I'm on vacation in the Midwest. This is cause for concern for plumbers, cause for joy among organic meat herders, and cause for terror among toilets. I've lost track of the amount of meat sandwiches I have consumed in the last few days, but I haven't lost track of the number of shattered, post-apocalyptic, dystopian bathrooms I have left in my wake.
Three:
At a place called First Watch outside of Westlake, Ohio.
At Lady Chemisty's ancestral home in Iowa.
And, finally, at my expedition headquarters in Wisconsin.
The last one was so bad I had to retreat to the second floor until the gas dissipated. I saw three men huddled in a crater in the living room die when they removed their masks too early. President Obama is rumored to be debating the legality of declaring my butt a national threat.
I am worried for my family, as my parents, despite being rocks, tend to eat a high fiber diet. I am worried that some may not survive this coming week.
Saturday, July 28, 2012
Friday, July 13, 2012
A New Project for the Pork Snorkel Crew
Legal Disclaimer: Despite all similarities and a completely identical roster, the Pork Snorkel Crew is only loosely affiliated with Team Pork Cloud Mexico.
As chief scientist of the Pork Snorkel Crew, I am currently involved in researching a new breed of Oreos. My lab team and I will be attempting to assemble jumbo Oreos from regular and double stuffed varieties of the popular snack food. These enormous cookies will hopefully have diameters in excess of three inches, while remaining structurally strong enough to scoop soft-serve ice cream. These new Hand Oreos* should revolutionize everything, everywhere, and will probably win a Nobel Peace Prize after the cessation of the Toll Wars once the cookies are shipped to the Middle West.
As I have not received notice from the FDA to halt testing, human trials will begin in a little over two weeks.
* I will not be calling them HOreos.
As chief scientist of the Pork Snorkel Crew, I am currently involved in researching a new breed of Oreos. My lab team and I will be attempting to assemble jumbo Oreos from regular and double stuffed varieties of the popular snack food. These enormous cookies will hopefully have diameters in excess of three inches, while remaining structurally strong enough to scoop soft-serve ice cream. These new Hand Oreos* should revolutionize everything, everywhere, and will probably win a Nobel Peace Prize after the cessation of the Toll Wars once the cookies are shipped to the Middle West.
As I have not received notice from the FDA to halt testing, human trials will begin in a little over two weeks.
* I will not be calling them HOreos.
Friday, June 29, 2012
Two Things I Ruined With the Internet
There are probably more, but I stopped counting at two: Fringe, and the Hunger Games.
A few months ago, I was flipping through some links, probably on io9 or Chud, and read some article about the unanswered questions in the previous season of Fringe. I hadn't watched any episodes before, despite my interest, and figured that I would probably not get around to it until the series ended or was cancelled in some untimely fashion. The Old Lady and I have continued her policy of almost never checking the NetFlix queue, and one day disc one of season one of Fringe showed up. I wasn't really annoyed by the knowledge of the few tidbits that article had given me, but then I had to look up whether Fringe was still on the air since we don't get Fox on a regular basis with our previously-urban-now-decidedly-rural broadcast antenna. I couldn't find the information I wanted fast enough through other means, so I clicked through to Wikipedia. Suddenly, I found myself in an Arrested Westeros moment: I've made a huge mistake.
The truly moronic aspect of this story is that I ruined The Hunger Games in EXACTLY the same way about two months prior, and had resolved not to research anything I wanted to consume on Wikipedia. Books, movies, foods, etc, everything can be ruined forever.
The Hungus Games are probably in production now, or may even be available on Pay Per View at your local hotel.
A few months ago, I was flipping through some links, probably on io9 or Chud, and read some article about the unanswered questions in the previous season of Fringe. I hadn't watched any episodes before, despite my interest, and figured that I would probably not get around to it until the series ended or was cancelled in some untimely fashion. The Old Lady and I have continued her policy of almost never checking the NetFlix queue, and one day disc one of season one of Fringe showed up. I wasn't really annoyed by the knowledge of the few tidbits that article had given me, but then I had to look up whether Fringe was still on the air since we don't get Fox on a regular basis with our previously-urban-now-decidedly-rural broadcast antenna. I couldn't find the information I wanted fast enough through other means, so I clicked through to Wikipedia. Suddenly, I found myself in an Arrested Westeros moment: I've made a huge mistake.
The truly moronic aspect of this story is that I ruined The Hunger Games in EXACTLY the same way about two months prior, and had resolved not to research anything I wanted to consume on Wikipedia. Books, movies, foods, etc, everything can be ruined forever.
The Hungus Games are probably in production now, or may even be available on Pay Per View at your local hotel.
Monday, June 25, 2012
Rockstache at the 930 Club
Regarding my performance, my friends think I need to be more dynamic with my actions. There is definite room for improvement in my fingering, and strumming. Some kicks, and maybe a good leap into the air, out over the crowd, hopefully landing somewhere that doesn't involve on a person. Stage dives can be really lame if you aren't rocking out, but can really seal a legendary performance.
Regarding the costume, I think the shirt was too big. I bought it back when I was really fat, say early season Biggest Loser contestant who isn't going to win because he didn't start out at somewhere north of 400 pounds, as opposed to late season Biggest Loser who isn't going to win because he didn't start out at somewhere north of 400 pounds. My arms look ok, though, all the tilling and pushups seem to be having some effect. The mustache could be bigger. Air Guitar is one area of the universe where facial will always be accepted and even respected.
So for next year, I'm aiming for two things: a six pack (instead of the mini keg) and a possibly fake giant mustache across my shoulder blades for maximum impact when I do some sort of spin-kick/guitar flip. Probably skinny jeans as well.
The oddest part of the evening was being asked, "hey, you're the guy who really knows how to play guitar right? I heard you're actually good at it." My response was, "Uh. No. I've held a guitar, and made noise come out of it, but there is no way you would ever call me good at it."
Thursday, June 14, 2012
Time for Another Fifteen?
I hope to surprise my father with another brief bit of in/fame on June 23. The Genius is taking the stage at the 930 Club. Without an instrument. Ahem, without a visible instrument. I am competing in the DC Regional of the US Air Guitar Competition under the nom de air of Rockstache. If you can make it, you better cheer for me.
Two of Genius Cousins have played the 930 Club, but they were in punk bands. Actual bands, with instruments and other people and stuff. I have this odd feeling they will not appreciate my performance.
Two of Genius Cousins have played the 930 Club, but they were in punk bands. Actual bands, with instruments and other people and stuff. I have this odd feeling they will not appreciate my performance.
Tuesday, May 29, 2012
Memories of Saturday Mornings Past
When I was but a young rock child living in Romania, we had no cartoons to watch. A great uncle, Basalt, took pity on me and my fellow pebbles, and sent us many a VHS tape* containing hours and hours of nature programs. Marty Stouffer's WIld America, PBS' Nature, and various Richard Attenborough narrated series entertained me when Romanian propaganda held no interest. Now, in the fullness of time, one third of the way around the circle of life, Richard Attenborough entertains me yet again:
* Kind of like a DVD that only goes one way, youngsters.
* Kind of like a DVD that only goes one way, youngsters.
Tuesday, May 15, 2012
Obilgatory Mother's Day Posting
My mother is great for many reasons, but the only one in my head right now is that she is always willing to try whatever crazy beers I bring home.
Getting Old?
Depending on which ex you talk to, I am either immature, not mature at all, completely immature, and terrible in bed generally cranky. I like to think that I am maturing slowly like fine wine, or whiskey, but I have these moments when I feel as old as my parents. I filed my taxes on time this year, I keep track of my bank balance with online banking, I pay bills on time. I am much more diligent about cleaning my cottage, and doing the dishes. And yet all this progress on the orderly life of a mature American feels wasted because I have been having the worst trouble figuring out Blogger's new dashboard, and am almost at the point of watching a video on the use and abuse of the new setup. It is almost as bad as the new Facebook, and by new I mean the changes made to Facebook in early 2009.
That whiff of smoke that I thought I smelled earlier is definitely not coming from my moustache. This is country living, I guess. I better go check that out. Someone is burning leaves or brush. I don't understand the need for this. Leaves can be composted or mulched into your turf, and brush can be tossed in the woods. Two items we have an abundance of in this area: room for generous compost piles or mounds, and woods.
That whiff of smoke that I thought I smelled earlier is definitely not coming from my moustache. This is country living, I guess. I better go check that out. Someone is burning leaves or brush. I don't understand the need for this. Leaves can be composted or mulched into your turf, and brush can be tossed in the woods. Two items we have an abundance of in this area: room for generous compost piles or mounds, and woods.
Wednesday, May 09, 2012
The Time is Now
Every recession has had one, and now so must this recession. It is time for another cover of "Dancing in the Streets." Someone get on that.
Probably Sheryl Crow, Hootie, and the Crash Test Dummies.
Probably Sheryl Crow, Hootie, and the Crash Test Dummies.
CDC: Benicio Del Toro, Anne Hathaway, Hugo Weaving, Laurence Olivier, and the BBC
This dream is from a while back, and I can't verify that all of it makes sense, but I woke up feeling like a million bucks had just stampeded through my skull. It has been sitting in my drafts for about a year, but I think longer because it was cold. Also, we had watched "The Wolfman" in the week before this dream erupted.
I was hiking in the mountains of Tibet, and struggling. I wasn't prepared for the mountains to be so tall or rugged, in fact, I was basically dressed for some cross country jogging with a stop at a coffee shop in the middle. I was freezing, wet, and had assumed that I would die of exposure as the sun set.* Shortly after the nightfall, I stumbled into a village that looked completely un-Tibetan, rather Transylvanian. Small cottages, and townhouses made of timber and plastered straw, close together like they were huddling against the wind and drizzle.
* This is entirely unrelated to my girlfriend's tendency to steal all of the covers, all of the time.
I stumbled through town and found the tavern near the central plaza. I could hear laughing and singing, so I struggled with the door until it opened and I fell onto the floor of the warm tavern. I was wearing running shoes, running shorts, a work out shirt, and a hoodie, all of which smelled of sweat and mud. As I looked around the room, everyone was dressed in Edwardian suits and dresses. I had wandered through the Himalayan mountains, and ended up in a Masterpiece Theater romance murder movie.
I was suddenly feverish and weak, so the mayor declared that he would house me until I was well. Some men and the local apothecary carried my to the mayor's villa, where the doctor and the mayor's daughter, played by Anne Hathaway gave me a bath and a nightgown. This was less interesting than it could have been.
The night before I arrived, a farmer had been murdered, and the town was out of sorts. A newly arrived painter played by Benicio del Toro was the current suspect, but the mayor had forbidden any investigation until the King's Prosecutor arrived in two days. The painter was known for saying strange things, and for acting "quite peculiar." Anne fell for me while she was nursing me back to health, but I tried to resist her protestations of undying love for reasons completely unknown to me. On the day the King's Prosecutor was due to arrive, I met Benicio. The artist was a little crazy, and a drug addict, but I thought he was basically harmless when I saw him flinch when I killed a beetle that was crawling on the table between us.
Hugo Weaving was the King's Prosecutor investigating the murder, and he was inclined to agree with most the townsfolk in their suspicions but it was something out side doing the killing. While Benicio, Anne, and I were strolling along the outskirts of town, I noticed a camera crew trying to hide in some bushes. I marched over and demanded to know what was going on. The BBC was filming the whole thing as a new quasi-reality show, and had worked me into the script as a free form theater project. They were shooting on location in Tibet for a Romanian-set story. I already had legions of fans.
