following my mom in bare feet through the library or the grocery store. Or just staying in the car with the windows rolled down. It was that kind of place.
Naturally that kind of thing is no longer safe or allowed.

Instead I have had the dubious pleasure of trying to find various hardware thingees and doodads at Lowe's and Home Depot with various success. May have to succumb to the local Movie Cineplex for a showing of "The Corpse Bride" and "Wallace and Grommit's: The Were Rabbit." Gotta keep up with the literature you know.

Speaking of which, there is still that great old Library I used to go to, and the corner grocery store I worked at after high-school. The nice checker named Mary still works there, and the crotchety ol' Gal Shirley who sorta kinda worked with me in the Liquor Section. All she ever did was stock cigarrettes, which is apparently no longer her feifdom. But it is nice those two standbys are still there at the registers even if the store has new owners. There is still a lot of nostalgia and history to Redlands that make it different enough to be tolerable. It’s just gonna take me awhile to accept all the new houses now on my favorite vacant fields and the ne

Why Redlands will always be “Deadlands” to me.

2005-09-21T23:19:00.000-07:00

One of the reasons I immediately wanted to escape my hometown as a teenager was because of its utter lack of anything. There was nothing to do, so we basically got up to no good in the last remaining orange groves. Illicit substances and high school drama productions had to dull our senses until emancipation. There is a bounty of history and lore about the place – which at the time I found was hardly reason to enjoy living there. Hence all we high schoolers called it Deadlands in reaction to years of boring lectures in elementary school about how the name comes from the red clay found in the ground by local indiginious indignant “Indian” Actual American Americans, who used it to make pottery for the edification of evangelical Franciscan Monks. Redlands actually has a tiny “Asistencia” California mission – the only inland one. We walked long hot school field trips to it, and wondered if riding Father Francisco Serra’s donkey would be any more interesting. I remember nothing of the actual mission, but I did get to ride back to the school in a car because I was the “Diabetic Kid” and they didn’t want me to collapse or something.

My own personal involvement with these historic lands was a really bad attempt to make a tiny scale model of the San Juan Capistrano Mission out of actual adobe bricks in the third grade, and digging several 6 foot deep trenches for various irrigation pipework projects to feed my parent’s acreage. Both suffered because of that very same red land that lay under a good four feet of sand and rock. Once you excavate down to this red stuff there is nothing claylike about it. It is tungsten-hard red dirt that is impossible to dig in and requires a good soaking and a pickaxe to make a dent.

So I still harbor great resentment for these red lands and digging ditches. The place is essentially the usual So Cal desert landscape with the exception of huge acres of orange trees. Or at least that was the case until they were all bulldozed to make new Condos, Walmarts, and shopping centers. Oddly enough, many places I’ve lived in California started out as segments of the great Sunkist orange empire. Redlands, Northridge, and Chico. For years the Redlands area was only of note because of its tiny mission. The biggest thing that ever happened in Redlands was its invention by a couple of robber-barons in the 1850’s – and news of that took at least a few years to even reach the ears of the people who actually lived there.

Two incredibly rich brothers named Albert and Kinnley Smiley were told by their doctor they had to move to a sunny climate for their health. So they upped and moved to the wilds of Californee with their vast fortunes and bought up just about the entire valley. Odd the similarity here – they moved here for their health and so too I. What they did was invest heavily in the orange industry – sending huge shipments of oranges back to the citrus starved Eastern states. I’m guessing I won’t be doing that. For one thing they had far more investment money. Both were heavily involved with both Sunkist Co. and the Huntington railroads. Having amassed a huge valley of orchards, they built two sumptuous mansions on the local hill with a big rosebush lined road down to their big Spanish Mission-style private library.

Cool guys. I could see building a giant library for myself and others. Um, I mean a public library and not the library I have already embarked upon. Even if they were Victorian stiffs who never smiled for any of the pictures that hang all over town. You can’t turn around without seeing one or both of the Smileys unsmiling from some wall. Pictures of them hang in every school, post office, and government building since they ponied up the dough for them in the first place. They also built a giant open-air amphitheater on which they sponsored free plays and concerts for the rest of their hoi-polloi friends they had enticed into coming for the warm climate and invigorating air.

As a side note, we suspect that my parent’s much altered Victorian farmhouse was actually built by the Smileys to live in while their mansions were being built. The city historian finally found a picture that has what looks like our house partially built a year before the mansions were done. We have no exact date when the house was actually built, but it was obviously done by people who had tons of money to begin with and then decided to scrimp later on. The first story is actually pretty lavish and well built, but the second story has a dramatic change in build quality. The house was sold to a doctor some time in the 1860’s and he must have been the one who raided the local millworks and got the fancy ballisters and put in the stained glass windows. The downstairs fireplace is a duplicate of one in another Victorian mansion in town – so it’s obvious he just picked and chose from various fixtures available from other build jobs going on at the same time. The house is a sort of mini-museum of Redlands growth periods. The mansions were less lasting as both have been long torn down.

Redlands is still a sort of a cultural center for the valley. The Smiley library was continually added to over the years and still exists as one of the most beautiful public libraries I have ever had the pleasure of using and being forced to go to on field trips. The Redlands Bowl Amphitheater still has numerous free concerts and shows during the summer – more field trips –
and the area is known for scads of well-restored Victorian homes and mansions set well back on tree lined streets I had to traverse en-mass with other students as we walked to various field trip points of interest. It is, all in all, a nice place. The University of Redlands even occupies a sedate small corner of town to add it’s bit of culture. There is a County Museum and the most complete Abraham Lincoln Museum Collection west of the Mississippi. The Lincoln Shrine is quite the collection of actual death masks, living masks, letters, and Civil War era stuff. Odd that it is in Redlands. I have no idea why. He never visited. But I had to go there on field trips, along with every other Redlands Elementary School Distric student, and even worked there in the archives and the basement where they keep the really cool stuff like old guns and swatches of his actual death sheets for awhile because my boss was a huge Lincolnophile and dragged me into it.

Such bounty meant little to me as a teenager. The only thing moderately interesting to me was that the band Camper Van Beethoven came from Redlands and would routinely sing a song entitled “I Don’t Wanna Go, I Don’t Wanna Go To The Lincoln Shrine,” about being forced to go on field trips to same. I would love to have a copy of that song now. Anyone know how I can score one?

Time to feel the strange, cha cha cha Chayngesh.

2005-09-11T00:48:00.000-07:00

Look out you rock and rollers. Decided that with my new environs and a whole new year of blogging it was time to change the template and my profile as well. You like? Are it pretty?

Here are some of my new friends.
Andrew Bell says they are "the creatures in my head" and I wonder how they heck he got inside there to see them.

How To Be A Superhero - The 1st Post From Redlands

2005-09-09T23:50:00.000-07:00

Well folks, I have somewhat successfully made it down to my new abode with many a tale of interest. The move was not particularly smooth sailing - but I shall have to put off divulging every lurid, scurrilous little detail in my long saga of stomach turning logistical possessional transportive hell until I have first dealt with a vexsome little bug ol' Monstro put into my ear.

See, just before I actually set out with the Koshka cat for a delightful 10 ½ hour drive, I had the joy of sitting in a totally empty apartment for an evening. I had cleaned every cobweb, scrubbed every counter, and vacuumed thrice. So I took advantage of my last night's use of a phone for awhile and called up Monstro and Miz Lynn to see how they were doing. In the course of that conversation Monstro, for some unknown reason, suggested that I might take advantage of my new city and become a superhero.

Now I will immediately point out that such a suggestion was probably not because Redlands specifically needs a superhero - it probably does like any other city needs one of these human cankers - but Redlands is no more deserving than anywhere else. Hell, I could have stayed in Chico and embarked on such an insane course of action. Probably just as successfully - which is to say absolutely not.

But before I totally reject the idea of being a superhero {i.e. the subject of my next blog} I thought I would take stock of what I could possibly conceive of being in the name of being positive. The first step is coming up with a gimmick. Actually working out how to do any of this will have to come later. I'm sure Fit To Be Tied can come up with an appropriate leather outfit.

1. Whack dumbass people with a stick guy. I really like this one. I think others would like it too. When you're watching T.V. and our illustrious national goob Bush interrups your Simpson's episode to tell you just how alright he's decided you really are despite being miserable - wouldn't it be nice to see me come up and whack him with a stick? I know, it's a full-time job, but it really needs doing. Whatever happened to the court jester that used to whack people who said dumb things with an inflated bladder?

2. MOVING MAN!! Inviolate Protector of those who have to move their house or apartment full of stuff! Wherever there is a shiftless crooked moving company - he'll be there! Whenever a mover puts a fragile box on it's side under three other boxes of heavy books he'll come to the rescue! He brings boxes to the needy, really good packing tape dispensers that actually work, and easily transferable cable and telephone service to all who call for . . . MOVING MAN!!!!!!!!!!

3. Make Cats Deliriously Happy Man. Not much of a superhero thing I know, but cats really run things. There are obviously far too many unsatisfied cats out there or the world would be a better place. Besides, this one I could actually do. Most find me irresistible. Must be the tuna aftershave.

4.The Tangential Lecture Professor. Give him a topic and within ten seconds he can come up with two hours worth of anecdotes and referential material that may or may not have anything to do with what you originally were discussing but is far more interesting and illuminating for those who actually listen. This hero has two benefits - he puts most threats to sleep and educates the intelligent ones. Unfortunately cities in peril rarely call in a superhero who can stymie Gamorrah with an intense disussion about why chunky peanut butter should cost less because it entails less work than processing smooth peanut butter and how that is a direct discrepancy in human vs. machine labor values going back to the Industrial Revolution and "The Jungle."

5.The Completely Heterosexual Gay Esthetic Interior Designer. He can shop for furniture, antiques, and sundry chatskies and still drink beer and design a fabulously good looking, inexpensive, unique style that complements cat hair and way too many books and W40K figures.

Any other suggestions?

Look Up There In The Air!! It's Super Hooknoobie????

2005-09-09T22:40:00.000-07:00

Have You Finished laughing? Good, because that right there immediately shows you why Monstro's musing that I might become a superhero is so ludicrous. You are laughing because let's face it, we all is 20th century literary historians - and we conotate the notion of a superhero as:

def. "an exemplarily athletic guy or gal in colorful costume and/or tights who in some way has one or more special power or abilities that they use to benefit humanity in times of extreme crisis and otherwise fight crime and help people."

There are qualifiers of course, but we'll get into those later. This is essentially the basic idea of superhero instilled in us by classic DC and Marvel pulp comics. Said image serves as the basis for numerous other comic titles, movies, games, and iconic hero images. It is the very basis by which we can watch "Mystery Men" and laugh at ordinary people being superheroes; or read "The Goon," "Tick," or "Scud" and intelligently discuss how the simplistic art and hyperbole of the storylines delightfully subvert paradigm; or take Campbellian Mythocritical readings of "The Authority," "Planetary," "Transmetropolitan" or "Preacher" and marvel at the image (puns intended) of how far these new comic geniuses have honed and redefined the genre of "antihero." Or just take the holographic one of seven special embossed limited edition five dollar cover priced ass scrubber out for a new test drive in paper cut pucker perfection.

So I have a pretty good idea of what kinds of superheroes are out there - and I am not superhero material in any way shape or form. Maybe Transmetropolitan. He's not all that super - just a writer in a zany messed up future. I can only assume Monstro suggested the idea so I could use my vast knowledge and graphic novel library to thoroughly dismiss the idea. It must be the sort of thing friend's do to assign them writing projects when their own professors are forcing them to write about African American ghost lore. So at least I can write about superheroes and not Ghost Dad.

So now I'm going to say why it is extremely unlikely I could be a superhero in great big long detail.

1st. Let's talk about the mental abilities, or lack necessary to be a superhero. You have to be all superego. The kind of megalomaniac who knows they are the center of the universe. These people are so sure you want to see them and salivate over their antics that they will do anything to be in that limelight. We're talking people who are willing to not only be celebrities, but actively affect people's lives in a public and highly visible, documented way. They love to be blamed for every wrong, every fucked up life. They like being hit with lawsuits, rotten vegetables. and funky rays from evil villain secret machines. They actively like that. They yearn for it. And so they have no choice but to be a superhero, or if nothing else suffices, President of some country. Same diff. No sane person wants that permanent target on their forehead.

One could well say it is a form of psychosis - because as we well know, anyone who actively wants that kind of power and acclaim should in absolutely no way be allowed to have it. Nature usually kills these idiots off quick for the good of the ecosystem. When they stick around for any length of time bad disasters happen to whatever society they decide to "help."

Now a reasoning, intelligent person will never really want to attain this frame of mind. Reasoning people do not want to have X-ray vision because we eventually know it will suck, and life will be worse than it is right now. But a reasoning person with a glitch could "fix" themselves quite easily to have this needed mental state in order to even consider traipsing around rescuing people in the middle of the night wearing a Halloween costume. Hitting oneself upside the head a couple hundred times with a pnuematic sledgehammer, drilling 17 imprecise holes in various points around one's cranium, or eating nothing but fast food for a month will all work. The guy from "Supersize Me" has begun wearing a cape.
A less extreme way, but more expensive, is to buy into the fact that buying a minivan and driving it immediately halves your intelligence and ability to cogently think. This is why minivan drivers suck. Always. Now you could go out and buy ten minivans and start driving them all in turn. You will know you are ready to become a superhero when you begin to devise an elaborate network of ropes and shoes on extendable levers so as to drive at least three minivans simultaneously.

2nd. Physically. Now most superheroes are ads for your local gym. They are the endomorphic paragons of perfect health we all wish we were. Even if they are regular average jane or joes who get hit, bit, or injected with radiation; or find, inherit, or steal some magic gewgaw, they gots the look. Every heroine is at least cute, and is usually more endowed than Pamela Anderson. She thinks nothing of wearing fetishistic outfits for which we teenage males were and probably still are eternally grateful. In contrast, the beefcake is just as toothsome. Every hero is chiseled and muscular and very very heterosexually attractive even if he is gay. I however, look like a slightly thinner version of Kevin Smith or Peter Jackson. Squat, heavy, and bearded. There was never a Hobbit superhero. NEVER!! They were all too busy eating multiple breakfasts. The Bagginses were aberrant freaks who liked to hang around with elves. The closest you'll come to my body type as a superhero is Kevin Smith's creation. Even Silent Bob's Chronic doesn't do much - plus he is technically=a sidekick.

*** A note about sidekicks. No one wants to be sidekick because sidekicks are acknowledged targets. They divert or concentrate fire. Who are you going to be more likely to hit? Big bad superhero or that young weak ward? Mention of child endangerment laws have begun to show up as a theme in Alan Moore comics. Basically you can be a large bearded sidekick, but that just means you'll be dead faster than next week's skinnier, comlier, and more audience appreciated sidekick.

Yes there are all sorts of "alternative" superheroes out there who aren't the Chataqua or Charles Atlas type. Ironsides for one - I mean good ol' Prof X. Although he is really one of the big gun mentor types who doesn't really step in unless things are beyond even the Canuck's ability to fix. Plenty of superheros are missing various limbs, but their physiques are still pretty stereotypical. They still look damn good in a unitard.

Now some superheros are just really really good at making stuff. Give them three cheetos, a couple solenoids, and smidgen of their own distilled bad B.O. and they can make a neat device that calls forth rabid bats to do your bidding. I mention bats because he is really the paragon of this. Batman was always my preference because he is the ultimate human. He's built that physique to go swinging around Gotham. He trains constantly in martial arts. He knows chemistry and biology and mechanical engineering. But he is still human. Just driven to be the best at well, everything.

There are a numer of other superheros out there like that. They built a really cool car with all sorts of neat devices, or have trained in martial arts, or are just really really really good with a gun. I am none of these. Even with a level, various rulers, marking and measuring for an hour I just installed a medicine cabinet in my new bathroom slightly crooked. My eyesight ensures 1,000 meter perfect bullseyes unlikely with even the best scope. And my current leg and hip situation makes me hobble around like a geriatric. Not exactly what's needed to chase down the criminal element.

Which leaves us with the "average schmo who lucks into it" aspect of superherodom. Something that hurles them beyond the merely physical or mental. The thing that makes them "special." Often this is their origin - they come from the future, or some other planet, or other dimension and can tap into some weird freaky other power out there we regular folks can't. They're magic, mutable, or mysterious. I ain't - unless I get struck by lightning sometime soon or get changed by my ingestion of years worth of Coca Cola, ain't nada gonna suddenly allow me to shoot laser beams out my wahzoo. This is a good thing for society and just about everyone concerned.

Which leaves us with the last, and most farfetchedly possible way for me or anyone to even come close to superherodom - coming into possession of some crazy ass object that lets me do cool stuff. Juke Box hero got that one guitar. Superhero got that one cool toy. The comic's universe is just full of cool stuff just lying around for someone to find. Rings, bracelets, and watches are handy ordinary objects that when worn by the right person let you do all sorts of faboo stuff. You may have to hobnob with a bunch of aliens who wear nothing but green and live in mortal fear of things painted yellow - but rings can be very precious. So too magic books, underwear, staffs, rods, swords, and other phallic sundries. But you have to find these things and somehow figure out how to invoke them. Wandering through antique stores has yet to yield anything for me. Nor has touching everything on the shelves of Target muttering "I invoke thee," or brandishing a toilet brush over my head and proclaiming "By the power of Greyskull!!?"

So I am left with being an ordinary person -- who if I tried to be "super" would end up as laughable as those rejects on Mystery Men, or some of those great wannabe superheros of The Tick. You know, that episode where he teaches superhero school to people with warcries like "I Like Squirrels!!" or "It's O.K. To Play With Dolls!!" I did like SarCastro though. A guy dressed up like Fidel who uses his withering sarcasm to defeat foes. Damn funny. That and the only seen once during the first episode Lemming Man.