I was hiking in the mountains of Tibet, and struggling. I wasn't prepared for the mountains to be so tall or rugged, in fact, I was basically dressed for some cross country jogging with a stop at a coffee shop in the middle. I was freezing, wet, and had assumed that I would die of exposure as the sun set.* Shortly after the nightfall, I stumbled into a village that looked completely un-Tibetan, rather Transylvanian. Small cottages, and townhouses made of timber and plastered straw, close together like they were huddling against the wind and drizzle.
* This is entirely unrelated to my girlfriend's tendency to steal all of the covers, all of the time.
I stumbled through town and found the tavern near the central plaza. I could hear laughing and singing, so I struggled with the door until it opened and I fell onto the floor of the warm tavern. I was wearing running shoes, running shorts, a work out shirt, and a hoodie, all of which smelled of sweat and mud. As I looked around the room, everyone was dressed in Edwardian suits and dresses. I had wandered through the Himalayan mountains, and ended up in a Masterpiece Theater romance murder movie.
I was suddenly feverish and weak, so the mayor declared that he would house me until I was well. Some men and the local apothecary carried my to the mayor's villa, where the doctor and the mayor's daughter, played by Anne Hathaway gave me a bath and a nightgown. This was less interesting than it could have been.
The night before I arrived, a farmer had been murdered, and the town was out of sorts. A newly arrived painter played by Benicio del Toro was the current suspect, but the mayor had forbidden any investigation until the King's Prosecutor arrived in two days. The painter was known for saying strange things, and for acting "quite peculiar." Anne fell for me while she was nursing me back to health, but I tried to resist her protestations of undying love for reasons completely unknown to me. On the day the King's Prosecutor was due to arrive, I met Benicio. The artist was a little crazy, and a drug addict, but I thought he was basically harmless when I saw him flinch when I killed a beetle that was crawling on the table between us.
Hugo Weaving was the King's Prosecutor investigating the murder, and he was inclined to agree with most the townsfolk in their suspicions but it was something out side doing the killing. While Benicio, Anne, and I were strolling along the outskirts of town, I noticed a camera crew trying to hide in some bushes. I marched over and demanded to know what was going on. The BBC was filming the whole thing as a new quasi-reality show, and had worked me into the script as a free form theater project. They were shooting on location in Tibet for a Romanian-set story. I already had legions of fans.
Thursday, February 09, 2012
I Disbelieve, and Roll a D20: Ancient Aliens
I was watching Stargate while working on a cover letter, and I had some additional fun watching the short film in the special features. I can’t really call it a documentary because the content has little evidence and too much speculation. The little feature is titled “Is There a Stargate?” and has both Erich von Daniken and Giorgio Tsoukalos talking about their beliefs.
These two gentlemen believe that humans were taught all the basics of culture from aliens roughly 10 to 12,000 years ago. They base their beliefs, which I won’t call theories, on the architectural accuracy of various ancient structures around the world. Since the pyramid is accurate to within a foot on all sides, and the ancient Egyptians didn’t have the latest laser surveying equipment, these things must have been built at the direction of aliens. Since the Nazca lines can’t be seen as a whole from the ground, they must have been built for aliens, or someone in a plane. The aliens will someday revisit their intellectual progeny, and usher us in to another new understanding of the universe. My problem with the alien explanation is that this premise removes all trace human ingenuity and imagination. Without the aliens, we would still be wandering the savannas and forests, gazing up at the night sky in fear. I refuse to believe that we would not have created art and discovered math without some intervention.
Aliens that swoop in and teach us everything or inspire us out of our huts feels like a parent assembling the entire LEGO toy while the kid watches, or those parents who finish all their kid’s homework when the kid gives up because it is too hard. I hope that we can grow up enough as a species to get past our stupid insecurities and maybe stop killing each other, and ideas like this take the best parts of humanity away from us. Also, Tsoukalos’ hair is goofier than my moustache.
Saturday, February 04, 2012
Like No Other Feeling in the World
...and I have felt every feeling, even if I will later deny this statement. There is nothing quite like being momentarily famous, even if I did not reach the level that Mr. Oats did. A few years ago, my father gave me a box set of The Onion books, specifically so I would point out the article in which I was a model and he could then bring them in to work. His PostIt note on the page said, "This is my son. What a way to waste your fifteen minutes of fame." Little did he know...
Saturday, January 28, 2012
CDC: Pandorum, Daybreakers, and Starship Troopers the Book
Daniel Craig - Vampire Law Enforcer in Starship Troopers power armor.
Hank Azaria - Vampire Bounty Hunter who has changed his views.
Javier Bardem - Vampire Bounty Hunter who has changed his views.
Scott Bakula - Vampire Law Enforcer in Starship Troopers power armor.
Marc Blucas - Vampire Law Enforcer in Starship Troopers power armor.
I wake up from suspended animation to a paradise world of free food, and sunshine. The air is clean and the earth looks healthy and wonderful. There are no people, but everything is well maintained. I wander around, eating and drinking all the fresh fruit and clean water a guy could want.
Vampires show up the first night, give me an awesome vacation of everything you could want, and then tell me about the sacrifice I need to make. The only humans left alive are in stasis from the old days. As these people wake up over the centuries, they are given an epic holiday, and then rendered down for their blood to keep the whole society alive. The society has advanced technologies, and can take one pint of human blood and replicate it into thousands of gallons, but they need periodic infusions of fresh blood. They estimate that there are less than three thousand humans left alive, and the vampire society needs that blood to survive until they can derive some synthetic proteins or blood, which could take another thousand years. I got the impression that the vampire scientists weren't working too hard on the problem. "There are millions of vampire scientists, artists, soldiers, politicians, citizens, etc, and they all need your sacrifice." I ask for another week of vacation.
The vampire authorities grant me request but assign me two minders to prevent me from killing myself, or running away. Javier Bardem and Hank Azaria (Hank Azaria trying to play a vampire badass surprisingly worked, and could make his career.) are my bounty hunter/minders and we go off and have a few great weeks together seeing the world's sights through my eyes, and at night. Eventually, in typical Hollywood fashion, I win them over, and they refuse to turn me in.
Javier and Hank use their katanas (OF COURSE) to slice up all the vampire guards, start Hulking-out vampire-style, getting huge spiky hands and long spiky ears, and then they put on their BadAssSuits and really fuck shit up. These suits protect them from daylight, and magnify their strength a little. The two former bounty hunters rip holes in walls, and let the sun shine in on all the vampire technicians and guards and scientists. These vampires don't sparkle, but explode, usually after a witty one-liner. Hank breaks outside and starts hitting things with cars. So the Vampire Department of Blood Retention's guards call in the big guns.
Daniel Craig suits up in power armor, pretty much straight out of Starship Troopers. Hank Azaria hits Daniel Craig's suit with a semi, and breaks the knee joints or something. The suit automatically sends for reinforcements while Daniel Craig lays about with the automatic grenade launchers, flamethrowers, and chainguns attached to his suit. His jump jets are offline, and his legs are embedded in the ground to his hips by all the cars and trucks that Hank Azaria is throwing at him.
Scot Bakula (wearing his Star Trek: Enterprise costume) and Marc Blucas (also wearing a Star Trek: Enterprise onesie) begin to suit up in larger suits of power armor, hitting toggles and switches and climbing down into the ten foot tall armor suits, while discussing the situation with the two former Bounty Hunters fighting against The Man. At this point, I woke up saying, "sweet."
Hank Azaria - Vampire Bounty Hunter who has changed his views.
Javier Bardem - Vampire Bounty Hunter who has changed his views.
Scott Bakula - Vampire Law Enforcer in Starship Troopers power armor.
Marc Blucas - Vampire Law Enforcer in Starship Troopers power armor.
I wake up from suspended animation to a paradise world of free food, and sunshine. The air is clean and the earth looks healthy and wonderful. There are no people, but everything is well maintained. I wander around, eating and drinking all the fresh fruit and clean water a guy could want.
Vampires show up the first night, give me an awesome vacation of everything you could want, and then tell me about the sacrifice I need to make. The only humans left alive are in stasis from the old days. As these people wake up over the centuries, they are given an epic holiday, and then rendered down for their blood to keep the whole society alive. The society has advanced technologies, and can take one pint of human blood and replicate it into thousands of gallons, but they need periodic infusions of fresh blood. They estimate that there are less than three thousand humans left alive, and the vampire society needs that blood to survive until they can derive some synthetic proteins or blood, which could take another thousand years. I got the impression that the vampire scientists weren't working too hard on the problem. "There are millions of vampire scientists, artists, soldiers, politicians, citizens, etc, and they all need your sacrifice." I ask for another week of vacation.
The vampire authorities grant me request but assign me two minders to prevent me from killing myself, or running away. Javier Bardem and Hank Azaria (Hank Azaria trying to play a vampire badass surprisingly worked, and could make his career.) are my bounty hunter/minders and we go off and have a few great weeks together seeing the world's sights through my eyes, and at night. Eventually, in typical Hollywood fashion, I win them over, and they refuse to turn me in.
Javier and Hank use their katanas (OF COURSE) to slice up all the vampire guards, start Hulking-out vampire-style, getting huge spiky hands and long spiky ears, and then they put on their BadAssSuits and really fuck shit up. These suits protect them from daylight, and magnify their strength a little. The two former bounty hunters rip holes in walls, and let the sun shine in on all the vampire technicians and guards and scientists. These vampires don't sparkle, but explode, usually after a witty one-liner. Hank breaks outside and starts hitting things with cars. So the Vampire Department of Blood Retention's guards call in the big guns.
Daniel Craig suits up in power armor, pretty much straight out of Starship Troopers. Hank Azaria hits Daniel Craig's suit with a semi, and breaks the knee joints or something. The suit automatically sends for reinforcements while Daniel Craig lays about with the automatic grenade launchers, flamethrowers, and chainguns attached to his suit. His jump jets are offline, and his legs are embedded in the ground to his hips by all the cars and trucks that Hank Azaria is throwing at him.
Scot Bakula (wearing his Star Trek: Enterprise costume) and Marc Blucas (also wearing a Star Trek: Enterprise onesie) begin to suit up in larger suits of power armor, hitting toggles and switches and climbing down into the ten foot tall armor suits, while discussing the situation with the two former Bounty Hunters fighting against The Man. At this point, I woke up saying, "sweet."
Thursday, January 26, 2012
CDC: Harry Morgan and some Nubian Goats
In every relationship, there comes a time when your brain reaches a total saturation point, filled to the core with information that you hopefully use for good. My saturated mind has decided to use the disorganized sea of data to produce some really odd dreams filled with things my girlfriend will hopefully find funny.
The dream starts as so many do, suddenly I pop into the action from another dream, which had involved a cab ride and molotov cocktails and street riots, and I find myself looking at a map of Iowa.
"It doesn't appear to be on this atlas, we need a specific map of Iowa, Nick!" I put down the map, and I am in the back of a light blue van filled with camping gear and our bicycles. Nick and Brandon are up front arguing over the route to the starting point of RAGBRAI, and Nick shouts back, "I know it isn't on that map, but see if you can find the larger city that it is a suburb of, it is a northern suburb!"
"I'll just use my phone."
"You'll never get a signal in time!" Nick and Brandon both shout back. I fiddle with my phone, and the thing tells me to take an immediate right turn. "Nick, take the next exit to Booming! That's it!"