No folks, the only way I will become a superhero is if I luck into some objects that transforms me, or a bunch of aliens come along and transform me into a walking wonder like Concrete, or just go the easier route and become a supervillian. You don't need any talent at all to be a supervillian. You just have to drop something really heavy on top of a superhero and squish them.

Movin on Up -- The Last Post From Chico

2005-08-21T03:56:00.000-07:00

It has come time to make my way down south and so this will be my last post from this town and apartment in which I have lived for the last six years. While there is still a week left until the final move, and there is a ton of stuff {much of which I have blogged about} yet to pack, I am feeling pretty much at ease. This is a good change. I desperately need it, and I think I am moving into a good phase of life. The thing that really makes me feel that things are looking up is really symbolized by my new wheels. An earlier blog mentioned the demise of my former car, and yes, like many a Californian, nay Amurican, I find my car does symbolize who I am and where I am in life.

My 1990 Mazda Protoge was my last step up. A good solid four door compact. When I got it, the car was a mere six years old and the nicest car I had ever owned. It was just the kind of car I thought a beginning graduate student should drive. I put many miles on this vehicle driving in southern california, and then back and forth from Chico to LA a couple times a year. It moved me to Chico. But in the last few years it began to show its age. The pain was going, my fancy stereo system I had installed when I got the car had begun to go. I had to rebuild the engine three years ago. And a few weeks ago my mechanic deemed it beyond hope. I shall donate its remains to a local charity and make one last final good from what was a truly noble machine.

When I made this most recent trip down south to arrange my new life, I had to do so in a rental car which I hated. A brand new Corolla. It was impossible to see anything through it's huge A-Pillars on all four sides, and the last driver had set the stereo to randomize any CD you tried to play. There was no tape player so I couldn't use my iPod either. I couldn't see the stereo display in the dash at all, so it wasn't until the 15th time it played the same damn track of the fifth CD I tried to play that I just started punching buttons at random until it went to a normal play mode. Awful. Just awful. I shall never get the B-52's "Summer of Love Love Love" out of my head.

The car was comfy enough, and it did provide ample room for the most fragile artworks I own. These are now all safely tucked away at my parent's home, except for the one lithograph of Laguna Beach I used to have in my office. That had to be delivered to Aaron Bros for some new glass. Am hoping this is the one official breakage of moving.

Despite the unwelcome discovery of over a hundred dollars of broken glass in an object specifically transported in this way to ensure that this exact type of thing did not happen, things immediately went into a whole crapfest of car stuff that eventually becomes good kind of thing. My intended new wheels was my parent's 2003 Mazda 929 that they bought just twp years ago. My parents really no longer need a large four door family car, and have now become great fans of their first generation hybrid electric/gas Prius that they bought about the same time. So they were already planning to sell the luxo-yacht and buy a second Prius. They have also long been trying to see my sister's first car -- a shockingly vibrant red Pontiac Fiero that they have been using as a sort of third car since my sister moved to Pittsburgh. They use it when one of their cars is in the shop or if my sister is visiting and needs a car, but it usually sits around and runs down the battery.

So my parents offered me a choice -- drive the Fiero or drive their Mazda. I, being no dummy, chose the Mazda which was taken over to their mechanics to be checked over preparatory for my driving it. In the meantime I would have to drive the Fiero, which would eventually be sold after my parents took delivery of their new wheels.

The Fiero is not the worst of cars, but their design is a little odd. Pontiac apparently made a car that looks like a racy sports car, but only has a top speed of 85mph. They made it incredibly low, so much so that it is routinely ignored by truck drivers and other cars that can't see it because it's roof if in line with their headlights. The lowness means that it is especially difficult to get in and out. Adding to the contortionists task is the fact that the designers gave it a 50's era dash with wings that extend out into the doors so that when you get in or out you have to be careful not to bark your legs on the huge doglegs that thrust out into what little space there is to get in or out. To counterbalance the lowness, the car is incredibly wide. It is near impossible to reach across and unlock the passenger's door. This may explain why the car has three seperate ashtrays, for two passengers -- two on either side of the massive console between the seats, and one in the dash. The car has incredibly long heavy doors, and have very stiff handles that make opening them near impossible. This stiffness is also found in the accelerator pedal, which requires a gorilla's force to depress. So you are stretched out with your legs straight out, pressing against an immovable stiff pedal with just your ankle. Just the car to drive if you have leg pains. If getting in an out doesn't kill you, the driving position will. The final fun is the carpeted trunk, which shares space with the midengine directly behind the seats. Since the trunk is directly behind the engine, with only a thin carpeted panel between it and the power, the trunk gets incredibly warm and will cook anything put into it. The trunk in front is solely for the spare tire.

This is the car I had to drive while looking for apartments. Now as I said, it is rarely used, so it was sitting uncharged for a couple months before being called back into service. My father put it on a trickle charge and then drove it into work on the day I drove down just to check it out. I drove it out to LA for the weekend to visit Trip, and my only problem was finding the miniscule handle hidden on the back of one roof pillar to open the gas filler door. Thankfully the owner's manual was easily found and consulted.

The real problems with the car "started" when I got back and found it was beginning to not start. It stalled when I returned home for my second pay stub on that ill-fated day and had to be jumpstarted for my return. I was a little worried I was going to have to go back in to the guy I called an asshole and ask for security to jumpstart me so I could escape later. That would have been fun -- but I made it back home. The next morning I wasn't so lucky when it completely died at the intersection of a busy street. Some kind fellow helped me push it through the intersection and off to the side, and even gave me a ride home so I could call AAA to have the thing towed to its final resting place. I think the plan is to just sell the poor thing.

The story has a happy ending. My new Mazda 929 is almost anything a Pimp Daddy needs. A moderately sized great white jellybean ovoid that would look exactly like all the other white ovoids out there on the road if not for the bright gold badges all over it. It even has a tricked out gold license plate surround. The plush leather seats inside have all-electric controls, and it is decked out with automatic climate controls and an electric moonroof. Frankly, the thing looks a little like a new Lexus four door. It even has the slightly different two tone painting above and below the bumperline. Trez Chic.

Oddly, the flagship of Mazda in 1993 has no cupholders. Apparently the hoi polloi don't require something to hold beverages. Perhaps their butler sits in back and holds stuff, or runs alongside. Nor does it have a glovebox, because the massive passenger side airbag takes up all the dash room over there. Instead, I have a massive storage bin in the armrest up front as well as a second storage bin in the armrest in the back. There are also various map pockets on the backs of seats and on the bottoms of doors so I have already decided to scatter various necessary items about the car and leave the center console completely empty so I can stick a drink holder INSIDE the armrest compartment. I already tried one of those doorsill holders that slips between the window and door and the car rejected it by tossing a bottle of green tea toward the windshield any time I made a gentle stop.

Naturally I have already personalized the vehicle. I had to retain my antique 1916 Chaufeur's Pin which has adorned every dash of every car I've owned. Word is that it was the actual badge my Grandfather Jacobs wore in Los Angeles when he was a driver. I have retired my long treasured Frobbit however. The Frobbit was the gift of one of my first girlfriends and has sat on the dash of all vehicles since. She made it from a little yellow and black painted plastic tree-frog, on which she attached yellow construction paper rabbit ears and one of those tiny stick on gift bows on its backside. It was an in-joke. But the Frobbit has not aged well and I decided it was time to retire him. Enter the new Pimp bunny for the new pimp ride! I've mentioned my new interest in "urban-vinyl artist toys," and have long been interested in the work of an artist named Kozik. While in LA I found a set of plush versions of his "Smorkin Labbit" in various colors. The black plush smoking bunny, whom I have dubbed "Jules" is now ensconsed on the dash of my new wheels. I feel he will come down with great anger and furious vengeance on any who assail me whilst driving.

The car has no CD player, and I can't replace the radio without losing the use of the radio controls on the steering wheel {too too posh and cool} but it has a pretty good tape deck that has so far worked well with the iPod. Coming up the Grapevine I got some pretty good sound out of the B.B. King double CD I had digitized for ol Drivler. The nicest thing is a perfectly sized small indentation right behind the shift lever that is almost like it was designed to hold an iPod. Doubtful for when the car was designed. Probably put there for a cell phone or something, but I am rather pleased.

That said, y'all are now all up to date on my transferrinz. My next post shall not be written until I have made the move to my new abode -- wherin I shall reveal exactly where it is that I am apartment wise, and divulge exactly what it is that makes Redlands the mecca in which I shall eagerly alight.

So you wanna find an apartment in So Cal?

2005-08-21T03:08:00.000-07:00

Apartment searching sucks. Nothing good about it. A friend pointed out that the first day is the worst. This particular time it was all the worst. I had hoped to avoid this horrific task by enlisting my mother's vast network of personal aquaintances. She knows all the City Council Members, Mayors, Real Estate Agents and bigwigs who really run the whole county because she is that kind of person. Actually ran for City Council, serves as a volunteer on various boards, is head of the Friends of the Library -- that sort of thing. So if I was going to luck into someone with a really great house or apartment for rent she would be the one to find it. She started in June and found nothing.

So it came down to the basic search. Going through newspapers and online listings to see all the same apartments that everyone else sees. And I did all the calls. Got numerous "Just rented it," or "won't be available for two months," or "pets not allowed." There were incorrect listings that gave the wrong rent and were totally outside my range. There were people who just never bothered to call me back.

The ones I actually saw were horrific. They showed me "sample apartments" that presumably look nothing like the actual apartment. Let's hope so because the dead roaches on the bathroom floor would probably be considered a bonus and thus outside my price range. I was hustled by wannabe used car salespersons. Met with impossible minimum guidelines about my income, credit, and employment. Forget being an instructor moving between campuses who makes just under 30 grand a year. They would look at me as if I was some kind of alien. To them, everyone has two incomes, drives a Lexus, and apparently lives in an apartment despite their 50 thousand dollar individual incomes because they enjoy roughing it.

One horrific experience that stands out was at the complex where I tripped over an unpainted, unannounced step that was the same exact shade of white concrete as the surrounding concrete. Now my legs are normally in a huge amount of pain, so the usually painful fall on concrete is especially horrific for me. Something I definitely would have preferred to avoid. As I juddered on the ground crying from the waves of agony coursing through my whole body, it took me awhile to even get back up. I was struck by the sensation of blood running down my elbow, but more so by the silence from the watchful manager who was standing beside me looking down. There was no "I'm sorry" or offer to help, and I wondered if she was remaining silent because she was afraid any human sympathy might open her up to possible legation, or if I had just made a horrible impression on her as a possible tenant due to my inability to see.
She never did say anything, and once I finally got up and limped into the apartment continued with her shpeel.

The second fun experience was the complex that had a great move-in deal. $500 off the first months rent, no charge for the application/credit check, and all units rent had been set at their normal rate for a one bedroom. This rate would continue for as long as a tenant occupied a unit. So I was very excited at the prospect of a much nicer complex than I could ever normally occupy, with a two-bedroom, two-bath apartment with huge amounts of storage space, a private garage parking space, private washer/Dryer hookups in the apartment, and all for $920 a month. So I started the approval process and said I would come back with the necessary paperwork I did not currently have. The woman said I needed a pay stub or my tax return. So an hour later I come back with the one tax stub I happened to bring along. Not like I was carrying my entire tax folder around you know.

Now this complex is about a half hour away from my parents house in Redlands. So I have to drive to Redlands in a 1/2 hour, find a paystub, then drive back to the complex in Grand Terrace in another 1/2 hour. A completely new guy sees me and informs me that they need TWO Paystubs. Plural. I point out that the person I saw said one. He doesn't care. Won't even apologize for the mistake. Basically just stone walls me.

So I drive back to Redlands in a 1/2 hour, ransack my parent's house for a second paystub from last year, then drive back to Grand Terrace in the afternoon rush. One full hour. At which point this same fuck looks over my two paystubs and informs me that I don't make enough income. Their arcane formula for determining minimum occupant income is 2.7 times the monthly rent amount. I point out that I can fulfill (barely) 2.7 times the rent, which would be $2484. This is of course before taxes, as after everyone takes their chunk out I routinely make just under $2,000 a month. He then says that he is using the market value of the apartment, which is above what they actually rent for, or advertise, but which he says is legal. So he has apparently been told that a two bedroom two bath at this complex is actually worth $1,800 and I don't make anywhere near the close to $6,000 needed.

It's one of those moments when it's a good thing I don't own a blunderbuss. Or a Vorpal Blade. I made some comment about him being an asshole and a tool and left without security having to escort me out.

In the end I qualified for two apartments. The first is a two bedroom one bath in Loma Linda, and has the same kind of architecture as a cheap courtyard Motel. No balconys, and everyone walks right past your door and windows in a long line of monotonously same doors and windows. Neighbors sit on the steps and smoke while they watch their nude children play in the common area -- which in this complex is the parking lot for the complex. Lovely.

This apartment I definitely have if I want it. I am hoping that it is merely a backup which I can reject for the complex I really want -- which incidently is the same one I tripped in. I have mixed feelings about this, but vastly prefer the garden park settings, pool, saunas, balconys, and space of this other complex which is actually in Redlands. I put in my application and will know for sure sometime on Monday. The difference is a mere 75 bucks a month and I really forsee no problems with my application. But I don't want to put the kibosh on anything. Just thinking please, please, please.

The Road To WellVille

2005-08-21T02:36:00.000-07:00

The basic problem of my health specialist here in Chico is that he is an idiot. He fails to understand my situation as a lecturer, primarily why I don't immediately have the best coverage and tons of money. It just doesn't compute for him. Now he has no idea how my Diabetes works -- which is a truly bad sign in a doctor -- so is unaware of complications that ANYTHING he does or prescribes will have, or what side effects they may have. He is a big proponent of tossing ten or twelve sample prescriptions at you and saying "try these!" I stopped doing so when a muscle relaxant raised my blood pressure to over 200 in two days and caused a new huge black octopus to grow in my right eye. At this point the only reason I still go to him is to get the Vicoden prescription I take to dull the pain in my legs. He has no idea why there is pain, and his last suggestion was to do a couple $1,000 MRI's in hope that something might show up.

So one reason I am moving is pure and simple better help in getting my health under control. After much searching I finally found a Diabetic Specialist at Loma Linda University. I had to wait around for a mid-August appointment, but when I finally met him I found he was excellent. He was extremely thorough, and just what I needed. But he was not immediately helpful. Nor did he have any advice about the horrific joint pains in my hips and knees, and did not change my perscriptions in any way. He did refer me to the local Diabetes Center, a local Retinal Specialist, and a General Care Physician -- all of whom I need. But I shall not be seeing any of these fine people until Mid-September when I will be able to make my appointments with them.

Moreover, he finally had me undergo all of the various tests that I haven't undergone since I was in high school. Some that I have never done. I know there is stuff going on inside me that no one knows about. So these tests were all desperately needed, but they required me to undergo a 24 hour urine collection and fast for 12 fours. Fasting is very bad for me, and most diabetics. It totally messes up my control over my insulin and blood sugar and I usually end up being horrifically sick for two days because of it. So there were two miserable days of headaches, nausea, and just misery for the sake of a few grams of blood samples.

I also had the joy of using my parent's downstairs bathroom because the huge jug of urine has to be kept refridgerated. So the process meant finding a huge space in their fridge -- which they rarely clean and has more slimy ziplock bags in it with unknown contents than . . . Jabba's snack cubby? It's become essential at my parent's house to not only ask if there is Guilden's mustard, but exactly WHEN it was bought. Any answer other than "A few days ago" means there is no mustard because it will have solidified and acheived the same amount of sentience as the President of the US at the time it was bought. 1985. My mother's "I think so," means she has no idea and you best get a bottle whilst at the grocery store now because you will be sorely disappointed if you do not. So I had to partially clean their fridge. Ick. I had to carefully write on the 1/2 gallon translucent brown jug "URINE. NOT APPLE JUICE. DO NOT DRINK!!!" in case my father saw it.

Then I had to brave their downstairs bath every time I needed to make a deposit. Their house is an old Victorian farmhouse that has had various odd additions tacked onto it in its checkered past. It was a rental to hippies before my parents bought it, and many un-coded, homemade additions had to be torn down. My parents have also done some remodling as well. The original pantry had a toilet and sink added to it sometime in the thirties. The room is a mere four feet wide, so you have to sort of skitter past the huge cabinets to make your way to the bathroom area. The cabinets are overstuffed, and all the doors are ajar and have a habit of swinging out at you as you stir up aircurrents in your passage. My mom has also stacked numberous boxes and sundry supplies in front of the cabinets, so there is now a tiny one foot channel/path to traverse whilst avoiding falling paper towels, swinging heavy redwood cabinet doors, and the spiders.

You are doing all this in complete dark by the way. While I was growing up we never used this pantry or "bath" because the toilet didn't work and there was no lights. In the 80's my parents finally paid a contractor to put in a new toilet, lights, and a huge bay window shower with artistic deep green tiles and two luxuriant showerheads. It really is a beautiful shower, but I have never used it because my mom uses it for additional storage and a mass grave for the 1500 natural soap bars she bought for some reason when a freind of hers was selling beauty products door-to-door. It is also now the den of the biggest of spiders. Last year some circuit breaker went dead and the room is again unlighted. Such progress. Twenty years and the only thing that has changed is the toilet now flushes.

As if this were not enough the entire house is totally invaded by small black ants. The house sits amongst an orange grove -- one of the last in Redlands -- and ants are to be expected. When I was growing up we became used to about two weeks of the year when they would invade and we'd find a stream of them running across the kitchen sink every morning. But we kept them under control. They went away. Now my mom seems to have just given up. They are running around in the living room now. You sit on the couch and five run across your hands. They are upstairs as well. You absolutely must check any glass before pouring a drink or you will end up seeing little bodies floating in your milk. If you're lucky you see them. And ants absolutely, positively suck when you don't notice them running around on the toilet paper.

TIMBER!!!

2005-08-21T01:52:00.000-07:00

Now we all know nature despises a situation of imbalance. Too many penguins start cropping up in a particular area and causing a nuisance, say in New Jersey, and a new breed of taxi driving polar bear will evolve to curtail their numbers. Too much unenjoyed Alaskan outback being unexploited and some git will discover gold so millions of morons will travel to the Klondike to freeze to death and invent a tasty frozen dessert. And you just know that will all the silliness that's been going on with our government that Willie Nelson is working on another Jamaican Reggae themed album. It's all part of the natural order.

As you know, I've been heavily leaning toward emigration down south for better climes. Failing health was just not getting taken care of in my current area, and I really did need to move on from my current climes job-wise. But there had been little actual movement on my part really, just a dangerous and inevetibal leaning that seemed to be taking too long. So nature, or whatever, stepped in to ensure a rapid and inescapable escape.

First, the department called to tell me that they had given three of my classes to another instructor whose own classes had failed to make enough enrollment. I had tentatively agreed to teach four classes, and had intended to tell the department to get bent anyway unless I absolutely had to stay. That was my emergency backup. So fine. I was really only stringing them along so I didn't have to move out of my office until the last possible moment. So I go in to get my last paycheck and to announce I am leaving.

I drop by my office to start boxing up stuff and find someone has already partially done so, plus moved a bunch of someone else's stuff in front of what remaining shelves are still there. Total surprise. So I stomp up to the office to enquire where the heck my refridgerator, books, and trebuchet are and find that they have decided to move me to one of the ha ha tiny broomcloset offices that are to be found in the Taylor 107 Library. Which means you have to brave whatever class is meeting in said library, it being a library in name only these days, in order to get into your tiny unwindowed Iron Maiden. The universe was telling me to get the hell out.

So I gave notice, and finally moved out of my office. This instituted a much greater urgency on my part. I already had boxes from the office sitting about, so I started boxing home items as well. Closets were cleaned out completely, their contents neatly boxed, and then refilled to the top with carefully labeled storage containers ready to go. I donated unwanted stuff I didn't feel like lugging to Goodwill. I threw junk out. Even stuff I liked, but not enough to pay shipping freight on it.

To make an absolutely complete and utter new start including a new abode, new job, and new healthier me -- the universe decided I should get a new car as well. When I brought my faithful 1990 Mazda Protege in to have it smogged for this year's registration the mechanic found it was toast. Only running on three cylindars, and totally unworth rebuilding. The best thing was to donate it to some worthy cause.

So it's official. I am away to a better life.

Best DVD release date of the year.

2005-08-10T00:14:00.000-07:00

Right. So one of the highlights of my existence recently has been awaiting each Tuesday with bated breath for the weeks releases of DVD/s. Now today was especially important because they released the first season of The Muppet Show on four wonderous disks. The show of course is absolute brilliance, but the first season was especially important because ol Jim was at a hallmark period of experimentation -- and few thought he would make a go of the show. So ol Jim had to rely on close friends he had made in the entertainment industry to serve as guests. So the first season has some really odd people you may never have heard of. Even the "great" names were sort of underappreciated in the late 70's. People like Vincent Price, Ethel Mermen, Peter Ustinov, Jim Nabors, and Candice Bergen. An absolute must have.

But lo my surprise when I also got "Kung Fu Hustle" which I hadn't heard of. I know, some stuff just gets by me. So I walked in unprepared for just how excellent this movie is. The back cover sounded interesting, saying things like "Kill Bill Meets Looney Toones." Absolutely true, plus the added bonus of an oddly technicolor "Guys and Dolls" musical element thrown in as well. Absolutely brilliant. It's like Quentin Tarantino decided to create a lavish Broadway Musical version of West Side Story, but only read every other 15th page, and cast ballet, martial arts, and Chuck Jones as choreographer.

Wow.
Damn.
Goosnargh.
Single word exhortation of ultimate awe.

Filing My Nails As They're Dragging The Bay

2005-08-07T22:04:00.000-07:00

First, the image is born. A world weary detective show for today; a hard drinking, simple blue collar schlub who is the embodiment of the best possible human spirit. The unwilling hero. The kind who drives up to his derelict trailer in a beat up chicken-logo Trans Am or 70’s AMC Rebel in the first few minutes of the show with a bag of groceries to find three mugs waiting to beat him up and leave him gasping on his Astroturf front stoop as they kick his groceries into the dirt and say, “Stay off the McMurton case.”

But this detective would have his signature baseball cap with a miniature zen sand garden with a little rake set into the brim. Even when he is thrown down the stairs or is beaten by a couple of mooks driving a dark green 60’s Chrysler, his little zen garden will never fall or spill, not a grain of sand will ever be missed. Because he’s zen. Totally with it and the universe. He’ll quip great ponderous lines from Basho haikus as he chases down suspects in grimy garbage filled alleys that have nothing to do with the week’s case. A haze of incense and feathered dreamcatchers will float about his head as the camera reveals him on stakeouts in some darkened doorway. His informants will read his palms and tarot cards, and then tell him where to buy the freshest mandrake root by the next full moon. There will be pointless car chases that end when luminous spirit dragons appear out of nowhere to eat the fleeing ne’er-do-wells.

And at the end of each episode, our hero will stop the car and get out to lean against his dented hood as he looks out on the twinkling midnight lights of the city below. He’ll slowly reach up and arrange a pebble or two, give the sand a stir, and make his trademark announcement, “Well wise the warrior knows, so mote it be.” And that week’s guest detective -- Charlie Chan, Right-Turn Clyde, Peter Falk as Colombo, Curly from the Harlem Globe Trotters, Henry Kissenger, or Dirk Gentley – will just stare at him in shock for a couple seconds before exploding into a garbled, “What the fuck are you talking about!!?? It’s the goddamn crack ho on the corner! She’s the one who done stole my spliff!” or “Oook!” before they stalk off down the road as the credits roll.

The cases will never be solved, because that isn’t the zen detective way. Most of them are pretty much 15 minute simple scams that end up being 2 week carryover specials that have the zen detective visit some exotic locale for no reason whatsoever other than to strike out with that week’s sleazy bar harlot with a heart of frankincense. That or there is no case at all, and it’s just watching the zen detective go about his addled routine of bizarre encounters with mystery as he does his weekly laundry in establishments undergoing bloody Tong/Yakuza territorial gang disputes over fabric softener rights.

Be honest. You'd watch religiosly. This is what I came up with this week whilst sitting on the couch pondering what exactly is missing in my, our, nay everyone’s benighted lives in these troubled times. I’m pretty sure it’s missing from my life and most of yours. Somewhere in all this I’m thinking I may have a solution. Two actually. Well three, even four. And there’s always the hammer. That’s always a possible answer to just about anything. Hit it, Blow it up. Etc. I rather like Jim Henson’s credo for ending problems. 1}Something eats something else, 2}Blow it up, 3}Throw Penguins in the air. But those really only work in politics, not real life.

See, right now we are all having to deal with this big ass mondo missing gap in our lives that we are trying to fill. All of us. That Henderson the Rain King “something more” that somehow hinders us fully enjoying our family, job, personal accomplishments, and vast storehold of stuff we possess. Everyone has this void. It drives us and keeps us breathing and eating and generally living. You got da void, or you’re pretty much dead. And yes, there are plenty of living dead people out there who are perfectly content little head bobbers who just basically exist until they can no longer buy something, and whose last task is to serve as something that can be put into the nice shiny casket, urn, or glorified zippy bag their remaining bill payers feel is, “Just what ol FuckBag wanted. Don't he look natural.” I speak not to these happy few. None of those unfortunate bags of skin will be reading this blog. Or at least not anymore.

Instead I speak to the disenfranchised grumpy many for whom there is a “something more” somewhere out there that will make it all valuable to us, not just some accountant working for the IRS. If nothing else they want to know just how I came up with the zen detective, or if this blog has a point. Sad really. You’d think they’d know the answer to that from reading previous blogs. Because we are all asking for that special filter to come down and make what we have, and can realistically expect to have all good and worthy. The thing that will allow us to enjoy living the American Dream with home and possessions, Family, relationships, but also the purr of a totally contented cat nestled up to us, the ecstasy of a long hot shower, a polish pastrami dog, and a big cold Styrofoam cup full of popcorn ice and Coca Cola, even the simple transcendence of sitting on the toilet and letting out a monstrous belch and fart at the exact same time. The good stuff.

Now some of you may have just gotten it. Shower+Polish Pastrami Dog+Coke = Transcendent Nirvanic State. Yeah bippy!! Or that whole combination of simultaneous gas expellage thang. Right on. It is, after all, the simple things that make life worth living. Some of the great magic of life involves hot water, eating bad stuff, and taking a dump. I forsee one episode where the zen detective finally lets loose after a couple days of constipation. That one will be a winner. It just feels good, and makes life worth living. If you can’t admit that, well … that’s just sad. So those in and of themselves may be just what you need. And if you haven’t tried them recently, you should.

This is not to say that having experienced this joy the rest of you may not still be feeling a spiritual void, or lack, that diminisishes your ability to enjoy life to the fullest. Something more in religion, zen, or spiritualism that we need to recognize and embrace like some new dietary supplement. Pastrami is, after all, only one of the 18 divinely sanctioned prepared foodstuffs. There are plenty of other substances/cult religions we could gorge on so that we can finally enjoy that newest SUV or some kind of taste sensation from the local fast food chain we so richly deserve. Them chocoholics got something going, I can tell. I point this out because we are naturally stimulated to gorge. To injest. We’ll gorge on anything if it just fills us up and gets us into that nice Trictophan haze where we can be all sleepy-like on our Lazy-Butt Couch. Our problem is that we don’t even know what this void is, just that it’s big.

This void is big enough to fit the big Vulcan Statue in Birmingham – but as we all know, you cannot seek the Vulcan unless you do not know just what it is that you are attempting to find, for you are seeking not the Vulcan everyone else in Birmingham can see, but the Vulcan that no one is noticing because their attention is drawn by the false Vulcan. One must drive with their eyes shut to find it. It’s not just that you probably will have to circle the same hill it is probably on for 3 ½ hours instead of a simple 15 minutes, but that to not circle blindly around for 3 ½ hours and try to run over at least one car is just as bad as not setting out at all. That and Vulcanize your rubber whenever you rotate every 3000 miles. Or something like that. As Bert and Ernie found out, the Vulcan statue is equal parts shit and wisdom. The wise are both full of shit, and aware of just how shitty it is to be wise to how much shit fills you and all else. sh It will fill you, but who wants it. It fills you, but never satiates the need.

So we need to keep gorging, as that is patently necessary for our mental stability, but we need to somehow be gorging for a purpose. Gorging to support a particular need. The font, the altar, the means for this message is already there. The very threshold of gorging. It’s why we keep flipping around the channels looking for something “good.” We so desperately want Buster Friendly to go trudging up the hill for us so we can go off and play with our mood organ. Take a look at Philip K. Dick. Do electric sheep dream of android scots? What great big strapping commercial or show can fill our gaping need? We’re bent over and waiting, every prime time, every eve.

Television just isn’t showing us what will fill this great void that vexes us so much. And my three asses are getting tired of it. So I entered a fugue, or afternoon nap to attempt to realize what we need. I remembered the great last project the great seers embarked on – Dribbler’s and my great quest to write lyrics for unlyricized TV theme songs. This is truly our greatest collaborative work. It is what we will be known for, instead of the spate of Pulitzer Prizes in Writing, and our successful insertion of a life size model of V’y’ger from the First Most Excellent Star Trek Movie up an infinite improbability number of celebrity asses. Good times. I can see them now. But I digress.

Drivelmon and I kept wondering why we kept coming up with Detective or Crime shows. Why did both of us respond to the need to encapsulate the truth inherent in Barnaby Jones? What did a show like Simon and Simon, or The A Team have that we seem to be lacking now? And the answer was that these shows don’t really exist now, and we so desperately need them. We don’t really have a current Magnum, The New Sam Spade or Jim Rockford doing their rough-worn, world weary detective thing these days. No, we have young plucky Veronica Mars and Buffy wannabe’s. Hanna Barbara ruined contemporary Private Investigatur. I see this as a major lack in current television viewing. The world is clamoring for more “Sledgehammer” spoofs and a new good shoot’em up Clint Eastwood Dirty Harry shows.

And yes, I know the times have changed. We need a more spiritual detective for these times. At which point my fugue incorporated the last two movies I watched -- Eddie Murphy’s “Holy Man” and Steve Martin’s “The Jerk.” All I need, is this thermos. But what is the thermos? What can this transcendental Holy Man hawk over the airwaves? The answer of course being zen inscrutability, a miniature zen sand garden with a little rake, and the ubiquitous baseball cap. These objects would all need to be blended to create my perfect answer. Lobby your local station to send me a billion dollars to begin development soon.

Some Say I Have Been On My Couch Too Long

2005-07-26T22:47:00.000-07:00

But they don't know what I know. They can't hear how it speaks the slow ponderous words of wisdom. I am one with my couch. I know this because I am certain that my ass has grown not only a third fleshy buttocks to support my corpulent weight, but a fourth. All the better to better establish contact with my domestic diety. More flesh in contact so that it's message can spread to my brain, which is making its own long slow journey down my spinal column to a safer, more centralized locale. My new buttocks have freed me. The resulting trio of choices from which an anus might actually vent forth has quelched all desire to actually get off said couch. The heady prospect of deciding which crack to trust is too much to even consider in my weak end state. I wouldn't know which valley to trust even if I could summon forth the energy to trod to the bathroom and have a bowel movement.

I mean, yeah, the middle one seems a fairly good bet. Anatomically and fundamentally the wisest and best choice. Stay the road man. Walk that middle line. Shit staight. But I mistrust such easy choices. The shiny new Corvette is never behind door number 2. They know you will inevitably pick the middle. 1 and 3 are too far off from being wrong. They make you dither and eenie meenie mineey moe. Pick that wrong door and it could be a whole two off from the correct choice, rather than just one. Doors 1 and 3 are too risky, so they are too obviously the real choice. That's how they get you. Get you to panic. Most of society is right handed, so they know that most people faced with a choice of two will go for what's on the right hand side. So door number one is statistically your best choice. They know you know that you think it would be mad to pick door number one. So doors 2 and 3 are almost always the wrong choices. Almost. Doubt. Doubt. Doubt. Times coming, it's running out. You better pick . . . !! And you end up going home with the home game.

Not sure I, let alone any sane member of our society, could deal with the head blowing spectacle of shitting a great full turd full onto the floor. Making so horrific a wrong guess in front of our collective studio audience. The one in our minds that cheers our every move, snaps along to our own personal theme music as we bip bop bip down the street daddio. The ones who cheer when we successfully brush our teeth. We need them to just keep going. And when something happens to make even that personal studio audience suck back their breath and stare silently agog in abject shock? Well we just aren't raised to deal with something like that. I mean even a little slippage is grounds for full on shame and moral degredation of biblical proportions in our own heads. You can vomit on the floor, you can even take the piss, but letting a full brown escapee actually touch the floor. Unthinkable.

Frankly, I'm afraid of what a trip to the bathroom might reveal even before the toilet -- heck, the mirror alone would shout out far too much. I've been watching TV too long to have the real me thrust into light. I am too much the master of the perfect smile and body spray. I've inhabited the commercial nature of gods for far too long. All that I survey is perfect 19" Trinitron magnificence. Reality has no place between our regularly scheduled show.

And so I sweat into the crumb infested nap of the 70's Lazy-Boy tan corderouy sectional I inherited from my last roommate -- the one who moved back in with his parents after I berated him for spending more money on his Warhammer 40K armies that he never actually played, or constructed, or painted, or actually spent on our combined rent. At last count he had something like eight armies. All in opened boxes, but still connected to the sprues. And yet he would go out and buy more boxes of figures, the newest Codex, and spend hours considering what paint schemes he might eventually paint his hordes. He would wander the apartment muttering to himself, 'when will I have time to paint all of these figures, and more importantly, why do I need 63 terminators? And yet still Avram...yet even still, the Chaplain in terminator armor beckons to me.'

For awhile I considered beconing to him with my own abjectly shrunken terminator, but it seemed so pointless. It seemed to me that this was the very reason you should slap idiots upside the head who say 'what you need is a hobby.' Sick fucks. This is what a hobby does for you. It simply directs the inherent mania of the modern human being caught in a meaningless existence of quiet desperation. Plain and simple. Pick your poison, be a good little head bobber, and devote every spare cent and free moment of time you have wrested away from your meaningless job on yet another meaningless COLLECTION. Yes here is my collection of over 200 hours of time I could have spent doing something else. Here is my beer can pyramid that showcases all the beer I have swilled to numb my brain from how worthless it all really is; here is my replica full scale miniature exact scale model of Kaiser Wilhelm's Goiter. I painted it myself. Here is my prized Metallica, Cheap Trick, and Whitesnake Poster collection. Late at night I wrap them around my head in the vain hope that the Ravenous Bugblatter Beast of Failed Reality will somehow think that if I pretend it doesn't exist, then it will not acknowledge that I really do exist. And somehow it will all make total sense and I will disappear in a puff of reality. Cogito Idioti Ergo Poof. Klingon take me away.