"Ok, goddamit! I AM SO ANGRY!" Nick is not an angry person, but apparently Iowa has aggravated him to the point of fury. Brandon gets in on the long wordless scream of rage, and we crest the ridge to see a sprawling city of skyscrapers and the Missouri River. The exit takes us along the ridge, and all we can see in the valley are giant buildings that look like they were made with LEGOs from our vantage point. "I AM GOING TO SMASH ALL OF THAT IF WE CAN'T FIND THE STARTING POINT SOON! RAAAAR!" At this point, my map feature on my phone quits, so I just direct Nick and Brandon to take whichever roads seems right to me. Eventually, we stop at a roadside rest area on the ridge, and I go find a map. When I come out of the rest area, Nick and Brandon have walked down into the valley and are smashing every skyscraper flat like Godzilla and Mecha-Godzilla. The valley which had looked deep and broad was actually a trick of the eye, and the buildings were made of LEGOs. It was all a hoax, or an elaborate movie set. The haze of smog was from a small misting machine, the Missouri river a small creek. I walk the twenty feet to the nearest building, rip it out of its base, and throw it at Nick's head. The building explodes in a shower of sharp plastic, and this shakes Nick out of his rampage. After we both threw some buildings at Brandon, he snapped out of his rage as well.
The two of them got back in the van, and we drove on to the sleepy little suburb where RAGBRAI was allegedly starting. When we get there, the town is a ghost town. No one on the sidewalk, no one driving, no one in the windows of the old farmhouses. We pull over at an intersection, and notice that two of the houses on diagonally opposite corners look suspiciously similar and Nick says, "I am going to smash that house, this is another movie set. You suck at directions, Charles."
"I'll just unload the stuff, this is where it is supposed to be." I walk around the house on the opposite corner from the one Nick wants to smahs, and I see goats in the windows. Nubian goats. "Those are Nubian goats. Hey guys, check out this house! It is full of Nubian goats!" The house is one of those old farmhouses that you see in New England or Iowa or wherever that are about 50 feet wide with a porch and some decorative woodwork, and then they stretch back over the property for about half a mile of addons, additions, extra rooms, and hallways all of different width and building materials. Goats are looking out of every window of this house.
One of the windows opens, and out come the goats. They flood out of the window in a cascade of bleating hoof, fur, and horn. When they stand up, the goats give this little shake and look at us like, "We do this every day." The goats all start wandering off. A last goat gives a warning bleat and we look up to see this large goat on the roof of the porch looking down at us. We have a second to ponder life's many mysteries before this goat leaps off the roof like a gazelle, and lands on Nick's head like a rhinoceros.
Nick and Brandon dust themselves off, and say that they are gonna bike a "quick fifty to get their heads in order." So I pull out my bike to check it over on the lawn of this house. I am checking the tires and gears and whatnot when I hear a throat cleared behind me. I turn around to see Harry Morgan standing there, looking at me strangely.
"Good morning, son. What are you doing on my lawn?"
"Uh, I'm working on my bike. We're here for RAGBRAI, but we seem to be early."
"Oh, right, RAGBRAI. They moved it to the next town up the river."
"Well, I will get our stuff together and we'll get off your lawn, sorry, sir."
"Why do you keep referring to yourself as we?"
"Oh, Nick and Brandon took off on an easy fifty, they'll be back in an hour or so."
"Okay, well, you have a good time on the ride."
"Uh, sir, Mr, Morgan? You probably get this a lot, but do you mind if I?"
"Sure, sure."
At this point, we both stood upright and I saluted him, he returned the salute, and said, "Dismissed!"
We both turned away to our respective duties, but then Harry Morgan asked, "say you haven't seen any goats around here, have you?"
"Yes! A whole mess of Nubian goats fell out of this house just a few minutes ago."
"Nubians, you say? Those are not the goats I'm looking for."
"Oh, sorry, Mr. Morgan."
"I suppose I'll find them someday. Have a fun ride!"
The dream starts as so many do, suddenly I pop into the action from another dream, which had involved a cab ride and molotov cocktails and street riots, and I find myself looking at a map of Iowa.
"It doesn't appear to be on this atlas, we need a specific map of Iowa, Nick!" I put down the map, and I am in the back of a light blue van filled with camping gear and our bicycles. Nick and Brandon are up front arguing over the route to the starting point of RAGBRAI, and Nick shouts back, "I know it isn't on that map, but see if you can find the larger city that it is a suburb of, it is a northern suburb!"
"I'll just use my phone."
"You'll never get a signal in time!" Nick and Brandon both shout back. I fiddle with my phone, and the thing tells me to take an immediate right turn. "Nick, take the next exit to Booming! That's it!"
"Ok, goddamit! I AM SO ANGRY!" Nick is not an angry person, but apparently Iowa has aggravated him to the point of fury. Brandon gets in on the long wordless scream of rage, and we crest the ridge to see a sprawling city of skyscrapers and the Missouri River. The exit takes us along the ridge, and all we can see in the valley are giant buildings that look like they were made with LEGOs from our vantage point. "I AM GOING TO SMASH ALL OF THAT IF WE CAN'T FIND THE STARTING POINT SOON! RAAAAR!" At this point, my map feature on my phone quits, so I just direct Nick and Brandon to take whichever roads seems right to me. Eventually, we stop at a roadside rest area on the ridge, and I go find a map. When I come out of the rest area, Nick and Brandon have walked down into the valley and are smashing every skyscraper flat like Godzilla and Mecha-Godzilla. The valley which had looked deep and broad was actually a trick of the eye, and the buildings were made of LEGOs. It was all a hoax, or an elaborate movie set. The haze of smog was from a small misting machine, the Missouri river a small creek. I walk the twenty feet to the nearest building, rip it out of its base, and throw it at Nick's head. The building explodes in a shower of sharp plastic, and this shakes Nick out of his rampage. After we both threw some buildings at Brandon, he snapped out of his rage as well.
The two of them got back in the van, and we drove on to the sleepy little suburb where RAGBRAI was allegedly starting. When we get there, the town is a ghost town. No one on the sidewalk, no one driving, no one in the windows of the old farmhouses. We pull over at an intersection, and notice that two of the houses on diagonally opposite corners look suspiciously similar and Nick says, "I am going to smash that house, this is another movie set. You suck at directions, Charles."
"I'll just unload the stuff, this is where it is supposed to be." I walk around the house on the opposite corner from the one Nick wants to smahs, and I see goats in the windows. Nubian goats. "Those are Nubian goats. Hey guys, check out this house! It is full of Nubian goats!" The house is one of those old farmhouses that you see in New England or Iowa or wherever that are about 50 feet wide with a porch and some decorative woodwork, and then they stretch back over the property for about half a mile of addons, additions, extra rooms, and hallways all of different width and building materials. Goats are looking out of every window of this house.
One of the windows opens, and out come the goats. They flood out of the window in a cascade of bleating hoof, fur, and horn. When they stand up, the goats give this little shake and look at us like, "We do this every day." The goats all start wandering off. A last goat gives a warning bleat and we look up to see this large goat on the roof of the porch looking down at us. We have a second to ponder life's many mysteries before this goat leaps off the roof like a gazelle, and lands on Nick's head like a rhinoceros.
Nick and Brandon dust themselves off, and say that they are gonna bike a "quick fifty to get their heads in order." So I pull out my bike to check it over on the lawn of this house. I am checking the tires and gears and whatnot when I hear a throat cleared behind me. I turn around to see Harry Morgan standing there, looking at me strangely.
"Good morning, son. What are you doing on my lawn?"
"Uh, I'm working on my bike. We're here for RAGBRAI, but we seem to be early."
"Oh, right, RAGBRAI. They moved it to the next town up the river."
"Well, I will get our stuff together and we'll get off your lawn, sorry, sir."
"Why do you keep referring to yourself as we?"
"Oh, Nick and Brandon took off on an easy fifty, they'll be back in an hour or so."
"Okay, well, you have a good time on the ride."
"Uh, sir, Mr, Morgan? You probably get this a lot, but do you mind if I?"
"Sure, sure."
At this point, we both stood upright and I saluted him, he returned the salute, and said, "Dismissed!"
We both turned away to our respective duties, but then Harry Morgan asked, "say you haven't seen any goats around here, have you?"
"Yes! A whole mess of Nubian goats fell out of this house just a few minutes ago."
"Nubians, you say? Those are not the goats I'm looking for."
"Oh, sorry, Mr. Morgan."
"I suppose I'll find them someday. Have a fun ride!"
Thursday, December 15, 2011
Closing Time?
I had to get my car* inspected the other day, so I cruised by a mechanic's shop. It was 4:15 in the afternoon and the shop's sign said they closed at 5:30. I asked the guy behind the desk if they performed state inspections, and he said, "sure do, but not after 4."
"Uh, ok. And you close at 5:30?"
"Yes, we do."
"What time do you open in the morning?" I asked as I fixed his face in my memory.
"7 am."
"See you then."
Working in the restaurant industry has made me rather sensitive to bullshit like this. If a bunch of jerks walk in five or less minutes before closing and I deny them service, I would gf such an earthly. Yelp and Chowhound and Facebook would burst into flames with the scorn. If you sit a table and tell them the kitchen closes in five minutes, and they order some apps, and then ask for entrees forty minutes later, there goes all hope of a tip. But if a mechanic says that he doesn't do inspections after four with no posted sign to that effect, I've just got to smile and thank his lazy ass.
If that same mechanic then tells you his shop opens at 7, and doesn't open that shop until 7:50, Yelp isn't going to care. But Heaven help a waiter that refuses to sit a table of people 5 minutes before closing.
* Thanks for the loan, GeniusFather.
Wednesday, December 14, 2011
A Holiday Pun
The Russian Ballet Company is in DC this week performing the Nutcracker, and a co-worker expressed a desire to take her daughter to see the show. I said that the last time I had seen the Russian Ballet perform I couldn't understand the dancing.
She gave me a flat stare in response.
Zing!
Wednesday, December 07, 2011
The 12 Steps of Holiday Angst
Please note that the years are only estimates based on a small sample size.
1. Bewilderment. Years 0 to 3. "Why is my food giver and poop cleaner putting this itchy hat on my head?" Let's dress the kid up for some cute pictures that will only get lost in the electronic sea of pictures on several hard drives. These pictures will only be missed if said hard drives are irrevocably destroyed.
2. Glee! Years 3.1 to 12. "DO YOU KNOW WHY CHRISTMAS IS GREAT!? BECAUSE YOU GET NEW TOYS!!!!" As related to me by a young cousin.
3. Irritation. Years 12.1 to 22. "Man, Christmas is so lame. I just wanna hang out with my friends, play video games, and not be in school. I never get what I really want anyway, no one understands me. I don't wanna go look at lighting displays or sing carols or whatever." Or at least, you don't want to admit that you like doing these things with your family. You don't make it easy for your family to understand you, either, since you barely speak to them.
4. Aggravation. Years 22.1 to Infinity (for some). "I fucking HATE Christmas! The music is so repetitive! I hate the way THEY play it immediately after Halloween! ARGH! And I'm too broke to buy anything cool for people anyway, this blows. I'll just go get drunk like I do every week, and not think about how much money I've spent on booze this past year." Let's not forget your $25 a week mocha habit, either.
5. Acceptance. Years 22.1 to Infinity (for some). "OKay, so Christmas is really commercial, and all about spending money you don't have to stimulate the economy for the Capitalists to rake in even more money from the workers, but it doesn't have to be. My family and I have just turned it into this little celebration of another year's end. Sure, we buy each other stuff, but not because of any other reason than we love and respect each other. I try to find something that I think my family would like, and just really enjoy seeing their expressions of joy. You know, it may be stupid and pedantic, but we've changed it so Christmas means something special, not just the day some kid was born without adequate medical care in the Middle East." That is a fine sentiment, but could you try saying that without being a smug cobag?
6. Rebounding Joy. Years 22.1 to Infinity(for some). "I don't care about getting gifts anymore, but I do love watching my kids tear into presents. I hope they stay like this forever. I'm still glad I paid extra for a hybrid car." I hope you like ties because that is all you are getting from your kids until they are mature enough to see that you are a person, and not just their parent.
7. Booze. Years 21 to Infinity. "Great eggnog, Eddie!" Nothing wrong with a libation or four here and there.
8. Booze. Years 21 to Infinity. "Great eggnog, Clark!" You're not driving, right?
9. Booze. Years 21 to Infinity. "If I had a rubber hose, I would beat you..." If you do it right, you can make tire tracks looks like reindeer tracks. We carry this secret to our graves.
10. Booze. Years 21 to Infinity. "The carols are in my head! THEY'RE IN MY HEAD!" Put the electric drill down.
11. Booze. Years 21 to Infinity. "Macy's parade sure is good this year." This stage is also known as senility.
12. Death. Years Far away, I hope. "Christmas isn't quite the same without grandpa reading 'Twas the Night Before Christmas." Yeah, your father hasn't quite found his rhythm yet.
1. Bewilderment. Years 0 to 3. "Why is my food giver and poop cleaner putting this itchy hat on my head?" Let's dress the kid up for some cute pictures that will only get lost in the electronic sea of pictures on several hard drives. These pictures will only be missed if said hard drives are irrevocably destroyed.
2. Glee! Years 3.1 to 12. "DO YOU KNOW WHY CHRISTMAS IS GREAT!? BECAUSE YOU GET NEW TOYS!!!!" As related to me by a young cousin.
3. Irritation. Years 12.1 to 22. "Man, Christmas is so lame. I just wanna hang out with my friends, play video games, and not be in school. I never get what I really want anyway, no one understands me. I don't wanna go look at lighting displays or sing carols or whatever." Or at least, you don't want to admit that you like doing these things with your family. You don't make it easy for your family to understand you, either, since you barely speak to them.
4. Aggravation. Years 22.1 to Infinity (for some). "I fucking HATE Christmas! The music is so repetitive! I hate the way THEY play it immediately after Halloween! ARGH! And I'm too broke to buy anything cool for people anyway, this blows. I'll just go get drunk like I do every week, and not think about how much money I've spent on booze this past year." Let's not forget your $25 a week mocha habit, either.
5. Acceptance. Years 22.1 to Infinity (for some). "OKay, so Christmas is really commercial, and all about spending money you don't have to stimulate the economy for the Capitalists to rake in even more money from the workers, but it doesn't have to be. My family and I have just turned it into this little celebration of another year's end. Sure, we buy each other stuff, but not because of any other reason than we love and respect each other. I try to find something that I think my family would like, and just really enjoy seeing their expressions of joy. You know, it may be stupid and pedantic, but we've changed it so Christmas means something special, not just the day some kid was born without adequate medical care in the Middle East." That is a fine sentiment, but could you try saying that without being a smug cobag?
6. Rebounding Joy. Years 22.1 to Infinity(for some). "I don't care about getting gifts anymore, but I do love watching my kids tear into presents. I hope they stay like this forever. I'm still glad I paid extra for a hybrid car." I hope you like ties because that is all you are getting from your kids until they are mature enough to see that you are a person, and not just their parent.
7. Booze. Years 21 to Infinity. "Great eggnog, Eddie!" Nothing wrong with a libation or four here and there.
8. Booze. Years 21 to Infinity. "Great eggnog, Clark!" You're not driving, right?
9. Booze. Years 21 to Infinity. "If I had a rubber hose, I would beat you..." If you do it right, you can make tire tracks looks like reindeer tracks. We carry this secret to our graves.
10. Booze. Years 21 to Infinity. "The carols are in my head! THEY'RE IN MY HEAD!" Put the electric drill down.
11. Booze. Years 21 to Infinity. "Macy's parade sure is good this year." This stage is also known as senility.
12. Death. Years Far away, I hope. "Christmas isn't quite the same without grandpa reading 'Twas the Night Before Christmas." Yeah, your father hasn't quite found his rhythm yet.
Tuesday, November 29, 2011
19 Days Later
How did I let 19 days disappear between posts of any substance? Like cash at a farmer's market, these are the days of our lives. I'll have to file this one under an apology for not posting, and an apology for fulsome not posting.
I could try to make an excuse, but who would care? I'm not working under a deadline, but that might help. I'm still drifting, but I am straining toward the shore. Maybe this paddle could be useful.
Monday, November 28, 2011
New Overlords Clearly Not 3Bullsian
As this interesting piece of news shows us, 3 Bulls will indeed be rendered into a filthbot-spamblog when the Editors of that vile rag cease and decease.
Had the candy in question been Take-5s instead of Kit-Kats, this post would have a rather different tone.
Had the candy in question been Take-5s instead of Kit-Kats, this post would have a rather different tone.
Thursday, November 10, 2011
As My Favorite Parole Officer Says
You need this:
Wye Oak covers Danzig
They Might Be Giants covers Chumbawamba
I am not ashamed to say that I bought this album and still own it. I think I still have Pretty Hate Machine, too, so that says something about me that I am not sure I can translate.
Wye Oak covers Danzig
They Might Be Giants covers Chumbawamba
I am not ashamed to say that I bought this album and still own it. I think I still have Pretty Hate Machine, too, so that says something about me that I am not sure I can translate.
Wednesday, November 09, 2011
Probably Late to This Party, Like Always
And I doubt that I am even fashionably late, but I'm at the party now, and I'm gonna drink your beer, smoke your cigarettes, flirt with your girlfriend, and draw on you when you pass out with your shoes on.
Thanks to A Softer World for telling me about the party.
This song may seem odd for me, but I can't stop listening to it. I think I am on replay six or seven.
Thanks to A Softer World for telling me about the party.
This song may seem odd for me, but I can't stop listening to it. I think I am on replay six or seven.
A Near Total Failure of Civic Responsibility
I voted yesterday. That is about all that counts because the only effort I put into the whole damn process was half-listening to a few segments on "the death of the two party system in Virginia" due to gerrymandering and attending a fireside chat with a district supervisor hosted by my landlord and neighbor. There were appetizers and drinks, so my attendance wasn't exactly altruistic. I am embarrassed to say that I voted for a bunch of people who may or may not agree with my views, but I didn't want my vote for the one guy I did like to get discounted because I didn't vote in all categories.
I liked what my candidate had to say about improving the economy of my new home, and he also said that if he won re-election, he would send the county's internet wizard by my place to set us up with a roof antenna for our potential aircard internet service. It may even help us receive calls on our cell phones, too. I've lived overseas, I know how to get wheels greased, and this candidate knew where my bread was buttered. Icing on the cake was when he spoke about how he hated the idea of turning our beautiful, rural county into another block of suburban sprawl for "anything with a cash register business development." Fuck that shit, Virginia has enough strip malls, what about getting a permanent facility for the farmer's market for year round sales?(His Idea) What about getting some companies in here that support the agriculture of the area, like a canning plant co-op or something similar?(His idea.) There are plenty of nearly-empty stripmalls that could be bulldozed to put in a meat-processing plant.(My idea.) Toss some LEED certifications on top, and you've got a recipe for a 20/20 Anderson Cooper expose or whoever: Supporting the Real Family Farm.
As for all the other people, the best I can say about them is that they were signs on a lawn. I voted for the Democrats because I knew next to nothing about anyone, so I couldn't say with any confidence that there were any fundamental differences between candidates. Based on the Virginia conservatives I've met, I am inclined to think that the Virginia liberals would have to regularly set puppies on fire using a whale-oil accelerant to anger me. Someone has seriously used "the War of Northern Aggression" in a sentence with me. And I use the adverb seriously not for emphasis, but BECAUSE HE WAS SERIOUS WHEN HE SAID IT. As my father said, immediately after the incident, "that sort of outlook glosses over the fact that the South fired first." Among other facts.
I just hope that the three people I voted for in the school board race are decent human beings. I refused to vote for the tardiloquent fool named William Something that had Bill in quotes between his first and last name. If your constituents can't figure out that your nickname Bill comes from the name William, then you need not be elected to the School Board because you should be not be anywhere near a school except as a student. I would have voted for anyone other than the guy with the nickname Duke for Sheriff, except he was running unopposed. Hmmm. If I still need a job in a couple years, and he is running unopposed again...
When asked if I wanted a paper ballot instead of the touchscreen voting machine, I chose a paper ballot for all the reasons that anyone with any shred of awareness should, and also because fuck Diebold and those other cobags. I would rather vote on recycled toilet paper than use a computer voting system at this time, and until such time as the code and machine design becomes completely transparent.
I liked what my candidate had to say about improving the economy of my new home, and he also said that if he won re-election, he would send the county's internet wizard by my place to set us up with a roof antenna for our potential aircard internet service. It may even help us receive calls on our cell phones, too. I've lived overseas, I know how to get wheels greased, and this candidate knew where my bread was buttered. Icing on the cake was when he spoke about how he hated the idea of turning our beautiful, rural county into another block of suburban sprawl for "anything with a cash register business development." Fuck that shit, Virginia has enough strip malls, what about getting a permanent facility for the farmer's market for year round sales?(His Idea) What about getting some companies in here that support the agriculture of the area, like a canning plant co-op or something similar?(His idea.) There are plenty of nearly-empty stripmalls that could be bulldozed to put in a meat-processing plant.(My idea.) Toss some LEED certifications on top, and you've got a recipe for a 20/20 Anderson Cooper expose or whoever: Supporting the Real Family Farm.
As for all the other people, the best I can say about them is that they were signs on a lawn. I voted for the Democrats because I knew next to nothing about anyone, so I couldn't say with any confidence that there were any fundamental differences between candidates. Based on the Virginia conservatives I've met, I am inclined to think that the Virginia liberals would have to regularly set puppies on fire using a whale-oil accelerant to anger me. Someone has seriously used "the War of Northern Aggression" in a sentence with me. And I use the adverb seriously not for emphasis, but BECAUSE HE WAS SERIOUS WHEN HE SAID IT. As my father said, immediately after the incident, "that sort of outlook glosses over the fact that the South fired first." Among other facts.
I just hope that the three people I voted for in the school board race are decent human beings. I refused to vote for the tardiloquent fool named William Something that had Bill in quotes between his first and last name. If your constituents can't figure out that your nickname Bill comes from the name William, then you need not be elected to the School Board because you should be not be anywhere near a school except as a student. I would have voted for anyone other than the guy with the nickname Duke for Sheriff, except he was running unopposed. Hmmm. If I still need a job in a couple years, and he is running unopposed again...
When asked if I wanted a paper ballot instead of the touchscreen voting machine, I chose a paper ballot for all the reasons that anyone with any shred of awareness should, and also because fuck Diebold and those other cobags. I would rather vote on recycled toilet paper than use a computer voting system at this time, and until such time as the code and machine design becomes completely transparent.
Tuesday, November 01, 2011
Spanish
Spanish is the Cupid's Arrow to the Larynx of Love.