So it's probably best I just sit tight on the sofa growing extra buttocks. I'm not hurting anyone. I don't eat, I don't drink, and if things keep going the way they are I shan't need to make that long slow journey to that good crapper. A little support staff to clean up around the place might be nice, but then there's yet more possibility for a hobby isn't there? Ordering someone around, maybe a few, a crack team of industrious scrubbers. Having a collection of porters or maids at my beck and call. That way lies madness. Start off with a butler, and you end up with 6 pages by Friday.

Positive Spin on my Crappy Crap Crap.

2005-07-25T23:00:00.000-07:00

Heyall-

So feeling as well as I have lately, which is none-too-well in fact, I've been living the dream and basically spending all day sitting on my ass in a nice air conditioned abode, sleeping all day and watching movies. It would be a great life if it wasn't mine. I'm not really feeling that well in body, or about myself really. In sort of a rut yaknow. Whilst in such benighted times I philosophically wander my apartment looking at all the crap I own that I will hopefully -- if all goes well and I find a new apartment soon -- have to move. And I'm questioning not why I have it, but why I am unhappy I have it if I really can't think what I would have preferred to spend all that time or funds on. As a wise fellow once said, "You have a hell of a lot of crap, but it's all COOL crap."

So to begin, I like my crap, and I like myself. My apartment and collections are certainly representative of me, and I suppose I am proud of them. I wouldn't mind more visitors. I'm just sort of at a crossroads I guess. Not sure where I'm going.

The books are certainly ponderous in number, but I for one prefer a million books to having to talk to one more slack jawed yokel. Or teach one. I always invested more in books than anything else. Books are as neccessary as extra consanants in neccessarryy. Plus they go with the territory if you have a brain. You know you are an English Major, A teacher, a nerd . . . if you own so many books you are afraid to move. So no worries about the books, other than moving them. I would worry more if I stopped reading or buying books because such a prospect is one of essential loss of what makes me -- a loss of essence.

The cameras I have already discussed. They are many, and heavy, but as an addiction goes they are all pretty cool. They are sculpture and mechanical and well -- nifty. The same goes for all the paintings and pictures on the wall. Art, is well, art. It's like books and you really can rarely go wrong with a collection of art. Same with music. So that stuff I really can't fault for owning so much of. Maybe some of the cameras. May have to weed out a few select ones. Maybe.

But before I do that I have to turn to some larger collections that take up more space. So we must turn to the less "useful" collections. There is the W40K collection, which I immediately blame on Monstro. He got me addicted to this game, and he is really one of like three people I play with. That's including Drivler and Trip, both of whom have played at most two games with me as I attempted to prostletyze them in this new drain on their finances. Monstro is really the only one I actually have played frequently -- and now that he's sorta out of state, it makes things a little more difficult. But it always makes me feel better about this monkey because Monstro's collection is so vastly huger {more huge?} than my own. Mine can still pretty much fit in two storage boxes. That includes the two armies I've got, all scenery, and all the accumulated models and stuff to make scenery and detail models. But two boxes is nothing -- especially compared to the Monstro Collection. Thanks, I feel better.

What really is vexing me the most these days are the toys that are on many many shelves and taking up most of my closet space. Star Wars started it off -- because I never had them as a kid. At least that's the excuse I've been sticking with. So in the 90's they re-released all the toys I yearned for as a kid. All the figures and the toy vehicles and the blasters. This is all the stuff I would have sold my soul for as a kid. And when Hasbro rereleased all that I had wanted, I got them. The figures, the Millenium Falcon, the Han Solo Blaster, and all the toys and figures that were new, and everything else I could lay my hands on. Lucas owes me big.

Then I started getting the McFarland Spawn stuff. Then Simpsons, The Muppets, and Family Guy. This was in addition to the huge collection of 1:18 scale cars and Hot Wheels -- but those I blame on a "car guy" father since they go along with his and my inherited interest in classic cars, hot rods, and sports cars. I'll never be able to collect, let alone drive all the cars I want, but here is a much easier way to have, hold, and store this addiction. I don't really want to end up with 20 plus cars {Let alone the hundreds I have in miniature form} that I have to somehow park and insure. So this one is a practical issue.

A lot of it is I am just a collector. I enjoy searching out that missing figure or example from my collection. Each one is a little trophy -- and I never got trophies as a kid. Wasn't competetive as a soccer player or as a swimmer. I also sucked. But I do have that tangible proof of certain great toy days. Great toy finds. The thrill of getting that Ben Kenobi and the almost impossible to fine Leia figure in one day. 1996: Longs Drugs in Santa Monica, after months of getting every other Star Wars figure out there and needing only these two to complete my very first original collection of the main characters. Months later I knew the pain of a collector who has just found out they are releasing new varients, and new figures. I've only just recently finally stopped buying anything Star Wars now that the movies are FINALLY OVER!!!

Or unwrapping the FAO Schwartz special Maxx figure with four Iszs. 1997: First Internet Purchase of a Toy. I was (and am) a huge Maxx fan and this figure had already been released three years earlier before I even knew about collecting toys, or Sam Keith. It's the only "Spawn" figure that still has a place of honor on the shelves. The rest of the rather huge collection is boxed up.

So too are alot of the Simpsons stuff now. But finding the first issue Bart, Homer, Krusty, and Burns all on pegs a month after Playmates announced they were stopping production was a nice bookend to my huge Simpsons collection. I can only assume some box at ToysRUs was stockpiled away by some employee and they just put the figures out to get rid of them. After about 15 different series of toys, it was nice that the last four figures were also the first four I bought. Now I just have to figure out why I needed two of these figures, and how I became the kind of collector who now ownes one opened figure for the shelf and one MIB figure. Do I suppose someday I'll actually (gasp!) sell something??

Today found another little benchmark. I've never bought a figure like this before, but it fills that certain spot, or lack my collection was missing. I needed a little divine intervention, and so I had to get the Family Guy Adam West and The Pope. I'm still giggling each time I see it and say the line from the show, "It'sa da freakin Pope!!" But I didn't get Joe, or Jasper, or Peter in Drag. Have a feeling this particular line of toys is on the wane for me. It might be nice to finalize my collection of Family Guy toys with The Pope.

Don't read if you haven't seen "Charley and the Chocolate Factory" yet. Be Forwarned!!

2005-07-20T23:09:00.000-07:00

As I am doing absolutely nothing else of note other than basically just trying to deal with being sick -- a condition I pretty much have been doing all damn summer long -- I thought I would get out and actually check out the Tim Burton version of the movie. First, I picked up the crappy computer game on sale at Target just for something to do, and because it had a free pass included. Why the hell not I thought.

And as entertainment I thought it was O.K. Enjoyable even. This is the movie, not the game which seems pretty infantile so far. This movie is not a classic, or even a particularly good Burton film. Dep has an interesting take on Willie, but when it comes down to it the character is goofy and basically unlikeable. I didn't care what his dentist father had done to abandon him or warp him. Count Dooku makes a good dentist, but it felt pretty added on as a plot device. I wasn't all that interested in him reconciling with father, so the end was lacklust for me. The same with the whole thing about the father and his job at the toothpaste factory. Added on little fillip that wasn't all that grabbing for me.

Dialogue has some good puns and wordplay, but they are really really pushed and announced to the audience. They made such a bit about the hair'heir thing it just fell flat. So too with the obvious references to how contrived the Oompah-Loompah songs are. A contrived reaction to the contrived plot device. Unspectacular writing.

Now Burton is known for his visuals and the family's little crooked house is very cool. Nice setting. I thought the new factory was passable as well, but too clean and millenial in design. The elevator stuff that worked in Hitchhiker's did not work in this film. What I was really looking for in the film was a new Burtonesque, slightly darker version than the original.

First in Wonka's new characterization by Dep. He really had to come up with something totally new from Gene Wilder. A hard task since Gene had the "perfect" take on Wonka. Just slightly askew. The delightful childlike genius who is also withering social critic. You're not sure if you like him or fear him -- which is set up so beautifully by the exact way Gene wanted to enter the film. The classic story about how he demanded he enter limping up to the gate and then doing a complete flip. That flip-flop of character worked so well as far as Wonka's whole test of character for these children who are going on the tour. Dep is just wierd. He's a weird kid who is abandoned and goes off on his own to make candy. We even get to see him in "younger years" when he just had the one shop. No change in character. Solitude away from society in his factory has done nothing for this kid. Even his purple gloves are just Wonka equivalents of his father's gloves.

So there I am in the theater waiting for at least the Burtonesque take on pointing out the foibles of society. Burton really does that through costumes and sets. Ed Scissorhands is classic for it. So too Batman and Ed Wood, and, and, and. He does that so well I expected at least that from him and his bevy of Butoneers. The factory should have been a character, but this factory's outside is stark and monotone grey. There's no message. It is just as unimaginative and mazelike as the rest of the town. We see plenty of overhead shots, and without the prominent gate, the factory is essentially like the rest of the city. My take would have been weatherbeaten, and eroded -- a faded glory like the cottage of the family. There are parallels here.

I liked the idea of the little fiery puppet show at the beginning. Dark, anti-it's assmall world. But that level of dark undertone got lost through much of the rest of the movie. Essentially this factory is newer, more modern and polished version of the original movie's. They cut out the experimental childlike scene where Charlie and Grandpa go floating, so there's no real proof of Charlie growing or making a major moral choice. He is always a part of his family. It is no question, hence no drama when he chooses to stick with his family. The best scene is when he shares his first chocolate bar with the family -- and it is so very well played in how the whole family enjoys that special extravagence together.

The rest of the time Burton whacks us over the head with examples of gross indulgence, or social commentary on everyone hordes candy by jamming their purse full of goo, or just destroys for the hell of it. This is what's telling about both versions. Compare the gross excesses that are being portrayed in the garden of sweets in Burton's version, with that amazed wonder apparent in all the kids AND ADULTS in the original. There's celebration and fun in the original. Some gorging, but it is because everyone is really enjoying themselves. That bit where Willie sips from the teacup and then nibbles on it is far more appealing than a Wonka who is seen to be eating candy scientifically in order to note down taste properties.

Filling in the last few gigs of an otherwise full iPod

2005-07-12T13:17:00.000-07:00

Hiyall-

Absolutely diddly is going on in these environs other than a few sessions with the J-man in his last week here. Currently we are miring ourselves in musical excellence -- a trip that has involved many long hours honing our best efforts to write words to previously unworded famous TV themes. Some of our favorites so far have included The A-Team, Night Court, Law & Order, Magnum P.I., Knight Rider, and Simon & Simon. Notice the apparent theme of crime stoppage. Not sure how that came about. Anyway, MixMaster J.C. and MC Do Well have laid down about 11 Monster Trax of Theme Song Divinity. Our slightly knowledgeable Knob Monkey Mix Master is trying to get everything sounding crystal clear so we can start selling delux edition CD's out the back of our trunks.

We have also raided eachother's electronic collection of CD's. In return for some dubious Brazillian Jazz, Frank Zappa, various good bands, and the soundtrack to "Josie and the Pussycats" along with some Cheap Trick Messr. Jason hath cursed me with I am opening up my own vaults of Jazz, Classic Rock, and the brilliance of both They Might Be Giants and The Presidents of the United States of America. But I gotta get him back for the cheap trick of Josie and the Suckiest Suck Munches so he is going to find I have also included a few special surprises of my own. After all, what musical collection would be complete without Amiri Baraka's "Dope?" Or a Best of Dezi Arnez collection? The only problem of inflicting "The Aquabats" on Jason is now said album is on my computer as well. Oh well. Sometimes it is nice to revisit the majesty that is "Magic Chicken!"

Justa nadda mucho happnin

2005-07-05T22:31:00.000-07:00

Heyall'

Feeling a little slowed down these days. Not much energy between the eyes acting up with new seaweed for the octopus to float around in, and the ongoing adventures of pain in the legs. Vicoden seems to take the edge off the pain, but I end up not doing much because of it. That stuff really knocks me out, but what passes for my health professional has no idea why I have said pain. Medication is pretty much his only answer other than suggesting I just pony up a couple thousand for an MRI that may or may not answer why I am so suffering. Waiting to see what happens with a new Health Coverage program I've applied to that takes people with existing conditions. Fingers crossed.

My illustrious school has offered four comp classes to teach in the fall, which I have tentatively agreed to teaching as a backup if nothing happens this summer. The plan is to tell them to get bent and move south when I get new coverage, new doctors, actual work done on eyes, new house, and hopefully a new job. Figured a backup plan is good too though. This way all bases are covered, despite grandiose plans for sudden better life.

In the meantime I have enjoyed watching Jason embark on a new career as a monkey knob turner, or musical studio mixboard operator. As yet he is still having difficulty getting two microphones to actually record at once. Apparently our duets on the new official theme song to Simon and Simon with lyrics needs work. Jason has already laid down a version of a new A-Team theme song with lyrics for when it is returned to television. Until fame comes knocking on our door, we are just having fun. That's O.K. since I enjoy playing his father-in-law's cool electonic drum set and just hanging.

My exciting days have been fruitfully been taken up watching the exploits of motorcycle chopper builders now that I finished watching the antics of Monster Garage Seasons I and II. All the televisionally testosterificness has done little to dissuade me that society has taken a major downturn when we allow Jesse James on Discovery Channel. I find his accent reminds me of Joel B. for some reason.

For a little variety I think tomorrow I will embark on Monstro's excellent suggestion to dress up in a ninja costume and recite haiku. This may help in reawakening my desire to write about Guy on the Corner, or at least serve as research experience. My plans to shoot a short movie this summer on the adventures of a cowboy eating chocolate pudding whilst on a road trip across Canada in search for a self-identity doesn't seem to be going well.

He's Back with a new Monkey!!

2005-07-01T12:00:00.000-07:00

Hi folks,

Am back from my week-long sojurn to the benighted isle/aisle of LA, {come to think of it, LA is really just a huge supermarket} and have come back with a brand new monkey on my back. Actually, quite a few monkey type things came back with me. Had this whole monkey theme going on here. Monkey!! Just saying it makes me smile. Henceforth this shall be named the Sojurn of the Monkey 2005.

Not being satisfied with all my other addiction/collection type obsession compulsions, I have now added a new collection to overburden my apartmentally challenged display and storage fixation. They call them "Urban Vinyl Collectible Toys" and range from the Stikfas brand build-your-own-customizeable-action-figures that I already have quite a number of, Kubrick bears, to limited edition, one offs made by SF artists like Kozik and Twist. These toys and artists if you don't know who they are can be found in alternative art magazines Juxtapoz or Giant Robot.

This is the new, hip, trendy, "ART" collectible craze -- so LA has a ton of little stores that sell this stuff. Of course you can also give into your compulsion online, like at KIDROBOT.COM.
So I hit quite a few of the stores getting the cool looking, monkey type looking collectible toys. Even got a new japanese style display case to show them off. Hey, I had to find something to replace the gap in my life left by Star Wars -- which I am now officially done collecting ANYTHING of, and the still-sadly lamented Simpsons toys. Plus I can rock myself gently to sleep murmering "Monkey, monkey." I figure it's better than getting worked up about hair bands coming back. Poison sux no matter how you respell it.

Why Games Workshop has entered Phase II and even Phase III

2005-06-20T10:05:00.000-07:00

Monstro has the advantage of me in having participated in W40K back in "the good ol days." Because originally it was designed by actual gamers. These were guys like us now who had their difficulties with Gary Gygax and all the other games out there and decided to make their own. So the first versions and the changes to those versions were all about figuring things out. Improvements. How to make the game play better and ironing out wrinkles and having a good time. Changes were made to improve play. Eventually this Phase I passed.

Now the "ironing out of wrinkles" is done solely for increased and continuing profits. They still have the old core working for them, but they crank out really cool looking versions of models so Games Workshop can display them in White Dwarf and the latest Codex to keep players interested. Their role has been reduced to advertising. Actual changes in rules are intended to force players {if they actually follow the new rule} to buy new official figures, a brand new overall rule book, and a new codex for their army. Mistakes might even be factored in on purpose within these guides so that we are forced to buy a second "new revised and edited" version next year. And the year after that, and after that, infinitum. Phase II is all about profit -- not playability.

Like the Great Progenitator D&D, the company will piss off it's old core of players. Phase III is a desperate matter of damage control. In this phase, the company keeps making changes that ultimately spell doom for the game. It will change so much as to be uninteresting to the original players, and will either die when no one else succumbs, or finally undergo a "get back to our roots" movement where they pretend Highlander II never happened. Old devotees will complain a lot and say it wasn't what it used to be. Those ancients who actually still play will decide on what edition they like best and follow those rules.

Why Space Marines Suck So Well

2005-06-20T09:58:00.000-07:00

Monstro has complained that many players he has come across seem pretty unimaginative in what army they play. Even at the big championship matches most people seem to be playing mainly Imperial or Space Marine armies. And I got to wondering why. Now Monstro started me off with Space Marines. And that still makes quite a bit of sense for learning the first few games. Space Marines are pretty basic and nothing too tricky. Jason has already taken to them and demolished two mini squad armies of Eldar. Although I think that is because I have more variety from which to pick Space Marines for him to play. I don't have many Eldar so I really can't summon up much of a force. I know, I know. Excuses. We'll have to see how he does against my Tyranids.

But Space Marines are easy. They are guys with guns. Some small, some big. Monstro just happens to have a lot of these guys. So much so that we were able to go through a “parts bag” of his unpainted miniatures and come up with a hefty chunk of a 1,500 point army of unpainted Space Marines including a squad or two of Terminators. We didn’t feel like unearthing all of his painted Space Marine miniatures for this particular game, just a few select ones like the famous Pepto Bismol Terminator Lynn painted – since Monstro knew he was gonna pummel me with his usual Eldar. Maybe he just wanted me to look bad for the new player we were introducing to the game that afternoon.

But we both agree that those who regularly play Space Marines kinda suck. Jason is redefining that paradigm for me, but Monstro now has the benefit of someone else who plays Space Marines and loses with them pretty frequently – so it isn’t just me and my affinity for the ones. So Space Marines seem to die against just about anyone else. This of course just means we haven’t come across a master of playing Space Marines yet. Any army, including Orks, requires the right fit of personality and flair for using those troops to the best effect. Supposedly. I fully expose my inexperience playing, but so far I think Space Marines are a staple for getting their asses handed to them and probably taste like chicken to Eldar, Tyranids, and the like. I’m sure they can be played with great effect, but I consistently lose with these guys and have heard of many others who suffer the same fate. It seems the smarter players move onto at least Chaos-flavored Space Marines that are a little harder to digest.

But there are many out there who stick with these guys as their standard army, and I think I have sussed why so many unimaginative players of W40K pretty much play Space Marines or Imperial Guard as their army instead of the less popular Eldar, Tao, Orks, Tyranids, or Necrons. First is the logical reason – the “basic” entry level kit Games Workshop sells these days is Space Marines versus Tyranids. Used to be Space Marines versus Dark Eldar. So that usually sucks in the unimaginative from the beginning.

But here is where Games Workshop really got trickski. Space Marines are the easiest to construct. Remember that most people are not going to be just given an already constructed army. They are going to have to physically build it. That means buying all the little kits you need to build all the little squads you plan to deploy. So a new player’s first purchase is really a Codex for the army they plan to play. And they start looking at what they need to start out with: A Headquarters and two troops. From there you can add another HQ, Four more Troops, 3 Elite, 2 Fast Attack, and 3 Heavy Support. This is true of all the armies so they all play nice. So the new wannabe player starts looking at the boxes and boxes of little figures they will have to buy and then construct before being able to actually play. They start thinking how much is this gonna cost me, and how many of these little things am I gonna have to glue together? They look at the boxes and the handy little assembly instructions on the backs of the boxes and make some decisions.

All the armies pretty much have the same characteristics. Point cost is a little different, but Games Workshop has probably done some math to figure out how most squads really equal out between armies. So the points for two troops and an HQ for one army will probably equal that of another army. And Games Workshop PROBABLY sells their little kits in such a way that an HQ and two troops for about the same, regardless of army. Usually they cost about this much in stores or on the Internet:

Eldar Avatar - 25 bucks
Or you can get a Farseer or Warlock that can serve as an HQ – 10 bucks
Eldar Guardian Squad of 16 – 30 bucks

Now compare to other armies.

A Tyranid Hive Tyrant - $35
12 Genestealers – $25
Tyranid Gaunts boxed set contains eight (8) Termagants, eight (8) Hormagaunts, and one (1) Ripper Swarm all for - $25

Commander O'Shovah of the Tau - $35
Tau Ethereal Cast -$10
12 Tau Fire Warrior Squad – $25

C'Tan Nightbringer - $35
Necron Lord – $10
12 Necron Warriors - $25

Now compare to the Space Marines

A Space marines HQ like a regular Librarian, or a Terminator Librarian, or Chaplain, or just a Commander are all just 10 bucks. As far as HQ goes they are almost the cheapest.
Then a regular Tac Squad of 10 is 25 bucks.

Cost wise it looks like all the armies come out the same – about 70 bucks for an HQ and two troops. There are some discrepancies like how much an HQ for the Space Marines costs, or how many squads you can make up from a box of troops but it comes down to your own choice and opinion really. Do you think one squad of ten Space Marines is equal to a squad of 8 Termagaunts and a second squad of 8 Hormagaunts?

So then the future player looks at how hard it will be to put these little squads together. And Space Marines wins hands down. Your HQ is a unified metal body with two arms and a base. Your troops have two chest halves with easy molded attach points, two arms, a head, and the legs and waist are already molded together. You can glue the whole squad in an evening. The only hard part is gluing the gun into their hands. But compared to putting together an elder guardian or a hormagaunt, this is a breeze. Both other armies have a myriad of other little bits to glue, and the pieces themselves are smaller and more unwieldy. Space Marines are buff and easy to manipulate. Hence, their popularity.

Success!!

2005-06-20T09:46:00.000-07:00

To the management:

I realize that I’ve not written in quite some time as it was essential to lay as low as possible after the horrific events that befell my “Wilbur Whatley” personae" or skin on that cold dark night so many months ago. Who knew Ruthie knew such incantations? As you are altogether aware, I have been ceaselessly writhing in agony over your increasingly venomous responses and missives for action on my part, but a new tack had to be made in the matter of Mr. Stevenson’s possession.

After much seasoning and a change of scene, Mr. Stevenson has come to reference me as “The Creeper.” He is apparently unaware of the greenhaired manic DC character of old, and likens my knowledge and bearing as analogous to one who is able to stalk the long grey grasses and not get bitten by the baby rattlesnakes who are all the more dangerous for biting anything that startles them and not knowing how to control the amount of venom they inject. So little does he know of reality or milking rattlesnakes. We have amused ourselves muchly talking of metaphysics, tattoos, student essays, marijuana, antique movie organs, and Tom Lehrer lyrics with Mr. Stevenson long into the late hours. And while such BS sessions are to you of seeming little effect, in truth, they were cunningly wrought to lull his apprehensions of our true purpose.

It has taken me long days of seeming inactivity, for it was not wise to jump straight into the true waters of my plan, but to let the calm surface lull Mr. Stevenson into his own state of frenzy. I waited for him to make the first move and call me this past Sunday of his own free will to finally partake in playing Warhammer 40K.

It is my belief that after last night, the hook is truly set. His final resistance is to the cost of amassing an army of his own, which as you know can be surmounted. The games themselves were simple 400 point 40 minute affairs. He chose of his own accord to play Space Marines, which I arrayed against an equal force of Eldar. He commanded some regular troopswho had been supplemented with some heavy weapons, a small force equipped with jump packs, and a dreadnaught -- all of which were arrayed against some much apprehensive Guardians with a Heavy Weapons Platform, a dreadnaught of their own, and three speederbikes. I made some alterations to each dreadnaughts profile in order to allow them to play within the special rules for the scenario.

Mr. Stevenson was allowed the first turn, and his superior firepower immediately destroyed my dreadnaught and all three speederbikes. My forces were immediately reduced to two squads of meagre guardians, one of which had the aforementioned starcannon. This squad wisely hid amongst some trees and forced his army to advance across the entire table, taking out a few members of the squad out each turn, but prolonging as long as possible the sweet moment when the last guardian subsided and the starcannon finally fell silent. The other troop of guardians harried squad after squad, surprising quite a few as they pummeled Space Marines with their tiny fists. In the end one solitary Eldar Guardian, eldaring his weapon platform to the very end, bravely faced a pissed off Dreadnaught that had moved 6 inches at a time down the long table throughout the game to finally engage in hand-to-hand combat.

Invigorated by the spectre of Eldar jelly, Mr. Stevenson immediately suggested another quick game. The hook was set. He is ours. This time the game ended with 11 space marines surrounding Treebeard the Lonely Dreadnaught, each Marine punching away with two attacks as he vainly waved his arms about trying to make contact with the swarm of mosquitoes about his feet with 3+ saves. Eventually the barrage of tiny fists made connection, and the mighty Treebeard fell. Stevenson’s current plight was due Treebeard's noble sacrifice; rest assured that his fall bodes naught but well for our machinations.

W40K on the cheap - Part II

2005-06-17T09:28:00.000-07:00

Now I’ve been thinking about this whole Warhammer 40K thing that Monstro has gotten me into – mainly because I hope to inflict some of this addiction on Messr. Drivel during his visit to my climes. I will go so far as to say that I will not, repeat NOT, be doing just Warhammer 40K with Jason. We will probably just talk a lot, play bad music, watch a movie or two, maybe allow him to inflict karaoke on me, pretend to play guitar, and generally waste time. But I hope for a game or two, and I do believes he are amenable to the prospect.

So I had to do a little preparation for his visit. Hard to play, or host, iffin youze ain’t gots no army for your guest to play. So besides making sure there were plenty of cold beers and some good seegars, I been laying in some supplies. A good host gives some choices. Now I got into all this because of ol Monstro has many many many little figures he has put together and painted, and bought off the internet, and, and, and. That’s how he suckered me. About 8 months of weekend games with a variety of armies, and then he most kindly gifted to me a rather large army of Tyranid beasties to ensure I was totally hooked. Gotta love a friend who does that for you. Sharing an addiction with a good friend ensures there is another like-minded weirdo out there like you – and diminishes both of your lameness quotient. It is the sincerest form of flattery. I have returned the favor to at least one other friend who got me involved with Magic cards, so fair is fair.

Now due to Monstro’s largess, I have one army of Tyranids that I have been adding to on my own but I certainly do not have the universe of Warhammer 40K armies Monstro has at his beck and call. I have some Eldar, including ol Avi the Avatar and Treebeard, but really not much in the way of food for my Tyranids to dine upon. So I needed to stock the larder a bit with a bevy of little peoples to use and be used. At least enough troops for a good 40 minutes with 40K scenario.

A while ago I constructed and painted a small complement of Eldar to go along with Treebeard and Avi, but mainly they are the remaining Eldar who did not go flying off into the breeze. Eldar are problematic to put together, as I have discussed in previous blogs. They do have some very cool vehicles though, which Games Workshop sells for way too much. So I am making some inventive compromises – which is all about what Warhammer 40K is to me. Making a Wave Serpent and a few Jetbikes from Legos should give us enough of a scouting party to take on a hive of genestealers.

After all, W40K is about strategy. Brains. It is all about creating an army with certain characteristics that can then be deployed in certain devious ways. Very mental. Like any good game, there has to be a multitude of strategies and options. So W40K gives you tons of options. Which army to use, then what kinds of squads, how many squads, how many in each squad, and then all the little options you can outfit them with. Too cool. I always did enjoy the whole thing about picking options. I blame Car Wars for that.

The other side of W40K is that it has a living thinking opponent, with all their options and you get to duke your army against theirs and their strategies. The final component of play is that whole randomness of rolling dice. Gotta have dem random elements. This all ensures that actual play is involving and fun. But the figures themselves are essentially chess pieces. You could use coins, or stones, or scrabble tiles really. The fun is in getting little “tokens” that look exactly like what you are playing. This is where Games Workshop is brilliant – because you can buy their official exact representations for loads of dinero.

W40K is secondly {but financially firstly for G.W. – the initials are not sheer happenstance} about the hobbyist. That allure of constructing your own unique army out of little plastic and metal models. For some, this is relaxing. I personally enjoy it – but on a level of sort of enjoyment up until the millisecond I get frustrated and remember just how much I hate gluing little plastic bits and my fingers together with crazy glue sort of way.

For me, and I think for many players including Monstro, the greatest fun is in personalizing your army with amazing paint jobs – at which I suck and get frustrated the moment I re-remember just how much I suck at painting – and customizing, kitbashing, and generally inventing your own vehicles, scenery, and figures. This is the fun, and the deviant response to the whole Games Workshop evil conglomerate corporate stooge they have become. Yeah, you can buy a Razorback or perfect little resin walls from Forge World, but it is more fun to make your own. Or buy cheaper versions from ArmorCast and detail them yourself. Or buy Christmas scenery miniatures of snow covered walls and little trees the week after the holidays for 80 percent off. It’s more fun to make it, or figure out how to alter it yourself.

I prefer buying three very realistic painted metal and plastic 1/32 scale M113A2 Bradley Personnel Carrier at ToysRUs for five bucks a pop in a bargain bin, than buying one singular $40 dollar Rhino kit that I have to build and paint and looks like crap. The Rhino is essentially a Bradley anyway. Boxy, with a sloped front and treads. Take the treads off and substitute warp nacelles and you got a classic shuttlecraft from Star Trek. Different nerds, different uniforms, same troop transport. So for much much less I get a very cool looking personnel transport right out of the box with little working treads and opening hatches galore. It’s made of mostly metal with some plastic, is already constructed, and already detailed and painted. From there I can repaint and then add excess bits from various parts boxes to make it even more realistic for a W40K world.

It is also a hell of a lot of fun to say, “I’ve got a Landraider with twin-linked LasCannons on top, twin side heavy bolters, a dozer blade, pintle mounted bolter, and extra armor,” and then plunk down a Matchbox car. Preferably something like a pink Dune Buggy or Knight Rider Trans Am to really add to the ludicrousity. Nothing military. It is just too much fun to watch Monstro react to this and I applaud his new group of players who apparently keep him on his toes in this way. Fisher Price people taking on Tyranids is just funny. Miniature toys from Aliens look like Tyranids to me. And of course no game is complete without at least something made from Legos.

Legos are excellent scenery blocks, and now that they have movie based characters for the Harry Potter, Spiderman, and Star Wars movie licenses can’t you just see your army combating a small squad of little Lego Jedi with lightsabers? Darth Vader could lead a squad of Terminators, or Boba Fett could be the Veteran Seargant for some Jump Troops. Who says you can't get double duty out of your various collections?

And now that I have finalized my Family Guy collection I may just have to pretent "Rufus" is a Carnifex in my next game.

33 is no big whup

2005-06-07T23:36:00.000-07:00

As I haven't posted anything since May I thought I would check in with all one of my possible readers. I say one, since ol Buzz and Todd are off on their search across the American byways.

First off, the birthday was pretty much a standard day. Frankly my 32 was much better -- food wasn't great but the company was perfect. Plus it served as a great practice run for a "delayed" birthday dinner a week later. This year was lacking such artistry. The birthday was of little note other than many calls from around the globe from my many well wishers. The well is fine, but I'm worried about the cistern. But all the calls in themselves were the coolest gifts. Bartlesbrian and Jameson even called the next day whilst on their way to Mobile. So that was very cool. Heard about the haunted movie palace they saw in Birmingham. A very "Avram kind of place."

Otherwise have been dealing with a painful leg and reaffirming my affinity for Vicoden to take the edge off of things. Yea for pain killers -- which for me are only dulling the pain of a hip and knee that seem to want to be attached to someone else. But that hasn't stopped me from a stint of Summer Cleaning. The big satisfaction was in going through the closet and finally deciding to donate to the local Sally Anne anything I haven't worn for two years. So that got rid of two big bags of suspect clothes that someone else can enjoy. I know plus fours and a straw boater hat will be all the rage in a couple years, but you have to draw the line somewhere. My quest is to get rid of anything that I can live without. I may even get to divest myself of what Lynn calls Stage II stuff -- things I NEED to live without but are harder to get rid of.

Cleaning and tidying has been relaxing though. Got the balcony cleared away so I can enjoy it while the weather here is not quite nuking hot. That meant recycling the year's worth of aluminum cans I've been storing -- which were redeemed for the munificent sum of an even 50 bucks. Not bad scratch, which I have invested in paint for finally painting the W40K miniatures I've been building. Oh, and a couple used books as well. Not that much of the fitty went towards paint to be honest.

Basically I've been lazing around reading vintage Hunter Thompson articles, which in turn got me reading various motorcycle road trip accounts. Peter Egan articles, "Zen and the Art ..." and the like. Even skimmed through "Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas" in an afternoon since I was in that kind of vibe.

Aye matey. There be pirate drivers iffins you just knows where to look.

2005-05-26T00:51:00.000-07:00

It has occured to me that my life is nowhere near surreal enough in comparison to how it should be. For example, I found out in conversation with those in the know that there is a small, but thriving, community of people who dress up as pirates in my small town. This came up when I shared the news that Jason relayed to me about some bright up and comer on his campus who dresses up daily as a pirate and who successfully ran for some student position on the pirate plank. When they successfully run a presidential candidate I think the Pirate Party may just replace both the Libertarian and Democratic parties. Here's hoping.

But I had no idea that there were similar people sailing about my waters. Now most of them are apparenltly involved with the support staff side of things -- laundry, supplies, pirately service sector type things -- rather than actual sailors and brigands and cutthroats and rogers jollying sort of the trade. We are a little on the landlocked side, but still.

And I thought, damn. That's just the ticket. How grand would it be to see a pirate in full regalia cursing the traffic in his LeSabre in the lane next to mine? Skull and Crossbones flapping in the wind off the radio arial, or perhaps boldly draped in the back window of a pickup truck instead of a confederate flag. Little "I brake for pirate booty," or "You best be having the dubloons if you're set on getting your full beard anywhere near me dinghy!" bumper stickers.

I mean they probably are not the most sociable of drivers, but think of how road manners would improve if someone fired a cannonball off your port bow if you try to cut them off? Why don't our grocery stores sell decent grog? I can make it at home with a little watered down rum and molasses -- but where's the fun in that? And do any of you know where you can get a decent tricorn hat?

All rather silly, but I'm going to start looking for them on the road and when I see one I am going to go out of my way to wave and give them a hearty "Yar!"

So you wanna do some Wargame Scenery on the cheap?

2005-05-19T02:22:00.000-07:00

Hi Friend-

We here at Honest Avram's Wargame Scenery and Snowjob Emporium want you to have the very best in gaming experience. Now we have told you about that most wonderful stuff
ArmorCast makes available in resin for a mere pittance. You can't buy a more detailed set of three mini Easter Island heads in regular, distressed and falling apart, or "Modern" styles. They have ruined buildings, and walls, and alien plants, and all sorts of cool Medieval, Egyptian, and Fuedal Japan nifty stuff.

The problem is that you need to have some knowledge of working safely with resin -- which is nasty stuff -- and you have to paint it.

Case in point, their series of cool 2, 3, and 4" rivers. The pictures are beautiful. They have nice sets to get up to 48" worth of straights and curves to make your own personal river stretch all the way across your tabletop. Cool stuff. They even give tips on how you too can paint your rivers to look as neato as the neato pictures they give. But . . . if you suck at painting, and want neato rivers right away, these sets do pose a quandry. You may also realize that most rivers don't actually look like this. These are actually perfectly sculpted levys, or irrigation ditches. You set them on your tabletop and they look a little "off."