Or Language. This phrase, and the deliberate capitalization, is one of those Midnight Moments that are rather similar to Senior Moments, except that your half-remembered thought is so hilarious that you wake up hours later, laughing your various anatomy right off. You keep laughing until you realize that you can't remember the whole thought, and won't be able to share this nearly lethal joke with anyone. I do remember that there was considerably more to this metaphor, and that the rest of it was capitalized as well, but I will never be able to perfectly replicate the pure bliss that I felt at the moment of conception.Which is a serious double entendre of its own.
Wednesday, October 26, 2011
My New Musical Project
I am starting a band called Catfish Jones and the Bottom Feeders. I will always wax my mustache at our appearances.
I may sometimes play with Wyatt and the Earps, but I will not wax my 'stache at these shows. Even if Wyatt and the Earps open for Catfish Jones and the Bottom Feeders.
Now all I need to do is learn to play the guitar, get some instruments for my backing band, get a backing band, and write some songs. The wealth and fame will come as soon as everything else is built. I've already got a fan club, or maybe they're paparazzi. Whoever they are, they are the people that take my picture when they think I am not looking, they are the people that send their kids over to say they like my mustache at the Renn Faire, they are the people who stop and stare, they are the people who ask to have their picture taken with me.
I have only one question for these people, WHERE WERE YOU WHEN I WAS FAMOUS ON THE INTERNET!?!?
I may sometimes play with Wyatt and the Earps, but I will not wax my 'stache at these shows. Even if Wyatt and the Earps open for Catfish Jones and the Bottom Feeders.
Now all I need to do is learn to play the guitar, get some instruments for my backing band, get a backing band, and write some songs. The wealth and fame will come as soon as everything else is built. I've already got a fan club, or maybe they're paparazzi. Whoever they are, they are the people that take my picture when they think I am not looking, they are the people that send their kids over to say they like my mustache at the Renn Faire, they are the people who stop and stare, they are the people who ask to have their picture taken with me.
I have only one question for these people, WHERE WERE YOU WHEN I WAS FAMOUS ON THE INTERNET!?!?
Monday, October 24, 2011
Tickling My Fallout Bone
Fallout: Nuka Break is pretty amusing, if you like the Fallout series of games. If you don't, you can just leave existence.
Tuesday, October 11, 2011
Why Are You Bothering?
No, this is not a Tuesday Random Ten as is Brando's style. This is a reaction to the people I am seeing at the library. Specifically, the four men sitting in different areas, and not obviously associated with each other aside from their nearly identical outfits. Faded t-shirt, basketball shorts, dark socks, and flip flops. All of these men are overweight, have grey hair, and should know better. Unless I am on a week-long bike trip across an entire state, or actively working out, I have enough self-respect to at least dress myself before leaving my house.
The salt of the earth people that the Republican'ts seem to legislatively hate and publicly love are said to complain constantly about the degradation of society. And yet, here we see four alleged gentlemen doing more to erode civilization than any two married gay men ever could. I can feel the barriers in my head between American and Thighbonewieldinghomohabilis eroding as I type.
I will confess to being slightly curious about why a person dressed like this would ever leave the house. Even on vacation, I will dress myself if I am leaving the house. If I am on a winter vacation, and not leaving the house, then I may stay in pajamas for an entire day. That is fundamentally different. I am also curious as to why one of these fools tucked his shirt into his Nike shorts. You can't be bothered to wear pants and shoes in public, but you're worried about having an untucked t-shirt? Momma sure didn't raise no fool.
Flip flops alone are enough to drive up my blood pressure. I think the callous use of flippy floppies is far more damaging to our society than vaccines for sexually transmitted diseases and infections. Put on some fucking shoes for the Baby Jesus! I bet if I installed a billboard with that slogan, I would get some traction with this issue. I'll just use the various Christian faiths to promote my not-at-all Christian political views and social agendas. That's worked so well in the past for the other people.
The salt of the earth people that the Republican'ts seem to legislatively hate and publicly love are said to complain constantly about the degradation of society. And yet, here we see four alleged gentlemen doing more to erode civilization than any two married gay men ever could. I can feel the barriers in my head between American and Thighbonewieldinghomohabilis eroding as I type.
I will confess to being slightly curious about why a person dressed like this would ever leave the house. Even on vacation, I will dress myself if I am leaving the house. If I am on a winter vacation, and not leaving the house, then I may stay in pajamas for an entire day. That is fundamentally different. I am also curious as to why one of these fools tucked his shirt into his Nike shorts. You can't be bothered to wear pants and shoes in public, but you're worried about having an untucked t-shirt? Momma sure didn't raise no fool.
Flip flops alone are enough to drive up my blood pressure. I think the callous use of flippy floppies is far more damaging to our society than vaccines for sexually transmitted diseases and infections. Put on some fucking shoes for the Baby Jesus! I bet if I installed a billboard with that slogan, I would get some traction with this issue. I'll just use the various Christian faiths to promote my not-at-all Christian political views and social agendas. That's worked so well in the past for the other people.
Saturday, October 08, 2011
Cooking With The Genius: Back to School Night Scramble
Ingredients:
One (1) yellow onion from the farmer's market a few Saturdays ago
One and a half (1.5) cherry tomatoes that were 24 hours from the mulch pile (cut off the wrinkly-looking parts)
Two (2) green peppers from your landlord's garden
One (1) yellow-skinned cucumber from the same garden (whatever it is, it tastes and smells like a cucumber, but looks like a squash)
Olive oil
Sweet chili sauce
Hoisin sauce
One (1) can of baked beans because you're out of couscous, rice, and all other bland starch bases
One (1) package of Jiffy corn muffin mix because it is the best, but you can skip this stuff if all of your milk is from August and went bad a few weeks ago, but you haven't thrown it out because you're playing chicken with your roommates/NotWife
Toss some olive oil in your wok, click away if you're some sort of foodie poseur and don't own an actual wok, and get the heat going. Dice your onion, green peppers, tomatoes, and what not. You can throw in mushrooms or other veggies if you want, that was my intent until I checked the mushrooms and other veggies. They had gone around the slimy bend. I don't even know what one of the bags had in it, but it had brown skin before it went putrescent. So dump the bad stuff in your compost heap, that's the trash can for you city-folk, wash your hands, and stir the wok.
Keep the wok going while you hunt for something to put this mess on. While you're looking, you might want to spice the stuff. I threw on some provincial herbs, ground ginger, and then found my sweet chili sauce in the fridge. Toss some of this on there, say three tablespoons or so. That gives it some serious flavor, and nice color, too. I prefer to cook colorful foods. I'm not alone in thinking that color means flavor, but those similar-thinking other people aren't always perceived by other human beings. I couldn't find a decent starch, no potatoes, no rice, no bread, but I did find some baked beans.
After settling on baked beans for my starch, I thought about flavor profiles for a moment. This pondering lead me back to the fridge, wherein I found hoisin sauce I thought this would go well because I think of hoisin as Asian molasses. Baked beans and molasses shouldn't need an explanation, but some people aren't lucky enough to have experienced the majesty of baked beans so I will explain. Baked beans are often cooked with molasses. Two tablespoons later, the color was really blending. Everything was well and evenly cooked, and the beans were about ready, too.
After putting the bowl of corn meal back in the fridge with the greased and now useless pan I had intended to use to cook the corn bread, I settled on a corn bread-free meal. The milk was thoroughly unusable, either of the two cartons in the fridge, but you don't really need to hear more about that.
I threw both items into a bowl, and was surprised that I didn't need to work at eating. Unlike my fried rice experiment a few weeks ago, this was surprisingly edible. It was both flavorful, and mushy, both of which are great for ease of eating. Kind of like baby food, but yummy. The NotWife refused to even try it. This didn't hurt my feelings, no it did not. You can't prove anything.
This may just be baloney pie with vegetables, but it was still tasty.
Tuesday, October 04, 2011
What Happens After the Zoo Closes?
Weddings, apparently. I had the pleasure of assisting in the marriage of one of my brothers to a lovely woman, and now none of us need worry about him any longer. That's her job now, read the fine print, honey.
The ceremony took place in a portion of the African Savanna, near the zebras and giraffe habitats. Ideally, the peacocks were to have pranced about tails a-waving, and the zebras were supposed to graze peacefully behind the couple and the officiator while everyone gazed at the beautiful scene. Instead, we got twenty minutes of maribou storks, and twenty seconds of zebras. The peacocks stayed out of sight, and periodically screeched like a child without LEGOs, or a parent stepping on a LEGO. I'm told that the zookeepers refused to apply the cattle prods to coerce the animals into the pattern set by the wedding planner.
Maribou storks are not the prettiest birds in the world, rather more competitive in the ugliest birds in the world category, but are incidentally hilarious when standing behind your brother as he swears his vows. Someone took the bold move of ensuring that my other brothers and I could not look each other in the face, obviously assuming that we would spend the entire ceremony attempting to crack each other up. This is an important part of all wedding planning involving any men, especially the Brothers of Indeterminate Number since we seem to have made an informal and previously unmentioned tradition of throwing each other into Giggle Loops.
The storks tried their best at looking pretty, even putting on a little show and dance for the gathering crowd. This show stopped as soon as the wedding party took their assigned positions, and the storks, perhaps sensing that no one was looking at them anymore, went back to picking at their nits. I am undyingly grateful to them for having the good sense to avoid crapping during the service because that would have been cruel and unusual punishment for me. I would have burst into laughter, and then my severed head might have landed in their enclosure. To be promptly eaten by the carrion consuming storks.
The peacocks were no help at all. I do not exaggerate when I say that they sound like a man stepping on a LEGO. Scatter some LEGOs by Daddy's bathroom door in the middle of the night, and you will know exactly what a peacock sounds like. The sound of much grounding.
After the ceremony, we were allowed to feed and pet giraffes. I took the opportunity to size up the average reticulated giraffe for the possible consumption by fire in Snag's backyard. It pleases me to say that Snag's grill is more than adequate for the job, as if we thought it would be any different. I was not allowed to feed or punch a cheetah. I was, however, allowed to punch a tiger with a false perspective shot, but potato tomato.
In case you care, and I know you don't, giraffes do not have soft lips like a horse, cow, or emu. Giraffes have tough, rubbery lips, and require a serious duration marinade, and a serious duration low roasting. Snag is probably an expert at cooking these great beasts, and I've heard their necks are rather like osso buco, but the other way around.
One final note, Helob is still angry at me for my lack of effort. He wanted me to break into the temporary exhibit of tarantulas, and take some photos for him. I told him that was gross, and that he should leave me out of his sex life. Eat your crickets, Helob. They're well-fed, and loud.
The ceremony took place in a portion of the African Savanna, near the zebras and giraffe habitats. Ideally, the peacocks were to have pranced about tails a-waving, and the zebras were supposed to graze peacefully behind the couple and the officiator while everyone gazed at the beautiful scene. Instead, we got twenty minutes of maribou storks, and twenty seconds of zebras. The peacocks stayed out of sight, and periodically screeched like a child without LEGOs, or a parent stepping on a LEGO. I'm told that the zookeepers refused to apply the cattle prods to coerce the animals into the pattern set by the wedding planner.
Maribou storks are not the prettiest birds in the world, rather more competitive in the ugliest birds in the world category, but are incidentally hilarious when standing behind your brother as he swears his vows. Someone took the bold move of ensuring that my other brothers and I could not look each other in the face, obviously assuming that we would spend the entire ceremony attempting to crack each other up. This is an important part of all wedding planning involving any men, especially the Brothers of Indeterminate Number since we seem to have made an informal and previously unmentioned tradition of throwing each other into Giggle Loops.