Our solution, which is cheaper, is to use your funds on the stuff that can't be done cheap. Buy some easter island heads, or a Japanese hut. They are good quality, easily detailed, and great value. But use that fancy new computer of yours to save the photos they so helpfully provide, resize them a bit, and print them on glossy photo paper. Cut them out and you have instant rivers that your can overlay on top of eachother for even more variety and versimilitude so they "look" right. Your river will be flat -- like an actual stream or river that runs along a channel lower than the surrounding ground. Ever heard of a river bank? You have to wade into a river. And most rivers don't just have nice tidy banks neither.

Here's where things get fun. Get some actual river pebbles, or small stones. You can pick these up for free in nature, or wander over to some crafts place and buy a bag for 3 or 4 bucks. Sprinkle them alongside the "banks" of your river. Make a whole "beach" that your miniatures have to clamber over before they even get to the stream. Those of you who have seen an actual stream know there are a hell of a lot of rocks you usually have to calmbor over to get to actual water. Toss some lichen or dried flowers around for some scattered foliage -- also available for free au naturale or for small change at crafts stores -- and viola! A pretty damn skippy fine lookin stream. Buy a cool Japanese, wood, or stone bridge from ArmorCast or someone else and you iz set.

Now we feel justified in doing this because we have bought quite a bit of ArmorCast product. Including a few of the aforementioned river bits. Just ain't painted them.

Tip #2

You want a cool looking "grass" tabletop? Get a cashmere throw in a nice green grass shade. Cashmere is very nice, good and warm, and will make you appear very chic and sensetive new ageish. It also, when tossed over your gaming table as a tablecloth, makes a pretty good looking surface that looks like turf.

Tip #3

Wander into your local aquarium and reptile pet supply store. Such places have all the usual floating deep sea diver aerators, and opening treasure chests, and castles, and warm rocks for Jub-Jub, but they also are beginning to have all sorts of cool looking scale rock formations, mini rock pools, and odd themed buildings. Lots of scale roman ruins. Little pagodas and chinese temples. Also Tiki stuff is in, so you can find some interesting stone obelisks and funky stone heads. All in scale.

At my place I even found a scale Spongebob Squarepants pineapple house which I am planning to combine with the 88 cent coconut halves with little doorways intended for lizards, but which look exactly like little primitive grass and mud huts. Am mulling over a scenario where the primitive Eldar or Tyranid natives finally get tired of their oddly jubilant and annoying god, combine forces with the Star Wars Legos and fight a horrific battle to overthrow the evil republic.

Do you know the mustard man? Who shouts on Dreary Lane? Have you heard his word today? His rants that seem insane?

2005-05-17T15:21:00.000-07:00

Part VI

spent night turning and
turning a widened gyre
transcribing this tape:

“Vaffanculo! Vai in culo! Una schifosa ulti-cankerspout self-dribble instamatic lubrication cockblowing god ensures you, me, and everyone are just different flavored sick Saturday fantasy ağır işçi. Un figlio di puttana! Last night’s Hewlett Packard wet-dream pucker still running smooth but gotta say our all night pompino comparisons make my puffy black rectum bleed. You alet, you merda succhiatore! Vile cockatrice! Don’t walk away, spit in my come and tell me the oatmeal will rise victorious half past seven to snowball a former fresh prince! Can't help our agonofili, but think of my wounded bird whose prick never dragged earth and furrowed you and your moldy wank back down to ground. Che cazzo stai dicendo? No? Maybe have a go at my sister, barnyard animal, whirling blender, or any other porta-hole that gets you juicy? Still no answer? Hey fucko, you ever think it’s not because of the all-meat special platter that's clearly broken, but that this sticchiu rompipalle disdains all your dirt and sperm coddled mud shake, shake, your booty, shake your conga shite?!! Vaffanculo! Vai in culo! We all know God II improved with spam control, pasties and a g-string Roy Party My Aspersions To The Grave Lampadoose, has already managed to extricate and shake loose this particular bowel shattering shit of epic proportions. Stop hiding with your feet in the bidet and come out fighting! How can you honestly still wonder why it is my morlocks shrivel and hide underground when you flip the great bird, always a-flip, ready for any chick on the tip to swan-song its song to the sing sing of rooftops or grave capitulating carnel akşamdan kaldı obscurity that, when discovered, encourages would be wings a go-go to undergo immediate Icarization so you can sodomize them while they lay bondaged by their own melted wax and feathers? The Truth here is now a capital T uno che va in culo a sua madre slap i coglioni my little virgin Virginia testa di merda double shit diphead. Truth is you are no longer the lower case “t” truncated Christian implication you used to grasp the two handy handles on the side and pile drive your dogmatic cock deep inside the latest fica pronta MILF. Vaffanculo a lei, la sua moglie, e' la sua madre. Lei e' un cafone stronzo. Io non mangio in questo merdaio! Vada via in culo! You've buttfucked us too damn far to turn that other cheek back now you’ve found we’re all essere fottuto. All the cunts on the roof, wing dangling, labia stretched to uselessness aint a-comin' or a goin’ down for your meat no more no more. The sound--the very sound--which sends you railing to the railing wondering where all your damn birds with the broken wings went now that you got a shiny new cockwash and bill of health from your favorite VD fixer, is me and everyone else saying we have our own fork ready to test prior hypothesi. Can you hear us? Every single avere il cazzo in aria overstuffed bastard saying in unison andate tutti a 'fanculo! Nessuno me lo ficca in culo! And should you have one, tua madre si da per niente! Can you hear that rumble down in your shorthairs? After all those lullabies I bet you still hear the music of the ice cream truck, and damned if you don't still yearn for my emperor of ice cream."

I can’t say this translation helped add any to my appreciation of existence or give me any new answers, even with the online application of both an “off-color” Turkish dictionary at:

http://www2.egenet.com.tr/mastersj/off-color-turkish.html

and the Italian dictionary of profanity a rather fetching young college student, or so she later pretended to be while making up an excuse about researching sexual mores for a thesis, had, while passing through town left under my bed after we met up at Finnegan’s Slake, the local distillery and secret meeting house of the local illiterate on Tuesday nights, before finding mutual and rather violent lust all the way back from Finnegan’s in my car, in the front yard, on the front porch, eventually inside in the living room, kitchen floor, bedroom, back outside because we forgot her purse and some rather kinky devices therein, back inside, and eventually under the bed as well.

What it was that I had transcribed left me as empty and emotionally barren as that memorable night with who I’ve just decided to call Tina since I never got her name and immediately threw out in a dumpster behind a grotty fish resteraunt two towns over anything that we might have used and had her name on it. She, her clothes, and her cavernous purse were gone the next morning, but every object within that purse, all of which had in fact turned out to be used in some illicit and upon unclear reflection, disgusting act, had been left strewn about my home. After discovering I had in fact slept for two days and it was now the weekend, drinking a half gallon of orange juice, and insanely making the largest 5 egg, bacon, sausage, and mushroom omlette I have ever cooked or successfully eaten, I collected them all in a large garbage bag trying unsuccessfully to avoid trying to remember exactly how I had used, or had used upon my own person, each item.

This transcription had the same bludgeoning effect on my head. In its course I had learned information that will surely render me unfit for any polite society. It is crucial I never play Scrabble again. I will have to take numerous showers with the harshest green-tea scented bodywash exfoliant I can find in the store to feel clean again. I will have to completely wipe the hard drive of my computer and reformat it again, perhaps twice, just to be confident in my mind that every horrific webpage I innocently visited in attempting to translate individual words of this . . . ongoing concoction of wrong. Again. I cannot allow adware and spybots to forever brand me as more of a deviant than I now realize I am, and worse, have ever-increasingly become in this mad pursuit. Even with these precautions I might have to get rid of the computer for fear I commit some crime and a police investigator is able to winnow out my journey to this state of mental bile. If I could overlook a book and pair of handcuffs under my bed from one night years ago, who knows what else might escape my paranoid eye?

Guy of course is still going strong outside in the front yard. He is still coatless, and I am willfully keeping myself from returning the coat that had in fact been left heedlessly in my front foyer in my mad dash inside to examine my larder for missing mustard. The coat had been packed, well hidden, no, stuffed circumspectly under the case for a subwoofer that had no actual speaker inside once I got it home. I’ve been using it for an endtable to stack guitar magazines on, but the inside seemed like a good place to stash his overcoat. The mustard packets are safely inside my abode as well, although my taste for mustard is no longer as fierce. After fending off the busybodies by the simple expedient use of dumbfounded and increasingly uncomfortable complete silence, they dispersed when I gave them no show. They are all not talking to me now, and walk their dogs stoicly by my house five or six times a day carefully not looking at Guy, or me peering through the front window at him and them. I have had ample time to rake all the packets into the bag and bring them inside from the car. I washed my car and inadvertently on purpose like sprayed Guy with the hose to no effect. On reflection, the high point of these last few days was the case of Guilden’s coming yesterday, but only because the delivery van driver refused to come near Guy and honked his horn until I came out and signed for it at his driver’s side door. So I’m pretty well stocked should I ever re-aquire my mad addiction for this particular condiment.

My thoughts these days revolve around pulping Guy to a mustard-like consistency and hiding the remains with his coat.

Wasting Time To The Fullest

2005-05-14T21:51:00.000-07:00

Hiy'all-

So I'm setting here on my first weekend when I don't really have any spectre of school hanging over my head -- having graded the last of my student portfolios in a flurry of annoyance and perplexity over how stupid so many many of my students are in not following directions, leaving things out of their porfolios, or just bullheaded idiocy over not bothering to do the assignments -- all the while thinking how, oh how shall I celebrate not having to read crappy essays?

So many choices. There's the stack of books I've been saving up to read this summer, in addition to the leagues of books I haven't read of great literature but should. Then there's actually writing my own additions to those weighty tomes. Actually sending stories out to maybe get rejected or published. Scores of old magazines that I should go through and clip out what few articles I want to keep and recycle the rest so they stop taking up space and possibly my having to move them to a new domicile.

There's the spectre of eye operations and maybe having to move -- both nightmarish possibilities I am still trying to get my mind around.

I could go out and exercise, or travel, learn the guitar, or just exhult in the best possible luxury of all -- doing nada.

But no, I start thinking about Warhammer 40 K. Curse you Monstro!! Tons of money spent on little plastic and metal miniatures for a game that I play pretty rarely, and usually lose at. Even if I did win this last January Monstro hath learned and is no doubt just waiting with a new can of whup ass to be broughtin. But here I am thinking about doing an activity that requires me to inhale toxic fumes, metal particulant matter, and totally f's up me peepers trying to see the damn little buggers so I can A} attempt to put little figures together without supergluing too much of my skin, and B} try to paint the little f'ers once they are all together.

Sheer idiocy. BUT NOOOOOO! I gotta start thinking about putting those 3 Raveners together, and maybe get another Tyrant Guard, and another Carnifex, and maybe some flying thingees for a little fast attack, and, and, and ...

Plus, I am also starting to give in to that other addiction. Scenery. Can't really play unless your table looks cool can you? So I trolled around Armorcast for a little bit. Hmmmmn. Maybe some more Easter Island Heads -- ruined and regular, with some of their Feudal Japanese scenery. That would look cool. And I could make a little creek to run under the Japanese Wooden bridge. And some shrubbery. And I also think I could make something like this STAR GATE I found while trolling around the internet too.

It was at this juncture that the words "NERD! NERD!" in byte your ass red popped into my head and I briefly dreamed that some caring friend, or better yet, a caring female someone would care enough to jump out and do an intervention on me, or some other act to at least get enough of a rise out of me for me to actually go out and date or socialize, or pursue someone worthwhile. Sigh.

Instead I shall finish up this post that only a few, rather removed from my locale, readers actually read, and go watch a DVD or something while I eat a nice healthy salad with some cottage cheese since I am attempting to be healthier. Scan some more CD's onto the computer to move onto the iPod, and maybe succeed in pulling off the last two pink claw covers on the cat. It's an exciting life.
Not that I suppose that would help matters. Monstro got Ms. Lynn a paintin Terminators even if they were pink.

An Insane Douglas Adams Fan Votes about the movie version.

2005-05-09T13:11:00.000-07:00

Kicks ass. Unequivocably. Absolutely fan fucking tastic.
See it on the big screen because space is really, really, big.

Now before I say WHY, I want to first establish my credentials.

I own EVERYTHING of Adams nature. I got into writing because of Douglas Adams. I wanted to write Hitchhiker's Guide To The Galaxy, Restraunt At The End of The Universe, and Life, The Universe and Everything. I did not want to write So Long and Thanks For All The Fish, but I thought it had some good bits, expecially when you decide you don't care if Arthur does in fact have sex and skip to the end where there is a very good bit about Marvin. I enjoyed Mostly Harmless but thought it really wasn't necessary. The "trilogy" worked just fine ending with Life, The Universe, Etc ... or Fish for that matter.

I thouroughly enjoy the Dirk Gently Novels. Long Dark Teatime of the Soul is really Adam's best novel. My first computer game was Infocom's Hitchhiker's game. I still have the sunglasses, fluff, and special planet demolishion papers. I still have my "Don't Panic" button. I solved the bastard finally with the Invisiclues. Damn Fluff and dangly bits. I also played and solved Beauracracy. Played, solved, read Starship Titanic. Own and have read Meaning of Liff. Have the various "illustrated" and comic versions of the books.

Have the original radio broadcasts on tape. Have the current Audio Book CD's. Have the radio scripts book. Memorized the Neil Gaiman book Don't Panic! as well as last year's authorized biography of Adams. Have The Salmon of Doubt and Last Chance To See.
I even have DVD's of the Hitchhiker's TV series and those episodes of Dr. Who that Adams wrote.

And I will be buying the "Hitchhiker's Guide Survival Kit" with Towel, Babel Fish, and Electronic Thumb. As well as all the other toys. Not sure I will buy the official prop replica Vogon stapler. But it is very cool someone made one.

Now I know all this stuff because I have devoured it all. Re-read, memorized, etc.

Credentials Established Methinks.

So my reaction to the movie was tentative at first. Got a huge amount of history here.
It took awhile for me to respond to the singing dolphin intro. But the Writing was pure Douglas. Visuals were excellent. Effects were beautifully done and did not detract from the story. Best improbability drive moment ever. Vogons were as horrific as they should be. Zaphod does in fact have two heads, and is a terrific git. The new take on the "love interest" between Trillian and Arthur was appropriate and worked out well. Rather liked the new Ford. Arthur was Arthur in all his befuddled humanity.

The visuals for The Guide itself were great. Don't leave when the credits start because there is one last bit.

Now the big thing. Marvin. Jim Henson's creature shop did a very different take on Marvin. Remember that he is supposed to look as brand new, high tech as possible -- but his inate nature gives him a bit of a slump, perhaps due to that ongoing terrible pain in all the diodes in one side. So the new Marvin works -- but his role in the movie is rather diminished. He is pivotal to the end, but he just kinda hangs around in this movie. Read the original "book" or movie scripts and this holds true. Marvin really stated taking a more "active" role in later chapters.

The bigger thing for me was the portrayal of Slartibartfast, and I was very very pleased with all the fiddly bits they put in. This was a guy who designed Norway.

So general thumbs up. Great movie, enjoyable on its own. Frankly with something like this you enjoy each version on its own. They are all good in their own way.

More New Electro Boogalooery in my environs.

2005-05-09T12:18:00.000-07:00

Hiy'all-

Well, the rest of my tax refund and some savings have finally been spent on yet more electronic servitude.

Been complaining about my woefully old and outdated computer at home for many many moons. It was even older than my old office computer. Since I shan't really be able to use the office computer this summer, it was time to join the 21st century of home computerhood. Plan on doing some major writing and this was an absolute neccessity. So I researched the computers out there, found deals, considered what I needed, etc, etc., etc. I looked at ease of updating equipment, warranties, customer satisfaction, ergonomics, and price. I figured out what gizmos I wanted, and what I didn't need. I even supplicated the holy spirit to guide me to something that would not be quite as evil as the rest of those evil computers evilly bent on promoting evil and hair loss.

And on Saturday I walked into my local evil Best Buy and soaked them for every deal, rebate, and special offer I could get by combining the holy trinity of monitor, computer, and printer.
What follows is a drool list of my new computer's components -- so if that ain't your thang go to my post about the Hitchhiker's Movie which has a lovely bit about Marvin in it.

WARNING!!!
COMPUTER GEEK STUFF FOLLOWS:

THE GOOD.

First off they had a great deal on a Hewlett-Packard Pavilion 530J Desktop with an Intel® Pentium® 4 processor with Hyper-Threading Technology, 800MHz frontside bus, 1MB L2 cache and 3.0GHz processor speed. Little Tim Allen Grunt here. Yeah baby!! I have dubbed it "Banana Jr." Once I finally set it all up it walked around the apartment commenting on my collections of toys, antique movie cameras, and begrudgingly allowed that my library of books was adequate. It also complained that the Fritos were antiquated.

It also has:

a 250.0GB Serial ATA hard drive,

4.0GB PC2-3200 DDR2 SDRAM,

an Intel® Graphics Media Accelerator 900 with 128MB shared video memory,

a Multiformat DVD±RW/CD-RW using LightScribe technology,
and a second 48x maximum speed CD-ROM drive,

a nifty 9-in-1 media reader that supports Smart Media, xD-Picture Card, MultiMediaCard, Secure Digital, CompactFlash Type I/II, Microdrive, Memory Stick and Memory Stick PRO. All so I can transfer my digital photos from the various digital cameras I have. This is one of the reasons I went with HP rather than Dell or someone else. The components were pretty much the same, but that card reader and general ergonomics really kick ass. Plus it doesn't have any "dedicated" hard drives, cpu's, or cards so I can replace anything that goes in 4 years. The case is even easy to open up for accessing the innards,

2 IEEE 1394 (FireWire) interfaces and 7 high-speed USB 2.0 ports, both front and rear accessible, for all the various removable drives, cameras, and that new iMac.