The storks tried their best at looking pretty, even putting on a little show and dance for the gathering crowd. This show stopped as soon as the wedding party took their assigned positions, and the storks, perhaps sensing that no one was looking at them anymore, went back to picking at their nits. I am undyingly grateful to them for having the good sense to avoid crapping during the service because that would have been cruel and unusual punishment for me. I would have burst into laughter, and then my severed head might have landed in their enclosure. To be promptly eaten by the carrion consuming storks.
The peacocks were no help at all. I do not exaggerate when I say that they sound like a man stepping on a LEGO. Scatter some LEGOs by Daddy's bathroom door in the middle of the night, and you will know exactly what a peacock sounds like. The sound of much grounding.
After the ceremony, we were allowed to feed and pet giraffes. I took the opportunity to size up the average reticulated giraffe for the possible consumption by fire in Snag's backyard. It pleases me to say that Snag's grill is more than adequate for the job, as if we thought it would be any different. I was not allowed to feed or punch a cheetah. I was, however, allowed to punch a tiger with a false perspective shot, but potato tomato.
In case you care, and I know you don't, giraffes do not have soft lips like a horse, cow, or emu. Giraffes have tough, rubbery lips, and require a serious duration marinade, and a serious duration low roasting. Snag is probably an expert at cooking these great beasts, and I've heard their necks are rather like osso buco, but the other way around.
One final note, Helob is still angry at me for my lack of effort. He wanted me to break into the temporary exhibit of tarantulas, and take some photos for him. I told him that was gross, and that he should leave me out of his sex life. Eat your crickets, Helob. They're well-fed, and loud.
Thursday, September 15, 2011
Attenuation, or I AM STRUNG OUT
Like a heroin addict in a mormon temple.
I am starting to get pretty antsy at The Cottage. The Old Lady takes off every morning from work, and returns in the evening with grand tales of social interactions with actual, living, human beings while I can only discourse about the day's events on The Days of Our Mockingbrids. She doesn't listen well to my tales of territory encroachment and infidelity among our yards most common aerial inhabitants. I really empathize with the chicks, how can they develop good and civil morals when their mother acts like she is on a telenovella, and their father fights constantly with the neighbors. The crickets, stink bugs, and ticks make far less interesting television, and the network disregards all of my correspondence on the subject of cancelling these programs in favor of a greater variety of avian-oriented shows.
I have not yet been able to convince a telecommunication company to sell me internet and phone service. How did people survive in the time before time? Trekking five miles to the library is already getting seriously old, and my antivirus program is still out of date, Windows keeps asking to be allowed to connect to the internet to check for updates, and my firewall program is also annoyed that it can't annoy me with a constant stream of antivirus and version updates. My guild is meandering, foundering even, without my guidance, and my friends haven't heard from me in far too long! I haven't received a communique from Sadi Fansa about the status of our sponsorship request to the corporate office, and I am afraid that he has joined another band.
In long, I am fiending.
I am starting to get pretty antsy at The Cottage. The Old Lady takes off every morning from work, and returns in the evening with grand tales of social interactions with actual, living, human beings while I can only discourse about the day's events on The Days of Our Mockingbrids. She doesn't listen well to my tales of territory encroachment and infidelity among our yards most common aerial inhabitants. I really empathize with the chicks, how can they develop good and civil morals when their mother acts like she is on a telenovella, and their father fights constantly with the neighbors. The crickets, stink bugs, and ticks make far less interesting television, and the network disregards all of my correspondence on the subject of cancelling these programs in favor of a greater variety of avian-oriented shows.
I have not yet been able to convince a telecommunication company to sell me internet and phone service. How did people survive in the time before time? Trekking five miles to the library is already getting seriously old, and my antivirus program is still out of date, Windows keeps asking to be allowed to connect to the internet to check for updates, and my firewall program is also annoyed that it can't annoy me with a constant stream of antivirus and version updates. My guild is meandering, foundering even, without my guidance, and my friends haven't heard from me in far too long! I haven't received a communique from Sadi Fansa about the status of our sponsorship request to the corporate office, and I am afraid that he has joined another band.
In long, I am fiending.
Thursday, September 08, 2011
Celebrity Dream Cameo: Candy Bar Guy From Die Hard (Al Leong)
In the dream, I wake to a call in my dingy apartment, answer the phone, and then run and grab a web vest, tactical gear, and one of those Russian pistols that look like a Colt .45 acp.* I nod at my partner in the other room, as he is grabbing the same sort of gear, and loading a similar pistol.
The next thing I know, my partner and I are speeding through the surf in a rubber boat with a bunch of other mercenary-looking toughguys. We all have AK-47s, and random other assault weapons like grenades, and such. The guy assigned to our fire team is that guy from Die Hard who broke the display case to grab some candy bars when they were repelling the first SWAT assault. He also tortured Mel Gibson in Lethal Weapon.****
Anyway, we end up assaulting a beach, and a system of bunkers that guard a drug processing operation. It looked like heroin and opium, but doesn't really matter. Most of the defending troops looked like Latino extras from Red Dawn, or Predator. While we were tearing our way through their defenses, Candy Bar Guy ends up with a puppy. Some of the cartel dudes had some puppies, and their mother had been killed or something, so they were seriously pathetic. While we were taking cover behind a concrete wall waiting for the flamethrower guy to show up, Candy Bar Guy feeds the puppy, and waters it, and then sticks it in his vest. He leans over and says in English, "always wanted a puppy." Everything said so far had been in Russian.
While we are clearing the encampment or resistance, I realize that this is probably a CIA operation, and that my control will probably want to know why I helped destroy it. I glance at my partner, and he shrugs at me, meaning "maintain cover." A giant Soviet Army helicopter swooped into a clearing to pick us up, and Candy Bar decides to stay and "enjoy the war." I toss him an AK, a bunch of magazines, and a box of ammunition. Then I take my seat with the other mercenaries.
When we are back in Moscow, I contact control in the usual manner. (I think I put a flower pot on my fire escape, how Woodwardian.) Then partner and I go for a walk to meet control. We are walking toward an area that we know control likes because it has a number of busy bars that we can use as randomly as humanly possible to avoid a pattern, when these two college looking girls approach us and give us the signs that they are control. This is new.
They look like they're eighteen, dark, mousy, both wearing dark blue, puffy winter jackets, and they keep using stupid language like "report about your last mission." I keep tying to use code like "I'm a Canadian hiking enthusiast" and "let's go enjoy some local color at a bar I know." These two morons don't understand that surreptitious meetings in dark alleys draw the most eyes.
We walk along until I see a sign outside a loud bar that says in English, "Good Service. On Tap." Signs like this are becoming fashionable in Moscow, or so the dream tells me. "Hey, look! They have good service on tap! This looks inviting!" I say, and drag the stupid girls into the bar despite their protests about drinking on the job, and using agency funds for illegal activities. My partner circles round the block to check for tails, and get a paper and some woefully bad Soviet cigarettes.
I smile and tell them to grab that booth by the bathrooms, and I will get the drinks. The bar turns out to be a Sparta Praha-supporting bar, and my orange-y red baseball cap is the exact color of the team. I make some stupid sports talk with he dues at the bar who all love my hat, and are surprised that a Canadian journalist would support Sparta.***** I tell them that I studied in Prague, which is true in the dream, and why I know Czech and Russian.
I grab the beers, probably all #9s, and sit down with the sour looking young agents. My partner enters from the kitchen door, and gives me the "no tails, back door is clear" signs. He sits with us and throws his arm around the other girl's shoulders. The next time the team scores, I jump and yell and clap hands with crowd. Then I sit down and give the girl a kiss, and whisper in her ear, "shut the fuck up before you get us all knicked by the KGB. Use proper craft, or I'll leave your carcass in a shallow grave." I have decided while getting the drinks that the reason these two idiots have been assigned as our new control is because someone at the Company has decided that we are dead men because we did exactly what we were supposed to do to maintain cover, and are being sacrificed to the tender mercies of the KGB. I make the arranged signs to my partner of "cover blown, disappear, home not safe, good luck."
And then I woke up.
(Please excuse any typos or wordos, typing on my touch screen is annoying, and this interface makes it difficult to edit as well.)
* I would normally link here, but my phone is not connecting very well this morning. On the other hand, all I hear is crickets chirping in the field and walnuts dropping from the sky.**
** This is why I have a walnut helmet.***
*** Some parts of this statement may not be accurate.
**** And no, I don't mean Mel's memories of his murdered wife and fighting Vietnam, I mean actually tortured him with electricity.
***** I have the real life, and possibly quite wrong, impression that this team's fans are the worst hooligans in the Czech Republic. I think I got this impression solely from the movie "Up and Down."
Tuesday, September 06, 2011
SPX is This Weekend
I will attend the Small Press Expo in Bethesda* this weekend, if only to buy the second volume of Questionable Content. Maybe I will be able to get a t-shirt or two. I am also hoping to run into the cartoonist who runs Man's Face Stuff, because I need some manly face stuff. For a project I am keeping secret from fulsome. Since I am keeping it secret from fulsome, I should blog about it because we haven't seen his dumbass on the internets in years.
* If your closest Metro stop is White Flint, guess what, you don't live in Bethesda. This isn't snobbery, this is annoyance with realtors that stretch borders to sell shitty condominiums.
Friday, September 02, 2011
Expressions of Faith
I learned much while I was working in various bars in DC. I learned that I would rather own a bar than work in one. I learned that I love people sometimes, and despise them at other times. I learned that I am a pessimistically hopeful person, which may the strangest discovery.
There were many shifts in which I was desperately short of funds. I would be carefully rationing my oatmeal to make it last all month, and trying to avoid eating even a half price meal while working. Even working on your feet for nine to eleven hours a day, you can gain some serious weight eating burgers every day, but you wind up needing to eat something. I was stuck between warring impulses, either the food I was serving would remind me that I was hungry, or the end of the crossword would result in extreme boredom and awaken my gnawing stomach. Many nights, I would break down, and order some crappy sandwich from the kitchen, or wander over to the market. After a few lean months, May, June, and July in the non-waterfront/roofdeck bars of DC, I noticed an odd pattern.
On nights that I desperately needed customers, I would almost always have a decent night if I gave up and ordered a sandwich as soon as I could. If I held off and toughed it out, I would almost always have a crappy night. When I changed jobs, and started working weekend brunches, this trend continued. If I woke up early, made coffee, had a decent breakfast, and then went to work, I would have a boring Saturday filled with cable television or girl watching out of the big front window. If I got to work hungry, and ordered some french toast or steak and eggs, we would be unexpectedly, and happily, busy. Soon I started calling it my business tax. If I didn't need, or didn't want to pay it, Serendipity and Infinity would spurn me, and my day would spent in idle chatter, speculating on the temperature of the water in the local pools/coffee shops/museums. If I scarfed a meal just before unlocking the doors, I would see a wave of annoying and outstanding customers parade in the doors, just in town for the conference on erectile sustainability, or the United Dairy Solids Conglomerated Federation of America annual meeting.
As the economic and social news of the last three years of my underemployment has steadily continued gloomening, I have at times marveled at all the young expectant mothers and fathers, and at the number of college friends with wives or husbands and new children. Some of these lunatics have TWO children already, while I, as the joke says, have no children THAT I KNOW OF. How could anyone possibly want to spawn in these uncertain times? Why would you want to bother with the trouble of diapers and midnight feedings when Michelle Bachmann is an allegedly serious candidate for the Presidency? She's worse than the Ever Vacuous Palin! Morons all over the world are refusing to even think about any compromise that would allow any humans anywhere to live in peace. The oceans are critically endangered, and Star Trek IV could actually happen! The levels of toxic pollution are rising to the point that all of today's children's children will be inheriting a shit heap with no refuge, and people are STILL buying SUVs! If I think about everything that is going horribly wrong (as I see it), I could end up pulling my hair out in a rubber room, and these freaks are bringing children into the world! What the hell is wrong with them?
Or maybe it was just me, maybe something was wrong with me? There are still events happening that aren't all shit. Scientists in the Midwest are developing trees and programs to clean up the industrial chemical messes left by irresponsible people in years past, organizations are working with Native American nations out west to rewild areas of the country, and not everyone is an uncompromising chundernozzle. We lived through Mutually Assured Destruction, I told myself. Remember when Dad said that ducking and covering was worthless in the event of a nuclear attack? Remember when he said we would hopefully be killed so fast that wouldn't even have time to wonder why it was so bright in the classroom? Boy, that was a hoot.
So I found myself trying to believe that we aren't all so fucking stupid that we would kill ourselves, but that we have to watch it because a TPK* is still quite easy. Despite the fact that our leaders aren't leading, or even pausing to take deep breaths before shoving their heads up some orifice or another, a person must have faith in our collective desire to not live in shit. You have to look harder for it, but there is evidence that we are not a species of incredibly smart dumbasses. With a few notable exceptions, most humans don't enjoy wars or massacres. If everyone everywhere could just take five years off from killing each other, we could get our shit together and really fulfill one of those hippie songs from the '60s.
As I sat at my bar, watching CNN on a slow day that had started with a lovely breakfast of maple syrup-and-sausage-infused oatmeal, I realized that I had become an optimist. I then realized how people could have children, and it made my expressions of faith in humanity through french toast seem pretty fucking trite.
Also, babies are pretty damn cute, especially when they are shitting on my brother's lap. Now that was a hoot.
*Total Party Kill, in role-playing games this happens when everyone including the game master screws up badly enough that everyone admits it was a bad idea, and re-rolls shaman.
There were many shifts in which I was desperately short of funds. I would be carefully rationing my oatmeal to make it last all month, and trying to avoid eating even a half price meal while working. Even working on your feet for nine to eleven hours a day, you can gain some serious weight eating burgers every day, but you wind up needing to eat something. I was stuck between warring impulses, either the food I was serving would remind me that I was hungry, or the end of the crossword would result in extreme boredom and awaken my gnawing stomach. Many nights, I would break down, and order some crappy sandwich from the kitchen, or wander over to the market. After a few lean months, May, June, and July in the non-waterfront/roofdeck bars of DC, I noticed an odd pattern.
On nights that I desperately needed customers, I would almost always have a decent night if I gave up and ordered a sandwich as soon as I could. If I held off and toughed it out, I would almost always have a crappy night. When I changed jobs, and started working weekend brunches, this trend continued. If I woke up early, made coffee, had a decent breakfast, and then went to work, I would have a boring Saturday filled with cable television or girl watching out of the big front window. If I got to work hungry, and ordered some french toast or steak and eggs, we would be unexpectedly, and happily, busy. Soon I started calling it my business tax. If I didn't need, or didn't want to pay it, Serendipity and Infinity would spurn me, and my day would spent in idle chatter, speculating on the temperature of the water in the local pools/coffee shops/museums. If I scarfed a meal just before unlocking the doors, I would see a wave of annoying and outstanding customers parade in the doors, just in town for the conference on erectile sustainability, or the United Dairy Solids Conglomerated Federation of America annual meeting.
As the economic and social news of the last three years of my underemployment has steadily continued gloomening, I have at times marveled at all the young expectant mothers and fathers, and at the number of college friends with wives or husbands and new children. Some of these lunatics have TWO children already, while I, as the joke says, have no children THAT I KNOW OF. How could anyone possibly want to spawn in these uncertain times? Why would you want to bother with the trouble of diapers and midnight feedings when Michelle Bachmann is an allegedly serious candidate for the Presidency? She's worse than the Ever Vacuous Palin! Morons all over the world are refusing to even think about any compromise that would allow any humans anywhere to live in peace. The oceans are critically endangered, and Star Trek IV could actually happen! The levels of toxic pollution are rising to the point that all of today's children's children will be inheriting a shit heap with no refuge, and people are STILL buying SUVs! If I think about everything that is going horribly wrong (as I see it), I could end up pulling my hair out in a rubber room, and these freaks are bringing children into the world! What the hell is wrong with them?
Or maybe it was just me, maybe something was wrong with me? There are still events happening that aren't all shit. Scientists in the Midwest are developing trees and programs to clean up the industrial chemical messes left by irresponsible people in years past, organizations are working with Native American nations out west to rewild areas of the country, and not everyone is an uncompromising chundernozzle. We lived through Mutually Assured Destruction, I told myself. Remember when Dad said that ducking and covering was worthless in the event of a nuclear attack? Remember when he said we would hopefully be killed so fast that wouldn't even have time to wonder why it was so bright in the classroom? Boy, that was a hoot.
So I found myself trying to believe that we aren't all so fucking stupid that we would kill ourselves, but that we have to watch it because a TPK* is still quite easy. Despite the fact that our leaders aren't leading, or even pausing to take deep breaths before shoving their heads up some orifice or another, a person must have faith in our collective desire to not live in shit. You have to look harder for it, but there is evidence that we are not a species of incredibly smart dumbasses. With a few notable exceptions, most humans don't enjoy wars or massacres. If everyone everywhere could just take five years off from killing each other, we could get our shit together and really fulfill one of those hippie songs from the '60s.
As I sat at my bar, watching CNN on a slow day that had started with a lovely breakfast of maple syrup-and-sausage-infused oatmeal, I realized that I had become an optimist. I then realized how people could have children, and it made my expressions of faith in humanity through french toast seem pretty fucking trite.
Also, babies are pretty damn cute, especially when they are shitting on my brother's lap. Now that was a hoot.
*Total Party Kill, in role-playing games this happens when everyone including the game master screws up badly enough that everyone admits it was a bad idea, and re-rolls shaman.
Sunday, August 28, 2011
Yo, Teach
I am registering as a potential substitute teacher. This may be the beginning of a terrible new wave of villainy and dementia, or it may be the coolest idea ever in my employment history. I am also going to get a job for a couple nights a week at one of the local bars. Two steps forward, one step in dogshit.
Sunday, August 21, 2011
Allergies
I think I am allergic to Virginia. I have been twice dosed with poison ivy over much of my body. I am eating benadryl like Chocolate Skittles, and slathering my itchy patches with strange concoctions of ointments and unguents that "should work" and "might help." Should and might are not words that I want to hear from a pharmacist, I want to hear "THIS STUFF WORKS SO GREAT OMNOMNOM I USE IT WHEN I GO ROLLING IN THE IVY!!1!!"
The sad thing is that I made it through four years of Boy Scouts without much more than a square inch or two of poison ivy rash. I know what this stuff looks like, and I know how to avoid it. But someone has to pull it out of the flower beds, and it damn sure isn't going to be the pretty one in the relationship.
So.
These large patches of itchy skin are the reason why I am sleeping in the living room on an air mattress. The Latinos have a saying, that I can't remember en Espanol, but it means a sleeping body can't be blamed for the things it does while sleeping. Like farting under the covers. Or scratching like mad at my crotch which was the epicenter of this outbreak.
I only pulled up a sprig of ivy that was maybe six inches long, using my left hand, and then immediately washed both arms in special poison ivy oil destroying soap. This is really not fair. I am learning new definitions of the words suffering, agony, and pain. I try to endure without complaint, and without scratching. I don't always succeed.
The sad thing is that I made it through four years of Boy Scouts without much more than a square inch or two of poison ivy rash. I know what this stuff looks like, and I know how to avoid it. But someone has to pull it out of the flower beds, and it damn sure isn't going to be the pretty one in the relationship.
So.
These large patches of itchy skin are the reason why I am sleeping in the living room on an air mattress. The Latinos have a saying, that I can't remember en Espanol, but it means a sleeping body can't be blamed for the things it does while sleeping. Like farting under the covers. Or scratching like mad at my crotch which was the epicenter of this outbreak.
I only pulled up a sprig of ivy that was maybe six inches long, using my left hand, and then immediately washed both arms in special poison ivy oil destroying soap. This is really not fair. I am learning new definitions of the words suffering, agony, and pain. I try to endure without complaint, and without scratching. I don't always succeed.
Saturday, August 13, 2011
The Wizard Uses Item: Scroll of Reanimation
Let us all hope that no otherworldly intelligences have lain spawn within the recesses of this shambling corpse of a bloggio.
The Genius is once again deliberately, and purposefully, unemployed, but not without plan or hope. After all, in this economy it is so easy to find employment that who wouldn't want to take a couple month vacation and then merge with the job stream as the salmon so often do. Except, you know, without the orgy and death at the end of the search.
But seriously, I have moved out of the comfort and light of the lovely city of DC to the far reaches of Virginia-space. The amenities in my new lair are charming and rustic. So rustic in fact, that I must travel 5 miles to find the internets. This rusticity extends to television and radio signals, as well. You might almost wonder if I have violated both Einstein and Lewis' Laws, and traveled into the near-distant past. So do I.
I've got a backlog of post ideas longer than the list of bad wang jokes I told, and I have nothing to stop me from writing. I can't even muster a bad excuse to avoid writing. So look out Pinko Punko, I will be pestering you about Monday Goldriker Theater.
The Genius is once again deliberately, and purposefully, unemployed, but not without plan or hope. After all, in this economy it is so easy to find employment that who wouldn't want to take a couple month vacation and then merge with the job stream as the salmon so often do. Except, you know, without the orgy and death at the end of the search.
But seriously, I have moved out of the comfort and light of the lovely city of DC to the far reaches of Virginia-space. The amenities in my new lair are charming and rustic. So rustic in fact, that I must travel 5 miles to find the internets. This rusticity extends to television and radio signals, as well. You might almost wonder if I have violated both Einstein and Lewis' Laws, and traveled into the near-distant past. So do I.
I've got a backlog of post ideas longer than the list of bad wang jokes I told, and I have nothing to stop me from writing. I can't even muster a bad excuse to avoid writing. So look out Pinko Punko, I will be pestering you about Monday Goldriker Theater.
Tuesday, March 22, 2011
Not Quite The Joke I Was Expecting
I was researching some currency on the internets last Saturday, and the first hit on Google, the sponsored link, was for "Buy Vietnamese Dong." The search terms were "purchasing old Turkish Lira." Rule 34, indeedly doo.
Sent from my Verizon Wireless BlackBerry
Sent from my Verizon Wireless BlackBerry
Tuesday, March 01, 2011
Bloggies Held Last Night, Everyone Snubbed
The 2011 Weblog Awards were held sometime in the recent past, either last night or at some further point in the not-future not-now when. I wasn't expecting to win, but it would have been nice to be nominated and get a chance to thank the Academy. The cool thing is that this means that the Sixth Annual 'Baggie Awards are just around the corner! I'm aiming to win the Slightly-More-Active-Than-fulsome Award, and hoping to at least be nominated for Less-Chunderiffic-Than-Pinko-the-Baby-Blogger. I might even cross my fingers for Biggest Beard, but between Plover and AG, that is a tough category to win.
Thursday, November 11, 2010
Missing the Point
I need to get out of the service industry. Channing Tatum should not have the job he wants, when people like me with actual talent and skills languish in underemployment hell. Why am I complaining when I have only filled out one online job application int he last 10 months you ask? That's beside the point.