The only thing it is missing is an old-school 3 1/2" floppy drive. I know, but I still have stuff on those disks and it would be nice to access that. So that will be the first addition to customize this hotness.

THE BADASS.

Then to display all this wonderfulness I found that with all the rebates I could basically get a new HP 19" Flat-Screen LCD screen to boot. So my desk is now a lot less cluttered and I can actually move the momma close to my face so I can SEE. Big monitor wonderful. Yah.

THE UGLY

Unfortunately I also had to get another printer in order to qualify for the rebates. So I now have a very nice top-o-da-line all in one printer, scanner, fax, copier printer that will stay in the box until my current perfectly good printer finally succumbs to that good night. I was willing to get the new expensive monitor and extra printer because they were basically free with all the discounts and rebates. The computer ended up being around a grand, and with the $400 in checks that will eventually wing their way to me from both Master Best Buy and HP A'Gogo I will only have spent about a c-note for the new monitor and printer.

Not bad huh? It is set-up and running and wonderful. Everything works and the new iPod has a whole new gig of songs I transferred from CD's. I even found someone to buy my old computer and monitor so those won't be hanging around.

iWell iit ihad ito ihappen

2005-05-05T17:54:00.000-07:00

Hiya'll-

I have more of the ongoing wackdoodle story {since the narrator has no name and Goatboy was taken. Curse you Lethem!} but since no one's bothered to respond or at least say they read the last installment I think I'll wait to post the next exciting chapter. You'll just have to wait to see if Mildred will really use that French Tickler on the hapless bound John, or if Gorby succeeds in wrestling the knife away from the murderous Nikki so he can use it to dismantle that ticking cat. Nor will I reveal how to build your own flamethrower in your office with only an old Norton Anthology and supplies readily available for free from any English department secretary. Just don't feel like letting you all in on such profundity.

Mainly because I am now enjoying 21st century musical nirvana with my new iPod. iYup, iI ifinally igave iin ito ithe iblandishments. Soon you'll be seeing my colorful silhouette dancing away in the next T.V. commercial because of course as soon as you buy one of these bad babies a little electronic signal goes to the iBeaureau and they rush out to show everyone just how cool and sexy you have become to the unbelievers.

But it is a very cool little gizmo and I have been wanting to get one since my last long airplane trip. Planning some possible traveling this summer, and I do really like the idea of having just about all my music on a little gizmo that I can carry around and plug into my computer at work, or home, or into a stereo, or the car, or just walk around with it playing music like those old antiques called "Walkmen." Plus there's all sorts of gizmos like small pet incenderary zappers you can use to fry little yippy dogs, voice recorders, cute little games that come free with it to waste time between classes, navigating map GPS thingees, photo slideshow functions, special George Bush Monkey Dance function where you can make him flaggelate randomly from across the country, and you can even play audio ebooks -- a new possibility I rather like with my vision being the way it is.

So I succumbed and used some of my Federal Tax Refund to buy the biggest 60 Gigabyte, Photo iPod out there. As an instructor I get an iBig discount from the regular price. They only took a bite out of my liver.

Have transferred about 200 digital photos to it, and used iMusic to copy about 30 of my favorite "Desert Island" CD's. Barely two gigs used so far. Too effin cool. And now the iPod people will be able to iTrack my iAss wherever I go.

Guy Who Is Now On My Lawn Screaming Profanity To The Heavens Why Do I Love You?

2005-04-26T09:07:00.000-07:00

Part V

you feel no more fool
than when errful quests are clear
to everyone else

I was flabbergasted, as if the limited power I had somehow resurrected within me, the thing which I thought would enliven my dull corporeal being, had been sucked straight out of my chest. It took a few moments for me to realize I had not kept running like a chicken without a head, that some autopilot within me had stopped my car dead in the middle of the street, and my crowd of neighbors had used those seconds to start pointing at my vehicle and begin wandering over like vultures to pick away at my immediate, and unpracticed surface impressions. I hate those who immediately close in on those befuddled and shocked by a recent event. Little golumns who feast on the garbled words of the tragic, the unbelieving stammering of someone who has just learned of a loved one's death, or the mental collapse of someone who has had their world torn asundered before their eyes. If I had been able to summon any energy whatsoever I would have gleefully run them over, just to see their glittering eyes widen as they realized my impending wheels. At least I could have pulled some use out of my mad quest, if only at the end to have flattened these worthless bags. But my feet were dead on the pedals.

For moments I couldn't even move my hands off the wheel in order to roll down my window. Horggy, from across the way, won the race and was hammering away excitedly to get her fat vapid first word in. Behind her, the weird couple I'm afraid to ever talk to because they sunbathe nude out in their yard in direct view of my bedroom window apparently on purpose, although I never know for sure because I can never summon up the nerve to complain or even discuss the matter with them for shame at not being able to accept their openly unconcerned sharing of their respectable assets, were obviously put out and disgruntled for having lost the race behind her.

He's been here now for hours on end spouting unceasingly. The drone has been interminable, and I cannot simply adapt my mind to it being mere background noise like the humming of high tensile electrical lines overhead, or the hourly passage of trains running on backyard tracks. I can't just get used to it, so I go for a minute or two and then suddenly hear him clearly enunciate a few words as if he is talking directly to me. I go "huh?" a lot and look around to see what he is talking about. But he never comes inside, and is plainly uninterested in converse with me. But I swear I can hear in between, or perhaps sandwiched between the unceasing profanity a possible narrative. Possible words of wisdom that might make my own life better in some way if I could only discern what it was he was saying.

So I concocted a plan to successfully record Guy who is now on my lawn, and transcribe what it is he is saying. I set up my Tascam PortaStudio Porta-02 MKII 4-track recorder that I bought in vain and in a vain bout of wishful thinkingness as failed attempt to record an acoustic guitar demo a couple years ago, in the living room and hooked it up to the AKG WMS40 SO-40 Snapon UHF Wireless Mic System a glib salesperson sold me a year ago when I just came in for a set of strings, but walked out clutching a "closeout deal" open box buy that ended up costing me 280 bucks for something I really didn't need and cost about 50 dollars more than my usual internet supplier, if I had used them, would have sold it for if new rather than actually opened.

Have found I am rather a sucker for "close-out" open box buys of musical ephemera. I have a closet full of effects pedals to electric guitars I don't play because I only own one working six-string Martin, string winders, packets of picks, pick holders, percussive shakers, metronomes, electronic tuners, mini-amplifiers, microphones, cables, digital thingees and guit-box sundry. I always figure it's a better deal and then immediately regret it because of course whatever they are selling was returned, possibly broken, missing parts, missing accessories or the manual, and is invariably unreturnable because I bought it as a "closeout." The Tascam works, but has a sticky play button from when Mallory borrowed it to conduct audio interviews with anyone over 80 who still lived in town as part of some research project of his. He apologized about it when he returned the recorder, mumbling something about a home-made caramel sweet incident, but never explained.

I took an alcohol swab to the button, but whatever the material was had become far too comfortable on that particular button, and it didn't seem to affect the recorder any. The recorder still started randomly recording anywhere from three to seven seconds after being switched on, and still emitted a high pitched whine that would make a goldfish hold their ears in pain. And yes, it records that whine along with whatever you are recording. Thankfully I’ve got a program on my open-box buy computer that will easily remove the whine if I successfully remember how to hook the recorder into my open box and out on the closeout table in shrink-wrap midi. As long as I don’t mind the first four seconds of whatever I recorded to mysteriously disappear, all is well. I may be the only person in the known universe who actually doesn’t mind if the first four seconds get lost since the recorder starts late anyway. Somewhere are two designers for different companies that would be aghast that I actually got their carefully constructed buggy electronics to work in concert with anything other than a brick or rock wielding musician who has lost their last nerve ending.

There was the usual search for the power source among its other brethren in the box, finding that none of them had the correct plug at the end, and then giving up and using the open-box buy Radio Shack adjustable amperage one with detachable multiple plugs I bought last year when I realized that every damn time I need a power source I end up not finding the one I need among an entire box and then having to search the house for exactly this type of multiple use gizmo. Or so the salesperson convinced me. Of course, I did have to spend four hours searching to find it. Took me awhile to realize I hadn't placed it in any normal storage place because I had in fact packed it away in a box along with the scratched and dented Pignose amp when I got tired of it mocking me in the corner next to the useless blue finish and chrome open-box Squier six string I brought home in excitation that I would finally be able to play with all those effects pedals. Excitation which was crushed when I found the previous purchaser had removed the pickups from beneath their chrome covers before returning it for my foolish purchase. I was too embarrassed to play anything in front of the over solicitous salesgoon, so it’s my own damn fault. I knew it was a nice guitar and I liked the neck, so I figured it was good deal. I have since bought three sets of humbuckers, and a few single coils, but have yet to install any.

I should point out that I have never actually bought a guitar in a store. My Martin came about from a case of mistaken identity at a Jethro Tull concert. Apparently I was mistaken by a slightly inebriated security guard for someone who was making illegal bootlegs at the last concert – an individual who had apparently urinated on the foot of this particular security guard and thus gained his or her, since their gender was unclear at the time, freedom. Emotionally injured, the guard had drunken quite a bit this evening and for some reason decided that I was the individual, although it later transpired that this other personage had been over 6 feet tall, and had some amazing breasts that same security guard had been occupied staring at whilst they made their distractionary move. I learned all this after I had been forcibly removed to the security office. While the senior officer was firing my captor and ignoring me still cuffed to a chair, Martin Barre came in after the show to inquire about some lost keys and somehow I maliciously beat my head against the very expensive Martin guitar he was holding.

As blood dribbled down from the huge gash in my forehead, the paramedic in the ambulance kept asking why the assemblage I refused to let go of had no strings, tuners, bridge, or any of the parts other than a slightly dented body and a neck without frets was, as I was apparently babbling, an actual musical instrument. I’ve never been able to answer that question, but the cancelled check for $5000 with Barre’s accountant’s name on it is still framed on my wall. Underneath is the bill a local luthier charged me to make that same assemblage and actual guitar Oddly enough, right above the socket where I eventually found the power supply. Even more miraculously, I was able to find a replacement for the very acid leaking battery backup inside the recorder that I or Mallory had apparently left to bubble in the battery compartment. I unearthed a tape from the box as well, which was probably not blank since it had no case, but I had gone too far to turn back now. Whatever bootleg copy of a Jethro Tull concert, or crappy version of my own failed experiment to record an album, would just have to give itself to the cause.

Having already rummaged in the box o musical stuff, I had chosen the cheapest hardwire microphone I had ever bought. Sound quality was important, but more so how willing I was to have the microphone eaten in the name of curiosity. I figured I could hold onto the expensive SO 40 snapon transmitter plugged into the XLR connector on the microphone, and if Guy grabbed the microphone, he would pull free the mic like a proffered banana. I could abscond with the transmitter, which if eaten would have made the wireless mic system useless, with only a cheap, and hopefully delicious mic lost.

Thus prepared, I figured I might catch a small portion of his soliloquy as I walked slowly toward him, microphone in hand. He noticed me pretty quickly, but I was able to capture a good ten seconds or so of him speaking before he wrestled the microphone, and lamentably the transmitter as well, from my hand. But instead of eating it he chased me all the way to my open front door kicking my ass and shouting “Ooompah fuck! Oompah fuck!” to each beat. Once I scrambled inside and shut the door on him to watch him through my peephole, he tranquilly wandered back to the microphone and put it in one coat pocket. The tape has continued to run since then, catching snippets of his ongoing rant.

My Happy Jesus Day wish.

2005-04-20T21:31:00.000-07:00

Hello all-

It is 9:32 PM here and I am here at this very late hour because the readers the department have procured for me are not working out.

First off, the department had nothing to do with their hire. I hired them. I wrote the job lising, I interviewed candidates, I made certain promises regarding pay and what they would be expected to do based on the "research" the department provided me. That research has now proved to be completely wrong, useless, and because I trusted them to have done their job and actually help little ol' partially sighted me, is now forcing me to work harder than ever before with additional stress to the eyes and my having to stay at the school until this stupid time.
Second, I am now embroiled in a huge fight with a department secretary who is an idiot about the simple matter of paying my readers for their services. We all agreed on an hourly wage, but two weeks into them working she starts making noises about them being paid less "because Payroll won't allow a reader to be paid that much, so we may have to pay them less than we thought." Bullshite. You do the damn research beforehand so you know exactly what will be acceptable and then you tell ol' Blind Hooknoobie what that rate is so he don't tell a couple of long suffering grad students they'll at least make enough at this job to pay their rent. So I'm fighting that.
Third, the readers and the process that I am forced to undergo with their inclusion in the commenting and grading process is taking F O R E V E R. This is not their fault. Reading an essay aloud is much slower than the type of speed reading an instructor uses in "reading" their student's work.
It is number four that really is bugging me at this point in time. My readers are beginning to not show up. They are beginning to actually make this work, impossible as it is with my vision, even harder, and I still have to fucking grade the essays on my own.

One quit last week after she stood me up for one of her days, and cancelled a second day of work at the last minute because of a presentation she had to prepare for one of her graduate classes. So we had a long talk and I let her know how much this was affecting my life and that if she was unable to do the work there was no sense wasting my time. Basically I fired her. The job of course still needs to be done.

So I am now overworked, and my other two readers are overworked. So now both of them are calling in "sick" or not showing up. Today's reader called me up at 8AM, when I had dragged my ass down to what I thought was the school as well, to say she couldn't work. Fuck. Then she shows up this afternoon saying she can work a few hours. Great, essays are still sitting here. She comes in at seven PM and we say we'll work for three hours and get through at least the essay stack remaining for the class that meets tomorrow. I have graded almost this entire class myself over the last three days. No readers to help me, and my eyes actually hurt. The octopus is no longer grooving to "Exquisite Dead Guy" and is now apparently is moshing to the "Happy Tree Friends" theme. I'm tired dead tired. There were five essays left for this class that needed to be graded. Great. Work three hours with reader, three essays, and I go home and grade the last two before midnight.

We graded one essay. Then at 8:30 she said she needed a quick break for something to drink and she would be right back. It is now almost 10 and I have graded two essays on my own as I waited for her sorry ass return. I suppose I am still here, typing this bloggy rant in the hopes that she comes back, so I can just fire her and have her sign her one and only timecard. I informed her she absolutely had to sign her timecard tonight, before she left, in order to get paid so that I can turn it in to the aforementioned department secretary so she can turn it in first thing tomorrow morning. I will be coming back to school to hand the secretary these timecards, since she informed me she needed them today at 4:45, as she was closing the office to go home, that they have to be in by 8AM tomorrow.

It is now five after ten. I will post this blog. Unless my increasingly recurring fantasy of George Carlin in a Time Traveling Phone Booth appears to wisk me to the future where they have a cure for diabetes and all eye-related hilarity, I will go home and grade the last two essays. I will return tomorrow at 7 A.M. and keep checking in to see when the department secretary decides she will come in "early" so I can hand her the timecards I do have signed so at least the one good reader I still have left, and the one who "quit," get paid. And TS to tonight's final contestant. I will live to regret all this. I will live to regret using another evil Bell and Tid's Excremental Adventure reference in the same millenium.

Mustarding A New Resolve

2005-04-16T09:39:00.000-07:00

Part IV

to brain fry the thems
thats is just oblivious
warms my cockles blue

I swear I smelled the odor of burning synapses as he sadly shuffled off, but I was feeling too good to worry about anyone else's mental state after escaping the horrible conflictions brought on by that coat, and indeed even now I realize the events that had transpired after I first saw that empty corner. Guilden's will do that. A stasis, or at least a pre-launch calm had been restored, and as I drove the long journey back with the occasional nitrately burp I was unable to wash down, I logically planned my next steps methodically and with quite the mental pat on my back that I was now lucid enough to think clearly enough to pat myself on the back.

I would return home triumphant with almost a whole bag of Guilden's mustard packets scattered in the passenger foot well and under the seat. I would calmly pull into my driveway and not compulsively rush over to the other side to madly flail under the seat and scrabble all the packets back into the bag messily on top of the hot dog wrappers and wadded napkins beneath. Oh no, I told the flopped over bag I could see resting just out of hand's reach, I am so confident I will not only not pull over on this perfectly safe highway with absolutely no other cars to threaten my safely pulling over to tidy you, I will not even immediately tidy you when I pull in the driveway. There are bigger fish to fry.

For I suspected that in my mad dash inside to check my mustard situation I had possibly, even probably in light of the panic I recalled at recognizing the coat for what it might be, or at the time might have been, left the mailbox open. I went over it in my mind, but I was pretty sure it went something like: open mailbox door, react to it being filled with black muddy stuff, touch stuff and receive tactile confirmation that black stuff is cloth, pull out sodden mass of cloth with annoyance that it wasn't a nice square box from Massachussetteessettaattoottattaahooey {I say, or spell it in my head too} with Mr. Pink Bit Treebeard in it, whilst simultaneously noticing no little pink cardboard card from the Post Office stating that a package they could not deliver was waiting for me at the Post Office, and that cloth had arms and the overall dimensions of what my brain has come to interpret as "clothes" subcategories "coat," "mens," "over."