Friday, October 22, 2010
Same Phone, New Leaf
Apparently, Verizon doesn't stock this model of phone anymore. So I'm still without an at symbol, a return/enter button, or a working P. I have to paste my Ps into text. So that's fun. As for the new leaf, I submitted a short story to Games Workshop's Black Library for their "Treacheries of the Space Marines" anthology. I'm excited, and will be publishing the story on my no longer secret blog if I don't hear from GW. I'm also excited because at 4 pm today, LL and I will have been together for one whole frigging goddam year!
Wednesday, September 22, 2010
A Last Blog From This Phone...
...Before I get a new, refurbished smart-ish phone. The bus is almost as fast as a cab at this time of night. Few are riding which results in less pulls of the stop request cord, and few are waiting resulting in less stops per block. I still wonder what the point was in having three stops in sight of each other. There is at least one two-block section of this route where the stops are less than a block from each other. No wonder the bus is always late, or off the schedule, there are stops every twenty feet.
Sunday, September 19, 2010
Thursday, September 16, 2010
Taking All My Time
Tuesday, August 24, 2010
Temp Slave
I've been reading the Best Of lately, I hope I can make you as angry as it has made me. Again. You'll thank me later.
Sent from my Verizon Wireless BlackBerry
Sent from my Verizon Wireless BlackBerry
It Is a Job
All right. You've heard the speeches, you've heard the spiel. I don't give a shit about any of that. You see this salt shaker? You see this pepper shaker? You see this sugar caddy? You see these ketchups, and these mustard bottles? Memorize this shit. This is how the boss wants it, and this is how I want it. This clean table? I want to eat off it. If you can't or won't work to these specifications, the door is over there. Walk out, you're not needed here. I'll wait. Yeah, OK. You may be thinking, and I know you are, fuck it I'm a server, I don't need this stress. I'll say only this, stress!? You don't know stress, the food runner rolls your silver, and busses your tables. All you need to do is sell, sell, sell, and we recognize that. Which is why we have Rodrego, and Antonio. So man up, or ovary up, and handle your shit or leave. If you don't want to do the minimal amount of work ask besides selling, leave! You, me, him, her, we're infinitely replaceable! Our main skills are being funny, and having a nice smile! Don't kid yourself, I could be gone next week, so do your fucking job, and be happy with the total lack of job stress you take home. And table five is running low, so bring them another round, and make them think it was their idea. We earn $2.77 not because our bosses deliberately want us to be stuck in the unending rut of poverty and restaurant work, but because we rip off fools like those five popped-collar assholes at table seven! We sell an illusion! So get selling, and suck it up, or quit. *And this is when I threw out all my ideals.*
Sent from my Verizon Wireless BlackBerry
Sent from my Verizon Wireless BlackBerry
Wednesday, August 18, 2010
Thursday, August 12, 2010
Seth Rogen and Some Ladies?
Wednesday, July 21, 2010
Inception
Every now and then, a movie will remind us of the specific power of the medium. Inception is beautiful, moving, and exciting while staying balanced. Too much action and it would have fallen so easily into the absurd, and too much exposition would have forced it too far into the cerebral. There are Cartesian moments of existentialism, mixed with appropriate dollops of gunplay. You'll never read Celebrity Dream Cameos the same way. The Genius recommends this movie to everyone whose lifestyle does not include daily doses of hallucinogenic or psychotropic drugs.
Saturday, July 10, 2010
Psychic Octopus vs Menta-parrot
Today and tomorrow we'll find out whether a brain that is among the smallest proportionate brain in existence, the smallest belonging to Pinko Punko, is more powerful than a brain that is roughly half of the total body mass. In somewhat mostly related news, I have been ready for the World Cup to be over for about two weeks. I am grateful for the huge piles of cash I made, and the weight I've lost, and the muscles gained, but I'm ready for some time in my bed, or on a beach, or even in front of a beach screensaver. It's nice having two month's expenses in the bank, and being to stroll through the morning's puddles in my new gore-tex Vasques, but damn I'm tired. In six weeks, I've earned three month's rent and bills, lifted a metric ton of dirty dish bins, 4,500 pounds of beer in kegs, and served a conservatively estimated 1,500 people an average of 8 beers each. And my friends are wondering why I am so tired at their parties. I'll be in San Francisco in mid August, contact me through the usual front or back channels if you want to hang, or buy me drinks. Toronado is definitely on the list, as is Mayflower(Marigold, whatever that one brewpub is called on Haight?), as is some other place that fulliecakes will get all jealous over missing. Probably the Anchor Brewing Company tour.
Tuesday, June 22, 2010
Saturday, June 19, 2010
Coffee and Soccer
I'm starting my second of six straight weeks of opening early for the World Cup, and I&'m either being slowly brainwashed, or am too tired to think about anything but soccer. I am drinking a terrible cup of coffee from Casa de Maxwell, and am actually interested in the Ghana/Australia match. I've heard it said that a good cup of coffee is a beautiful thing, and a horrible cup of coffee stirs the sense memories of every good cup you've ever had. This could apply to other things in life, sex, love, relationships, meals, walks, etc, but doesn't seem to apply to sporting events. People, or at least sportscasters, talk about other amazing plays after watching one, and other disasters after watching a team collapse. I'm not really sure where I'm going with this, but the coffee is almost as bad as that last call in the USA/Slovenia game.
Friday, June 11, 2010
How About That
Hey, how about that zuzuvela, or vuvuzela, or zuzuburu, or whatever? Reminds me of the Summer of Cicada (Brood X Edition). Or a swarm of angry bees.
Friday, June 04, 2010
One of The Many Rules of Reality
The higher the praise you receive in the earliest round of any competition "reality" gong-show, the faster you will be eliminated. Corollary rule: don't expect me to watch any of these shows and remain sober. Or sane.
Wednesday, June 02, 2010
Thursday, May 20, 2010
The Awesome Life
So I'm showered, dressed, out of the house, sitting in a chocolate and coffee shop, listening to a gaggle of lovely dames discuss their grandmother's jewelry, and life couldn't better. If I could upload photos with my phone, the Mike Meyer's size mocha in front of me would epitomize the depth of my contentment. This cup of coffee violates my First Rule of Consumption: Never eat anything bigger than your head without fulsome watching. I'm not violating the Thirty-Seventh rule either, but that's an obvious rule: Never eat without bragging to the internet. Here I am digressing again. The town itself is lovely, as my mother would say, and the square has everything you need, a head shop, a shoe store, a coffee shop, a toy store, a couple two three restaraunts, and a rib place. There's high-speed internet somewhere in town, but not at this cafe, which is fine, and an old stone courthouse. The little old ladies say the barbershop "past the shoestore and Baumgartner's" is the place I should go. Right now, my hair is lost somewhere in the wilderness of the tri-state area between Biker-Bartenderistan, Emoria, and Mullet.
Tuesday, May 18, 2010
Chicago via Monroe
It's 800-some miles to Monroe, we've got a full-ish tank of gas, one bag of baby carrots, twenty-seven cds, it's getting dark, and we don't have any sunglasses. Hit it.
Thursday, May 13, 2010
Cop Week! Yay!
There are at least 35,000 tourists in DC until next Monday. 35,000 of these tourists are police officers, or lieutenants, or detectives, their rank is rather irrelevant compared to the majority's behavior. They walk into your bar like they own the place, act like jackasses, drink Miller Lite in a bottle, and tip like college students. I need to get a day job.
Sunday, May 09, 2010
Friday, May 07, 2010
Part of My Manliness
My manliness, the general quality of me being the man that I am, manifests itself in several ways that are always obvious to others, and some less obvious. I see the world differently than most humans. I took part in a recent survey about my worldview, and even made it onto the blog post. Try and guess which Miscellaneous answer was mine.
Wednesday, May 05, 2010
FREE MONEY FROM THE GOVERNMENT!!!!1!!1!111!
Get FREE MONEY FROM THE GOVERNMENT without bankrupting a mortgage bank! I just walked past Matthew Lesko, in his famous question mark suit, while on my way to work. I doubt he will attempt to get me fired.
Thursday, April 01, 2010
Haha, Fooled You!
Here's a great joke to play on April Fool's: ask me to work another double shift in a row at 1:30 am. I'll agree to just about anything until my brain catches up to the conversation. Earlier in the evening, two people asked me to cover shifts that I was already scheduled for, and I agreed to work for them. Five minutes later, I remembered that I was scheduled for those shifts, and was then able to crush their dreams of seeing Whitney Houston and Rob Zombie Live at the Prince William County Drive-In Dinner Theater, so that was fun.
UPDATE: Maybe it's not a prank, the same two people just asked me to cover the same two shifts again this week. The boss has also repeated his previous request that I work those same two nights in a different capacity. This would be funny if I weren't so tired.
UPDATE: Maybe it's not a prank, the same two people just asked me to cover the same two shifts again this week. The boss has also repeated his previous request that I work those same two nights in a different capacity. This would be funny if I weren't so tired.
Saturday, February 27, 2010
Kevin Smith?
Ever since Clerks 2 or X or whatever this guy seems to be slowly trying to hide his name. Both Zack and Miri Make a Porno and now Cop-Out have had a surprising lack of "Hey look a new Kevin Smith movie!" advertising. I remember once feeling for Kevin Smith the way I feel about new Apatow and Apatow-related movies. What happened to this guy? I mean, Jay and Silent Bob Strike Back wasn't bad enough to warrant a complete fade into obscurity and lame movies. Was Jersey Girl so terrible? I didn't see it.
Tuesday, February 02, 2010
Sunday, January 24, 2010
Cause for Celebration, I Guess
Brett Feauvreaux, or whatever, you go right back to heLLO my parents read this. Ahem.
Today's Word of the Day
in*al*ien*a*ble /ɪnˈeɪlyənəbəl, -ˈeɪliə-/ [in-eyl-yuh-nuh-buhl, -ey-lee-uh-] –adjective not alienable; not transferable to another or capable of being repudiated: inalienable rights.
Senator-Elect Brown should do some reading, and remember the sadly alleged principles by which this country was founded.
Senator-Elect Brown should do some reading, and remember the sadly alleged principles by which this country was founded.
Tuesday, January 19, 2010
Upstaged on a Tarantula Tuesday
Sometimes, I sit down in my creaky chair, open up my browser, and the words just deluge forth in a way that I find a relief and you find an entertainment. Other times the flow is stunted, viscous, oozing, but I can usually wrest some laughs from the primordial thought sump. Today, I was entirely upstaged while drinking my coffee. This clip ruined me:
Monday, January 11, 2010
I'm Not Crotchety Anymore
Comment #2 (Posted by Warduke)
I'm not going to comment on whether the Simpsons is better or worse now or 15 years ago - that's up to personal taste. What I do want to comment on is that I don't think there's ever been a generation so poised to become crotchety old men as this one. We're barely in our 30s and we're already saying "Back in my day....". We're the most pampered and privileged generation of all time, and it turned us all into little bitches with "action figures".
But not because of this guy. Still, the comment is bang on target.
I'm not going to comment on whether the Simpsons is better or worse now or 15 years ago - that's up to personal taste. What I do want to comment on is that I don't think there's ever been a generation so poised to become crotchety old men as this one. We're barely in our 30s and we're already saying "Back in my day....". We're the most pampered and privileged generation of all time, and it turned us all into little bitches with "action figures".
But not because of this guy. Still, the comment is bang on target.
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