The next bit is hazy but I was pretty sure I had not in fact closed the mailbox door, the box of which was now completely empty, before clutching coat and slumping to curb. I was sure that I had not, as soon as getting up to rush inside, shut the mailbox door. It was unclear if I had brought the coat in with me, or if I had dropped it at some point before rushing inside.

So I wisely planned for both options. The first, that the coat was heedlessly piled on the ground beneath a open and plainly visible empty mailbox, or that the mailbox would be open and the coat would have to be found. In either case, my intent was to pull into the driveway and shut off the car. Reach over to the passenger door lock and pull it up in preparation to my needing to return to that side to open the door and begin mustard packet retrieval. But I would only unlock the door. I would then go to shut the mailbox, and pick up the coat should it be huddling below, and return to car. If not there, I would scan for possible droppage as I returned to passenger side of vehicle, scooping the coat if errant up if necessary.

I should probably say at this point that in my area an open mailbox is cause for alarm. We have had a rash of mail thefts, so an open mailbox is sign that someone has swooped in and removed the contents without their true owner's knowledge. I was quite expecting to come home and find a notice on my door from the police saying they had come by and noticed it open and to report any mail I suspected as stolen to both them and the Post Office. What added a little extra worry was the possibility that someone would notice the open mailbox, and then the coat at the foot of said box, and suspect foul play. It seemed like a pretty likely scenario to me that someone might think I had been kidnapped just as I went out to get my mail. Perhaps I had been snatched, as well as my mail for some reason, and the coat had been left behind.

I took some time musing about what I would then do with the coat as I would presumably be occupying myself with cleaning up the car. Putting it safely on the passenger seat would be awkward as I would need to move it to get at packets -- frankly it would be in the way. The matter caused me no small amount of quandary because the object was of crucial importance towards my new-found dedication to solving the mystery of Guy. This was a clue to be treated with reverence.

It always struck me in reading Helter Skelter about the boy who found the gun police suspect was used in the Sharon Tate murder. "Suspect" because the gun was found in a ditch where it had been tossed aside. Its trigger guard had broken off, but otherwise the gun was intact. The boy who found the weapon was a fan of the "Dragnet" T.V. show, and so knew how important it was not to handle the weapon so that possible fingerprints could be identified. He carefully picked it up using a clean towel and placed it in a plastic bag in preparation for the police who had been called. Remember everyone in Topanga canyon knew about the horrific murders that had taken place, so there was every possibility this gun was involved. So the boy was shocked when only one Sheriff showed up who immediately took the gun out of the bag and began running his hands over it, checking if it was loaded. No gloves. Apparently he even played around with it and joked around with the boy pretending to fast draw and dry-fire it; in the process pulling the trigger a couple times. His prints ended up obscuring the ones underneath.

I felt rather bad about how shoddily I had treated this gift someone had deposited for me. Even if it was fake it proved others were somehow involved or interested. So I planned on being most reverential of the tattered remains once I gained sight of them again. I knew that I had already tainted them somewhat from my previous handling, but I intended to keep a very light touch in moving them in the future. I would be as delicate and reverential as possible. This would be my apology, like that bit in the movie Tampoco where they speak about the proper way to eat noodles. Ritualistically. To first let the bowl sit and steam for a bit before inhaling the aroma. Then lightly probe the top of the pork slice with the chopsticks, massaging it a bit before gently pressing the pork into the broth three times. Then to deftly grab the slice and tap it against the side of the bowl three times to drain it before placing it to the side. The most important bit, if I remember correctly, is to touch the pork with the chopstick tips one last time -- a brief apology for its being put aside, but promise that the diner will return.

I would return to the coat after I removed the wrappers, spent packets, and napkins from the Nathan's bag and went over to my outside garbage can to remove them. Then I would use the now empty bag as a container for every single packet that had fallen out. I would roll up the top securely, and hold it in one hand, the coat lightly in the other as I went inside.

And so in the last few miles to my house I mulled over what I might find. Things ranging from where the coat might be, or if the box was open or shut, or if there would be some note for me on the door, or even some pensive half-afraid mob clustered around my home to greet me with relief and some dismay when I explained that all was well with me and there was a possible clue as to the ongoing mystery of Guy. I certainly did not expect the welcome surprise of Guy who is now in the middle of my lawn yelling his usual performance to the sky.

Hell Hath No Fury Like A Drivler Scorn

2005-04-15T16:52:00.000-07:00

The only thing that saved me was my trusty gat. I pulled out my zip gun, cocked the hammer on my .45, and let a rusty five slugs of indifferent death rend the air from the hot muzzle of my cold metal mistress.

--You call that Walker a Colt?, he asked as he deftly spun away from the copper jacketed missiles like a CGI actor pretending he wasn't playing the same role over and over from some ongoingly horrid excellent adventure.

-- Say hello to my little fiend, he cackled as he pulled out a cherry Tommy Gun with a 100 round drum magazine and slipped on the aspirations of every lackluster word hack I've ever failed in this box the powers that be call my office. Before he could regain his ability to resignfy quotes from Pacino classic cinema, I made my rapid escape, dropping the zip gun I had been clutching in my other hand on his head as a diversionary tactic as I sprinted up the hallway toward the door for freedom. I knew this mook was the type to take any half assed opportunity he thought was handed to him over a sure thing he already had in his fist. Like a deaf, dumb, and blind kid whacking the side of a machine to unstick a mean pinball, the tommy gun hit the floor with a clatter as he brought the zip gun up to aim at my back. I had to smile as the wet sound of flesh liquifying under the barrage of cheap fragmented pot metal eclipsed the explosion of the zip gun in his hand.

Normally it isn't this hard to escape the office on a Friday afternoon, but there was nothing that would get in the way of my coming home early and actually getting some decent take-out for dinner, followed by a quick dash into the market to lay in some much needed supplies.

I'd be back in the office tomorrow.

My Daze these Days

2005-04-14T08:32:00.000-07:00

Yo Bloggy Brethren-

Messer Jason has attempted a number of times to call this week and check in to continue our discussion from Sunday that was curtailed mid-call. The last words I heard were "There's chocolate all over the couch," and Jason saying something about Mexican Food having an effect on him. Then silience. Recieving no reply after that, I sent him off an email asking if he had survived the sudden chocolate explosion on the couch. I don't have the whole story, so have been entertaining wildly exotic and lurid explanations I'm sure are far better than the mundane version he eventually relates. But we keep missing eachother since I am rarely at home these days.

As Jason mentioned, part of that is due to my new office computer. It has the fast school ethernet hookup, a massive 20" monitor for me to see what I am looking at, an additional freefloating screen magnifier for additional optical fun, and is now an actual computer that works. Why should I leave the office? I can finally uplift my spirits at will by watching kids say horrific things like "Hot dogs give me energy to fight off my dad!" or watch Willie Boy Shatner sing "Rocket Man." Life is good.

Honestly I am spending too much time in the office for a different reason. As an instructor I cannot break myself of this bad habit of assigning essays in my writing classes. The title is "Composition" after all. I could just as well have them compose extemporanious haiku, interpretive dance, or giant percussive groups completing complex rhythms on found objects.
The school might not like it, but a certain part of me says fuck em.

The other part of me is more realistic in having my students actually learn to write better. Which means them turning in essays for my wise counsel so they can then look at those comments and resubmit them to show they have progressed in their journey. The department has allowed me to hire three graduate students who are willing to read these essays aloud to me, stop at certain points when I have a question, make comments for me as to grammar or punctuation, make little comments in the margins, and generally act as a co-commentor. I then fill out an additional rubric for each essay that gives the author a sense of why they got 87 out of a possible 100 points for their work.

As a little side note. Notice the recurrence of three here as well. My previous blog mentioned my use of three in my ongoing story. Now I have three readers here on campus, three regular readers of this blog, and three evaluations from instructors who visited my class this semester. We have the ill-fated Martins, Roger came on Monday, and to bring things full circle, the department decided to have another compositionist whom they know nothing of his secret life as an erotic film star, Thomas Fox, come on Wed. I remain positive despite proof that Fox will add his own stick to gum up the works. Both classes for Roger and Tom were positive and energized and the good news is I was magnificent as Luke Skywalker playing Nathan Detroit.

This grading process is working very well, if incredibly slowly. Normally for essays I am a speedreader. Having practiced this for 8 years I can get through an essay, covering the page with helpful commentary, and slap a grade on the bad boy in around ten minutes. Less, in those cases where the student obviously threw it together at the last minute and turned in something not worth either of our times. With my readers it now takes about an hour per essay. 110 students. Each of my readers are only allowed to work 20 hours a week. Hence, three times twenty equals a total of sixty hours a week. So all these essays will be covered in a little less than two weeks. The problem is that I have to be there for all 60 hours, plus my work preparing for class, office hours, and actually teaching.

So I'm pulling down 15 hour days, and coming in on Saturday. I drag my sorry ass out of bed before seven, reattach it, get to campus somehow and then intersperse teaching, writing, grading, etc. until I finally give up and arrive home around ten. A few minutes watching the latest stupidity the news sees fit to report as the cat thouroughly marks me and reestablishes her claim on me, hit the showers, and bed. It's the American Dream!

So please excuse me Jason for not being home for your calls. I'm too busy getting ready to fall asleep on my computer keyboardddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddd
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what? Yeah, I'll have the coffeecake.

Little conceits to help us pretend we have reasons to write

2005-04-14T08:21:00.000-07:00

Hiyall-

Thought I would give you a little break in between my ongoing story about the unnamed mustard narrator of Guy who is not on his corner by Euclid. Have been writing a great deal more of this piece, having challenged myself a little less than Jason did with his whole jazz music theory story idea. The mind boggles. I've found a little structure can be helpful, but once you create a whole universe of laws you end up as frustrated as a God who can't simply smite someone who gives a little grief, because he is stimied by his own staff, laws, and handy pocket reference guide of divinical behavior. I prefer to be a more open creative force, so I have challenged myself within pretty small boundries.

1. To write about three pages a day. This seems to be working out. Sometimes it is only a page and a half, or I write a page and then edit the work of the previous day, but it seems a good "break" from all the other stuff going on.

2. To begin each bit with a little three line senyru. {Like a haiku but dealing with less cosmic truths. Senyru are about everyday little things.} So I have to follow the three line, accentual syllabic form of five syllables, seven syllables, five syllables. Seems to go along with the three pages thing.

3. To continue what, as Jason calls it, the "walkabout" form of narration. This allows all sorts of tangents and backstory and subplots that then get worked back into the ongoing plot.

And as Berford Mostzrah, the russian luthier who had some of his inventory fall on him said as his last words: Viola!

Oh my God . . . It's full of stars.

2005-04-12T21:22:00.000-07:00

Greetings all!

Thought I would share the wonderfulness of my life with all of youse.

Today, wonder of wonders, miracle of miracles,
The department finally replaced my office computer with a "new" one.

Many have heard me complain about my old office computer. This was an antique Pentium {no 2, 3, 4 etc -- we's talking the foist} running with Windows 95. It was old when I started using it back in 1999. This all meant my version of Explorer, Netscape, and all Virus
software was similarly hobbled by a decade old operating system. Yes Virginia, a decade.

Today I am typing on a much better Pentium III, with a blindingly fast version of Windows NT. Oh the joy and rapture. I know it isn't totally "new." But oh the difference.
I swoop, I fly, I actually can get work done.

I've celebrated this joy by moving over all my files, setting up my bookmarks, and for the first time logged onto Blogger and actually saw the links and photos that Jason and Monstro have been posting for so long. I could actually click on stuff and go there and see it and hear it on speakers. Which means that I need to try and remember when Jason gave gave me the link to ol Will Shatner. I must see if I can finally get that clip.

Sandwich Fixations

2005-04-11T07:57:00.000-07:00

Part III

from abandoned coats
lurk once-lurkable spirits
still shaped with once was

Now I had been expecting a package from Massachussetteessettaattoottattaahooey {The state with a name so long I keep forgetting how to stop my mad desire to continue spelling it.} for the much awaited Treebeard; so the wet sodden black massachusets was something of a shock. Once I pulled it out, and realized what it was, or actually what it could be representative of, I had to sit down right by the box and uselessly clutch the horrid thing as I sprawled by the side of the curb. I immediately knew it was meant to be guy on corner by Euclid's coat. Not that I intimately knew his coat as a personae, but the timing of things was too coincidental not to have been engineered as someone 's plot device. The lump in one tattered pocket turned out indeed to be a half used squeeze bottle of Guilden's mustard.

What I wondered immediately was if this was actually Guy's coat, or was it meant to be interpreted as Guy's coat by me due to someone with some unknown purpose in getting me to think it was so. If it was his coat, then why wet, torn, and muddy? Did this mean there had been some accident? Or that I was meant to think there had been an accident? Or perhaps guy had shoved it in there himself? Again, why would he want me to know? Why would anyone want me to know, or think, there had been some calamity? I refused to give in to the compulsion to rationally call the local emergency room and sanely ask if they had a John Doe who had been in an accident. My mind was in no state for sense.

Instead I kept coming back to the prospect of some malevolent soul taking some old grotty black coat they didn't like anyway, tossing it in their wet driveway after yesterday's rain, and driving their car over it a few times to create a nice prop. A quick raid of the pantry and the scenario was complete. But there appeared to be no tire treads on the coat, and as I've stated before, such mustard is not to be found in these climes. Is there some secret source I'm not aware of? Perhaps someone else enjoys this particular brand, in which case why don't I know them? Maybe they ordered some over the internet, but that would denote quite a bit of previous planning.

I ran back to my own fridge to see if my own bottle was intact, but it was gone and I spent hours agonizing over the loss. For one thing it meant I was out because I couldn't find a spare in my pantry either. I wasn't sure if this was due to outright theft or just forgetting that I eat lots of pastrami when I get into this kind of state.

I immediately got on the internet and ordered a case of Guilden's mustard to be delivered overnight in the theory that I might use a bottle or two in some kind of memorial to guy on his corner by Euclid and of course for my own supply even though I was not sure about the expiration properties of mustard and if I would actually use all 12 bottles sent. But my need was so bad at this point that I ordered the whole thing anyway, plus the extra costs for shipping it overnight. Then, vowing that whatever the outcome of my next insane quest I would force myself to return home by no later than 8 A.M. the next morning to wait compulsively by my door or perhaps apparently innocuously and unconcerned out in the yard kindof rather close to the mailbox, I went out to my car and drove for three full hours down to the biggest city center in the state just so I could cruise around sandwich restaurants and see if one had little packets of Guilden's Mustard that I could use to tide me over until my own supply arrived.

This proved immensely difficult because I was in such an agitated state that I couldn't relax for the three hour drive at all and was perched above the steering wheel with my hands at 11 and 1 with my forehead almost pressed against the windshield. It would be good at this point to remind you gentle readers, should any remain at this rather lengthy odd narration, that I had as yet not yet like a howling yeti divulged my growing unease to the skies as I had originally planned, so all the things that had been building up over the entire year that I had intended to shout out along with Guy as a little stress relieving purgative had in fact not happened at all. Even more worries, doubt, and pastrami had been heaped upon an already too ponderous pile which I imagined was trembling worrisomely at the bottom of my own gullet. So I was a little upset. So much so that I found myself rhythmically chanting "pope, pope, pope, pope, pope" to myself as I traveled down the highway.

This was oddly soothing, although I was conscious of just how looney I was acting and was a little worried at what other drivers might think, and possibly call ahead to the police for a roadblock about, as I traveled toward uncertain mustard salvation. But the road was clear, and I arrived safely if somewhat popefully parched to swing into a grocery store parking lot, rush in to see if magically they carried my panacea, (which they did not,) then return to the lot to seek out the one public phone with a list of restaurants that had anything to do with the words deli, sub, sandwich, or New York in the title.

The theory being that I might finally luck out and find an actual New York style deli counter that served the kind of sandwich I have yenned for so long in these pallid unsatisfyingly pastrami sub climes. It should be pointed out that a french or sourdough roll covered with greasy steamed pastrami from a steam tray is not what I am looking for -- since it is what is predominant in this area. I was looking for rye bread, mustard of choice, and thinly sliced well-trimmed, black pepper encrusted perfection. It would be great if there were three slices of thin fresh rye bread, with a mound of slightly pink and fatty corned beef above the middle slice in a double-decker configuration topped with melted swiss cheese.

But such is not to be found, and the poor wage-slaves who worked the counters of the various resteraunts I visited found my odd rantings and artistically sandwich artisan worthy accounts as interesting as all of you probably found them. Not much. Only the novelty of an obviously deranged mustard freak occasionally muttering "pope, pope, pope" under my breath proved amusing.

So my efforts met with almost continual failure and slowly edging towards the security phone.
Thankfully the commercialized nature of franchise resterant's came to my aid when the huge commercial mall just happened to showcase a Nathan's Hot Dogs. To my shame and the eventual outraged anger of the Nathan's manager, I ordered two regular dogs to go and then filled the bag with Guilden's packets from their self-serve condiment counter before rushing off to avoid the wrath of a justifiably peeved restraunteur concerned about gross rudeness and outright theft. I ran away so fast I forgot the soda I had ordered, and planned to drink, but had set down by the condiments so as to better use my free hand to empty the bucket of mustard packets.

The combination of nitrates and Guilden's wolfed down within the safety of my car immediately eased the worry and insanity that had fueled this epic tale. I was even able to calm the manager, who lividly pounded against my windshield, having successfully tracked me down in his own anger/confusion propelled mad search. My sang froid as I eased out of the car in answer to his demand I get out so unnerved him from what he had expected, that he immediately slunk off in stunned horror. It is a cruel thing to deprive someone of what they imagine will be a nice rousing shouting match and possible incarceration of a civic threat, by substituting a lucid and calm picture of emotional well-being.